A Class Apart Read online

  “Stop right there.” He got to his feet and slowly began to circle her. “Upsetting your life, you say. That’s a good one. I have upset your life. Yet again, I am going to have to remind you just exactly what you did to my life.”

  “Shut up!” she yelled.

  “Oh, you don’t want to hear it, eh? You don’t want to be reminded of how with one vindictive statement you wiped out my entire career. Destroyed everything I had worked for. Shall I remind you what it was you said? Those words that were all over the papers the next day and annihilated a man and his future?”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Matthew. You were all washed up long before I said what I did. You just wanted someone to hang the blame on. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.”

  “I hadn’t been having an affair with ‘someone else’. No, I had been sleeping with you, Jenneen Grey. She who is an expert on men and their prowess in the sack. But of course I’m forgetting, you’ve had so many. How many was it last week, Jenneen? Five? Six?

  She flinched, and turned to the window.

  “More? Well, I don’t want to know. You sleep with whoever you like. As many men as you can get. Or women!” he added.

  Jenneen closed her eyes. She had known it was coming.

  “Lost your tongue?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Pity you didn’t lose it that night you were interviewed on the Late Night Chat Show. If you’d lost it then, perhaps neither of us would be in the mess we’re in now.”

  “Look, Matthew,” she turned to him, her eyes pleading. “You know as well as I do that you were sacked from the drama series because of your drinking. It was nothing to do with what I said. For God’s sake, if someone was destroyed every time a woman aired her dirty linen in public, there wouldn’t be many people at the top, would there?”

  “You’re a liar, Jenneen, and you know it. I threw you over the night before that show. I threw you over! And your bloody ego just couldn’t take it. ‘Is he a good lover?’ you said. And then you laughed. I’ll never forget that laugh, Jenneen. ‘Is he a good lover? I’ll be truthful with you,’ you said. ‘He’s so pumped full of drugs or alcohol it’s like going to bed with a log that has a protruding twig in the right place.’ Isn’t that what you said?” He was shouting now and advancing across the room towards her. “Isn’t that what you . . .”

  “Stop it!” she cried, hating the way he worked himself into a frenzy of anger.

  “I was the leading man in that drama, Jenneen, I was on the brink of becoming a national heartthrob. OK, it sounds pathetic, but it pays the bills. And you destroyed it all in one night.” He stood over her, the smell of whisky on his breath sickening her.

  She clenched her fists. “How much do you want this time?”

  Matthew eyed her with hatred, as if he might strike her, but then the anger seemed to subside and he relaxed a little. “That’s better,” he said. “You pay. That’s right, you pay.”

  “How much do you want? Tell me, how much?”

  “I will,” he said, “when I’m ready. Now I’m hungry, go and make me something to eat.”

  Jenneen went into the kitchen and began to pull out the pots and pans. She could hear him in the sitting room, helping himself to another drink. She wanted to cry, but she knew it was no use. For months now she had pleaded with him, begged him, to leave her alone. But he kept coming back. Shouting at her, abusing her with vile language, and sometimes beating her. Every day she lived in terror of the hold he had over her. Dear God, if only she hadn’t gone to the party that night. Was it as long ago as two years? It was the night she had first met Matthew.

  The irony of it was that she really didn’t want to go to the party at all. She had the startings of a cold, and was feeling pretty awful, and the man who was to escort her made her feel about the same. Funny, she couldn’t even remember his name now.

  As the evening wore on, her escort, sensing her disinterest, became engrossed in someone else, and feeling miserable and lonely, Jenneen sat in a corner, sipping whisky and biting back the tears of self-pity that often come before an attack of flu.

  She couldn’t remember now how she had got talking to the woman, or much about their conversation. But whoever she was, the woman seemed kind and friendly, and genuinely interested in whatever Jenneen had to say. They laughed a lot, she remembered that, and they agreed a lot too, but what about, Jenneen couldn’t, or didn’t want to remember.

