Switchback Stories Page 14

  Robina was talking to a few of the other girls she represented when she heard the news. She raced into Catherine’s dressing cubicle. ‘This is it, baby. What an extraordinary opportunity.’ She threw her arms around Catherine. ‘You knock ‘em dead out there, okay?’

  ‘I’ll give it everything I’ve got. What about Duncan Marstein – we can count on him, can’t we?’

  Robina responded with her cheekiest grin. ‘No need to worry, I’ve made sure of that, darling. He thinks you’re a great talent. Now he’ll have the chance to write the review he’s been promising. In fact, I must find him – tell him the news.’

  ‘There’ll be an announcement before the curtain goes up,’ Catherine reminded her.

  ‘I know. But I need to talk to him.’ She rushed off.

  Marstein was in the theatre’s bar, bourbon in hand, chatting with colleagues. As she elbowed her way through the crowd toward him, Robina noticed his speech was louder and his movements more animated than usual. He was swaying gently on the spot.

  She tugged at his elbow, speaking softly. ‘Duncan. Change of plan. We need to talk.’ She led him to the nearest corner. ‘Stephanie Sanders hasn’t turned up. Catherine is going on.’

  It took him a moment to absorb the news. ‘Wonderful,’ he said with a slight slur to his speech. ‘I wouldn’t have had so much to drink if I’d known I was still going to have to write my review after the show as usual.’

  ‘I did think you were a little tipsy,’ Robina commented.

  ‘Tipsy? Good Lord, woman, I’m way beyond being a little tipsy.’ He roared with unnecessary laughter. Robina winced. Duncan was a known boozer – after he’d attended a show and written his piece – that was when he headed for the after-show parties. Robina much preferred him when he was sober. She didn’t regret the intimate relationship she’d developed with him, though – it was going to prove invaluable when it came to influencing his reviews of the performers she represented.

  Most of the people in the theatrical community were afraid of Duncan Marstein’s power. Robina had decided, from the outset, to get on the man’s good side and to become part of the clique who were his closest friends and confidantes.

  She had discovered two surprising facts about Duncan: first, that his confident and urbane image was merely a mask for a lonely and insecure man; second, that he’d once made a drunken pass at Stephanie Sanders, which she’d laughed off, and he’d held a secret resentment of her ever since.

  ‘I’m the one with the true power in this town,’ he’d said drunkenly to Robina when he’d told her of the snub, ‘is a little respect too much to ask for?’

  ‘It’s the least you deserve,’ she’d replied.

  His last few reviews of Stephanie had been subtle in their criticism of her performance. That fact led Robina to discreetly plant an idea in his mind; a way in which to stunt Stephanie’s runaway career path in the longer-term hope it would sway producers toward Catherine for upcoming productions.

  A scathing review of Stephanie’s performance in “The Loneliest Star”.

  A Marstein review had a snowball effect, with other, lesser critics jumping on the bandwagon.

  ‘It’s not like you to drink before a show,’ Robina said.

  ‘I knew what I intended to write about Stephanie, regardless of the show, so I’d already written it. Saw no need to stay sober. Not to worry, those parts can be re-written. The newspaper still doesn’t expect to receive my copy until an hour after the show closes, as usual.’

  Robina patted his arm affectionately. ‘We’re thrilled to have your support, Duncan. It means so much to young Catherine. She thinks the world of you. Now, later on after the show, we must get together. Your place?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come around. A private celebration.’

  ‘Just the two of us,’ Robina promised, her eyes emitting signals as potent as any words.

  The announcement was made just prior to the rise of the stage curtain, and at 7.44, after the rousing overture, Catherine stepped on stage to sing the first song.

  • • •

  When Stephanie woke, her mouth was incredibly dry. She pushed herself shakily to her feet, shuffled into the kitchen and poured herself a king-size glass of Coke. Her head felt as though it was stuffed tight with cotton wool and a dull ache sat like an immovable stone at the base of her skull.

