She pushed through the lobby doors, feeling a small surge of excitement at her own entrance into this glamorous fairy-tale world. “Alison Douglas,” she said to the heavy gray-haired woman at the reception desk. “The orchestra manager’s assistant. I’ve an appointment with her.”
“You’ll have to go round the back, then, ducks,” the woman answered in less than rarified accents. She made a looping motion with her finger. “Round the block, next the loading bay.”
Feeling somewhat chastened, Gemma left the plush-and-gilt warmth of the lobby and circled the block in the indicated direction. She found herself in an alleylike street lined with pub and restaurant delivery entrances. With its concrete steps and peeling paint, the stage entrance to the London Coliseum was distinguished only by the increasingly familiar ENO logo near the door. Gemma climbed up and stepped inside, looking around curiously at the small lino-floored reception area.
To her left a porter sat inside a glass-windowed kiosk; just ahead another door barred the way into what must be the inner sanctum. She announced herself to the porter and he smiled as he handed her a sign-in sheet on a clipboard. He was young, with a freckled face and brown hair that looked suspiciously as if it were growing out from a Mohawk cut. Gemma looked more closely, saw the tiny puncture in his earlobe which should have held an earring. He’d made a valiant effort to clean up for the job, no doubt.
“I’ll just give Miss Alison a ring,” he said as he handed her a sticky badge to wear. “She’ll be right down for you.” He picked up the phone and murmured something incomprehensible into it.
Gemma wondered if he’d been on duty after last Thursday evening’s performance. His friendly grin augured well for an interview, but she had better wait until she wouldn’t be interrupted.
Church bells began to ring close by. “St. Martin’s?” she asked.
He nodded, checking the clock on the wall behind him. “Eleven o’clock on the dot. You can set your watch by it.”
Was there a congregation for eleven o’clock services, Gemma wondered, or did the church cater solely to tourists?
Remembering how surprised she’d been when Alison Douglas had agreed to see her this morning, she asked the porter, “Business as usual here, even on a Sunday morning?”
He displayed the grin. “Sunday matinee. One of our biggest draws, especially when it’s something as popular as Traviata”
Puzzled, Gemma tugged her notebook from her purse and flipped quickly through it. “Pelleas and Melisande. I thought you were doing Pelleas and Melisande.”
“Thursdays and Saturdays. Productions-”
The inner door opened and he paused as a young woman came through, then continued to Gemma, “You’ll see.” He winked at her. “Alison’ll make sure you do.”
“I’m Alison Douglas.” Her cool hand clasped Gemma’s firmly. “Don’t mind Danny. What can I do for you?”
Gemma took in the short light brown hair, black sweater and skirt, platform shoes, which didn’t quite raise her to Gemma’s height, but Alison Douglas’s most notable characteristic was an air of taking herself quite seriously.
“Is there somewhere we could talk? Your office, perhaps?”
Alison hesitated, then opened the inner door, indicating by a jerk of her head that Gemma should precede her through it. “You’d better come along in, then. Look,” she added, “we’ve a performance in just under three hours and I’ve things I absolutely must do. If you don’t mind following along behind me we can talk as we go.”
“All right,” Gemma agreed, doubting she’d get a better offer. They had entered a subterranean maze of dark green corridors. Already lost, Gemma followed hard on Alison Douglas’s heels as they twisted and turned, went up, down and around. Occasionally, she looked down at the dirty green carpet beneath her feet, wondering if she recognized the pattern of that particular stain. Could she follow them like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs? The smells of damp and disinfectant made her want to sneeze.
Alison turned back to speak to her, stopped suddenly and smiled. Gemma felt sure her bewilderment had been entirely visible, and thought for once she ought to be grateful her every emotion registered on her face.
“Back-of-house,” Alison said, her brusque manner softening for the first time. “That’s what all the unglamorous bits are called. It’s quite a shock if one’s never been backstage, isn’t it? But this is the heart of the theater. Without this”-she gestured expansively around her-“nothing happens out front.”
“The show doesn’t go on?”
“Exactly.”
Gemma suspected that the key to loosening Alison Douglas’s tongue was her work. “Miss Douglas, I’m not sure I understand what you do.”
Alison moved forward again as she spoke. “My boss-Michael Blake-and I are responsible for all the administrative details of the running of the orchestra. We-” Glancing at Gemma’s face, she hesitated, seeming to search for a less complicated explanation. “We make sure everything and everyone are where they should be when they should be. It can be quite a demanding business. And Michael’s away for a few days just now.”
“Do you deal directly with the conductors?” Gemma asked, taking advantage of the opening, slight as it was, but the corridor turned again and Alison pushed aside the faded plush curtain which barred their way. She stepped back to allow Gemma to pass through first.
Gemma stopped and stared, her mouth open in surprise. Beside her, Alison said softly, “It is rather amazing, isn’t it? I begin to take it for granted until I see it through someone else’s eyes. This is the largest theater in the West End, and it has the largest backstage area of any theater in London. That’s what allows us to put on several productions simultaneously.”
The cavernous space bustled with activity. Pieces of scenery belonging to more than one production stood side by side in surreal juxtaposition. “Oh,” Gemma said, watching a huge section of stone wall roll easily across the floor, guided by two men in coveralls. “So that’s what Danny meant. Thursdays and Saturdays Sir Gerald conducts Pelleas and Melisande-Fridays and Sundays someone else is doing… what did he say?”
“La Traviata. Look.” Alison pointed across the stage. “There’s Violetta’s ballroom, where she and Alfredo sing their first duet. And there”-she gestured toward the section of stone wall, now slotted neatly into a recess-“that’s part of King Arkel’s castle, from Pelleas.” She looked at Gemma, studied her watch, looked once again at Gemma and said, “There are a few things I simply must see to. Have a look around here, why don’t you, while I get things in hand. After that I’ll try to manage a quarter-hour in the canteen with you.” She was already moving away from Gemma as she finished, the soles of her platform shoes clicking on the wooden floor.
Gemma walked to the lip of the stage and looked out. Before her the tiers of the auditorium rose in baroque splendor, blue velvet accented with gilt. The chandeliers hung from the dome high above her like frosted moons. She imagined all the empty seats filled, and the expectant eyes upon her, waiting for her to open her mouth and sing. Cold crept up her spine and she shivered. Caroline Stowe might look delicate, but to stand on a stage like this and face the crowd required a kind of strength Gemma didn’t possess.
She looked down into the pit and smiled. At least Sir Gerald had some protection, and could turn his back on the audience.
A thread of music came from somewhere, women’s voices carrying a haunting, lilting melody. Gemma turned and walked toward the back of the stage, straining to hear, but the banging and thumping going on around her masked even the sound’s direction. She didn’t notice Alison Douglas’s return until the woman spoke. “Did you see the pit? We jam one hundred nineteen players into that space, if you can imagine that, elbow to-”