Jasmine Nights by Julia Gregson

sentence.
    ‘Bad boy!’ A gorgeous blonde appeared in a jangle of charm bracelets. She gave him a mock blow around the head, and kissed him on the cheek, and the air filled with the rich scent of roses and jasmine.
    ‘Arleta Samson as I live and breathe.’ The doorman lit up. ‘No one told me you were coming.’
    ‘Audition. They should know how fabulous I am by now, but apparently not.’ She threw up her hands in surprise.
    ‘Give me that, girl.’ Bob couldn’t stop smiling as he took a pink leather vanity case from her hands. ‘So, where’ve you been, darling?’
    ‘Palladium for two months, before that Brighton. And who is this poor girl you’re trying to frighten to death?’
    ‘Saba Tarcan.’ A further jingling of charms as she shook her hand. ‘I’m here for the audition, too.’
    ‘Well, I’m happy to meet you.’ Arleta’s handshake was firm. ‘I’ll take you to the dressing room.’
    And swept along in the wake of her rich perfume, the terrors of the night began to recede, because this was it! The famous theatre, the ghost, the glamorous blonde woman with her vamp walk and her swishing stockings, talking so casually about the Palladium as if everyone performed there, and soon, one way or the other, her future to be decided.
    ‘Actually, Bob’s right about the ghost,’ Arleta said as they walked down a long corridor. ‘Some young chap was murdered in, I dunno, when was it, love? Sixteen hundred and something. He was making whoopee with the director’s wife. They found his body under the stage when they were doing the renovations, but his ghost only comes during the day, and only if the show is going to be a success, so we all like him.’ Her cynical rich laugh thrilled Saba. She estimated Arleta to be at least thirty.
    ‘Have you seen him today?’ she asked.
    ‘Not yet, love,’ said Bob. ‘But we will.’
    The dressing room was part of a tangle of dim and dusty rooms behind the stage. When they got there, Arleta placed her vanity case in front of the mirror, switched on a circle of lights and stared intently at her reflection, running a finger along her eyebrow.
    ‘How many are they seeing today?’
    ‘Seven or eight,’ said Bob.
    ‘Are you quite sure, love?’ Arleta sounded surprised. ‘The last time there were about a hundred. We waited all day.’
    Bob consulted a crumpled list. ‘Yep. Two gels, three acrobats, the dancer, and it just says comedian here, don’t know his name. Cup of tea, my darlings? They’ve got a kettle up in Wardrobe.’
    ‘Little pet!’ said Arleta. ‘You read my mind.
    ‘I don’t get it.’ She was still looking puzzled as the door shut behind Bob. ‘They usually send out a minimum of fifteen to a show. But never mind, hey.’ She sat down at a dressing table littered with dirty ashtrays and dried and decapitated roses from some ancient bouquet. ‘They do love their little secrets, and it means I can hog the mirror before the others come. D’you mind?’
    ‘Help yourself.’ Saba hung her dress on a hook, wishing her mother were here to help with her make-up. In the old days Joyce would have been cracking jokes, smoking her Capstans; she’d loved all this before she’d seen how it would end.
    ‘Right then.’ Arleta took a deep breath and gazed intently at herself. ‘Maximum dog today, I think,’ she said in a faraway voice. ‘I really, really want this.’
    She opened up the pink vanity case – its many terraced shelves bulged with lipsticks, pansticks, glass bottles full of face cream, cotton wool, a variety of brushes, a little twig for fluffing up her hair, rollers for heightening it. At the bottom of the case, a blonde hairpiece lounged like a sleeping puppy.
    She took out a stick of foundation and went into a light trance as she smoothed it over her high cheekbones with a little sponge. Apricot Surprise, she informed Saba, quite the best under lights. Next, a breath of Leichner’s powdered rouge applied with a brush, a dab of