“Sure you don’t want to take the day off?”

  “Positive. I’ve got an idea I want to run by you.”

  I needed the Criterion to show a play from Jem’s time.

  So I’d just have to arrange for it myself.

  I told Rob my idea when I got to the theatre that afternoon, having made sure I looked thoroughly reputable—as if by doing so I could scrub away the memory of yesterday’s shameful scenes. “We should do a charity performance of Wild Oats,” I insisted, the words coming out a little garbled. “An extra performance,” I said more slowly, cursing my wayward tongue, “with all the proceeds to go to charity.”

  Rob pursed his lips. “It’s a nice idea, but the trouble is, everyone will be working on other projects now. Maybe we could think about doing it with She Stoops to Conquer—”

  “No!” His eyes turned to me in shock as I almost shouted it. I could feel heat rising in my face. “Sorry. I mean, wouldn’t it be more, well, special if we got them all back? One last chance to see, that sort of thing? And...it’ll be appropriate. For the charity. Cervical and testicular cancers,” I added, thinking on my feet.

  “Ted, it’s impossible. They’ll all be working—”

  “We can do it on a Sunday. They should be free then, even if they’ve got new jobs.”

  “But it was on for a long run anyway. Everyone who wanted to see it will have seen it already.”

  “There’s always people who mean to see things and never get around to it. It’ll be one last chance for them, and it’s for charity. They’ll jump at it.”

  “It’ll take a lot of ringing around...”

  “I’ll do it,” I insisted.

  “Are you sure?” Rob knew I hated using the telephone these days.

  It didn’t matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was saving Jem.

  “I’ll do it.”

  * * *

  I got all but two of them back, in the end. And I found other actors to take those roles. It felt like I spent whole days, weeks even, on the telephone, cajoling and persuading. Selling the idea to them. All the skills I was worst at—but this was for Jem, damn it.

  When I’d got enough people to commit to it, we set a date and issued a press release. I got lucky with the timing—Male Cancer Awareness Week was just around the corner. The press got interested; tickets sold. I thanked God and all his angels that it apparently wasn’t going to be a total, career-ending disaster and guiltily begged Him to do me one more favour.

  By the day of the performance I was a nervous wreck. When the journalist came from the Evening Standard, I hid in the staff toilet while Rob covered for me, giving me all the credit I didn’t deserve. I wasn’t some great philanthropist; there was only one man I loved.

  And tonight I’d finally see him again.

  Or know I never would.

  Rob didn’t question my need for a cigarette once the curtain had finally, finally inched up on tonight’s very special performance. I was twitching worse than a medieval pilgrim with St Vitus’s Dance. I felt like I was about to throw up, like my skull was two sizes too small. I didn’t even attempt to speak—just waved my packet of Gauloises in Rob’s direction. He nodded, and I pushed open the door.

  Peace. Blessed peace, and the smells of coal smoke and horse dung, steaming in the chilly air. The sound of hooves, now clip-clopping, now deadened as they passed over a layer of stamped-down filth. Dim, yellow streetlamps that shone on the top hats of gentlemen strolling past.

  It had worked, thank God. Shivering in the unaccustomed cold, I wrapped my arms around myself. I’d forgotten, yet again, to wear a jacket.

  But when I lifted my eyes to where Jem’s streetlamp shed its pool of golden light upon the pavement, there was no one there. No tall, lean figure, no angelic profile. Despair slammed into me. I stayed where I stood—there seemed no point in moving ever again. Was it still 1889? Or later? Why hadn’t it worked? Wild Oats had run all through 1886. Surely there had been time...

  A man passed by with a newspaper under his arm. I darted forward to clutch his sleeve. He looked at me in alarm, his voice shrill as he said, “Excuse me, sir!”

  “Sorry—but please, may I take a look at your paper?” At least, that’s what I intended to say.

  I gathered my slurred speech and odd appearance didn’t reassure him as he handed me the paper with a brusque, “Keep it,” before hurrying away as fast as a gentlemanly pace could carry him.

