‘It’s for you. Take it.’

  ‘But – but what for?’

  ‘For my being such a bitch to you just now.’

  ‘Oh, but Rosie…’

  ‘Take it. I know you like it – and it’ll make me feel a little better.’

  ‘But you only just got it – and you love it so.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. But there’s no merit in giving away something you don’t want anyway – so they tell me. Take it. You’ll look gorgeous.’

  The dress was almost new, and there was no question but that Carrie had admired it. Now she took it from Rosemary and held it against her body, one hand caressing the fabric. Rosemary’s gesture was typical. On more than one occasion in the past a flare of anger had been followed by an action equally strong in its generosity. Carrie’s wardrobe boasted a number of garments that had come as a result of Rosemary’s quick temper.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Carrie said. ‘It’s just beautiful.’ She started away. ‘I’ll go hang it up right now.’

  Carrying the dress, she went from the room. When she returned a few minutes later she found Rosemary standing at the window, looking out over the yard.

  ‘Rosie,’ Carrie said, ‘I don’t think that’s such a crazy idea.’

  Rosemary turned to face her. ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘What you said – about going back to England.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I mean it. You could do it. I’m sure you could.’

  ‘Are you saying this seriously?’

  ‘Of course I am. Why shouldn’t you? You do have a voice, Rosie. You do. You’re just a little out of practice, that’s all. Maybe that’s all you need – a little practice and some confidence in yourself.’

  Rosemary sighed. ‘Oh, if I thought there was a chance. But I need more than confidence. My voice – it’s gone. Shot. You heard me, didn’t you?’

  ‘Not really. I didn’t get a chance.’

  ‘Well, take my word for it.’

  ‘Okay,’ Carrie said, ‘but if you’re a little rusty it’s to be expected. After all, you haven’t tried to sing in years. It’ll be like learning to walk again. Take it a step at a time.’

  A smile twitched at the corners of Rosemary’s mouth. ‘Take it a step at a time. One thing to be said for you, Carrie, you can always be depended on to say something original.’

  Carrie looked crestfallen. ‘You’re making fun of me.’

  ‘Only in the nicest way, darling.’

  After a moment, Rosemary moved to a small table by the piano on which lay several pieces of sheet music. She sorted through them, picked one out and placed it on the stand. ‘Okay, let’s try a bit of Noël Coward,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’

  She waited as Carrie seated herself at the piano and played the opening chords of the song. Then, taking a breath, she began to sing.

  Mad about the boy,

  I know it’s stupid to be mad about the boy.

  I’m so ashamed of it, but must admit

  In some strange way I’m glad about the boy…

  She continued through the song. Her voice sounded a little shaky and uncertain, the tone a little rough, and on reaching for one of the higher notes, it cracked. She came to a stop. ‘There,’ she said, ‘what did I tell you?’

  Carrie nodded, ‘One step at a time, Rosie.’ She turned back to the piano. ‘Okay. Let’s do a little vocalising. We can come back to the song later.’

  With this they began work on Rosemary’s voice, repeating exercises over and over, with Rosemary running from one note to another on different vowel sounds; exercises that gradually began to loosen her vocal cords. After half an hour her rough, strained tones were sounding clearer, the notes beginning to emerge with a roundness that earlier she would not have dreamed possible.

  When Rosemary had completed an exercise that had taken her up to A flat, Carrie said with a nod of approval, ‘You can do it. You’re getting better all the time. And we’ll do more tomorrow. You wait and see. You’re going to be okay, Rosie, I know you are.’

  ‘Oh, Carrie,’ Rosemary said, ‘what the hell would I do without you?’

  *

  Over the following days they continued to work on Rosemary’s vocal exercises, and slowly she began to find a little of her old confidence returning, and although her voice was still at times a little raw and hoarse, with some of the high notes sounding forced, they began to feel that all the effort was paying off.

