The Triumph of Katie Byrne (21 page)

Maureen touched Carly’s face in the photograph, very gently with one finger, as she always did when
she went to visit her at the hospice. There was never any reaction or response from Carly, but nevertheless it made Maureen feel better to go and see her, and she could only hope it helped Carly somehow. The nurses said they weren’t sure if she knew Maureen was there in the room. Nevertheless, Maureen hoped Carly could hear her voice, and that she was aware, however dimly, of her presence, aware of the love she felt for her.

Janet, Carly’s mother, went every week to see her, Maureen knew that. But the Matthews family never did. It was probably too difficult for them, she thought. They had moved away not long after Denise’s funeral; they had sold their house and the restaurant in Kent and gone. No one knew where. It must have been unbearable for them to go on living in the Malvern area, with so many memories to haunt them. Maureen understood that.

Placing the photograph back in its place on the shelf, her expression bereft, she retrieved her duster and went out into the kitchen, trying to push the heartache to one side, as she always did. Somehow you lived with it, but it was hard at times.

Automatically she filled the kettle and put it on the stove top. Katie would be home soon, and she always liked a cup of tea when she got back from rehearsals.

Suddenly the telephone shrilled, and she jumped, startled. Then she reached for the wall phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Mrs Byrne. It’s Xenia.’

‘Yes, I recognize your voice. How are you, Xenia dear?’

‘Fine, and you?’

‘Not so bad. Katie’s not here, she hasn’t returned from rehearsals yet. Where are you? Can she call you back?’

‘Not really. I’m in Chicago and just about to have a meeting with a client. But I’m coming to New York next week, just for a couple of days. I hope I’ll be able to see Katie.’

‘I’m sure you will. Shall I tell her you’ll call her later?’

‘Yes, please. How’s the play going?’

‘Great, from what she says. I’m so glad you helped her to come to the decision to do it, Xenia. I think it’ll change her life.’

‘I know it will.’

‘This week is tech week, you know, dealing with lighting and sound, all that kind of thing. But she’s very excited, since they’re in the theatre for the first time. Next week it’ll be dress rehearsals.’

‘The play’s at the Barrymore Theatre, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. It’s one of the smaller theatres, of course, but perfect for an intimate dramatic play like this. Katie tells me a musical house with eighteen hundred seats would’ve been too big.’

‘I can well imagine. And I can’t wait to see Katie in the play. When is the opening?’

‘In about a month, three weeks of previews first, and
the opening is near the end of February. Sunday the twentieth. Black tie, and a party afterwards at Tavern on the Green. Very fancy. Katie told me the invitations have just gone out. I hope you can come, Xenia.’

‘Absolutely. I’ll be there with bells on! Looking forward to seeing you that night, Mrs Byrne.’

‘Me too, Xenia.’ As she spoke, Maureen leaned over and turned off the kettle.

They said goodbye and Maureen hung up; she went through into the small living room, sat down on the loveseat, thinking about opening night. That was one of the reasons she had come to New York. She owned one elegant evening gown, a long, slender sheath made of black wool, another of her treasured Trigères. She had bought the gown fifteen years ago, just before Miss Trigère had closed her showroom; rarely worn, it was in perfect condition. Maureen had come into the city to buy black silk shoes and a new black evening bag. Bridget had taken her shopping for them, and it was only then that the reality of it all had finally sunk in.

It was really happening at last. The fulfilment of Katie’s childhood dream…the dream of being on a Broadway stage in a show. How exciting it was. They all felt the excitement…Bridget, their parents Sean and Catriona O’Keefe, and her in-laws. The entire family was coming in from Connecticut for the opening and the party, and everyone’s expectations were riding high.

There were moments when Michael worried about his
darling Katie, worried about her ability to carry this off. But she didn’t, not at all. She had total and absolute faith in her daughter, a faith so strong it left no room for doubt. It will be a triumph…the triumph of Katie Byrne, Maureen thought. And it’s been so hard won.

