With the doctor leading the way, they moved along the corridor and came to a stop outside the door of room fourteen.

  ‘There’s something you must be aware of,’ Bloom said.

  ‘Yes? What’s that?’

  ‘Well – you’ll be remembering Carrie as she was in New York – as she used to be.’

  ‘Well, yes, of course.’

  ‘Quite – but you must bear in mind that her accident was very, very serious. Her injuries were severe. Extremely. I have to warn you – to prepare you. The things that happened to her are – well, they’re very apparent. We’ve done what we could for her, but there is a limit – without extensive cosmetic surgery. And in her situation that’s not been an option for us to really consider.’

  Douglas nodded. ‘I understand.’

  Opening the door, the doctor led the way into the room. Douglas, following a step behind, saw with something of a shock the scene before him of the bed with all the tubes, lines, drips, monitors and other paraphernalia that made up the life- support system. He came to a halt as the doctor went before him, moving closer to the bed.

  ‘Miss Markham…?’ The doctor leaned over the bed. ‘Carrie? Carrie, there’s someone here to see you. An old friend of yours from back home.’

  After a moment he straightened, shaking his head. ‘Not a sign.’ He beckoned to Douglas. ‘Come closer.’

  Douglas stepped forward, looked down and saw her lying there, saw her face, the shocking evidence of her terrible injuries. ‘Oh, my God,’ he breathed, tears springing to his eyes. ‘Oh, God…’

  Seeing the way Douglas was affected, Bloom turned and moved towards the door. ‘Mr Rosti,’ he said, ‘I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes. If you need me I’ll be in my office along the corridor.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As the doctor left the room, Douglas drew up the chair beside the bed and sat down. He couldn’t keep his eyes from her face, so familiar, and at the same time so terribly disfigured. After sitting there for some moments he leaned forward and whispered her name into the stillness. There was no response. ‘Can you hear me?’ he said. His voice sounded hollow in the quiet. He whispered her name again, and again, but still there was nothing, no flicker of animation to indicate that she had even heard.

  He sighed, straightened, and as he did so her eyes opened, opened wide. Her head turned a little on the pillow, and she was looking straight at him. She stared at him, her eyes locked with his, and her lips began working. ‘You,’ she said. ‘You…you…’ She knew him. He could tell. There was a moment of silence, and then she spoke again, muttering disjointed words and phrases which he struggled to comprehend. After a few moments she closed her eyes and fell silent.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered, leaning closer. ‘What are you trying to tell me?

  And now she opened her eyes again, their gaze boring into his own, and her lips began to move, and then, all at once, as if she had been suddenly freed from some constraint, the words came pouring out of her distorted mouth, gushing out in a torrent, as if they would never cease. He sat spellbound, listening as she spoke, her lips, flecked with saliva, twitching and twisting with the effort. And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the outpouring of words ceased. Her mouth twisted, her body gave a shudder, and she was suddenly still.

  He continued to sit there, staring down at her, and then became aware of the door opening behind him, and Dr Bloom coming back into the room.

  As the doctor approached the bed, Douglas got up and stood to one side.

  ‘Something – something’s happened to her,’ he said.

  At the bedside the doctor bent over her, felt for a pulse and then, taking from his pocket a small flashlight, shone the fine beam into the half-opened, dulled eyes. With a deep sigh and a shake of his head he straightened, dropped the light back into his pocket and turned to Douglas.

  ‘It’s over, Mr Rosti,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He touched a hand to Douglas’s shoulder. ‘I’m afraid she’s gone.’

  ……TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Miss Paul, this is your fifteen-minute call. Fifteen minutes, please.’ The voice of the stage manager came over the speakers in the artists’ dressing rooms. The programme’s supporting act, rising comic Dennis Haversham, had just finished his routine, and the interval had begun. From the auditorium came the distant hum and buzz of the audience as they waited for the star of the evening to make her appearance.

