Dear Villain Page 4

  'I shouldn't worry about that,' said Judy practically. 'I don't suppose you'll take advantage of the relationship, will you?'

  'Heavens, no. I'm going to be as formal as I can with him, but that's not easy in the theatre, it's the last place for formality. What are the other reasons?'

  'If I do all right and stay on for some time, there may be a chance that I can be recommended for a stage directorship.'

  'Lizzie, you'll have to explain. I'm just not with all these labels.'

  Liz laughed. 'It's quite simple really. On stage management side, you've got at the top, the stage director. Then comes me, deputy stage manager, then the assistant stage managers. All these we usually shorten to their initials, hence SD, DSM and ASM.'

  'I see. We do that in hospital too. And what's this book you've been working on?'

  'This is the stage director's book. I've had to take each page out of the original copy of the play, stamp holes in here, and fit it in this strong, hardbacked folder, putting a plain sheet of paper between each page of the text. Then, when the director is plotting, the moves and any other relevant information can be written in.'

  'Plotting?' questioned Judy.

  'Early rehearsals, when the actors are given their first moves, are called plotting rehearsals,' explained Liz patiently. 'Everything, no matter how small, that the director says regarding the technical side of the play is put down on paper.'

  'And will you do that?'

  'Either Paul Scott or me. He's the SD.'

  'Mm… so you would like a stage directorship, eh? You're ambitious, then? No marriage plans?'

  'Not at the moment.' Liz finished her drink and placed it carefully on the bedside table. 'I was engaged once, but it didn't work out. Once bitten, as the saying goes.'

  'Better to find out then than too late. But you mustn't let that make you bitter, Liz. You're attractive…'

  'Whoops!' chortled Liz.

  'Yes, you are, no matter what you think. I wouldn't have thought you the career type at all. Now me—coming from my background—I'm going to take a lot of persuading before I give up my independence. I've got to be sure it's right. Nothing, but absolutely nothing, will make me go through what my parents went through.' She yawned. 'Oh, well, roll on Sunday and my day off.'

  'Perhaps one Sunday, when you're not too busy, you'd like to come over with me to see my parents, they'd love to meet you.' Liz grinned. 'I know Mum must be so relieved I'm sharing with someone as reliable as a nurse!'

  'I would like that, Liz.' Judy drained her mug and got up to go. 'By the way, the fridge is de-frosting. If I don't have time in the morning, would you be an angel and… what on earth's the matter, Liz?'

  'The fridge!' wailed Liz, 'that wretched fridge!'

  'What fridge, you idiot?' said a bewildered Judy.

  'Adam Carlyon's fridge. I forgot to switch it on,' she said in dismay, flinging back the bedclothes. 'I shall have to go and do it. All my fine talk about doing well and then I forget a simple thing like switching on a plug!'

  'Liz, you can't go at this time,' said Judy reasonably. 'It's gone eleven, and surely that's outside your job and can't make any difference?'

  'I know, I know, but what an impression it would make! Anyone else… I can just see his face,' Liz babbled incoherently. 'Anyway, the food will spoil and—'

  'What's in there that will deteriorate overnight? There! You see there isn't anything. Now get back into bed, you silly girl. You can go early on your way to work tomorrow and switch it on. Can you get into the flat?'

  Liz sighed with relief. 'Yes, I forgot to give your aunt Poll the key back, so I'll be able to let myself in. Yes, that's what I'll do.' She frowned. 'I can remember switching the inside one to normal gauge, but I didn't turn on the main one at the power plug,' adding grimly, 'and not for anything would I give that man the satisfaction of finding out. There'll be plenty of time for the fridge to do its work before he arrives.'

  'That's settled, then.' Judy turned at the door. 'There's something about this man Carlyon that stirs you up, isn't there? I wonder why?' and her eyes narrowed speculatively.

  Liz grinned. 'Take you psychodynamics off to bed,' she ordered, 'and he doesn't stir me up, I just want everything to be right, as far as he's concerned.'

  'Mm… What will it be like working so closely with him?'

  'That, dear nurse, only time will tell. I shall keep out of his way as much as possible,' Liz smiled. 'Night, Judy, and thanks.'