  I read the date over and over again, my desolation turning to a fever of hope. It was 1886. I’d done it. Jem must be here soon. Or if he wasn’t, I could go and look for him at Mrs. M.’s. Even as I thought it, I saw a man walk down the street, towards me. He was graceful, young, and dark-headed. It was Jem. Relief washed over me, making me giddy. I leaned against the theatre front for a moment to get my breath back. He must be back from servicing one of his “gentlemen,” but I didn’t care. He was here.

  He looked thinner than before—or was that just my imagination or my poor memory? I started forward as he settled himself in the lamp’s wan glow. Jem didn’t look up until I was barely three feet away—and then his eyes widened, his face slowly lighting up in a wary smile. “Ted—you came back.”

  “Yes,” I said, half laughing. “I came back.” I took another step, as close as I dared, in this world where men might not touch. “I came as soon as I could.”

  He moved awkwardly, straightening up. “I thought you was narked with me, because I said I didn’t want no more presents from you.”

  “No. Never.” I wanted so much to hold him. But here—now—I might as well wish for the moon. “How long has it been for you? It’s been months for me.”

  “Months? It’s been best part of a year. It was February, last we met, and it’s November now.” His full, red lips quirked downwards. “You missed spring and summer both.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” I said. Although the thought tore at me, I couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “I missed you.”

  “Missed you too, Ted. Missed the queer things you say.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, looking down. “I went in there—the theatre—and I asked for you, but they said they didn’t know no Ted. Nor Mr. Ennis, neither. That was when I knew you wasn’t just spinning me a line about this not being your time. About it being different when you went back in.”

  I’d wondered, before, at how he could so easily believe my incredible tale. But it seemed it just hadn’t been all that important to him, where I came from. “You look beautiful,” I said, knowing I shouldn’t.

  He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “You need to come with me.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to walk away, to lead me to some dark alley where we could hold one another at last.

  But there was no time for that. “Wait!” I called, and he turned back to me. “We can’t—you have to come with me,” I said as clearly as I could manage. “You have to come with me, to my world.” I still couldn’t say to the future. It sounded so unreal, so unbelievable. And if I stopped believing it was possible, would it stop happening? “If you don’t, you’re going to die.”

  Jem stared at me. “How?”

  Did he mean how did I know? Or how would he die? “I came back for you once already but it was later than now. I didn’t realise—but it was years later. Eighteen eighty-nine, I think. Mrs. M. told me you’d died of a cold that went to your chest.”

  His brow creased. “But if that happened, how can we do anything to change it?”

  “But that’s just it. It hasn’t happened. If we change things, it won’t happen.” My head started to ache. Was that how it worked? Or was it all doomed to go wrong from the moment I’d heard of his death? Was it all a self-fulfilling prophecy?

  No, damn it.

  “Jem, you must tell her to say it,” I said urgently, gripping his arm, even as we stood there on the street. “Tell her you’re going away, and if I come ’round asking for you—if anyone does—she’s to tell them you died the previous winter.”

  It would work. It had to. But we’d have to hurry.

  “Come on,” I urged him. “Go back there now and talk to her—and get anything you want to bring. But we need to get back here before the performance ends.”

  Jem didn’t move, just stood there, frowning. “I’ve got to leave right now? And never come back?”

  “Yes. It’s the only way.” I tugged on his arm, impatient to be moving.

  “Right now?” He looked about him. “You’re sure about it? About me dying if I don’t?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He took a deep breath. “And you’ll take care of me when we get there?”

  “Of course.”

  “You got somewhere to live, and they won’t mind me staying with you?”

  “They? No, I promise. It’ll be fine.” It was quicker to just reassure him than to try and explain the seemingly foreign concept of a house occupied by a man alone, with neither landlady nor servants. “Please, Jem,” I begged. “We have to hurry.”

  Jem hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. “Will you come with me, back to Mrs. M’s?”

