Mona looks at her watch again. “The show was supposed to start ten minutes ago. Taking their sweet time, aren’t they?”
Dad shrugs it off. “Oh, a bit of set has fallen down or a light’s not working. Things always go wrong during the previews.”
Mum, Dad, Lisbet, Therese, Mona and I are all sitting in the front row of the Royal Circle, waiting for Jane Eyre to start. I hadn’t noticed it was getting past starting time. I was having too much fun admiring the red velvet curtain, the plasterwork ceiling and the hanging chandelier, the orchestra filing into the pit and taking out the instruments. It always amuses me how the musicians sit and talk to each other, fiddling with their instruments so casually until the conductor strides in. Then they all snap to attention, putting flutes to their lips and bows to strings as if they had been taking their warm-up seriously all along.
But now that Mona mentions it, it’s strange that the show is late. I can’t remember any show, even an opening night, being so tardy. Oh, well. It’s only ten minutes.
But another ten minutes pass and the show still hasn’t started and something uneasy stirs in my belly. I check my phone but there are no texts from Frederic. This doesn’t surprise me as he’s told me he turns his phone off in the hours before a show. People text him good-luck messages and they’re too distracting when he’s trying to warm up his voice and get into character.
I stare at the red curtain, willing it to open, for the house lights to dim. It’s nothing. Just a bit of broken equipment like Dad says. But Frederic’s been odd, these last few days, hasn’t he? As if he’s nervous. He’s never mentioned that he suffers from stage fright but maybe he does and he’s been too proud to tell me. Even so, I can’t picture him backstage right now, breathing into a paper bag and holding the whole show up.
An announcement comes over the loudspeakers and everyone’s ears prick up. “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay. We are having technical difficulties and tonight’s show will begin shortly.”
My family sit back in their seats, reassured, but the knot in my belly hasn’t loosened. I check Twitter, wondering if someone online has any more information but there are only Tweets from other people in the audience complaining about the holdup. I try to make small talk with the others but I’m feeling colder and colder by the minute. Something’s wrong, I know it is. Frederic’s right beneath this stage and I can’t go to him. Around me, people chatter, stretch their legs and take selfies while I sit in white-knuckle silence.
Thirty minutes pass, and then another announcement comes over the loudspeaker. “We apologize, but tonight’s performance of Jane Eyre is canceled. Please visit the box office for replacement tickets or a full refund.”
Groans go up throughout the theater and people turn to each other, but I unlock my phone and immediately call Frederic, my hands shaking. Straight to voicemail. I call him again. Voicemail. What the hell? Forgetting about my family I stand up, push down the row of people, muttering apologies as I step on toes and handbags, and find an usher. I explain to the woman that I’m a close friend of Frederic d’Estang and can I please be taken backstage? She looks at me, politeness warring with bewilderment, and explains that it won’t be possible. Only authorized personnel are allowed backstage.
“I am authorized. I’ve been backstage many times, I’m his... He’s my...” I trail off, realizing I’m gabbling. I’m not his anything, and “friend” isn’t going to cut it. The words stage door latch on in my brain and I turn and push again through the treacle-slow crowds winding their way down the carpeted stairs. I burst out onto Shaftsbury Avenue and hurry round the back to the stage door. Opening it, the security guard just inside looks at me in surprise. I don’t recognize him. But still, I try. “I’m a friend of Monsieur d’Estang’s.”
“No public access,” he interrupts, stepping forward to bar my way.
“But I—”
“No public access.” Before I can explain further I’m pushed out onto the street and the door is firmly shut in my face. I stand in the cold with a handful of other people, gruesome thoughts running through my mind. One of the cast members has been taken violently ill or knocked out by a falling stage light. Mass food poisoning from the milk they all use to make coffee. A vital set piece sent crashing onto the stage.
But somehow I know, and I don’t know how I know, that this has something to do with Frederic. I want so badly to be wrong but I feel in my bones that I’m not. Something has been building these last few weeks, something ominous, and the universe has delivered on its promise by ruining Frederic’s opening night. My heart goes out to him and everyone involved, but if I’ve learned anything as Anton Bell’s daughter it’s that the theater world is resilient. The show must go on. Whatever happened will be fixed by tomorrow or the next day. The cancellation might even be good for publicity as the papers will all report on whatever’s happened and the remaining seats will be sold.
But where is Frederic? I need to know he’s all right. I stare at the door, willing him to appear. He’ll look sheepish, I think, and scrub a hand through his curls and sigh when he sees me. Quite a few people have gathered now, rubbernecker shopping for gossip no doubt, and he’ll push through them to my side, take my hand and whisper, “Merde, you’ll never believe what happened.” Or, if he’s ill, one of the cast will pop their heads out of the stage door and beckon me over, and I’ll sail past that stupid guard who didn’t know me and into Frederic’s dressing room where he’ll be—
But I can’t picture Frederic ill or injured and the picture goes hazy. It won’t be dire, though, as ambulances haven’t materialized. He’ll have a sprained ankle, perhaps, and look cross and embarrassed. Poor Frederic.
I hear my father’s voice approaching and a moment later my family rounds the corner. Mona and Therese are looking at Dad as he talks on the phone, his face pinched into a frown. He knows something. Ice water fills my veins and I hurry to his side.
“Yes, all right, Martin. Thank you for calling.” He hangs up, his lips thinned with some strong emotion.
I grab his arm. “Was that Frederic’s agent? Why was he calling you? Is it Frederic?”
Dad glances around at the crowd of people and mutters, “Not here. Let’s get into a cab.”
But I can’t just leave Frederic, he might need me. “Is he hurt? Sick?” Dad shakes his head and some of my panic eases. I point at the stage door. “I need to see him but they won’t let me in. If you tell them who you are they’ll let us both in.”
He’s got a strange expression in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. He turns his phone over in his hand a few times. “Sweetheart, Frederic’s gone. He left the theater before tonight’s cancellation was announced.”
I stare at Dad like he’s an alien I’ve stumbled across in some impossible dimension. Frederic can’t be gone. I look back at the stage door desperately, willing him to materialize. If there was something wrong he’d wait for me, wouldn’t he? He’d need me. “But he’s... Why? Is he ill?”
“Frederic’s been keeping a voice disorder secret. He was warming up for tonight’s show and it just...” He makes a flicking gesture with his hand. Phut. Angrily shoving his phone into his pocket, he says, “Martin knew the whole time and he didn’t tell me. Of all the idiotic, unprofessional—” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Didn’t he tell you any of this? The two of you have been close, haven’t you?”
I barely hear a word of what he says. A voice disorder. Secret. Frederic has a voice disorder and he didn’t tell me. But we shared everything. Hopes, fears, plans for the future. We were far more intimate than people just sleeping together.
Weren’t we?
Dad steers me into a cab and in my confusion I go, unresisting. Mum and my sisters take another one, and I can hear Dad talking to me but I’m rerunning my time with Frederic, the events colored by this new information. Every word he spoke to me, every gesture, every kiss takes on a new, unpleasant meaning. When he called me minette he was keeping this secret from me. When he argued with Giselle and she made him take time off, that was because of his disorder. When he would come back from the studio looking stressed it was because he was worried. When he would meet me on the train from Paddington looking tired but promising me everything was all right, he was lying.
Frederic is a liar.
Dad’s repeated question finally penetrates the turmoil of my thoughts. “Evie, did Frederic ever tell you that there was anything wrong with his voice?”