It was lunchtime by the time Libby left the office with an interview at a girls’ school in Frognal secured for Monday week. It was a hiding to nothing, a sop so Deidre could send her on her way with a clear conscience. Coming into town had been a waste of the Tube fare and now Libby was in dire need of a friendly face. When she opened the door of the café in Wardour Street, she was relieved to see some of her old crowd colonising three tables at the back of the room, much to the tight-lipped fury of Gladys, the owner’s wife.
Libby fluffed up her hair, pinned on a smile and strode over. ‘Fancy bumping into you reprobates!’
‘Libs!’
‘Goodness me, hello, stranger!’
‘What on earth are you doing here?’
There was Doris and Thea, who had risen up the ranks with Libby. Francis, Tony, Bernard, Janice, May. They’d shared squalid digs, draughty rehearsal rooms, tables at opening-night parties and sat in countless audition lines waiting for their name to be called.
Libby sat down on the chair that Tony pulled out for her, gratefully accepted the offer of a cup of tea and squeezed Thea’s hand in greeting.
‘It’s the oddest thing,’ Thea said. ‘Your ears must have been burning because we were just talking about you. Saw Freddy’s column in the Daily Mirror and wondered if you were in Spain with him.’
‘Clearly I’m not,’ Libby said as the paper was placed in front of her. Her eyes blurred as she saw Freddy’s byline on a story about the Popular Front winning the recent Spanish elections. She traced her fingers over his name. So he was still alive, carrying on with his life without a care in the world. Well, wasn’t that absolutely lovely for him? ‘His editors at the Mirror and the Herald positively begged him to stay on the Continent and file stories for them, but let’s not talk about Freddy. I’m dying to know what’s the latest gossip, darlings?’
Libby tucked into a plate of liver and bacon, still following the doctor’s orders, as she was regaled with a story about a young male lead and his much older, much more venerated leading lady that had Libby spluttering on a mouthful of tea.
But all too soon her friends had to go back to work, to get ready for matinée performances. Libby was lingering over a bowl of apple pie and custard when two hands descended on her shoulders. She didn’t jump because she could smell the noxious cologne he always favoured. ‘Mickey,’ she said with a sigh.
‘Fortune must be smiling on me, you’ve saved me a trip to Hampstead,’ he said, turning a chair back to front so he could straddle it and earn himself a seething look from gloomy Gladys.
‘I’m not going away for the weekend with any more men,’ Libby said rashly, though lord knows, she could do with another thirty pounds. ‘Not again.’
‘He didn’t try anything, did he?’ Mickey asked sharply. ‘I told him no funny business.’
Mr Watkins, Hugo, hadn’t tried anything. After they’d called their truce, they’d spent the weekend playing gin rummy for toffees and making cordial though rather stilted small talk, mostly about the weather.
‘He was a bit shirty at first, but apart from that, he was a perfect gentleman,’ Libby said. Watkins had even insisted on sleeping on the sofa in their suite and nothing Libby had said could persuade him otherwise. Not even when she’d offered to ‘put my hatpin under the pillow, on the off-chance that you may become consumed with lust in the middle of the night and I’m forced to defend myself.’
Watkins hadn’t even cracked a smile. ‘I’ll be perfectly comfortable on the sofa,’ he’d said doggedly and had come out of the bathroom with his pyjamas buttoned up to his neck and his dressing gown tightly belted as if he were rather worried that it would be Libby unable to control her lust.
He’d slid into bed with her in the morning before the maid could bring in the breakfast tray, but he’d been careful not to touch her, kept his face aloof, and when the maid had come in and Libby had snuggled against him, it had been like trying to cuddle a girder. The young girl had averted her gaze and could hardly wait to scuttle for the door, though the maid catching Libby and Watkins in bed was the entire reason they’d come down to Brighton for the weekend. Then there’d still been another day and night to get through before they could go back to London, and the whole time Libby had felt like death warmed over.
