This Was Tomorrow (27 page)

“I am sorry I have not bought you anything to eat, but we could not have talked like this otherwise,” he said, and raised her hand and kissed it, and rose from the bench. “I rely on you to be discreet between now and the time you leave London.”

“Yes, Victor.” She looked up at him without rising.

“Stay here until I am out of sight. Then go by the opposite way as you came. We don’t want now to be seen together.”

He turned and was gone, with his tramping step, back towards the Albert Memorial.

Evadne sat still on the bench, trying to think. She felt bludgeoned and dazed. At last she stood up and started limply for Lancaster Gate, meaning to get on a bus and ride round a while, collecting herself. She would get no lunch, but she couldn’t tackle Hermione yet. Later she would find a restaurant. Later, when she had decided what she must do.

She crossed Bayswater Road and got on the first bus that came, and gave the man three pennies without looking at the notice-board. The bus rocked on, down Oxford and Regent Streets and into the Haymarket. She saw nothing of her surroundings, and had no idea where she was, absorbed in the racing of her own mind.

It was no time now to antagonize Hermione about the lost letters, she was thinking, for this was something far bigger than one’s own personal life. She needed Hermione now, as never before, to accompany her to Germany. Hermione would argue—she always did—and she had no true conception of what it was their mission to accomplish. She would say it was too late, she would say they were running their heads into a war, she would say that Victor might be had up for treason and leave them stranded, or worse, involved in his own predicament. Would it be possible to coax her into just an ordinary-seeming trip to Germany, as they had gone several times before, without bringing Victor into it at all? Hardly, with that Ostend business so carefully marked out. Why had she agreed to that? Why had Victor proposed it, anyway, she wondered. Why couldn’t they just arrive in Germany normally under their own steam, in the usual way? What had Victor got in mind? Was it too late now to ask him? He would doubtless be furious if she rang him up now at the Embassy …

It’s not a nice thing to do to Mummy, bunging off like that without a word, she thought, gazing blankly out of the window. But some day if we are successful she will realize that there was no other way. I can send back a telegram from Ostend. If Victor and I bring something off, they will all
forgive me. What happens if I run into Johnny and Camilla in Berlin? And what will poor Stevie think now….

The bus lurched to a stop again. I must find something to eat, she thought lucidly, getting out of her seat. That’s what makes me feel so funny. I’m hungry. There must be an ABC somewhere near….

She stepped down and drifted away from the bus stop into the Strand, vaguely in search of a restaurant. And suddenly, right in front of her, as though her subconscious had brought her to it, or fate, there was Stephen’s theatre with the matinée crowd going in. She paused beside a big frame of pictures from the show, and stood gazing at it wistfully. In the centre was a portrait of him, with his grin. She wanted it, to take with her to Germany, for company there. If I bought a programme, she thought, I would have a picture of Stevie to take with me. And then she thought, I could go in and see the show without his knowing—like Hermione. Just to say goodbye. She joined the queue in front of the ticket-window and got a single at the side. She bought the sixpenny programme from the usher and sat staring down at the picture on the front of it till the lights were lowered.

And there was Stephen, all unconscious of her presence, doing his job, getting his laughs, weaving his own particular personal magic. Evadne sat surrounded by laughter, with tears on her cheeks, and watched him. When it was over she put the programme into her bag and stumbled up the aisle. She was now quite faint with hunger, and had a headache. She knew that she had only to go to the stage-door and send in her name, and Stephen would take charge of everything, she would be fed and fussed over—cosseted, was the word. And if she gave Stephen one hint of what she was going to do he would hit the ceiling and then she wouldn’t have to go….

She hadn’t reckoned on the doorman’s remembering her, so that there was no delay for second thought and flight, before she found herself standing in front of Stephen’s dressing-room door, on which the doorman himself had knocked after escorting her there. “Come in!” said Stephen’s voice—so light—so
gay—oh, Stevie. But she simply stood there, with tears in her eyes, unable to answer or move, and the door was opened from within by his dresser, also with instant recognition in his smile. The lights were very bright in the room. Someone passed her with a murmured apology on his way out. And then Stephen said, “E
VADNE
,
for
the
love
of
God
—!” as though he hadn’t seen her for simply
months,
and his hands were on her shoulders, and she was being put into a low chintz chair beside the dressing-table, and the door closed discreetly behind the dresser, and Stephen was there on one knee beside her, holding both her hands, saying, “I can’t believe it, what brought you here, why didn’t you
tell
me—were you in front this afternoon?”