Maureen leaned back against the loveseat and closed her eyes, her thoughts turning to Xenia. If not for her, Katie’s Broadway debut might never have come about. How glad she was her child had a girlfriend at last. All these years she had shunned overtures from other young women, had become something of a loner. Because of them, because of Carly and Denise. She didn’t want to have a girlfriend because she thought it would signify disloyalty to them, to their memory. And it was guilt, too. That played a part in all this.

Why had she never realized that before…The sound of the key in the lock made her turn her head just as Katie came into the tiny entrance hall. ‘Hi, Mom!’

Maureen got up, and went towards her daughter, her face wreathed in smiles. She kissed her cheek, and said, ‘Hello, honey. You look frozen, let me turn on the kettle.’

‘I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea,’ Katie declared brightly, unwinding various pale-blue and purple pashminas from around her neck, struggling out of her black coat. After hanging them all up in the hall closet, she followed her mother to the minuscule kitchen, leaned against the door jamb, looking in.

‘How was your day, Mom?’

‘Busy. I cleaned the apartment.’

‘You shouldn’t have; anyway, it wasn’t dirty,’ Katie protested.

‘Just a bit dusty,’ Maureen murmured, taking mugs out of the cupboard. ‘Your old friend Grant Miller called.’

‘Oh God, no! I hope he’s not in New York.’ Katie’s expression was one of horror as she stared at her mother.

Maureen began to laugh. ‘No. He called from Beverly Hills, left his number. He’d like you to call him back.’

‘No way.’

‘Oh, I think you probably should, honey.’

‘Why? What for? I can’t stand him.’

‘He’s getting married. The least –’

‘Whoopee! Isn’t that great.’

‘I started to say the least you can do is congratulate him.’

‘I suppose,’ Katie mumbled and grinned at her mother.

‘He says he’s now in the movies. Given up the theatre.’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s very photogenic.’

Maureen filled her in about the entire conversation, and Katie laughed and said, ‘What a jerk.’

‘Xenia called. She’s in Chicago. She’ll phone later.’

‘I wonder if she plans to come to New York? Didn’t she say anything else, Mom?’

‘Yes, she’ll be here for a day or two next week. She
hopes to see you. And she definitely plans on being at the opening.’

‘That’s great!’

‘Yes, it is.’ Maureen picked up the two mugs of tea and followed Katie into the living room. After handing a mug to her, she sat down on the loveseat.

Katie seated herself in a chair opposite, and said slowly, carefully, ‘I’ve often thought you didn’t really like Xenia, Mom.’

Maureen nodded. ‘I’ve been in two minds about her from time to time, especially when you first met her.’

‘Why? She’s very nice.’

‘I suppose I thought she was a bit fancy for you, ‘tis such a high falutin background she has…the two of you are as different as chalk and cheese. I didn’t think a friendship was feasible.’

Katie began to laugh. ‘Because I’m an ordinary country girl, a nobody from the sticks, is that what you mean?’

‘Sort of, yes. Although I don’t think you’re
ordinary.
’

‘Xenia’s not a snob, Mom, and she and her sister-in-law work very hard. They have to, they don’t have inherited money, trust me on that. She and I…well, we just clicked the first time we met. We genuinely liked each other, and then I discovered we have certain things in common.’

Curious, Maureen asked, ‘Such as what, mavourneen?’

‘Tragedy in the form of sudden, unexpected death. Grief, pain, suffering.’

Maureen gaped at her daughter. ‘Xenia has experienced things like that?’

‘Yes, she has. Let me tell you her story, Momma.’

A rehearsal was in progress.

Charlotte and Anne Brontë, as played by Georgette Allison and Petra Green respectively, were sitting in the Victorian parlour of Haworth parsonage. Through the open window could be seen a thunderous, overcast sky and a vista of the wild Yorkshire moors.

The set on the stage of the Barrymore Theatre had great verisimilitude, and was authentic down to the last detail. The respected set designer, Larry Sedgwick, was an Englishman and veteran Tony Award winner, and so he had made sure that his reputation for brilliance was preserved. The set spoke of a time gone by.