Never before had thirty pounds been so hard won. And now Libby wanted the whole business squared away so she never had to think of Watkins again. ‘I’m rather glad I’ve run into you too because I thought you said that you’d be in touch. That you were going to have a couple of witnesses from the hotel come to London and swear before a crowded court, and on a whole stack of Bibles too, that I was the hussy that they’d caught in flagrante delicto with Mr Watkins.’ Libby peered over Mickey’s shoulder but he’d come alone. ‘I must say that this divorce nonsense drags on and on, doesn’t it?’
‘Well, Libby, my darling, that’s what I was coming to see you about. There isn’t going to be any witness identifying you as the mysterious Marigold because the case isn’t going to court,’ Mickey said. ‘Not unless you agree to testify in person.’ He nudged her arm. ‘There’ll be another thirty quid in it for you, so what’s the harm, my darling?’
Libby stared at him in horror. ‘What’s the harm?’ she echoed, her voice rising. ‘I’m a married woman.’ She wagged a shaking finger at Mickey who licked his lips nervously. ‘You promised it would all be hush-hush. That’s why I agreed to it. No, Mickey. Appearing in court absolutely wasn’t part of the agreement.’
‘But dining in the restaurant on Friday night was and you didn’t, Libby, my sweet, so Watkins doesn’t have enough proof of adultery to satisfy the court.’
‘We had dinner in the restaurant on the Saturday night.’ Watkins had ordered Libby a steak and a glass of milk stout that they’d had to send out for, which had been very kind of him and had certainly caused a stir and turned heads in such a genteel establishment.
‘Had to be Friday night,’ Mickey said doggedly. ‘There’s a certain waiter who works Friday nights that knows the drill.’
‘I was poorly on the Friday, Mickey. Won’t the doctor give evidence?’
Apparently he wouldn’t. Was horrified at the very notion, and the maid who’d brought in the breakfast tray both mornings and, it transpired, had tended to Libby when she’d been passed out cold, now refused to have any part of it either. She’d somehow got it into her head that Libby was the injured party and said she wouldn’t take advantage of a woman ‘who nearly died in my arms’.
Libby refused to feel guilty. ‘Well, I’m not giving the money back. I’ve had bills to pay,’ she hissed at Mickey, who, as usual, caved at the first sign of resistance and held up his hands to ward off her wrath. ‘For goodness sake, Mickey, I couldn’t help being ill.’
‘Of course you couldn’t and you’re looking much better than last time I saw you. Got those roses back in your cheeks, the sparkle in your lovely eyes…’
‘Mickey, don’t try and soft soap me,’ Libby warned him. ‘I’m not one of those silly little girls that you usually inveigle into your tawdry schemes.’
‘Of course you’re not. You’ve got class, Libby, my love, but you’ve left me in a bit of a pickle. My reputation is hanging by a thread and you know how your good friend, your pal Mickey, relies on his reputation.’ Mickey placed one of his hands on Libby’s, which was resting on the table. His touch was soft, if a little clammy.
‘I’m not giving back the money,’ Libby said again, but in a slightly more conciliatory tone. ‘And I won’t appear in court either, but I could write a letter, explaining things. You tell me what to put and I’ll happily sign it. Not with my real name though.’
‘You’re a champ. A real brick.’ Mickey smiled ingratiatingly. ‘But rather than write a letter, could you have a chat with Mr Watkins? If you’re really certain you won’t help out poor Mickey in his hour of need and show up for court…’
Libby didn’t say anything but she was sure her eyes were promising Mickey a slow and very painful demise if he persisted because he took his hand off her and backed his chair away.
‘If you could just meet him,’ Mickey said weakly, fishing in the breast pocket of his suit for a business card. ‘Call his secretary. Arrange a time and place. He’s happy to come to you.’
Libby took the card and glanced at the address, somewhere in Mayfair, then slipped it into her handbag. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, then she did think about it. About Hugo Watkins and how kind he’d been, once he’d shaken off his rage and confusion. At least the poor bugger had the possibility of an escape from his wife’s betrayal. Some people weren’t that lucky. And perhaps some of his good luck might rub off on Libby. ‘I will. I promise. I’ll call him.’