  After a week of work there was a buoyancy and sparkle about Rosemary that Carrie had not witnessed for years. And it was contagious. At dinner one particular evening they both drank a little too much, but it was not just the liquor that brightened their mood. It came also from a glimpse of hope for the future. That morning a package had arrived from Amberlight Records containing a copy of the album. The little booklet that came with it gave information on the songs featured, and on Rosemary’s career in its earlier days in England. It was illustrated with two or three photographs, and seeing them Rosemary hooted. ‘My God, where do they get those old pictures! They must have raided the ark!’

  Then the CD was played, and over their drinks the two sat listening intently while Rosemary’s voice, young and smooth and mellow, caressed the familiar songs.

  When the last note of the last number had died away, they remained in silence for some moments, then Rosemary put down her glass and said: ‘I’m going to do it, Carrie.’

  ‘Go back – to England, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosemary nodded. ‘If I can. It’s a chance I can’t pass up. And there’ll never be another.’ She paused. ‘Will you help me? You will, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. You don’t need to ask.’

  ‘Okay,’ Rosemary said with a nod. ‘I know my voice isn’t what it was, but I think I can do it. I’ll work on it.’ Her tone grew more intense. ‘All these little dreams I’ve had are going to be real. I’m going to do it.’ She pressed Carrie’s hand. ‘No, we are going to do it. You and me. We’ll do it together. You wait and see. They’ve got a surprise coming. Like the song says – we ain’t down yet.’

  ……FOUR

  In her room, Carrie stood before the long mirror, gazing at her reflection. She was wearing the cream lace dress that Rosemary had given her. It fitted perfectly. She coaxed a lock of hair into a becoming curl over her cheekbone, then smoothed the fabric of the bodice with gentle hands. The dress looked good. How kind Rosie could be at times. Turning, she glanced at the bedside clock. It was just over two hours since Rosemary had left to drive into Manhattan. She had gone to see her old manager, and it was certain they’d have a lot to talk about.

  Life had been fairly hectic since the Great Decision of a week ago; at least it had for Rosemary, and Carrie had watched a change take place in her, seeing a new vitality there, a new enthusiasm, and a capacity for work she thought had long since died. Now Rosemary always seemed to be busy with something or other. If she wasn’t driving off on some errand in connection with her project she would be in the music room, vocalising at the piano. Carrie, passing the door, would hear the repetition of the scales and exercises, or the words of familiar songs. It was getting to be almost like old times.

  Sighing, she looked again at the clock. The afternoon was crawling by, and there was still twenty minutes to go before the movie started on TV. It was Up in Arms. Danny Kaye and Dinah Shore. It was one of her favourites. Rosemary made fun of her for watching all the old movies, but Carrie didn’t care. ‘For God’s sake,’ Rosemary had said, only yesterday, ‘can’t you watch anything other than those ancient old pictures, with those clapped out old stars! Joan Crawford, Doris Day, Clark Gable. For Christ’s sake, most of them are dead. Haven’t you heard of George Clooney and Meryl Streep? Somebody who’s actually breathing?’

  It made no difference to Carrie; it was water off a duck’s back. Watching herself in the mirror, she gave a little shake of her head and launched into ‘Tessie’s Torch Song’, the way Dinah Shore did it in the movie.

  Here is a story, ‘bout a gal.

  Folks called her Torchy Tess.

  Because she trusted, her heart got busted.

  Love made her life a mess…

  After singing the verse she went into the refrain, all the while eyeing her reflection. She did it well. She moved her hands, her fingers, just the way Dinah did, used her voice in just the same way, perfectly copying Dinah’s mellow tone, singing the words in the same gentle bluesy way. Then, as suddenly as she had begun, she stopped, letting her arms fall to her sides. She stood there for a few seconds and then slowly took off the dress.

