Lucy Lane and the Lieutenant. Helen Dickson

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      * * *

      The next afternoon she left the house and headed towards Covent Garden. It was a wonderful neighbourhood with a magical, carefree air and on any other day she would breathe deeply the better to absorb the smells, the sights and sounds as she entered the market. It was a noisy, crowded place with an aura of decadence, but Lucy loved it. The market was the very heart of Covent Garden, which, along with its mellow buildings, the piazza and arcades and the theatres, gave it such flavour and vitality.

      But today she had too much on her mind to appreciate any of this as she walked quickly through the labyrinth of cobbled streets towards the Portas Theatre. Having grown up surrounded by people who were the theatre’s lifeblood, it had always been an enchanted place for Lucy. Whenever she entered the foyer of the Portas Theatre, with its enormous gilt mirrors adorning the walls, along with posters advertising whatever was playing at the time, she always felt as if she had been transported into another world. Golden cherubs were set into the vast ceiling and huge scarlet curtains hid the stage and matched the material on the seats.

      But today as she entered by the stage door at the back of the theatre, she saw none of this. The interior was dimly lit with coils of rope on the floor, discarded scenery and props littered about and racks of old costumes dusty with age. Stagehands hurried about their business, preparing for the evening performance. Some greeted her cheerfully and others got on with their work. She stopped a chap rushing past her carrying a Greek urn to ask where she could find Mr Portas.

      ‘On the stage, luv. But be warned—he’s in a foul temper today. I’d come back tomorrow if I were you when he’s calmed down.’

      Lucy watched him hurry away, stepping back to avoid a man carrying a potted palm towards the stage. Mr Portas wasn’t on the stage and she eventually tracked him down in the corridor outside one of the dressing rooms. With his hair tumbling over his forehead and wearing black breeches and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up over his elbows, he was giving a man with a late delivery of theatrical merchandise a dressing down. After seeing him on his way, he turned to Lucy, his eyes flashing dangerously.

      ‘Miss Lane! What are you doing here? Still, I’m glad you are. You’ve saved me the trouble of sending for you. I have something I must tell you.’ He glanced at her sharply. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked impatiently.

      ‘Yes—I—I find myself in difficult circumstances.’

      ‘You do?’ The eyes he turned on her were piercing. ‘How difficult?’

      ‘In the light of my new position I—I wondered if you could see your way to letting me have an advance on my future earnings. I—I wouldn’t ask, but—I am quite desperate.’

      He stepped back, his expression irate. ‘No, Miss Lane, I think not. In fact, the reason I am glad you came is so that I can tell you I have hired someone else to replace you.’

      With a sinking heart, Lucy stared at him, unable to believe he could do this. She could feel two spots of colour burning on her cheeks. ‘But—the part was mine. You said I was perfect to play Portia.’

      ‘And so you are—I mean you were. I have always admired your skill in the past, but I’m sorry, Miss Lane, I’ve changed my mind. You are always late. I cannot spare the time to wait on your convenience. I have a theatre to run, a play to get out and yet you persist on being late, which makes me think the role is too much for you.’

      ‘I am sorry, Mr Portas, truly. I’ve had other things on my mind of late—’

      ‘Whatever they are they do not concern me,’ he retorted, seemingly unmoved by her plight. ‘My priority is the production. But don’t be too downhearted. You’ll have other offers from other managers. You got good reviews from your last performance. You certainly don’t need me.’

      ‘No, I’m sure I don’t,’ she said, aware that others had stopped to listen. ‘I got along quite nicely for a number of years without you.’

      ‘There you are then,’ he said, wiping his hands on his trousers and looking about him in an agitated way. ‘I wish you luck. Now I must get on. Things to do.’

      ‘Yes, of course. I won’t keep you.’ She halted and half turned. ‘Do you mind telling me who is to play Portia?’

      ‘Coral Gibbons. She is ideal for the part. I should have seen it sooner.’

      She could only stare at him, all her dreams of the future suddenly dissolving around her. At length, she said, ‘Yes, yes, she is. I see. Thank you for your time, Mr Portas. And now if you will excuse me, I am needed elsewhere.’

      Lucy had to be alone. She felt suddenly numb with misery, disappointment and a growing anger. She had not realised until then how very much she had depended on playing Portia. If her replacement had been an inconsequential supporting player going on thirty-five and losing her looks, she wouldn’t be so angry.

      But Coral! Her closest friend! She was lovely, a perfect replacement, and Lucy had no doubt she would be a resounding success.

      With the witnesses to her downfall slinking into the shadows, Lucy swept towards the exit with her head high, only to come face to face with Coral as she was about to leave by the stage door.

      For one vivid instant the air between them shivered with tense friction.

      ‘Lucy—oh, Lucy...’

      ‘What have you done? Can you not see...?’

      Lucy’s voice was lifeless. It was as though Coral had taken something precious from her, some secret treasure she had hoarded and which was now revealed, something which had given her life and a recognition of her own value.

      But if Coral was disconcerted by Lucy’s abrupt manner, she hid it quickly under a mask of sympathy. ‘Lucy!’ she murmured, taking her friend’s hand and drawing her away from the curious gaze of a stagehand. ‘You have seen Mr Portas.’

      ‘Yes,’ Lucy replied, trying without success to hide her resentment for the full, rounded curves, the lovely blond hair falling about the small, fascinating face. ‘Just now. He—he told me that the part of Portia is no longer mine.’

      ‘I’m sorry, love. No one could have been more surprised than me when he offered me the part. I was tempted to tell him where to go—but I couldn’t, not really. Please don’t be angry with me, Lucy.’

      Lucy sighed, shaking her head dejectedly. ‘I’m not angry with you, Coral. Getting angry accomplishes nothing. But I can’t pretend that I’m not disappointed.’

      Coral shook her head as though in dismay at her own gullibility. ‘I can’t blame you. I would be livid had it happened to me.’

      Coral said the words quietly, sincerely, and Lucy felt a tugging inside and knew she mustn’t give in to her disappointment and simmering anger against the unfairness of it all. She smiled. There was a new radiance about her friend, a glow to her creamy complexion and a sparkle in her vivid hazel eyes. Her abundant blond hair tumbling about her shoulders and glistening with gold highlights, she looked absolutely stunning in a gown of pale blue taffeta with narrow silver stripes. Never had Lucy envied another woman as much as she did Coral at that moment. But she was not bitter that her friend was to play Portia. If the part had to go to someone else, Lucy was glad it was her.

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