The two women sat at a table with open books in front of them. Their faces were serious. Charlotte was enunciating her lines.

Katie stood in the wings, waiting for her cue.

Finally she walked out onto the stage, confident, ready to play her part as Emily Brontë. Blinking for a moment under the bright lights on stage, she said clearly, in a very English voice, ‘I’ve been thinking on what you said to
me, Charlotte, and I have made a decision. We cannot publish under our real names. Put very simply, I will not permit it.’

Charlotte responded in a gentle tone. ‘Now, now, Emily. You know perfectly well I cannot abide this stubbornness of yours.’

Anne, leaning forward slightly, leapt in when she said, ‘Charlotte dear, Emily is
right.
It would not be…seemly to use our own names.’

Charlotte replied.

But Katie did not hear her lines. Nor did she speak her own.

Georgette was no longer Georgette playing Charlotte.

She was Carly Smith. Her black hair glistened under the pin-spot, her violet-blue eyes were shining, full of life.

And Petra had become Denise, that long blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, the rich brown eyes soft and beguiling.

Was it a trick of the lights? For a split second Katie thought it was. She blinked several times and took a step closer to them, peering. Then she opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She stood in the middle of the stage, speechless, floundering, lost. She was no longer able to rehearse. Immediately she broke out in a cold sweat, began to shake.

It was Carly and Denise in the barn on that last day when they had all been together. Sitting at that
little table. Learning their lines for the school concert.

Snapping her eyes closed, Katie endeavoured to get a grip on herself, to stop shaking. But to no avail. There were other flashes now, coming at her fast and furious. Flashes of Carly and Denise as she had last seen them, images of them in the wood. Carly with her head smashed in, blood streaming down over her face; Denise spreadeagled on the ground, her skirt flung around her waist. Raped, murdered. More flashes…of violence, of death…

Katie stood there in the middle of the stage, shaking, unable to move backwards or forwards. Frozen.

Dimly, in the distance, she suddenly heard a man’s voice. It was Jack Martin, the director. ‘Are you all right? What is it? What’s wrong?’

Swaying slightly, blinking, she managed to mumble, ‘I don’t know…I’m sick…dizzy…I feel nauseous.’

A split second later he was by her side, his arm around her waist. Now he was leading her offstage. Into the wings. Down to her dressing room. Sharp footsteps followed them. High heels clicked against the hard floor. It was Melanie. She knew it was Melanie.

She had let her down. She hadn’t meant to, but she had.

‘Try to explain what just happened out there,’ Jack Martin said, sounding very irritable. But then he was not
only renowned for his extraordinary directorial skills, but his irascibility as well.

Katie shook her head, one hand clinging to the arm of the chair where she sat in her dressing room.

Jack stood looking down at her, his face furious, his blue eyes dangerously cold. He glared at her. ‘Cat got your tongue? It certainly had on stage. Come on, Katie,
what happened
?’

‘I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t, Jack.’ She leaned back in the chair, trying to keep herself from weeping.

‘Are you coming down with a bug? Hot damn, we start dress rehearsals this week. This is a bitch. All I need is a lame second lead.
Jesus
!’

Pulling herself together, Katie said, ‘I’m feeling better. I’ll go back on stage, finish the scene.’

‘No, you won’t, Katie,’ Melanie Dawson interjected, and handed her a box of tissues. ‘You’re perspiring heavily, and it’s not all that warm in the theatre. I hope you’re not getting the flu. That you haven’t got it.’

Katie wiped her neck, patted her face. She shook her head again. ‘I don’t think so…I am beginning to feel better. Could I have some water please.’

Melanie handed her the glass of cold water she was holding. ‘Here it is, drink it up.’

‘Thanks, Melanie.’

Jack stormed over to the door, his annoyance now verging on anger. ‘I’d better get this show on the road! Take the rehearsal without my second lead.’

‘Good idea, Jack.’ Melanie gave him a reassuring look, smiled at him. ‘It’s going to be all right, and I’ll be there shortly.’