  It must have been midnight, maybe even later, when Jenneen finally tried to stand up to leave. But she’d drunk more whisky than she’d realised, and she fell back onto the settee, giggling. The woman laughed softly, and asked if she could help.

  Jenneen looked around for her escort, but he had disappeared. “Typical!” she thought to herself, and then suddenly she started to cry. The woman seemed quite startled at first, but placing an arm round Jenneen’s waist, she led her from the room. Vaguely Jenneen remembered being led up the stairs, hearing the woman whispering soothing noises, telling her that she was far too ill to go home tonight.

  She didn’t recall protesting, but like a child she allowed the woman to help her out of her clothes. Jenneen didn’t know even now, how many times the woman had kissed her before she became aware of what was happening. But she didn’t stop her. The woman’s lips were soft, her hands cool and gentle, tenderly soothing the loneliness from her body. There were no rough hands on her breasts, no heavy bulk pushing against her. Only warmth and comfort, and a sensual feeling she had never experienced before. And then she was moving her own hands. Touching, exploring, and wondering at the strange softness of the skin, the light smell of perfume, the silky hair that fell across her face.

  How much later was it when the door opened? Hours? Minutes perhaps. She looked up to see a man standing over the bed, watching them, a smile curling his lips, and a glass in his hand. She didn’t know him then, but it was Matthew Bordsleigh, an as yet little known actor. The woman lying beside her seemed pleased to see him, and not at all embarrassed. She invited him to stay and watch, and he did. Jenneen never knew what possessed her to go through with such an “act of perversion”, as her family would have called it. And Matthew Bordsleigh sat on a chair in the corner, quietly sipping his Scotch, never taking his eyes from the naked female bodies writhing before him on the bed.

  It was more than a year later when she next saw him. They recognised one another, but could not immediately recall where they had met. Jenneen had so determinedly pushed the night of the party to the back of her mind that she never thought of it any more. She was too ashamed.

  It was Matthew who remembered first. Her reaction was to deny it. It must have been someone else. Don’t be ridiculous, she’d been sleeping with him for the last two months hadn’t she? How could she possibly have gone to bed with another woman? Would a lesbian behave in bed with a man like she did with him? But he insisted, until finally Jenneen admitted it. He laughed at her crushing humiliation, telling her not to mind about him, he was a liberated guy, and no, he wouldn’t dream of telling anyone.

  He kept his promise, but it did not stop him suggesting distasteful threesomes from time to time, and Jenneen grew to hate him for it. But she carried on seeing him, not really knowing why. She should have been warned when she first noticed that his drinking was becoming a problem. The night he threw her over he was more drunk than she had ever seen him before. They argued, and she tried to stop him from having any more, telling him he was making a disgusting spectacle of himself. He laughed at her, saying she was a one to talk about disgusting specatcles. And then he hit her. The first punch didn’t hurt much, but the second did, and the third, and the fourth. How many times he hit her she couldn’t remember, but the pain she could. Finally, he stormed out, shouting obscenities over his shoulder, and telling her not to expect him back. It was a blessed relief.

  The next day she was to appear as a guest on the Late Night Chat Show. As the new presenter of the afternoon features programme it was impo
rtant to promote herself, as well as the programme. She had to wear dark glasses, and her mouth was badly cut inside. Nevertheless, she was determined to go through with it. It was only when she was in the make-up room before the show began that she realised the full extent of what he had done to her face. The eyes looking back at her from the mirror, normally so calm and blue, were purple and red and swollen – she looked hideous. He had spoilt her first appearance on television. The very thing she had worked so long for. She should have been carried away with a sense of achievement, bubbling over with euphoria to have realised her dream, but he had taken it away from her. She hated him. She hated him with a growing vengeance, and swore that she would get back at him somehow. She didn’t realise then how soon that would be, or how much it would cost her.

  “You’re taking your time out there.”

