Pretty Face Page 18

  “Oh!” She quickly whipped the glass back before the wine sloshed on the strip of white shirt showing between the edges of his coat.

  “Lily.” He looked down at the wine.

  “I’m not drinking this. I’m just—holding it.”

  “Right.” He looked very chiselled and freshly showered. His hair was still damp. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” He glanced around. “Are you here by yourself?”

  “No.” An usher walked past with an empty tray of glasses; hastily, she handed off the wine. “I’m here with Margo.”

  He did have an exceptional poker face. “You’re here with Margo.”

  “We were talking at the studio earlier and she invited me along tonight. Are you here to hear Alberto, too?” It seemed to take the concept of friendly exes to an extreme, but it was Christmas Eve, and the season of peace and goodwill, and so forth—

  “While I’m sure that listening to Alberto’s rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy” will be the highlight of my Christmas, my mother is also performing.” The hint of a smile crept into his eyes. “And when she has a concert in London, it’s full family attendance on pain of death.”

  He pulled back his sleeve to look at his watch. “I’d better get in there. My father will have been here for at least an hour, and my brother can’t get away from work until nine, so he’s already bagged the late card tonight. If you’re with Margo’s party, I assume we’re going the same way? Family box?”

  She nodded, and he stepped back to let her go first. When she got trapped after three steps, with her nose almost buried in the wet wool covering a stranger’s broad back, he switched strategies and led the way, reaching back a hand to snag hers. She was totally unsurprised when he managed to get them to the staircase in about fifteen seconds, parting the crowds like a dashing, twenty-first-century Moses.

  He kept hold of her hand while they climbed the staircase to the third-floor boxes, which she appreciated, given the height of her heels and the slippery surface, and released her when they reached the red-carpeted entryway. It was much quieter up here, with just a few voices coming from behind the heavy curtains that partitioned off the private seating.

  She looked down the hallway. “Which—”

  “In here.” He parted the first curtain and held it open for her.

  The family box was larger than the standard, with seats for about twenty, most of which were filled already. The balustrade looked right over the stage. Lily peered down at the stands, watching as people continued to mill inside and find their rows. Large Christmas trees lined the outer perimeter and ushers walked around giving out hand-held lanterns and candles in small silver dishes.

  One appeared in front of her face, already lit, and she turned to take it from Luc. Her smile faltered when their eyes met.

  “Thanks.” She looked down. “You don’t have one.”

  “They drip wax.”

  “So you thought you’d just offload it on me?”

  His lips curved.

  “Luc!”

  She jumped. A familiar man raised his hand in greeting and got up from his seat in the front row. He had a sweep of silver hair and, she realised when he was close enough, Luc’s grey eyes.

  “You’re here. On time. It’s a Christmas miracle.” Cameron Savage’s booming, cavernous voice had always reached the farthest seats in a theatre without needing electronic aid. The moment he spoke, it was like hearing his Lear and Julius Caesar come back to life.

  He turned to Lily with a smile and a barely noticeable glint of surprise. “And you brought someone.” He looked at her more closely in the dim light. “Oh, you’re our Elizabeth! Lily, isn’t it?” He shook her hand firmly. “Cameron Savage. Fifty-percent responsible for inflicting your boss on the unsuspecting actors of London. We almost got another player in the family, but he was always better at giving orders than following a cue.”

  Luc rolled his eyes, and she got back enough of her composure to laugh. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Savage. Merry Christmas.”

  “And a very cordial same to you, young lady. Call me Cameron.”

  “‘Our’ Elizabeth?” Luc enquired.

  The resemblance between them was even more marked when Cameron grinned. “Did I say ‘our’? I meant ‘your.’” He turned back to Lily. “So, you’re Jack Lamprey’s daughter.”

  “For my sins.”

  “For his, I’d imagine.” The words were sardonic, but his smile was warm. “I hope you’re sitting with us?”

  “Lily came with Margo’s party.” Luc’s arm brushed hers as he pulled off his coat.