He glanced over at Katie. ‘Feel better.’ He dashed out, slamming the door behind him.

Once they were alone, Melanie sat down on a small chair near the dressing table. Staring at Katie, her gaze direct, she said, ‘I
know
you, and I know you didn’t forget your lines. So what
really
happened out there on stage?’

‘I don’t know, Melanie. I just suddenly felt ill, unable to continue. Honestly, I’m telling you the truth.’

Melanie seemed perplexed and she frowned, clasped her hands together and leaned forward slightly. ‘If you’re ill you
must
tell me. We’re close to the previews and the opening. I can’t afford to have anything go wrong at this stage. So please tell me.’

Katie was silent. She bit her lip; her eyes filled.

Melanie continued, in a low, very kind voice, ‘You’re not stupid, Katie. Far from it. You’re very, very bright, and intelligent. So you
know
there’s a lot of money involved, millions of dollars, in fact. I have several very important and generous backers who trust me to put on a good play. No, not merely good. A
sensational
play. And most of all, a
hit
play. I have a fiscal responsibility to them, and to Harry, who is putting up a lot of money as well.’ Melanie paused. ‘And you have a responsibility to me. I can’t have a dud opening, with you missing your lines and freezing on stage. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, I do, and I’m sorry. Really sorry. It won’t happen again.’

‘What
is it that won’t happen again? Come on, confide in me, Katie. You owe me that.’

‘I do, yes. You’ve been very good to me.’ Katie hesitated for only a split second. She was filled with chagrin and sudden guilt, knowing she had disrupted rehearsals and created an inflammatory situation. She must be honest with Melanie, who had always been good to her, and had believed in her.

Clearing her throat, Katie began, ‘I don’t know how to explain this…explain what occurred on stage. It was like…a
flashback.
That’s the only word I can use –’ She broke off abruptly.

‘Go on.’

Katie sat staring at Melanie, chic as always in a black suit and white silk shirt, the short, dark-brown hair elegantly cut and coiffed. Melanie Dawson, Broadway producer
par excellence.
Box office certainty. Critics’ favourite. Multiple Tony winner. Her good friend. Her mentor. Her champion. Katie knew she owed her the truth. ‘Something happened one day, ten years ago. I don’t really know why, but parts of that day started…started flashing through my head out on stage just now. It was like…being there, living it again.’

‘And it was a terrible thing, wasn’t it, Katie?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve always felt there was something in your past that
troubled you…that this…
event
had propelled you to London, and that it also prevented you from returning to New York.’ She nodded as if to herself, as if confirming something in her own mind. Her brow furrowed. ‘I felt there was some sort of…impediment…’ Melanie’s voice trailed off.

Taking a very deep breath, Katie told her story.

‘Oh my God!’ Melanie sat gaping at Katie. Not having anticipated anything quite as dreadful as this, she was momentarily at a loss for words. Finally, she said softly, ‘What a truly horrendous thing to happen to those poor girls. And an awful burden for you to bear.’

‘It was that particular afternoon that flashed back to me, out on stage…I’m not sure why, though.’

Melanie was quiet, reflective for a long moment. ‘Has it ever happened before? This kind of flashback?’

‘No, and certainly not on a stage. And as you know, I’d been working solidly for four years before I went to RADA in London.’

‘It’s a terrible memory, a traumatic experience that you can’t shed, obviously. Have you ever talked to a psychiatrist about it, Katie?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe you should.’

‘I don’t think so, I really don’t, Melanie. No one can help me, I can only help myself, I suppose.’

‘Talk to
me
, Katie, unburden yourself to
me.
God
knows, I’m not a psychiatrist.’ She half smiled. ‘But sometimes I think I am, though, dealing with the free-floating temperament and emotion that’s around all you talented actors every day. So talk, get it off your chest…I do have a good listening ear, a strong shoulder to cry on, if necessary.’

And so slowly, carefully, Katie told the producer everything about her girlfriends, the deep and loving relationship the three of them had, their dreams and hopes and ambitions. And she recounted her memories, happy as well as troubling, and she filled Melanie in about the murder, still unsolved to this day. She broke down several times, but for the most part Katie was in full control of herself.