  It took a moment for her eyes to focus on the kitchen wall clock. 10.45 pm. So late, she thought, I must have dozed off. Wasn’t I meant to be somewhere … and then it dawned on her. The Show … Her memory of the afternoon came tumbling back, a series of jumbled scenes. That last cup of tea … the sudden drowsiness …

  Where was Catherine?

  Performing my role.

  The realization hit her like a physical blow and she felt herself go weak at the knees. Instinctively she knew that Catherine had drugged her and was out there now, singing and dancing the lead role on the premiere night. How could she do such a thing?

  When the producers and the public find out …

  She stopped. Did she have any way of proving her version of events? An imaginary newspaper headline appeared in her mind’s eye:

  LEADING LADY CLAIMS SHE WAS DRUGGED BY UNDERSTUDY.

  The theatre world would spin into uproar. No doubt Catherine and her supporters would deny the allegation.

  Proof? Was there any proof?

  Despite her fragile head, Stephanie padded into the living room and conducted a search. There was no sign of what might have been used to sedate her. As far as she knew, no-one had seen Catherine in her apartment that afternoon.

  The shrill ring of the phone cut through the silence. Stephanie picked up the receiver.

  ‘Steph! Where in God’s name have you been?’ It was Joel Mc Lennan. ‘I’ve been trying to raise you all evening.’

  Stephanie’s breath caught in her throat. Did she voice her suspicions? Or was it better to invent a plausible story that would leave her reputation intact? No-one would blame her if she said she’d come down suddenly with a 24 hour virus and fallen asleep.

  ‘Steph …?’

  ‘Still here,’ she croaked. ‘Joel. I’m feeling … dreadfully bad. I’ll have to call you back.’ She hung up the phone quickly.

  • • •

  Catherine had walked offstage only minutes earlier to the handshakes, hugs and kisses of the cast and crew. There’d been some patchy moments, but overall she was certain she’d pulled off the performance brilliantly.

  ‘Catherine, we’re all going to the Excelsior for drinks,’ said the male lead, Michael Cray. ‘You must come along.’

  She beamed at all the attention. This is just the beginning, she thought. When the producers saw the review the offers would start. She saw Robina in the crowd and waved. Robina pushed her way across and hugged her. ‘Duncan’s gone home to write what he tells me will be an absolute rave,’ Robina whispered in her ear. ‘In about half an hour he emails it to the paper.’

  ‘Come and join us for a drink,’ said Catherine.

  ‘Just one, baby. Then Duncan and I are getting together for a very private party.’

  It was 12.40 when Robina arrived at Duncan Marstein’s elegant, two storey home. There was no answer to her knock and, surprised to find the front door unlocked, she went through to the ground floor study at the rear.

  Duncan was at his desk, slumped forward with his head resting right in front of his computer keyboard. He was snoring. Totally sloshed, Robina realized.

  She felt a flutter of panic. The review …? She decided to check the PC before she roused Duncan.

  Robina tapped the relevant keys to bring up his emails. She checked his Sent folder. There had been only one: thirty minutes earlier, subject line: The Loneliest Star Review.’

  A breath of relief surged through her, as invigorating as an ocean breeze. It was done. The presses would be running by now. In a little over four hours the finished product would be loaded onto dozens of trucks for despatch all over England. Mill
ions of readers.

  She noticed a printout of the review on the other side of the PC. Curiosity compelled her to take a sneak look. A triumphant gleam radiated from her eyes as the words filled the screen. ‘UNDERSTUDY LIFTS PREMIERE PERFORMANCE TO NEW HEIGHTS’ read the headline.

  Duncan shifted his weight in the chair and mumbled something. Robina shook him lightly by the shoulders. ‘Duncan …’

  He tilted his head toward her, one eye opening lazily. ‘Head feels like a steamroller flattened it …’

  ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed so you can sleep it off. Everything okay with the review?’

  ‘All done. The lovely Miss O’Leary will have producers knocking her door down tomorrow.’

  Minutes later, Duncan had dozed off again, this time lying fully clothed on top of his bed. Robina decided to put her feet up on the lounge in the living room and sleep there. It seemed only a short while later when she was woken by the shriek of the telephone. She was surprised to find it was 7.30 and a soft, natural light filled the room with the muted colours of an Autumn morning, all warm golds, reds and browns.