  In the number one dressing room Vera Winfield, forty-seven, ex-chorus girl, stood arranging flowers on a side table. She had been appointed the star’s dresser for the evening. Now, as the adjoining bathroom door opened, she looked up.

  ‘How are you feeling, Miss Paul? Better?’

  The answer came with a groan. ‘Oh, Jesus. Yes. No. God, I feel sick.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Yes – how about a one-way flight to New York.’

  Vera gave a sympathetic chuckle and turned, indicating a large bouquet of roses. ‘More flowers have just come. There are so many. It’s hard to know where to put them all. More cards too.’ Dozens of cards were already on display around the brightly-lit mirrors, while masses of flowers were banked against one wall. ‘Oh, and that was your fifteen-minute call.’

  ‘Yes, I heard it, thanks.’

  ‘Is there anything else I can do for you right now?’ Vera asked.

  A deep sigh, then: ‘Well, I – I think I’d like to be on my own for a while, Vera, would you mind? Don’t go too far away, please – but give me just a few minutes, okay?’

  ‘Of course.’ Vera smiled as she moved away. ‘I’ll be right outside if you need me.’

  Left alone, the only sound in the room was the continuing hum of the audience that came over the tannoy. The sound was terrifying. Then there came a light tap at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Adrian Marlow entered.

  He smiled at her. ‘Glad to see you’re still here,’ he said. ‘I was afraid you might have taken fright and decided to make a quick getaway at the eleventh hour.’

  She gave a desperate-sounding little chuckle. ‘Don’t think the thought hasn’t occurred to me, because it most certainly has.’

  ‘Well, we’re not letting you escape now,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I just came to wish you luck.’ He took her outstretched hands in his, bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Good luck, Rosemary. Not that you’re going to need it – not with all you’ve got going for you.’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, Adrian, I wish I could be that sure.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said, gesturing off with a wave of his hand, ‘there’s a whole theatre full of people sitting out there, all of them waiting for you, all of them wild to see you. Three thousand of them. And all willing you to succeed. Just remember that.’

  ‘I will.’ She took his hands again, pressed them. ‘And thank you. Thank you for all you’ve done.’

  He left her then, and when the door had closed behind him she picked up a glass of water and drank. Her throat, her lips felt dry. I’m not going to be able to sing a note, she thought. In spite of the warmth of the room she found that she was shivering, and she tensed her muscles, trying to hold her body still. It was the not knowing. That was what was so hard.

  She sat there for a moment more, then took her cell phone from her bag and dialled the number of the hospital. She had to know. As the ringing tone sounded, the voice of the stage manager came over the tannoy:

  ‘Miss Paul, this is your five-minute call. Five minutes, please.’

  Five minutes, only five minutes to go. The seconds were ticking by. Then came the familiar greeting from one of the hospital receptionists.

  ‘Ashton Green Hospital. Good evening. Can I help you?’

  ‘Hello, yes.’ She must make an effort to control her breathing. ‘This is Rosemary Paul,’ she said. ‘I’m calling to ask after Miss Carrie Markham’s condition.’

  Hearing Rosemary’s name, the young woman said at once, ‘Oh, hello, Miss Paul. If you hold on I’ll connect you with Sister Keith. She said if you called she’d like to speak to you.’

  A few moments later there came the voice of the ward sister. ‘Good evening, Miss Paul.’

  ‘Good evening, Sister. I was calling to check on my friend Miss Markham. I’m told you wanted to speak to me.’

  There was a pause before the other woman spoke again, and then:

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’

  ‘Bad news? Oh…’

  ‘Yes. I’m – I’m very sorry to have to tell you that she – Miss Markham – she –’

  ‘She’s dead. Carrie’s dead.’

  ‘Yes.’ A sigh. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to give you such awful news, Miss Paul. She – Miss Markham – she died at five-twenty this afternoon. I’m so sorry.’ There was a long pause. ‘Are you there? Are you there, Miss Paul?’