  The bedside lamp cast a ring of darkness round the room. Liz pensively leant back against the bedhead, her shadowy reflection from the dressing table mirror staring back at her. Dispassionately, she studied the ghost-like image before her, the pale oval face, blue eyes, thickly fringed, a decidedly over-generous mouth and a nose one wouldn't write home about. These features, framed by a thick mop of brown hair, added up to the sum total of one Elizabeth Browning, aged twenty-three, spinster of this parish and… Liz stuck out her tongue, breaking the ethereal portrait before her… a virgin. Which, she acknowledged wryly, is quite surprising in this day and age—and not for the lack of opportunity either! Reaching out, she switched off the light and snuggled down the bed. That's probably one of the reasons I lost James, she reflected sleepily. We had quite a few discussions on the subject. I suppose, deep down, I wasn't sure of him even then. If I had been, well… She sighed, turned over and at last, drifted off to sleep.

  Closing the door to number fifteen Elmscourt behind her, Liz passed the two suitcases in the hall and walking quietly into the kitchen stooped down by the side of the refrigerator. She felt for the switch. Puzzled, she felt again and—yes, it was down, yet she was so sure… Frowning, Liz rose and turning awkwardly, knocked over a rack of saucepans placed nearby. The noise shattered the silence. Desperately trying to save the remaining pan from falling, Liz trod on a lid, yelped a startled 'hell's bells!' and skidded to a painful thump on to the floor. The door to the kitchen then crashed open and a voice demanded:

  'What the devil's going on in here?' and the light was mercilessly switched on.

  Liz, her ears ringing with the noise, could have wept with fury. All her plans of meeting Adam Carlyon serenely and quietly confident died. She sat up and brushed the hair from her face.

  Obviously disturbed while dressing, with shirt unbuttoned and tie in hand, he was standing in the doorway, frowning down at her. He hadn't changed. He was still the impressive, astute, highly dangerous man of two years ago. To her mortification, his shoulders began to shake and throwing back his head, he roared with laughter. This was the last straw! Liz, cheeks burning, said icily:

  'When you've quite finished, Mr Carlyon, perhaps you would help me up?' Which could have been a mistake. He stopped laughing and stared searchingly at her for a moment, but the hand that reached out was quite impersonal.

  'Well, well,' he drawled, 'if it isn't the efficient Miss Browning. To what do I owe the pleasure of this early morning visit? Perhaps you were going to make my morning cup of coffee? Or have you decided that perhaps, after all, it's part of your duties to tuck your director up in bed? Although that's more usually a night-time pursuit!' He leisurely began to button his shirt, a half-smile on his face. 'Well, you're just in time—for the coffee, I mean.' He glanced at the percolator which was just beginning to bubble. 'Black, with one sugar.'

  Liz resisted the impulse to hit him. Keep your temper, Lizzie, she told herself sternly, and ignoring the mocking smile, knelt to replace the saucepans, hoping that her composure would return before she had to look at him again.

  'I'm sorry,' she said shortly; the fact that she was apologising stuck in her throat, but forcing herself to continue, knowing it was going to sound pathetic, she went on: 'I came yesterday afternoon to fill up the fridge and then last night I remembered that I hadn't switched it on. At least, I thought I hadn't,' she finished lamely. The silence continued. Blast the man, Liz thought bitterly, does he think I knew he would be here and this is just an excuse to see him? And as she rememb
ered his marriage taunts the last time they had met, her cheeks flamed once again.

  Carlyon still said nothing, just leant against the wall, arms folded, looking at her with an expressionless face.

  'I didn't know you'd arrived,' she said with exaggerated emphasis on each word. 'We were expecting you tomorrow. You shouldn't be here,' she insisted. The saucepans were back in place now and the percolator was bubbling furiously. Liz gave a small helpless shrug and said weakly:

  'If I'd known you were here, I… I could have phoned you and saved myself the journey.' Even to herself it sounded feeble.

  'Or you could have got in touch with the caretaker.' This very mildly.

