Read Online Curtain Call by Anthony Quinn - Free Book Online Page B

so the prone body on the sofa stirred, and a sleep-blurred voice came: ‘Jim – that you?’
    He gave him a little pat. ‘Yes. Go back to sleep. Bring me in some tea at eight, will you?’
    Tom grunted a vague affirmative.
    â€˜Good man,’ whispered Jimmy, backing out of the room and closing the door.

4
    MADELEINE JUMPED WHEN the waitress put down the pot of tea at her elbow. She’d been miles away. ‘Sorry, dearie,’ cooed the woman, who must have seen her startled expression because she patted her hand in apology. A sudden hot surge prickled at Madeleine’s eyes. It was the sort of random gesture of sympathy that could set her off these days, she didn’t know why. The waitress, older than the others, had just asked her something, and mechanically she replied, ‘No, nothing else, thank you.’
    â€˜Right you are,’ she said, and moved away. Madeleine’s gaze followed her halting progress around the other tables, where she would stoop enquiringly, nodding through the orders on her notepad, sharing an inaudible moment of cheer. She treated all of her customers in the same affable way, and none of them seemed to find it unusual. If only – if only this nice old lady were her friend, the things she would tell her, all those things choked up so tight inside they felt like some terrible indigestion. But then perhaps she would only frighten her off, for who would wish to be tainted by her sordid packet of despair?
    Without removing her thin scarf she put her fingertips to the skin around her throat, which still felt sore, weeks after. She looked about her to check that nobody was watching, and, of course, nobody was. Who were these people, she wondered, these blithe patrons of the tea room, jawing away to one another without a care in the world? How had they come by such unthinking gaiety? She drew the scarf around her protectively. It was one of only two souvenirs from her time at Diprose’s, the smart ladies’ clothing establishment off Piccadilly. She sometimes tormented herself with the notion that all might have been well if she had stuck it out there. If she had been a little more self-possessed . . . The manager, Mr Campbell, had seemed quite the gentleman, asking her how she liked working in the linen and hosiery department, often popping down from the third floor to say good morning. She soon learned why. He was old – at least forty-five, she supposed – and immaculately turned out, with a pocket square in blazing scarlet or gold to offset his dark double-breasted suits. She had once seen him in the Burlington Arcade reading a newspaper while a shoeblack worked away on his gleaming oxfords.
    At first, when she was required at his office to help with the mail orders, she thought his standing rather close to her was a helpless eccentricity – she had noticed the tendency in others before. When he started to touch her she said nothing, but tried to keep her distance if they happened to be left alone together. He must have taken her silence as encouragement, because he became bolder, not just rubbing up against her but actually snaking his hand along her neck and shoulders. She didn’t know what to do. She was friendly with a couple of the other assistants without their being actual friends, but she sensed that telling them about Mr Campbell’s interferences would not be welcomed. They would think her a troublemaker, or the type of girl who sought attention. Her superior in the hosiery department was a middle-aged lady, Mrs Pearce, whose horn-rimmed spectacles alone were enough to repel any thought of confiding in her. Her obsequious regard for their employer left no doubt in Madeleine’s mind whose side she would take if the story came out.
    The next and last time it happened was one afternoon after Campbell had returned from lunch. She had been distracted by some footling paperwork and hadn’t noticed him sidling into the