  His voice brought her back to the present, and she felt her fingers tighten on the knife she was holding. How she would love to push it into him. To see the look of horror, of disbelief, and then agony. To see him fall dead at . . . She shook herself. She must pull herself together, get a grip. She’d find a way out of this somehow, but that wasn’t the answer.

  She went into the sitting room and slammed down a plateful of food before going to sit on the settee. He sauntered over to the table and sat down. She could hear him eating, and the sound grated on her nerves. She looked at the bottle of whisky that was sitting on the floor beside the fire. It had been full when he’d arrived, now it was half empty. But she didn’t care. Hopefully it would kill him. Yes, she’d give him money if that was what he was going to spend it on.

  Eventually she heard his knife and fork go down, and then giving a heavy sigh punctuated by a stomach-curdling burp he leaned back in his chair and picked up his Scotch. For a while he said nothing, only looked at her. Any minute now he would tell her how much he wanted. She would go to her handbag, or maybe her chequebook, hand over whatever he asked for, and then he would go. It was the easiest way.

  A smirk twisted his face and she wondered how she could ever have found him attractive. His teeth were stained with tobacco, his face swollen with drink, and the once athletic body was beginning to sag.

  “Take off your dressing gown,” he said, picking at his teeth.

  She ignored him.

  “Did you hear me? I said, take off your dressing gown.”

  “Drop dead!” She got to her feet intending to leave the room. Quick as a flash he was behind her, pinning back her arms. She didn’t have time to marvel at how a man as drunk as he was could move so quickly before he had pushed her onto the floor. Towering over her she could see the gleam in his eye.

  “Take it off!” he snapped.

  Knowing that it would only be the worse for her if she didn’t do as he said, she slowly began to undo the buttons. She turned her head to gaze into the fire, trying to disassociate herself from her own body. He waited, looking down at her, until all the buttons were undone. Then, taking her by the arms, he yanked her to her feet.

  “That’s all!” he said. “If you’d only learn to do as you were told you’d make life a lot easier for yourself, Jenneen. Now, fifty pounds, cheque or cash. I don’t mind which.”

  Realising that he was not going to rape her after all, she was so overcome with relief that she almost ran across the room and fumbled in her bag for her chequebook. Her hands were shaking with anger and fear as she wrote the cheque.

  He laughed when she handed it to him, then tucked the near empty bottle of whisky into his coat pocket and left.

  Afer he had gone she sat in the chair for a long time, staring into the fire. Why had she let that woman take her to bed that night? But was it so bad to have been to bed with another woman? She shuddered. Of course it was. People where she came from thought women who did things like that were disgusting and contemptible. And if her mother ever found out, she would never be able to hold her head up again. And her father, she dreaded to think what it might do to him, or what he might do to her.

  And her friends? What would they think? They’d never trust her again. If she greeted them with a kiss they would always be wondering, did she have more than a friendly love for them? She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear to see everyone she loved turn away from her. To see that look in people’s eyes when she went into work. The sniggers and whispers behind her back. No, she had to tolerate Matthew’s abuse, it was the only way. She could only thank God that he didn’t know the full extent of her debauchery.

  FOUR

  Ellamarie and Bob had known one another for over two years, occasionally working together, and frequently bumping into one another in the close-knit community of London’s West End theatres. Ellamarie hadn’t known at first, but Bob had fallen in love with her almost the first time he had laid eyes on her.

  He had no ready explanation for the strength and immediacy of his feelings. Of course, Ellamarie was a beautiful woman, but as a director he spent a great deal of time with beautiful women. For some reason she held an attraction for him that he had never felt for anyone else. He was as surprised by his feelings as he was mystified, but try as he might, he could not deny them. In all the years of his marriage he had never strayed, had never felt the need or the inclination. He was comfortable with his wife, and happy too, and coupled with the excitement and drive of his work, he had always assumed his life to be fulfilled. But from the moment that Ellamarie Goold had walked into his life, all that had changed.

  He was sitting in the old Church Hall where the rehearsals for Twelfth Night were entering their second week, watching Ellamarie make her entrance with ‘Feste’.