  “Yes, yes—of course. But we must hurry.”

  We fairly ran through the streets, slowing our pace only where the respectability of the area demanded it. The last thing we wanted was to attract the attention of the police.

  “I’ll talk to Mrs. M., and then I’ll get my stuff,” he said when we reached Kingsgate.

  “Shall I wait outside?” I hated the thought of him being out of my sight even for a moment.

  It seemed he felt the same. “No—if you wait by the stairs while I speak to her, and we creep up after, she won’t know it ain’t just me.” He unlocked the door. I stepped in as quietly as I could and waited in the shadows of the hallway while he stepped into the parlour to talk to Mrs. M.

  “What did she say?” I whispered once he’d returned and shut the door behind him.

  Jem shrugged. “I spun her a line about meeting a bloke who was taking me away.” He gave a sudden, quiet laugh. “’Course, it’s true enough, ain’t it? Buggered if I didn’t forget that while I was telling her.”

  We trod softly up the stairs to Jem’s room, where he pulled a battered cardboard case from under the bed.

  “You don’t need to bring clothes,” I said, not wanting to lose any more time. “Or money. We’ll have to get you modern stuff. Just bring anything you don’t want to leave behind.”

  “Won’t need this, then,” he said, replacing the suitcase where he’d found it. He rose and, opening the top drawer of the dresser, took out just one thing—a length of faded pink ribbon threaded through a coin with a hole in it. “It was my mum’s,” he said, catching my gaze. “It’s all I got from her.” After putting it in his pocket, he closed the drawer and turned back to me. “I sold the ring,” he said, not quite looking at me. “I mean, we wasn’t nothing to each other then. Least, I didn’t think we was.” He knelt to pull up a loose floorboard by the bed, and there, shining amid the dust, was the necklace I’d given him. “I was keeping this. Used to wear it at night, sometimes, but it wasn’t safe, wearing it out. In case someone saw and nicked it.”

  My breath caught. “Jem...”

  “Soft, ain’t I? Soft in the head.” But he smiled at me.

  “Better than cracked, like me,” I said, because I wasn’t sure I could deal with the raw intensity of my feelings. If I gave into them now, I’d just hold him and not let go until it was too late for both of us.

  “You ain’t cracked. Or if you are, I’ll mend you,” he promised.

  “We have to go,” I said, so thickly I needed to repeat the phrase.

  Jem squeezed my arm but didn’t say any more, thank God. I couldn’t have coped with any more.

  He took one last look at the room he’d lived in. Then we hurried downstairs and out into the street.

  * * *

  “I’ve been thinking,” Jem said as we half walked, half ran down a Gerrard Street that showed no signs of the Chinatown it was destined to become. “About how we’re going to manage. Think your mate might have a job for me in the theatre? Because I reckon you’re not going to want me carrying on in my current line of work.”

  “Christ, no!” It hadn’t even occurred to me that Jem might come into the future expecting to go straight back on the game. The thought turned my stomach. “I don’t know. I’ve probably stretched the bounds of friendship a bit far already. But don’t worry. We’ll find you something, and even if we don’t, you’ll never have to do that again, I swear it.” My pace slowed as an unpleasant thought surfaced. “Jem,” I said awkwardly, “you know you don’t have to—you don’t owe me anything. Not for this, and not for anything else. I mean, I hope we’ll be...but you don’t have to.” My tongue felt thicker than ever in my mouth as I ground to a halt. I wasn’t even sure I understood all that myself.

  “Hey.” Jem smiled at me. It was a soft, tender thing that tugged at my heart. “It’s all right, Ted. We’ll talk about it later, all right? When we’ve got where we’re going.” His smile faltered.

  I nodded, too anxious myself to try to reassure him with words, and we hurried on.

  We reached Piccadilly Circus, I judged, just after the start of the second half of Wild Oats. “We can slow down now,” I panted as we crossed the street to the Cri.