When she had finished, Melanie blew her nose and patted her eyes with tissues. ‘I said before, and I’ll say it again, it’s a dreadful burden for you to carry, Katie.’

‘Grandma Catriona from Ireland always says God
never
gives us a burden that’s too heavy to carry, but I’m not so sure I subscribe to that,’ Katie murmured.

‘That’s faith for you. Perhaps your grandmother’s lucky that she has it. But I know what you mean. However, somehow we all cope with problems, don’t we?’ Melanie sighed, and rose. She walked over to Katie, put an arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m really glad you told me all this, and it will remain a confidence with me. Don’t worry, I’m not going to discuss what you’ve said with Jack. This is private, between us.’

‘Thank you. Thanks for everything.’

‘I do want you to do something for me, Katie.’

‘Tell me. I’ll do whatever you want.’

‘I think you should take the weekend off. Skip tomorrow’s rehearsals. Rest on Saturday and Sunday. Be back here on Monday morning.’

‘But what will Jack say?’

‘Leave Jack to me. Don’t worry about him. Or the play. You’re word-perfect, and you have the part down pat. I have great confidence in you, and missing a couple of rehearsals is not going to hurt you. It’ll probably do you good.’

‘But are you sure…I don’t want him to be…’

‘Difficult?’ Melanie smiled at her. ‘Jack’s one of your biggest fans even though he doesn’t show it. That’s his way. No favourites. Anyway, the buck stops here, you know, with me. I’m the producer, and I’m telling you to take the weekend off.’

Her bedroom was much the same as it had always been, with the same colour scheme and the same furniture. Her father repainted it from time to time, to keep it fresh, but it was always done in the same dusty pink on the walls, with pristine white paint on the windows and doors. She loved this unusual dusty pink colour, and her father had once explained that it was a warm pink toned down with grey which made it soft and muted. ‘Easy on the eye,’ was the way her
father put it, and she knew he took special care with her room.

She was glad to be back at home in Malvern for the weekend. This house had always been important to her; it was home; she had grown up in it and it spelled safety, security, and boundless love to her. The love from her parents and Niall and little Fin. Not so little any more, she thought, with a half smile. He was six feet one and gorgeous. She hung up a pair of grey flannel trousers and a heathery-coloured tweed jacket which she had brought with her for the weekend, then emptied her small suitcase.

When everything was put away, she glanced at the bedside clock, saw that it was four-thirty. Her mother had gone shopping and wouldn’t be back for an hour at least, so she went over to her carryall and took out her diary. She suddenly noticed that its green leather looked slightly worn, but then again, it was five years old. Time for a new one soon; this one was already almost filled up.

Sitting down at the desk facing out over the back garden, Katie opened the diary and began to write.

January 21st 2000

Malvern

Connecticut

I felt very guilty when I got back to the apartment earlier today. I had upset Jack and Melanie, but what happened at
the theatre was not of my own volition. It just happened. And I couldn’t stop it at first. I could no more have stopped it than I could have flown to the moon.

Xenia once said Verity was impeccable. And now I really understand what she meant. Also, I can now say that of Melanie Dawson. She, too, is impeccable. Talking to her helped me. She was sympathetic, understanding, and kind. Impeccable. I love that word. And Melanie is impeccable in every sense of it.

I had no choice but to take the weekend off, but I did feel guilty about it when I left the theatre. Even worse by the time I got back to West End Avenue. Mom was so surprised to see me when I walked in, and she immediately looked crestfallen, as if she thought I’d been fired. Once I’d explained that I hadn’t felt well on stage and had been sent home until Monday morning she cheered up, and insisted I drive up to Malvern. I didn’t need any persuading to go home with her. A chance to see Dad and Niall was irresistible. Unlike some people, I had a very happy childhood, and I don’t hate my parents or my siblings, and none of my extended family. I love them all, and I think they’re all wonderful. Human, of course, with human frailties. But wonderful.