  ‘What? Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’m here.’ The walls seemed to be spinning. ‘Thank you. Thank you for telling me. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry I had to. But I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that – at the end she was in no pain. None at all.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much for telling me.’

  She switched off her cellphone and dropped it back into her bag.

  It was over.

  *

  As Douglas sat in the taxi speeding across London, the questions pounded in his brain: What should he do? What should he do with his knowledge?

  In his pocket his fingers curled around the theatre ticket that the doctor had given him.

  Reaching the theatre, he paid off the driver, then got out of the cab and looked up at the sign.

  AN EVENING WITH ROSEMARY PAUL

  He was too late to catch the supporting act, but he was in time for the main event, and that was all that mattered. He looked up at the sign again and the photographs that were displayed beneath it. ‘Okay, Miss Rosemary Paul,’ he muttered, ‘you go ahead and show us. Let’s see whether it was all worth it.’

  …..TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘How do I look, Vera?’

  ‘Oh, you look just wonderful, Miss Paul.’

  A moment later there came over the tannoy the voice of the stage manager: ‘Orchestra and Miss Paul. This is your call, please.’ Seconds later there came a knock at the door and the stage manager was there in person. ‘Miss Paul,’ he said, putting his head around the door, ‘I just wanted to wish you luck. Break a leg.’

  ‘Thank you, Brian, darling.’ She smiled distractedly as he retreated, then got up and stood before the full-length mirror. Her heart pounding, she studied her reflection. From over the tannoy the distant murmur of the audience took on a new air as the members of the orchestra took their places. Then a few moments later came the sounds of their tuning up, followed by a brief pause and then the opening chords of the old Fain/Kahal classic ‘I Can Dream, Can’t I?’, a part of her overture. Hearing the melody again, she felt her heart give a lurch. She took a deep breath, sucking in the air. With a nervous touch at her hair, she straightened her shoulders, twitched at the neckline of her gown, then turned and moved to the door.

  Out in the corridor, with Vera walking loyally in her wake, she moved towards the wings, aware as she did so of the gaze of the backstage staff, while the sounds of the orchestra swelled as if to greet her, almost overwhelming her with the strains of the lovely, familiar melodies, so beautifully arranged by Kurt.

  Kurt…

  No, don’t think about him.

  Somehow she found herself in the wings, and there she came to a halt and stood waiting. The music of the overture went on, pulsing towards its end…

  And her new beginning.

  From where she stood the stage looked vast. At the technical run-through earlier it had not appeared nearly so big, and she had tried to imagine herself standing out there alone. Her imaginings had filled her with terror, and she had thrust the image aside. Now, though, and all too suddenly, it was all real. This was no figment of her imaginings – it was all really happening. Suddenly she became aware that the overture had finished, and the auditorium was ringing with applause. When the music began again it would be for her.

  And then silence came, and with the silence she knew that Ray Kesterson was raising his baton for her entrance music. And now here it came, filling the quiet with the opening chords of ‘Kiss it Better’. All at once the curtain no longer separated the stage from the audience. And the lights were changing, getting ready to illuminate her the second she stepped out. And the music, too – now playing the melody for her entrance.

  She couldn’t move.

  Her hoarse breath loud in her ears, she stood there, rigid, as if her feet were fastened to the floor. Heart pounding, she reached out, her hand groping for support, and felt her fingers touch the wall of the proscenium arch. As best she could she grasped it and remained there, trembling, fixed to the spot.

  Just walk out there, she told herself. Just walk out there. Just do it.

  But still she could not move.

  See? – you can’t do it, said a voice in her head, the words coming as if from some cruel and mocking entity inside her. You can’t do it. It’s too late. You’ve left it too late. And at once she answered back: I can. I can. Oh, I can! And then another voice came, and this too she answered in her head: No, Kurt, you can’t hurt me now. Her mouth was dry as chalk. She took a deep breath, let it out on a sigh. And you too, Carrie – you too. You can’t hurt me either. You’re gone for ever now.