  Alan Frasier, the Tribune’s editor, was on the line. ‘He’s still sleeping it off, eh,’ Frasier repeated Robina’s words. ‘Guess I’ll have to wait ‘til later to give him a blast.’

  ‘A blast over what?’ Robina asked, still groggy from sleep.

  ‘Stupid mistake,’ came the answer. ‘I heard Duncan hit the bottle early last night, which explains why he kept typing Stephanie Sanders’s name in his review, when it should have been that of the understudy, Catherine O’Leary.’

  ‘Wrong name ,,, God no …’

  ‘Oh it’s all right,’ Frasier assured her. ‘I checked his copy when it came in last night. Luckily, I’d heard earlier about the understudy having to step in. So I corrected Duncan’s copy.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ breathed Robina. She was wide awake now, her pulse racing. From the corner of her eye she saw Duncan amble into the room, a puzzled expression on his dishevelled face.

  ‘It would have been an absolute disaster otherwise,’ Frasier continued, ‘the paper would’ve been a laughing stock.’

  ‘I’ll get him to phone you when he wakes,’ Robina said, and she hung up.

  Duncan cleared his throat. ‘What was that all about?’

  Robina told him and Duncan ran his fingers through his greying hair as he listened. ‘I may have been under the weather,’ he admitted, ‘but I wouldn’t have made a mistake like that.’ Followed by Robina, he padded his way through to the study. His fingers tapped a command onto the keyboard and a second later his review was on the screen. ‘What in blazes is Frasier on about,’ he muttered. ‘The name’s correct … Catherine …’ He cut himself short, groaned, then placed his hand to his forehead and rubbed vigorously. ‘Surely not …’

  ‘What?’ There was alarm in Robina’s voice.

  Duncan issued another command, calling another item onto the screen. ‘Blast,’ he moaned. ‘The article I thought I’d be using, the one I wrote earlier in the day. Could’ve sworn I’d deleted it. God no …’

  ‘What is going on, Duncan?’ Robina’s voice was raised, anxious.

  ‘I must’ve attached the wrong article to the email, the one I was certain I’d deleted,’ Duncan said, ‘the review attacking Stephanie …’

  • • •

  Across the city, Catherine leapt out of bed. Despite the late night she was still hyped up, anxious to see the review in The Morning Tribune.

  She pulled on a sleeveless cotton shirt and blue jeans, stepped into a pair of sneakers, and sprinted from her apartment block to the corner newsagent. She could’ve checked the online version but she wanted her first sighting of the review to be the physical paper, in the store, in all its glory. A moment to remember.

  The paper had devoted a double page spread, on pages two and three, to the premiere.

  In the shop, Catherine’s eyes hungrily scanned the text. Duncan Marstein’s review ran the full depth of the right outside two columns on page three, boxed in a special border. The expression on Catherine’s face mirrored the sudden, plummeting sensation she felt inside, like a light dropping away into a void of darkness.

  ‘LEADING LADY’S LACKLUSTRE PERFORMANCE KILLS POTENTIAL HIT’, read the headline. ‘In an uninspired piece of miscasting, Catherine O’Leary last night failed to deliver the range of emotions needed for the lead role in “The Loneliest Star” …’

  ORDINARY ANGEL

  One

  Sometimes you never forget a face.

  It was twelve months since the country’s worst train disaster and, ever since, I’d cursed myself for not asking my helper his name. I’ve no doubt it was the pain or the fear or the dark cloud of dust, or a combination of the three, that had made me hazy and disorientated, slurring my words and making little sense.

  ‘Are you an angel?’ Stupid question. It was the only thing I asked him as he helped the rescuers pull me clear of the overturned carriage.

  ‘I’m just an ordinary guy.’ The gentle touch of his fingers brushed the wisps of hair from my face. ‘You’re going to be fine.’

  I had been trapped in the wreck for hours, my legs caught between the twisted seats, no-one moving or talking in the dusty half-light around me. When the rescue team arrived, it had taken them an hour to clear their way through to me, and another hour to cut me free. All the time, the man with the kind, raggedy face had been there, just beyond the carriage, looking through, his smile reassuring me, his words keeping my mind off the anxiety.