  Infuriating man! 'I didn't think of that,' snapped Liz. 'I only wish I had, I can assure you.' Drat the man! She had started off with the best of intentions of remaining calm and here she was, shouting. Over to you now, chum, she thought stonily, determined to finish with explanations and outstaring him. She thought his lips twitched slightly, but there was no trace of laughter in his voice when he spoke. If there had been, she would gladly have flung all the saucepans, rack as well, at him.

  'Well, now that you are here, perhaps you would care to join me in that cup of coffee and I can catch up on all the latest news? It's the least I can do after all your trouble on my behalf, and after all, it's most important that director and deputy should,' he paused deliberately, 'co-ordinate.'

  Liz opened her mouth to say no, thank you, Mr Director, Sir, when she caught the look in his eyes, willing her to say just that. So she smiled sweetly.

  'Why, thank you, Mr Carlyon. I would like a coffee.' For what better way of testing her resolve that Mr Adam Carlyon was just an ordinary mortal and to be treated as such? In the end, she made the coffee while he finished dressing. She caught a gleam in the dark eyes as he sipped his coffee and her back stiffened imperceptibly. She seemed fated to amuse Mr Carlyon.

  'You haven't changed, Elizabeth. Still perched ready for flight.'

  'You haven't, either,' she said shortly, ignoring the implication and settling herself defiantly back into the chair. As he stood leaning against the mantel, the epitome of the glossy magazine's "man about town relaxing at home", Liz found his scrutiny irritating. He said, with only a slight degree of interest:

  'What have you been doing with yourself lately?' If it was small talk he wanted, that was all right with her.

  'I did a spell of rep at Worcester, and then spent about eighteen months with the Education Theatre in Bristol, taking plays around the schools. I enjoyed that.'

  'In what capacity?'

  'Oh, doing everything, even a spot of producing.'

  'I see I shall have to look to my laurels.'

  'That won't be necessary, I'm right out of your class.' Finishing the coffee, she stood up, not looking at him, wondering whether she had gone too far.

  'Nothing in life is certain, Elizabeth. Are you sure you won't have another? Then if you'll wait for a moment while I get some papers, we'll go down to the theatre together…'

  'There's no need…' began Liz hastily.

  '… as I'm going there myself,' he finished gently.

  The journey into town began in silence, which was any-thing but companionable. Liz frantically searched for a safe topic of conversation. The gleaming white bonnet of the sports car at last gave her inspiration and seemed safe enough. She said brightly.

  'What a lovely car! I don't think I've seen one like it before. What is it?'

  'A Morgan,' said Adam Carlyon, suddenly breaking as a car incautiously overtook from behind. The engine note changed and they gathered speed.

  'I thought Morgans were only three-wheelers,' said Liz in surprise.

  'Not these days. By the way, Helen has invited me over on Sunday. I understand we're both to be honoured by being Emma's godparents.' As no reply was forthcoming, he flicked a glance at her face and caught the look of surprise. 'You didn't know?'

  Liz shook her head and turned impulsively to him, saying animatedly:

  'Oh, Adam, you should see her! She's a darling. Big blue eyes, masses of corn-coloured hair, a real picture-book baby.' She stopped abruptly as his face assumed a curiously blank look. She gave a short laugh. 'There speaks the doting aunt! I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive me, but as she's the first grandchild, we're all inclined to be rather enthusiastic over her.' As the Morgan nosed its way into the car park she added, quite kindly: 'If you're scared of babies, you needn't hold her.'

  'I see you still retain your passion for jumping to conclusions, Elizabeth. You needn't worry. I'm not scared of babies—or of doting aunts either.' The engine note died and he turned to look at her, a derisive smile on his lips, eyes cold and dark. 'And you needn't worry about this morning, either. Your memory didn't fail you—I turned the fridge on. You see, I haven't assumed that your visit was just an excuse to see the irresistible Adam Carlyon. We both know better than that, don't we?'

  He leant across and released the door handle. Liz scrambled out as dignified as she could make it and began to walk towards the stage door.

  'Elizabeth.' The tone was even. She would have liked to ignore him, but decided, with faltering stride, not to take a chance. She turned and levelled a clear gaze at him.

  'Haven't you forgotten something?' He was leaning against the Morgan, hands in pockets, one eyebrow raised quizzically. Through dry lips she murmured:

  'I don't think so.' There was a pause.