  Jem just nodded. While I’d managed to collect myself a little during our dash through the streets, Jem was looking tight-lipped and wary, clearly nervous about what was to come.

  If it came.

  Would it work? Pain built behind my eyes as my heart pounded, now from nerves rather than from the exercise. I clutched his hand so hard I must have hurt him, but I couldn’t make my grip relax. He didn’t complain, just looked at me intently and swallowed before he spoke.

  “We’re going in there, right?” He took a deep breath. “I always wanted to take a proper look inside the place. Heard it’s right fancy in there.”

  “Yes.” I tried to calm my breathing. “If it works. If you can make it through with me.”

  What if he couldn’t? My stomach lurched as I remembered my attempt to show Rob the Victorian scene outside. What if that happened now? What if the gateway opened, but only for me, and left Jem here? “If it doesn’t—”

  “If it don’t work, they’ll sling me out on my ear. They know what I am, that lot in there.”

  “Jem, you have to promise me you’ll leave London. If it doesn’t work—if I go through and you don’t, you have to sell the necklace and get out of this life. A keepsake’s no good to the dead.”

  He nodded. “And if it does work, it’ll all be different?”

  “It’ll be different, and strange. But you’ll get used to it.” And you won’t have to die. “I’ll help you get used to it.”

  “And I won’t see Mrs. M., nor nobody else, not never again?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Jem.”

  He shrugged. “Ain’t like they’re family or nothing.” His eyes, though, were clouded and his jawline tense.

  My heart ached for him. “You’ll have me. For what it’s worth,” I added with a nervous laugh.

  “More’n you think,” he whispered, and suddenly I had the strength to carry on, although the pain in my head was almost blinding.

  “Right,” I said—or tried to say—and we pushed open the door together.

  Chapter Eight

  Rob was there in the box office, counting receipts. He glanced up, saw it was me and returned to his task. “We’ve got a full house tonight. Not a bad idea of yours, this. Maybe we’ll make it a regular thing—it’s all good press.” He looked back down at the neat stacks of coins. “Did you get what you were after?”

  “Yes.” I managed to make it more or less intelligible, but he still looked up at me again, as if surprised at how ragged I sounded. I took a step forward, my hand still clasped in Jem’s. I hadn’t dared look at him until now.

  Jem was gazing around in wonder. There was a smile on his lips as he stared at Terpsichore and her lyre. The electric lighting made his skin glow, adding roses to his cheeks I’d never seen back in his own time.

  In these modern surroundings, his clothes looked even more threadbare, but he was here. I’d done it.

  Or had I? My stomach lurched. Was I even now imagining the whole thing? Was Jem visible only to my damaged mind? My headache peaked, an intense torture that was more than I could bear.

  “Going to introduce me, then?” Rob asked idly—and the agony crested the wave and slipped away.

  I rocked on my heels at the blissful reduction of pain. “Jem,” I said, my voice sounding almost normal. “We’re, um...” I held up our clasped hands.

  Jem gave me a startled look, but Rob didn’t bat an eyelid.

  “Nice to meet you, Jem. Are you staying to watch the end of the show?”

  Jem nodded. “Yeah. I’m staying. Got to look after Ted here, ain’t I?”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

  Rob’s eyebrows shot up, and Miri, appearing at the top of the stairs, gave me a sharp look.

  “Sorry,” I explained. “I thought I was supposed to be looking after you, Jem.”

  “I can look after myself. Always have done.” He squeezed my hand.

  “Of course you can, dear,” Miri said. She circled Jem, looking at him critically. “Oliver?” She thought he was in costume for a show, I realised.

  “Nah, my name’s Jem.”

  She laughed. “Oh, you’re a one, aren’t you? Bet you can get away with anything, with looks like that. We’re casting for Dream soon, if you’re interested?”

  Jem glanced at me. “What do you think, Ted?”

  What did I think? I thought he’d be wonderful as Puck, although Miri probably saw him more as Lysander. “I think...I think we should go and catch the end of the play, and think about it later, all right?”