  Then as the paramedics lifted me away, I’d caught my last glimpse of him, silhouetted by the afternoon sun.

  No-one knew who he was or where he went. He wasn’t one of the rescue team members, and he never came forward to identify himself as one of the train’s passengers.

  Later, others told me he’d been at the site of the wreck into the night, looking for survivors, comforting them. But he hadn’t told anyone his name, and in the chaos of the clean-up, no-one paid attention as he walked away …

  ‘You watching that news footage again, Claire?’

  Roger Gale, my boss, broke my reverie as he entered the edit suite. Roger was one of the best television news chiefs in the business, and I still remembered his words, eleven months earlier, when I’d returned to work. ‘From now on, young Claire, I want you to stick to reporting the news – not being a part of it. Okay?’

  ‘Got it,’ I’d said, and he had hugged me close.

  As a survivor, I had recorded my own segment about the disaster for our nightly current affairs program, reliving my experiences. I’d spoken of the gentle stranger, and of how he’d referred to himself as just an ordinary guy. Other survivors also told of the mysterious helper, so the media homed in, spearheading the search for the man they dubbed ‘the ordinary angel’.

  Roger sat beside me. ‘Still looking for clues to your angel’s identity?’

  It had been a while since we’d discussed the story. The media frenzy had died down months before. There wasn’t anything to report. No-one, it seemed, had any idea who the man was. It had been a great human interest story for the media for a while, but time moves on, and the media moves even faster.

  ‘You’d think that someone knew him and would have come forward,’ I remarked. All the papers had published sketches of the man, drawn by their artists from the descriptions given.

  ‘It’s as though he doesn’t really exist,’ Roger said, ‘or he really is an angel from somewhere beyond. But then, we’ve been over this time and again. I’m afraid this one’s likely to remain a mystery, Claire.’

  It was a mystery that I wanted to solve, but I held my tongue. Roger didn’t want his journalists personally obsessed with stories that led nowhere. But I still had a burning desire to find this man, to see that strong, comforting smile again. To say, ‘Thank you’.

  My producer, Jane Merrick, looked through the doorway. ‘Hey there, Claire Mapstone, ace reporter. You ready?’

 
‘Willing and able,’ I said, switching off the footage and reaching for my bag.

  Jane and I were working on a major consumer affairs story. A Sydney-based mail order company that sold a variety of goods had closed. Its owners had vanished, leaving thousands of customers without the goods they’d paid for.

  The firm, Quality Plus–‘More like Quality Minus,’ Jane had joked – had a suite of offices and a small warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Jane, a pushy, sneaky woman at the best of times, coerced the building’s landlord to allow us access to the site.

  We arrived, with our cameraman, Rodney, and the camera followed me as I walked past deserted work stations and into the empty warehouse.

  ‘Let’s see if we can find any of the staff’s names and numbers,’ Jane said. ‘It would be great if we could get in touch with one and film an interview.’

  In the rush to clear out, the owners had left one lone PC in a corner. Jane sat, plugged it in, and began tapping away at the keys. She had a geek-like knack of accessing information from computer systems.

  ‘You won’t find anything, surely,’ I said to her. ‘Wouldn’t they have wiped everything from the system?’

  ‘You never know.’ But moments later Jane shrugged and rose from the chair. ‘You’re right. They’ve trashed all the data.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘We’ve still got time to rifle through the place to see if these jokers left anything else behind.’

  They had.

  In a tiny cubicle-cum-office was a despatch desk. In the bottom drawer – a folder with the names of the workers and suppliers associated with the company, something else overlooked when the owners had left.

  Back at the studio, Jane and I analysed the list. No customers on it, but we already knew who many of those were, they’d been making complaints in droves – but the folder did have the names of a dozen freelance workers. One was a telephone marketer named William Danziger who lived a few suburbs away. There were contact numbers against the names.

  I cross-checked his name against the list of professional complaints. Curiously, his name wasn’t among the external suppliers or customers who’d filed complaints against Quality Plus.