  “Really? You’re here with Margo.” Cameron was obviously intrigued. “Well, I suppose the two of you must have plenty to talk about.” His face was pure innocence, but his eyes gleamed with gentle teasing. “Rehearsals, and so forth.”

  Lily could see why he and her father had been friends at one time.

  Margo still hadn’t returned by the time the theatre lights started to dim and the noise level dropped to hushed whispers. Mr. Helpful and Handsy arrived with another glass of wine, however, and edged towards the empty seat next to Lily.

  She wavered before getting up, slipping along to the other end of the row and sliding into the seat next to the Savages. “Sorry. Are you saving this for your brother?”

  Luc glanced down the row. “Unwanted admirer?”

  “Apparently our children will have my looks, his brains, and excel in science at Harrow.”

  “Stay put. Alex has gone on to a Christmas party in Notting Hill. If you turn up more than an hour late, you can’t complain if you’re seated next to the clinically insane.”

  “Thank you. The save is much appreciated. It almost makes up for the fact that I have hot wax dripping down my wrist.”

  The houselights went out, leaving only the fairy lights, lanterns and candles—hundreds of glowing pinpoints through the stands and up the tiers. It was beautiful, and when the curtain went up and the orchestra began to play, Lily was pulled into a rare experience of pure warmth and contentment, where nothing existed beyond the music and the atmosphere.

  Alberto was listed in the second part of the programme, but Célie Verne opened the concert and returned repeatedly throughout the first half. She was charismatic and popular with the audience, coaxing and demanding that the crowd join in, until five thousand or so voices swelled the harmony of “O Holy Night.”

  In the candlelight, Lily looked up at Luc. Her gaze moved over his jawline and profile, travelling over the inky black hair with the threads of silver. He turned his head and looked down at her.

  He was sitting only inches away, but neither of them made any attempt to cross the divide. She could see the slow, steady rise and fall of his broad chest as he breathed. His face was a mystery of shadows and flickering light.

  As everyone around them sang, with mixed ability but plenty of enthusiasm, they watched each other’s eyes and sat in silence and stillness.

  When the houselights came back on for intermission, it was like being shaken out of a deep sleep. She blinked several times, disoriented, and focused on Cameron, who was getting to his feet on Luc’s other side and smiling down at her.

  “What did you think of Célie?” he asked proudly. “Isn’t she wonderful?”

  “Yes.” Lily found a return smile. Sincerely, she added, “Incredible.”

  “She’s an extraordinary woman, my wife. Looks of a Raphael Madonna and a mind like a steel trap. And the left-hook of Joe Frazier. But she could have had a face like a dropped pie and the voice would still have sealed the deal. It was love at first word. If I remember correctly, it was a four-letter word, but nobody else can make an obscenity sound like the first note of ‘Casta Diva.’ My girlfriend before Célie had vocal cords like deflating bagpipes. Her Christmas Eve rendition of ‘Silent Night’ caused livestock all over Derbyshire to flee for the hills. I’m going backstage for a few minutes.”

  Lily stared after him as he finally drew breath and left. �
��There’s just the faintest strain of Simon Cowell running right through your family, isn’t there?”

  Luc stood up to stretch. “I don’t think I’ve ever suggested that your voice would cause a farmyard stampede.”

  “Don’t think I’ve forgotten the Helium Barbie comment, Backtrack Ken.”

  “I issued a blanket apology for all sexist comments, inadvertent or intentional. And I told you after rehearsal this morning, there’s definite improvement. Twice, in your response to constructive criticism, you almost hit an F below middle C. And the accompanying gesture the second time was an inspired piece of method acting.”

  The box continued to empty out, with everyone presumably heading towards the bar or the loo. A note of awkwardness drifted back in.

  “No sign of Margo,” Lily said. “Or your brother.”

  “Margo is probably still propped on Ferreti’s knee backstage. And Alex is probably propped up on a bar in Soho by now.”

  “Will your mother not mind that he missed her performance?”

