Coffin in the Black Museum. Gwendoline Butler

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      Then he dropped the top back quickly.

      ‘No, not ashes,’ he said.

      Inside was a head. He saw the matted hair, the dull open eyes, the stained, blotched skin, and felt the whiff of decay. He could not tell if he was looking at the head of a man or a woman.

CHAPTER 2

      Stella Pinero was downstairs in the old vestry, now converted into her smart dwelling place, but as yet bare of furniture. She heard the voices on the staircase and wondered what was going on.

      ‘I know that voice,’ she said to herself, standing in what would be her bedroom. ‘Doesn’t change.’ Her knowledge of that voice went years back.

      Stella had her own entrance on one side of a newly created lobby where John Coffin also had a front door. There was a third door already prepared for the so far unfinished third residence in the Chapel of St Jude. Stella could have waited to move into this flat, which had many attractions including a large stained glass window, but she did not feel holy enough. Also she did not believe that the stained glass would suit her complexion, yellow and blue were not her colours, not on the face, anyway.

      ‘And I am in a hurry to get settled,’ she had explained to Lætitia Bingham, whom she had known even before the start of the Theatre Workshop project but had recently got to know much better. ‘But this place looks fine,’ and they had settled down to discuss the details of No. 2, St Luke’s Mansions. ‘Who did your interior decorating? Flora Apsley? I thought I recognized her style.’

      ‘I think she’s good on city properties, gets the colours right. She’s done her homework, knows the sort of person who’s going to live here. I mean, it’s no good putting in a huge freezer for someone who hasn’t even got a window-box to grow tomatoes in and isn’t going to eat at home much, anyway’. Letty had assessed what the way of life of Stella, and for that matter of her half-brother John, was going to be.

      ‘Right,’ said Stella.

      ‘But you want a good-sized refrigerator even if it’s only for the ice cubes and champagne bottles.’

      Stella gave her landlady a wary look. ‘I’m into still mineral water myself,’ she said. She was on a diet, trying to lose the weight put on over the last eighteen months of not much work. She always gained weight when she wasn’t working and lost it the moment she was acting again. Another reason for never retiring, she thought, although an ex-husband with no money and a child at boarding-school were reason enough.

      ‘And, of course, an efficient microwave is an essential,’ went on Letty. ‘You know how to use one?’

      ‘Right,’ said Stella. ‘I can even cook with a wooden spoon.’

      The two women went to the same hairdresser in both London and New York, it made a kind of bond. In Los Angeles, where their hairdresser also had a branch, they had not as yet made contact. Letty said her husband had ‘a lot of business there’ but she herself went but rarely. Stella said she went there only when she was filming and she ‘hadn’t done a lot of that lately’.

      ‘And the carpets and curtains suit, do they?’

      ‘Yes, fine, to my taste, strong but neutral.’ Unlike John Coffin, Stella travelled light and would be bringing no carpets with her, just her clothes, some books, a few photographs (and even of these she had had a therapeutic clear-out only the other day), and a treasured ornament or two.

      ‘Oh look, and there’s a splendid shelf in the bathroom for my Oscar.’

      ‘Is that where you keep it?’

      ‘Just this one. I’ll have to think again for the next one.’ If ever, Stella thought. Fat chance. When had she made her last film?

      Their eyes had met in a glance of amused understanding; they liked each other, a friendship could be put together here of the more detached, long-range sort that women rarely manage.

      ‘Are they really made of solid gold?’

      ‘I don’t think so. Mine isn’t,’ said Stella absently. ‘I believe I shall be happy here.’ She was due for a spell of being happy. Everyone had their turn, didn’t they?

      ‘I hope the building still in process won’t disturb you too much. Don’t worry about security, it’s pretty good. I had special locks and bolts put in. I’ll see you get your keys. We used to have a caretaker on the site, but the last one left without giving notice.’

      ‘That’s the way it goes.’

      ‘He’d been here some time, too. I think he had a quarrel with the builders. But I’m interviewing another one. And my brother has the apartment in the tower. He’s a policeman.’

      ‘I know,’ said Stella. She had seen him around, and kept her distance. ‘I know him. Have done for years. On and off.’

      When they had first known each other, he had loved her and she had not loved him back, or not much. When they had next got together, she had loved him more, or so she thought, and he had been more casual. Now they hardly seemed to know each other at all, and that was sad. It was not how it should have been. Somehow, somewhere, they had missed a turning they should have taken.

      ‘He’s a good bloke.’

      Stella had agreed, but to herself she had added: A difficult man. Too much death hanging about him. I mean, she said to herself, what is it when you make love to someone and you smell carbolic on his hands? And you say: My God, what’s that, what have you been doing? And he says: Well, just something I came close to and I thought I’d better … Yes, wash it off. Well, what did that do to you?

      The kitchen was small but well arranged.

      I might even try to cook again, thought Stella. She looked at her beautifully painted nails. The only bad thing about cooking was the washing up. Her last marriage had foundered on the piles of dirty crockery filling the sink. Marry an actor, marry a successful one, and he hasn’t got time to do the dishes, either! Marry a failure, and it’s beneath his dignity. Somehow they had never got round to buying a dishwasher.

      She opened the refrigerator. Letty had left a bottle of champagne inside with a card that just said WELCOME. The refrigerator had a nice freezer on top but this she did not open.

      What was that noise she could hear? People talking loudly and a car arriving. Louder voices now. She hoped she wasn’t always going to be so aware of her neighbours.

      Correction: the neighbour. The only one she had so far: John Coffin.

      In the living-room with a view on to the old churchyard, now turned into a piazza and garden leading to the Theatre Workshop, she paused to realize for the first time that living so close to the job would make her vulnerable to all those members of the cast she might want to avoid. There was always someone, usually more than one, in a company who wanted to argue, complain, cry or even just talk. Her present production was blessed, if that was the word, with a young actress, Lily Goldstone, from a notable theatrical family, who had strong political views. She was always trying to buttonhole Stella.

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