  The walls of her room were hung with prints and photographs. Standing with the white dress over her arm, she gazed at a photograph of herself taken not long after she had started out in her career. She had been pretty then, there was no denying it, and she had envisaged a great future. And certainly for the limited time she had spent in the business she had done well. Her reviews had all, without exception, been excellent. And she kept them still, all the newspaper clippings. A couple of times she had been tempted to throw them out – all useless relics of a time gone by – but always, at the last minute, she had held back. And so still they nestled in a drawer, held between the covers of a large album, along with the photographs and the theatre playbills.

  Putting down the dress, she opened the bureau drawer and took out the album. Then, sitting on the bed, she began to turn the pages. She knew the words and the phrases of some of the reviews almost by heart. ‘The standout was a newcomer to the company,’ she read. And another: ‘The scene owed its success to the finely tuned performance of Carrie Markham…’ ‘Carrie Markham is pretty and talented, and we’ll be seeing a lot more of her in the future…’ So they went on. And there were the photographs as well. There she was as Sarah Brown in the Maine summer stock production of Guys and Dolls; there as the cheerleader in Call a Halt! And there in her beautiful costume as the professor’s daughter in The Charm-Spinner.

  And there she was with Michael.

  The photograph showed them at rehearsals for Save a Place for Me, going through their duet, ‘You Could Be Good for Me’, the song and dance number they had so enjoyed doing together. The words went through her brain.

  You like your steak rare with a Waldorf salad,

  A gentle song from Peggy Lee,

  Maybe a soft and sentimental ballad,

  You could be good for me…

  In the photograph they were wearing their rehearsal clothes, jeans and shirts, their legs kicking out in the well-remembered strut, faces bright and happy.

  Michael.

  In the photograph his eyes shone and his smile was white against his suntanned skin. He looked so young. They both did. Young, vibrant, good-looking – and happy. Handsome Michael with his dark hair, and pretty Carrie with her pale blonde. They looked the perfect couple.

  And there was Rosemary, too. Out of focus in the picture, she stood, a shadowy figure in the background and partly out of the frame, waiting for her cue to come in.

  After the photograph the album was empty, the blank pages showing only too clearly the abrupt end to Carrie’s brief career.

  Save a Place for Me should have been her beginning, not her end, she said to herself. After all the footslogging, the rounds of agents’ offices, the seasons in summer- and winter-stock, she had been given a chance to show what she could do, and in something that really mattered. A great part in a major new production, a real chance to sing, to dance, to act; a chance to show herself, to say to the world: Here comes Carrie Markham.

  How could it have all gone so wrong? How, when it had all started out so well? And with Michael, too. How had that happened? They had discovered an immediate rapport, both offstage and on – and then – then it was all over. Looking again at the photograph, she took in their bright smiles. When the picture was taken she had never dreamed just how soon her reason for smiling would be gone.

  It was all down to Brewster, of course. Ian Brewster, the show’s director. And she would never forgive him for the way he had turned against her.

  At first he had liked what she did. He had told her so, and he had shown his approval. Over the first days of rehearsal he’d been so nice, so pleasant, and complimentary about her work, remarking on the way she approached a particular scene, or the way she delivered a certain line. And it wasn’t only him; there had been expressions of approval from the other members of the company, Rosemary as well.

  And then it had all changed. Brewster had begun to criticise her for things – things with which he had previously appeared quite satisfied.

  And of course she knew why.

  She had been alone in the green room one day, during a break in rehearsals. And Brewster had walked in. He smiled at her as he came across the carpeted floor, and she put aside her script and smiled back at him. He was a tall, wiry man, late thirties, good-looking.

  ‘So,’ he said as he took one of the easy chairs across from her, ‘our Carrie’s taking a well-earned break. Good for you.’

  Carrie smiled back, gave a little shrug. She would always be a little in awe of him. ‘I’m just looking over my scene with Rosemary in act two,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, your big scene,’ he said. ‘Absolutely, and we have to get that right. Though I reckon you’re just about there. It’s going well, very well.’