  'The key, Elizabeth.'

  'The key?' she echoed in bewilderment, and then realisation dawned and her face flooded with embarrassment.

  'Oh! The key!' She fumbled desperately in her bag, found the offending key and almost threw it into his open palm.

  'I don't think you'll be needing it again, do you?' he commented softly, eyes challenging.

  Liz took a deep breath.

  'No, I'm sure you're right, Mr Carlyon,' she said, holding the dark eyes with her own. 'Thank you for the lift,' and turning, she walked away.

  Wretched, wretched man! So the gloves were still on, were they? She was not to be allowed to forget their last encounter?

  So be it, Adam Carlyon. So be it. That suited her fine.

  CHAPTER 2

  Always behave as if nothing has happened, no matter what has happened.

  Arnold Bennett

  Quite often, during the rest of the day, Liz went over in her mind the meeting with Adam Carlyon. She could not get over the fact that he obviously still held a grudge. But then, she admitted to herself, so do I! The fact that he had accused her of angling for marriage made her as angry now as it had done then. Each time she considered the situation she ended up as confused as when she began, so she would reject it for a while and impatiently throw herself into her work, only to find herself going over it all again.

  Some members of the company began to arrive and drifted into the theatre for their accommodation addresses. Liz managed to keep out of Carlyon's way; he was closeted in John's office for most of the day. She finally retreated to the comparative safety of the props room. As it was a new theatre the store was ill-equipped, but there were quite a few junk shops in the old part of Queensbridge and Liz was looking forward to browsing through them for suitable bric-a-brac.

  She worked her way through the script of The Shrew, noting down the items needed and checking to see if they were in stock. Half-way through the afternoon her sanctuary was invaded by a fair-haired girl of about her own age who wore a tape measure round her neck, like a badge of office.

  'Hello. Liz Browning? Sorry to disturb you,' she smiled apologetically, 'I'm Val Grey, wardrobe. Do you think we could sort out fitting times, or are you too busy?'

  'Hello,' said Liz, smiling back at the wardrobe mistress. 'You couldn't have timed it better, I've been sitting so long on this packing case, my rear is complaining!' She grinned and began to collect her papers together. 'I've finished here, anyway.'

  Wardrobe was a long room with a huge table in the centre and workbenches round two sides. C
urtained cubicles for changing were at one end and a huge mirror was at the other. An electric kettle on one of the benches was beginning to steam and Liz gratefully accepted the proffered cup of tea.

  'I must get started as quickly as possible on these costumes,' Val said, scanning the list of characters noted at the beginning of the play. 'There's such a lot of work involved in a period play.'

  'The designs are super,' said Liz enthusiastically. 'I saw them yesterday and thought how good they are.'

  'Yes, aren't they?' Val agreed, then pulled a face. 'Here's hoping they look as good made up as they do down on paper!'

  'I'm sure they will,' reassured Liz, remembering John's praises over Valerie Grey's previous experience.

  'Have you worked with Adam Carlyon before?' asked Val with interest.

  'No.'

  'I have, he's marvellous, he really is. I was thrilled when I found out he was going to be here. It's a pleasure to work with him.'

  Here we go again, thought Liz. Feminine adoration rearing its ugly head. No wonder the man takes it all for granted!

  The two girls worked together for some time, making out a working plan for the first week, matching rehearsal rotas with free time for costume fittings.

  'As you can see,' explained Liz, 'a few are taking more than one part, mostly doubling up for crowd scenes, and here's a list of the actors' names set against the characters they're playing. By the way, Val, there's a meeting on Monday morning at ten. You'll be able to come, I hope?'

  Val nodded. 'When do you think I can have the first lot to measure?'

  'It depends on how long Carlyon keeps us for the read-through in the afternoon. I might be able to send you a few bodies after that, if there's time.'

  'Thanks for your help, Liz,' said Val, going over to the small sink and washing their cups. 'We've done all we can for the moment and I've more or less sorted out who's who.'

  'I'll be off, then,' said Liz, 'although I'm still not too sure of my way round this place yet.' She opened the door and peered out. 'Polly's office is straight down this corridor to the double doors, then left and it's the one on the right, correct?'