  “Outwardly, no. Wait a few years and then check her autobiography. The chapter on achieving stardom despite family neglect.”

  Lily laughed. They wandered out into the hallway to stretch their legs, and she remembered her favourite part of the Majestic. “Is the Canali necklace still on display on the second floor?”

  Luc leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, looking exhausted. There was a definite pause before he answered. “No. It’s been moved.”

  “To?” she asked suspiciously.

  “The Tower. Lots of tourists and Beefeaters, hours of queuing, totally inaccessible.”

  “If you’re going to lie, you could at least put in some effort and make it semi-believable.”

  “Maybe it’s been moved to where it belongs.”

  “The dramatic arts museum?”

  “A pound store.”

  “Bossy and droll. Form an orderly queue, ladies.” She grinned. “I’ll see you back in there.”

  When she was halfway down the marble stairs, her heel slipped. She grabbed hold of the railing, and a hand caught her around her waist.

  Luc hauled her back to an upright position and kept a steadying arm around her until they reached flat ground.

  She cleared her throat. “You did not know that was going to happen.”

  “The odds weren’t in your favour.”

  The walls of the second-floor gallery were lined with locked glass displays. Lily found the one she was looking for in a central position on the far wall. A framed portrait of Elisabetta Canali—once known as Edmund Cane—was mounted above a collection of letters. And, nestled in a velvet box, the Canali necklace.

  Lily touched a fingertip to the glass.

  Luc continued to look underwhelmed. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to go misty-eyed and sentimental over the dusty contents of someone’s dresser drawer.”

  “It’s a beautiful necklace.”

  “It’s a hideous necklace.”

  She bent down for a closer look. “Only aesthetically.”

  “Call it masculine stupidity, but I would have thought aesthetics were sort of the point, if you’re going to walk around with something slung around your neck.”

  “Ironic, coming from someone wearing that tie.”

  “Funny, funny woman.”

  Lily studied Elisabetta’s painted features. They were sharp and blade-like. Her eyes seemed to stare out of the canvas like lasers.

  “Considering that the Elizabethan portrait tradition favoured round faces and arms, and artists softened their subjects to the point where most of them looked to be from the same family of pillows,” Luc said, “Elisabetta Canali must have been a walking hatchet.”

  “Feel free to go away now and leave me to soak up the inspiration in peace.”

  “Canali is your inspiration? The woman pretended to be a man for fifteen years, enjoyed middling success, and then died falling through a stage trapdoor. With your hit-and-miss ability to remain vertical, I’d suggest picking a different role model. Sarah Bernhardt, as far as I’m aware, never failed to spot a giant hole in the floor.”

  “Elisabetta Canali would have been arrested and imprisoned if her gender had been discovered. That’s how dedicated she was. She defied all of society’s rules and conventions to break out of the box and be the person she wanted to be.”

  “Hiding behind a costume,” Luc said. “Onstage and off. Her entire adult life. Until she fell through a trapdoor.”

  “Would you get over that?”

  “I’m not sure you realise how uncommon it is for that to actually happen. Even centuries before the Health and Safety Executive insisted that we put up signs and hand out a leaflet. Unless the woman was legally blind or just blind-drunk, she doesn’t get a pass.”

  “Well, some people did drink about a gallon of alcohol a day back then. They didn’t trust the water was clean. Probably wisely. I’ve seen diagrams of the London sewage system.” Lily touched the glass cabinet again. “Anyway, Elisabetta had the…somewhat ugly four-leaf clover necklace made as a symbol of perseverance. To show that if you search long enough and work hard enough, you’ll eventually find what you’re looking for.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “It was in the arts column of the Quarterly last year. Elisabetta Canali was found out by George Berry, who was essentially the Elizabethan equivalent of a stage manager. Instead of having her thrown in the stocks, he took a fancy to her Terminator stare and legendary mean streak, and started writing her love letters, which were found in somebody’s attic. He commissioned the clover necklace for her. The symbols of faith, hope and love, the poor bastard. And the fourth leaf: luck. Although some might say he would have brought her more luck by—oh, I don’t know—closing the trapdoor.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Oh.” Lily stared at the necklace anew. “So it was a symbol of—love.”