  He had surprised everyone by asking to see this particular part of the scene, but he had done it only to satisfy Ellamarie. He knew she would be angry if she didn’t rehearse something that morning.

  He watched her with a critical eye. It was her first professional role in Shakespeare, and she had thrown herself into it body and soul – once she had come to terms with not playing Viola. Bob smiled to himself as he watched her prepare for her first exit of the scene, and was impressed by how readily the required blush came to her cheeks.

  She lifted her head. “Peace, you rogue, no more o’ that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best,” and she swept from the stage.

  “Hold it! Hold it there!” Bob called, before she was fully gone. He walked over to them, knowing he was being watched closely by the rest of the cast.

  “I think, Ellamarie,” he said, as he reached them, “perhaps you could smile a little more as you prepare to leave. No, not with your mouth, just your eyes, a touch flirtatious, you know. And Geoffrey, watch her go, and keep watching her until she has cleared the stage altogether, then clasp your hands together.”

  Ellamarie was looking at him, but he avoided her eyes.

  “I thought,” said Geoffrey, unwittingly helping him out, “that as Maria leaves, perhaps I could take a couple of steps after her, wait for her to go, then turn back for my next line.”

  Bob thought about this. “Try it,” he said, “and don’t forget, really camp it up. Maybe slope the steps.” He gave an illustration of what he wanted, making everyone laugh, then stood back again to watch. “Take it from ‘Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.’” He was still looking at Geoffrey.

  Maria and the Clown rehearsed to the point of Maria’s exit again, and this time Bob let her go and allowed the scene to continue up to the point of Maria’s re-entry, when he nodded towards the stage manager who, taking her cue perfectly, yelled “Lunch!”

  Ellamarie picked up her bag and stormed into the ladies’ room. Dammit! Why hadn’t Bob given her the chance to go further? Surely he had seen how ready she was to do more. More than anyone else, he knew how important it was for her to prove herself. Not only to the others, but to herself too. The sly glances and whispers of her fellow actors had not passed her by, and she was determined to prove to them that she was right for the part. That there was no question of perks for the
director’s mistress. She knew she could successfully discard her American accent, and had, but even that had not persuaded Maureen Woodley that Ellamarie Goold should be in the cast. As far as Maureen Woodley was concerned, no American should ever touch Shakespeare. It was an insult to the Bard. And coupled with the fact that the American had only got the part because she was getting laid by the director, the whole thing was an outrage.

  Stalking past the basins she slammed the door to a cubicle and locked it. She must calm down before she faced him. If they had a fight over lunch everyone would know, and she would not give that bitch Maureen Woodley the pleasure of seeing her upset.

  By the time she had counted to ten at least five times she was ready to leave. She turned to pull the chain, then stopped as the outside door opened and she heard someone saying her name.

  “Just the very sight of Ellamarie Goold makes my blood boil. She doesn’t pick up on the verse lines, she flaunts herself across the stage as if she were the only one on it, then has the cheek to hover on the side whilst the rest of us are playing. God, she makes me sick!” There was no mistaking the husky tones of Maureen Woodley. “Did you see her actually prompt Richard this morning?”

  “Mmm,” Eliamarie heard Ann Hollier answer.

  “But how dare she prompt Richard Coulthard, of all people!”

  “Well, he did forget his lines,” Ann pointed out.

  “But it’s not her job to prompt.”

  “No, I suppose not. Where shall we go for lunch?”

  “And then did you hear her discussing pauses with Nicholas Gough earlier? Anyone would think she was an authority on Shakespeare the way she carries on.”

  “Maybe she is,” said Ann.

  Ellamarie’s blood had run cold when she first heard Maureen bitching about her, but now she was trying to stop herself from laughing. Shit, Maureen Woodley sure was stupid. Couldn’t she see what a bore she was being? Ann Hollier was big news in the theatre, what the hell did she care about what Maureen Woodley thought?