“Yes.” Dazzled and confused by the blazing happiness in his face, she gave him a rather sidelong smile. “All by myself. I just sort of found myself in front of the theatre and bought myself a ticket and went in.”

“
Bought
yourself a—!” He was horrified. “You mean you paid good money to see my show? Don’t ever do that again! Just let me know, I’ll find you a ticket. Where did you sit?”

“On the left, at the side. I had a wonderful time. Oh, Stevie, you’re
so
good!”

“Thanks very much,” he said, embarrassed and pleased, and he rose from his knee. “It was a nice house today—they got everything. Have a drink? Oh, no, you don’t. Cigarette? No. Can’t I give you
anything?
”
He turned in the middle of the room slim and straight in his tightly-belted dressing-gown with a clean towel folded inside the neck, the make-up still on his face, both hands flung wide in a generous gesture.

“You couldn’t produce a sandwich, could you?” she suggested, still feeling shy and strange in the presence of Stephen the actor, still under the influence of
the spotlights and the music and applause, piercingly aware of who and what he was in the eyes of the people out front, unable to accept casually the fantastic knowledge racing through her that he was hers, and that her unexpected arrival in his dressing-room could give him so much pleasure.

“Sandwich? What kind?
Mullins!
”
(The dresser, on guard outside, put his head in at the door.) “What kind of sandwich, darling?” Stephen was asking her.

“Anything. Ham, I suppose.”

“Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“Ham sandwich and tea, Mullins.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door closed softly.

“What’s the idea of no lunch? Was there a row at home?” Stephen asked, sitting down at the dressing-table and reaching for the cold cream.

“Oh, don’t take it off,
please,
Stephen, I—like it.”

He paused in mid-air.

“What,
make-up?
”

“It makes you look so—different.”

“That
is
an advantage, isn’t it,” he said genially, and she giggled. He glanced at himself in the mirror, non-committally, and lighted a cigarette, settling comfortably into the hard straight chair under the glare of the lights. She noticed as he crossed his legs that he still wore his dancing shoes and his third-act trousers beneath the dressing-gown. “Why didn’t you have lunch?” he asked casually, dropping the match in an ash-tray without looking at her.

“I forgot about it. I was on the wrong bus, and wound up here, and there was just time so I came in.”

“They serve tea in the interval, don’t they, out front? On little lap-trays that somebody always fails to get rid of before the curtain goes up again, so there’s a rattle that kills your laugh. Why didn’t you have tea?”

“I didn’t think about it.”

“What on earth
were
you thinking about?”

“The show. It’s wonderful, Stevie.”

“My stage-struck darling,” he said tenderly, touched. “It’s just a show.”

The dresser knocked and came in with a cup of steaming tea and a ham sandwich on a plate, which he placed with fatherly
care on a little table at Evadne’s elbow and withdrew himself again.

“Aren’t you going to have anything?” she asked, and sank her teeth hungrily into the sandwich with childlike relish.

“Had mine. Early dinner, you know. Care to join us?” he asked carefully.

She shook her head, unable to speak for munching.

“No, I suppose that would be
too
much,” he said meekly. “Do you intend to tell me what happened with Hermione or are you going to let me die of it?”

“Nothing, so far. I haven’t had a chance.”

“Stalling, eh! I might have known.”

“Honestly, Stephen, there were people there when I got home yesterday, and it went on all evening. This morning there wasn’t time before I had to go out.”

“Mm-hm,” said Stephen wisely.

