‘Oh, I don’t need a chaperone,’ said Bettina, ‘because the man I’m with might as well be a eunuch and has been expressly instructed to allow me only one glass of fizz.’
Margo rolled her eyes. ‘Isn’t it dreadful, all because of… anyway, it’s dreadful. Bart is bloody brilliant, by the way, and so dishy – why didn’t you tell me he was dishy? Oh! An idea is forming! I’m to dine at Galliano’s after the show, why don’t you drop the eunuch and join me? I’ll just tell Auntie Vera you’re a different Bettina. Someone from church or something.’
‘I can’t just drop the eunuch.’
‘Give him the slip! Go on, it’ll be a riot.’
Bettina leaned against the sink in a way she hoped looked casually elegant. ‘I suppose I could just bring him. Your auntie might fancy a bit.’
Margo laughed into her hands, her arms squishing her breasts together so that they resembled two netballs poking out of a sack. ‘I forgot how funny you are!’ Her face creased with affected fondness, to patronising effect, and she grabbed Bettina’s shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. ‘I’m so glad I didn’t snub you like I was intending to, you’re so very dear to me, despite everything.’
Bettina nodded. The space between their bodies felt charged. She wanted to grab her and kiss her, and the urge was so strong she began to blink wildly.
Margo peeled her long velvet glove from her left arm. ‘If you come tonight I can tell you all about this,’ she said, showing off the huge diamond on her plump doll’s finger.
Bettina’s mouth stretched into a ghastly parody of a smile, her cheeks like dead flesh with an electric current running through it. ‘Crikey, that’s a dazzler.’
Bart tossed the flowers on the floor. He looked at them, nostrils flaring, jaw flexing. Carnations and roses. He picked them back up and thrashed them against the dressing-room table, lopping their heads off. Scraps of orange and scarlet petals flew around like confetti, fucking confetti – oh, the poetry of it! He thrashed and thrashed until his fist held only stems, then he sat down, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes so that everything became a throbbing, womb-like miasma behind the lids.
A knock at the door.
He snapped his head up and stared into the mirror. ‘What?’
‘A visitor,’ came the muted reply.
‘Who?’ His face as he spat the word – petulant and swollen-eyed. A brat who does not want to eat his liver. It was going to be Keith, hoping to start something. One last grope for the road before he fucked off to his silly, deluded fiancée – well, she was in for a surprise; if he mustered even half a cock-stand for her on the wedding night, it would be an actual miracle. The man could put on a good show with his manly back-slaps but behind dressing-room doors he turned into a shameless cocksucker, and oh God, he was so good at sucking cock, and so handsome it was all Bart could do to stop himself turning into a puddle at the sight of him thrusting his sword at Tybalt with his round little arse flexing beneath the tights, and honestly, it wasn’t the getting-married part that Bart had a problem with – no, it was being strung along with googly love-eyes and passionate promises. It was all so unnecessary. If the man had simply said outright, ‘Listen, I’m getting married soon but how about a bit of no-strings fun during rehearsals?’ then things wouldn’t have escalated and Bart wouldn’t now be left feeling betrayed and foolish, breaking his heart over a… over a… there was just no need for it.
He could shove his guilty flowers up his rectum.
‘Sir?’ came the voice again.
‘What?’
‘Sir, you have a visitor. A Miss Wyn Thomas, sir.’
‘Let her in, let her in.’
In she came, looking around the room with polite expectation, wearing a cream fur cape over an emerald gown, her hair fashioned into a crimped bob – looking gorgeous, in other words. She was exactly who he needed right now – no one else would do.
‘What did those poor flowers ever do to you?’ she said, seeing the mess.
‘I didn’t deserve them! I was awful!’
Bettina rolled her eyes. ‘Oh for God’s sake, you silly neurotic boy, you were simply marvellous! You had three ovations.’ She shook her head. ‘I shan’t waste my breath; I know what you’re like. And by the way, it was me who sent them. You’re welcome.’
‘You? Oh, I’m so sorry, darling. It’s just I fluffed my line!’
‘Tosh! If you did, then nobody noticed. I didn’t notice.’
‘Horseshit.’ He had indeed fluffed it. Because of that stupid cocksucker, giving him enigmatic looks from across the stage.
‘Stop over-analysing everything.’ She sat in his seat. ‘Well, aren’t you going to give me a cigarette?’
He took his cigarette box out of his pocket and gave her one, lighting it. ‘Truly, I was good?’
‘Truly.’
‘I’ll find out in the newspapers anyway, so you might as well tell me.’
Another eye-roll. ‘This is getting boring. Guess who I saw in the ladies’ earlier?’
He shrugged.
‘Margo. She thought you were brilliant too, by the way, et cetera et cetera. She’s getting married, Bart. I feel just wretched.’ She saw the champagne sticking out of the ice bucket. ‘Can I have some please?’
‘Of course.’ He took the bottle and prised the cork out slowly. How bizarre that Bettina was going through the exact same hell as him. It would be comforting to be able to share his pain with her – that’s what pals did. Perhaps he should? Right now. Well, why not? He poured the drink into two flutes and they each turned to creamy pearl foam. No, he couldn’t. She’d be disgusted. He felt very strongly that she’d be disgusted, even with her own proclivities. The churning deeps of her mind would forever be a hoard for suppressed images of cocks sliding into arseholes. It all came back to cocks in arseholes in the end. No one could ever stretch themselves to imagine that love might factor into it. Cocks and arseholes – the stars of the show! ‘Why do you feel wretched?’ he said.
‘Don’t feign innocence. Ugh, I hate it. And I hate her. It’s probably that Jasper shitbag she used to talk about. She wants me to meet her at Galliano’s but I shan’t be going now.’
He was waiting for the foam to settle before topping up. ‘How was your dinner date? What was his name? Harold something?’
She flipped back her head and let out a small scream. ‘Argh, I hate it, Bart. He’s just like the others. He’s outside now, in the foyer, waiting for me. He was talking to the valet about steamship propellers when I left him. Can you imagine? God. My father must be snickering to himself about it. Why can’t I have dinner with just one tasty man?’
He passed her a full glass and took a sip from his own. ‘I think you’d rather a tasty woman.’
‘Shut up, Bart. I won’t be defined by just one regretful incident.’
‘Regretful? I do seem to recall you saying that you enjoyed it.’
‘Did I say that?’
He nodded.
‘I hate it when people remember what I’ve said.’
‘I think you should go to this dinner. Size up the rival.’
She shook her head and looked darkly into her glass. ‘I don’t want to see her ever again.’ She lapsed into thoughtful silence, her shoulders sagging and her fingers fidgeting with the stem. Then she abruptly downed the rest of her drink and stood up. ‘I’d better get back to my Prince Charming before he sends the valet to sleep.’ She grabbed his face, one hand on each cheek, and pulled it down to plant a kiss on his forehead. ‘You really were brilliant out there. You have a shining career ahead of you, if you wish to continue this petty rebellion against your mother.’