  “It’s a symbol of bad taste. Given, I suppose, in love. Or at least unlikely and possibly one-sided infatuation.”

  “She wore it,” Lily said slowly. “It was found on her body, under her costume. It’s not something a man would wear. Even in a time when every self-respecting alpha male wore tights and frills. You wouldn’t risk blowing your whole cover, when that much is at stake, for unrequited infatuation.”

  Luc shrugged. “I guess she believed in taking risks in every aspect of her life.”

  She looked again at the necklace. “I guess she did.”

  “Right.” Luc took her by the shoulders, turned her to the left and gave her a gentle push.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Intermission ends in four minutes. Just enough time to divert past the Sarah Bernhardt portrait so you can soak up some inspiration from a woman who could actually act.”

  “One of Sarah Bernhardt’s most iconic roles was in a play that folded after one night and was banned in three cities.”

  “Yeah, well, fortunately it’s not 1910 and I haven’t cast you as a highly sexualised Judas Iscariot. Provided everybody sticks to Starkey’s script and keeps their clothes on, I don’t think you’ll have to cross a picket line.”

  *

  The final carol was a full-audience rendition of “Silent Night” performed in near-darkness as most of the candles had gone out. A single spotlight illuminated the mirrored star above the stage. It would have been very affecting if Lily had been able to lose the mental image of animals, shepherds and Wise Men fleeing the holy stable in panic while Cameron Savage’s one-time girlfriend warbled out the lyrics.

  In the foyer afterwards, she met Célie Verne and Alberto Ferreti, and was soundly hugged by both. Alberto was a big bear of a man with a beaming smile, a lot of sex appeal, and an endless stream of positivity.

  “Bit of an adjustment for Margo,” Célie murmured in Lily’s ear as she embraced her. Her speaking voice still had the gorgeous French lilt. “It must have been
like consciously uncoupling from Eeyore and eloping with Baloo.”

  Lily almost died of laughter in the middle of the Majestic. The others all looked over. None of them had heard, but Alberto laughed with her anyway, deep and booming. The expression on Luc’s face only sent her into another spiral of giggles.

  Célie was smiling at her. “Oh my goodness, you’re like your father. You light up exactly the same way when you laugh. Although you’ve managed to take his looks and put them together in a much more pleasing way.” She angled her head in a darting, bird-like gesture. “How is your father?”

  “He’s—Jack,” Lily said, smiling back. “I don’t think you’d find him much changed.”

  “He was the most terrible rogue,” Célie said fondly. “And he made my Cameron furieux, which is always fun. Are you spending your Christmas with him tomorrow or with your very talented maman?”

  “Neither,” Lily said, before she could think better of it. “I’m going to my friend’s charity performance. She’s a dancer in The Festival of Masks.”

  “And then you will have your lunch?”

  “Yes,” Lily lied firmly. There was a speculative gleam in Célie’s eye. It was exactly the expression Margo had assumed when confronted with the holiday orphan, and she could guess where this was leading.

  Célie studied her for a second longer. “You have no plans,” she announced. “You will come and have Christmas lunch with us.”

  Hastily, she shook her head. “Thank you so much, but—”

  “Nonsense.” Célie turned and beckoned her family over with an imperious finger. “Luc, this young woman is one of your star players. It’s disgraceful that you’re abandoning her to spend Christmas by herself.”

  “I’m not—” She flushed hotly when Luc frowned. “Really, I have plans.”

  “Darling child,” Célie said. “I was once the mother of two teenage boys who regularly tried to pretend that they spent their Saturday nights studying. I know when I’m being lied to. You’re coming to us. Isn’t she, Cameron?”

  “Of course she is,” Cameron Savage agreed promptly, tucking his hand through the crook of his wife’s elbow. His eyes, glinting with mischief again, were fixed on his son.