Revived and sobered by the hot tea and food, after finding her way to him by some sort of blind, befuddled homing instinct, she realized now with awful clarity what she had let herself in for. It was all very well to look at him from the other side of the footlights as a sentimental gesture, but now she was here in his room, seeing him again as a human being with a mutual past and a personal future. Now to say goodbye to him was as it were to wrench herself out of his very hands and leave him trustful and unaware, expecting to see her again tomorrow or next day—for to tell him what she intended would be fatal, just as not to tell him entailed unforgivable deceit. She should never have come through the stage-door. But now that she was here it was good, it was heaven, and she might as well enjoy it as long as she could. When the last drop of tea and the last crumb of sandwich was gone she gave a little sigh and said she would have to go now.

“Aren’t you going to say hullo to Sylvia?” he asked, and she said there really wasn’t time, and stood up, collecting her bag and gloves.

As she did so her eye fell on a pile of photographs and proofs
dumped down on a cabinet in the corner—scenes from the show, portraits of Stephen, action stills of Stephen dancing—dozens of pictures, like the ones in the frame in the lobby. Evadne stood still, hypnotized by the jumbled treasure on the cabinet.

“Oh, Stephen—could I look at those?” she asked, pointing.

“What—
pictures?
Sure, they’re mostly from this show—” He picked them up and put them on the dressing-table. “Come over here, the light’s better. You’ve seen most of ’em, I expect.” He placed his own vacated chair for her and she began to turn over the photographs one by one.

“C-could I have one of these—to keep?” she asked diffidently, and he looked at her as though he thought she must be joking.

“There are some better ones upstairs in the office if you really—sure, take the lot, anything you like,” he said dazedly, for she had never shown any particular interest in the show or in his pictures before.

But she knew she could take only one to Germany without its being conspicuous, so she chose gravely, deciding on a pose similar to the rather blurred half-tone portrait on the front of the programme.

“I don’t know that it’s good for you to come to the theatre,” he remarked with a grin, slipping the print into a plain envelope for her. “Next thing I know you’ll be asking for my autograph. Which reminds me—don’t sit around on it, will you. Find out about those letters.”

“I will,” she nodded solemnly, well aware that she would not be able to bring it up now till after she and Hermione had returned from Germany, dismally conscious of yet another lie. “I’ll let you know.” She stood a moment looking up at him, the picture and her handbag clasped under one arm, and he wondered at the troubled gravity of her gaze. “Goodbye, Stevie,” she said, and lifted her face for his kiss, which was prompt and warm and smooth and smelt of grease paint and powder.

“Good night, darling. Luncheon tomorrow?”

She shook her head, backing away from him towards the door.

“The day after?”

Her fingers found the handle of the door behind her back and turned it.

“I love you, Stevie,” she said deliberately, and was gone.

To go after her would be only to encounter the dresser and the doorman. He stood a moment, staring rapturously at the closed door. Progress. This was progress.

The dresser knocked and came in, to find his master dancing, dancing, in his dressing-gown, in the middle of the small floor, an intricate, hilarious soft-shoe routine. And while he stood admiring, the gay steps ended in a wincing failure of the left foot, and Stephen dropped into the chair by the dressing-table with a muttered Damn, and reached for the cold cream.

I shouldn’t have said that, Evadne was telling herself rather lightheadedly as she reached the pavement outside the theatre and hailed a passing taxi and gave the Bayswater address. Now he’ll count on it, and everything will get still more complicated. It was a mistake to let him know, like that, he’ll think it’s a promise. How could I ever look Hermione in the face again if I married Stephen? But she had no right to take my letters. Well, it will all have to wait now till we get back from Germany. I can’t have her in a foul mood the whole time we’re away….

Maybe it was a mistake to promise Victor I’d come to Germany just now, she thought as the taxi turned into Oxford Street. I’m always making mistakes, sometimes it seems as though everything I do turns out to be a mistake, but I can’t help it, I only try to do what seems best at the time—you have to do
something
….

It would be no fun, she knew, to return to the flat now, unaccounted for for a whole afternoon which she had presumably spent with Victor. But she could bear that, she was
used to that, and the thing was to get Hermione packed for the trip to Germany. She always needed a week’s notice for a move, and now she would be in a bad mood to start with.