  Carrie nodded, happy. ‘Well, thanks, Ian. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Oh, I mean it,’ he said. ‘It’s gonna be great. It’s a vital piece, as you know, but I think you’ve about nailed it.’

  ‘Thank you…’

  ‘I was looking over your CV,’ he said. ‘You’ve done some interesting things.’

  ‘Well, a few,’ she said.

  ‘That’s okay. You have time in front of you. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘Like I said, you have time. You have an agent?’

  ‘No, I was really lucky with this job. I got the audition from an open call.’

  ‘Well, good for you – there’s a lot of competition out there. But you’ll get an agent from this production, no question about it.’ He paused. ‘You’ve got talent, Carrie. I know it when I see it, and I saw it at once when you did your audition – doing that number from South Pacific. And if this show does well, I’m sure it’ll open up all kinds of opportunities for you. You’ll be doing it all – TV and movies too. It’ll all come. And you deserve it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled, glowing.

  Smiling back, he rose from his chair and came towards her. Standing before her, he bent slightly, put a fingertip under her chin, and lifted her face. ‘Look at me.’

  She raised her head a little, self-conscious, half-smiling into his face. Gently he placed his hands on either side of her cheeks. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘you play your cards right and you’ll be off to Hollywood before you know it.’ He gave a nod. ‘I can see that face on the big screen.’ Then, bending lower, he kissed her lightly on the lips.

  The action was swift, and for Carrie quite unexpected. In the second that his lips touched hers, she jerked back her head, while at the same time raising her hands to cover her mouth.

  Brewster straightened, his smile fading. ‘Oh, well, excuse me,’ he said. ‘Was I being a little forward there? Oh, dear, we can’t have that, can we?’ He gave a cold little laugh. ‘Look at you, sitting there so demure. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything like it again. You don’t need to carry on like you’re Mother Teresa.’

  Her newfound joy vanished, Carrie was aware of him turning, starting across the room. In the doorway he turned to face her. ‘It was a friendly gesture, Carrie,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

  *

  She didn’t tell Michael what had happened. She wouldn’t tell him, she decided. The less said about it the better. She must let it go, let it pass.

  But it didn’t pass. From that minute, it seemed, Ian Brewster changed towards her.

  The first signs came that same afternoon, when she went to rehearse her scene with Rosemary. Whereas before he had given her little words of praise and encouragement, now he seemed intent on finding fault – and about the most trivial things.

  Back at the hotel that evening she tried to hide her misery from Michael, but he was aware of it, of course. Like everyone else he had seen her humiliation. All he could do was sympathise, try to comfort her. ‘He’ll get over it,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ She said nothing to him of the kiss.

  But it was the same the next day, and the day after that. And it just seemed to grow worse. No matter what she did, Brewster would be ready with some caustic, barbed little comment, so that she began to dread her turn on stage, knowing that however hard she tried he would bring her to a stop with some biting word that would leave her crushed and humiliated. More than once she retreated into the shadows with tears in her eyes, avoiding the sympathetic but embarrassed glances of her fellow actors. It must stop soon, she told herself. The way he was going on, he would destroy her.

  That evening, in Michael’s room, she lay sobbing in his arms while he smoothed her hair and whispered that everything would be all right.

  ‘But it’s so unfair,’ she said. ‘My part in the show – it’s such a great part for me, and I’m good in it. I know I am.’ She sniffed, wiping the tears from her cheek. ‘Oh, Mikey, I just don’t know what to do any more.’

  ‘You want me to have a word with him?’ Michael said. ‘I will if you want me to.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘That would make it worse – and he’d have it in for you too, then.’

  ‘Okay.’ He nodded. ‘But somebody should say something.’ He was silent, thoughtful for a moment, then he said, ‘Maybe you should ask Rosemary.’

  ‘Rosemary?’

  ‘Well, she’s the leading lady, I mean. The star’s gotta have some clout. Maybe she’d have a quiet word with him. Ask her.’

  ‘Oh, no. No, I couldn’t do that.’