  Looking to her left, she saw the anxious eyes of the stage manager as he waited for her to make her entrance. She realised suddenly that the orchestra had struck up her entrance music again. She swallowed, took a breath, nodded to the stage manager and whispered: ‘Okay. I’m ready.’

  Pushing her shoulders back, she tossed her hair, ran her tongue over her dry lips and stepped forward into the light.

  *

  As she appeared, the spotlight found her, a straight pencil-beam, catching her and bathing her in its brilliance. She stood there, a slim, anxious figure, drenched in the soft amber light. Framed by the massive proscenium arch, she appeared very small, very vulnerable. And very much alone.

  For a split second the audience was silent, and then the sound came – a wave of applause, swelling till it drowned the music from the orchestra. Like a wave it swept over her as the people clapped, shouted, whistled and cheered. Dressed in her long, high-necked gown of smoky pink velvet, she gazed out at the shadowed mass. Through the roar she heard their voices calling:

  ‘Rosemary…. Rosie…. Rosie….’

  The light that shone down made her hair like pale flame, and caught too on the tear that ran down her cheek. Then the music was ending, and she was moving centre stage and taking up her position at the microphone. She lifted her hands, and the clamour from the auditorium fell away into a hushed silence. Her voice breaking slightly, she whispered, ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

  She caught at her breath, for a moment fearing that she would be unable to go on. And then from the crowd came a single call: ‘Welcome home, Rosemary.’ And then another voice: ‘Yes, welcome home.’ And another: ‘We love you, Rosie. We love you.’

  The applause, endorsing every syllable of the sentiments expressed, broke out again. Her heart thudding, she fought for control in the face of the overwhelming adoration.

  After a few moments she managed to speak. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered into the mike. She turned her head, and gave Ray a slight, barely perceptible nod. At the signal he raised his baton. The audience at once fell silent, waiting.

  Soft, mellow into the hush, came the sound of a clarinet, the first notes of the introduction to Kurt’s song, the song he had written just for this night, just for this moment of her homecoming.

  And here came her cue. The violins cascaded in, hovering, sweet, like hummingbirds on the air. Then the flute. She took a breath and began to sing.

  Am I home? Have I come home?

  Once again I can feel my feet

  Safe and sound on a well-known street.

  And I stand here and keep repeating:

  Home. Am I home? Am I home?

  When she began, her voice faltered, and her heart sank at the failing. She could hear the weakness and fear in her tone. She tried to breathe more deeply, steadily, and through the insecurity and terror she reached inside herself for the heart and the truth of the song. And finding it, she grasped it and held on. And slowly she felt her voice gaining strength. Slowly she felt the old sureness and confidence coming back, holding her, and she revelled in the touch.

  She sang with all the feeling and artistry she possessed, with all her instinctive, God-given knowledge. She sang with warmth and simplicity, believing every word. And the audience believed her too, and after the long, long absence, and the knowledge of her suffering, their love reached out, compassionate and all-embracing.

  All those years, the brighter lights,

  The lonely towns, the lonely nights.

  I was lost. Can it be I’m found?

  And the words in my head keep pounding:

  Home. Am I home? Am I home?

  More than a room, or the dearest place,

  Home is a touch, a smile, a special face.

  Those who remembered her from all those years ago saw again the old familiar gestures, the old mannerisms. There was the outflung arm, the spread fingers, and in the softer passages the hands limp at her sides or clasped before her. It was as if she had never been away.

  Douglas, sitting in the stalls, was astounded. He could not have believed it possible. The thought came to him that she had a truth, a reality that the old Rosemary had never known. It came like a soft glow, totally enveloping, bathing her in its radiance. It had nothing to do with the light; it came from within her. Her voice, too – he had never dreamed she could sing like this. He was surprised to find himself strangely moved. How did she do it? He closed his eyes as the voice poured over him.