later. Mr Brookes’s customary skill with close-up handwork must have let him down for once, and when Sandra turned up for the Saturday matinee not even the thick layer of Superior Pancake No. 3 she was wearing round her mouth could conceal the split in her lip. The show, predictably, was rotten; her timing was all over the shop. Reggie knew better than to get between them, but after the curtain he did go round to Sandra’s dressing room to ask if she needed anything fetching for her tea between the two evening shows. She said she didn’t, so he left her to it, but he certainly wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the night.
Sandra may not have felt like being fetched a sardine sandwich, but she’d certainly felt like a drink. Years of touring had taught her always to keep two things close at hand whenever possible; her self-respect, and a quarter-bottle of Gordon’s. Now, after the language Mr Brookes had just used to her on the stairs back up to the dressing rooms, she was in need of both. She locked her door, filled her glass, stared at herself in the mirror for a bit and then got to work. An hour later, she emerged from her dressing room for the first evening show with her smile freshly painted and its edges sharper than ever. Nothing had been said, but she knew that after last night’s set-to and the bite of his signet ring into her face the chances of Mr Brookes keeping her on as either his Lady or his current piece of skirt were slight, and while she was redoing her slap she had decided to go out with a bang. No one was knocking her about for a hobby, thank you very much, no matter how good a screw they were three times a week.
There’s nothing like suspecting you won’t have a job to go to tomorrow morning to make you feel like pushing the boat out, and by the time Sandra made her high-heeled entrance in that week’s final evening show her maid had acquired a definite sense of well-oiled bravado. A positive volley of wolf whistles from the second circle greeted her energetic jump-from-standing onto the chair – her skirt got very fetchingly hitched up, and she saw no need to smooth it down – and when the ropes went around her wrists her wide-eyed dismay got a very appreciative chuckle from two middle-aged gentlemen sitting together at the front of the stalls. She showed no signs of flagging, either, despite Mr Brookes’s warning stares; her backward hops up the steps were more provocative than they’d ever been, and the audience’s final sight of her framed between her mirrors was as pretty as a very particular and sometimes quite pricey kind of picture. Once the doors had clicked shut she slipped her ropes and lifted and dropped and folded herself quicker than Reggie had ever known her do it – so quickly, in fact, that they almost lost their timing. Then, of course, she slid into the steps, and he had to leave her to it. That was when she made her mistake.
The dangerous moments are always when you think you’re home and dry, aren’t they? – when the body lets down its guard.
When she sailed back on after her quick change, Sandra’s smile was frosted with triumph. However, in her tipsy determination to show Mr Brookes that anything he could do, she could do better (she’d always liked that song), she’d failed to notice that the zipper of her ball gown hadn’t caught properly. Three paces onstage, she let out all the breath she had been holding in during the tension of the change itself, and as her ribs deflated under the corsetry of the dress it slipped. The toe of her leading shoe caught in its front hem, and she tripped. She stumbled, grabbed at her slithering fur, and sent half the coupe of ginger ale splashing down the front of her burgundy satin. There was a laugh from some men in the audience, but it died; Sandra recovered as best she could, hitching the fur up over her breasts and letting out a high-pitched little giggle of her own, but by then the damage was done, and the
Sandra may not have felt like being fetched a sardine sandwich, but she’d certainly felt like a drink. Years of touring had taught her always to keep two things close at hand whenever possible; her self-respect, and a quarter-bottle of Gordon’s. Now, after the language Mr Brookes had just used to her on the stairs back up to the dressing rooms, she was in need of both. She locked her door, filled her glass, stared at herself in the mirror for a bit and then got to work. An hour later, she emerged from her dressing room for the first evening show with her smile freshly painted and its edges sharper than ever. Nothing had been said, but she knew that after last night’s set-to and the bite of his signet ring into her face the chances of Mr Brookes keeping her on as either his Lady or his current piece of skirt were slight, and while she was redoing her slap she had decided to go out with a bang. No one was knocking her about for a hobby, thank you very much, no matter how good a screw they were three times a week.
There’s nothing like suspecting you won’t have a job to go to tomorrow morning to make you feel like pushing the boat out, and by the time Sandra made her high-heeled entrance in that week’s final evening show her maid had acquired a definite sense of well-oiled bravado. A positive volley of wolf whistles from the second circle greeted her energetic jump-from-standing onto the chair – her skirt got very fetchingly hitched up, and she saw no need to smooth it down – and when the ropes went around her wrists her wide-eyed dismay got a very appreciative chuckle from two middle-aged gentlemen sitting together at the front of the stalls. She showed no signs of flagging, either, despite Mr Brookes’s warning stares; her backward hops up the steps were more provocative than they’d ever been, and the audience’s final sight of her framed between her mirrors was as pretty as a very particular and sometimes quite pricey kind of picture. Once the doors had clicked shut she slipped her ropes and lifted and dropped and folded herself quicker than Reggie had ever known her do it – so quickly, in fact, that they almost lost their timing. Then, of course, she slid into the steps, and he had to leave her to it. That was when she made her mistake.
The dangerous moments are always when you think you’re home and dry, aren’t they? – when the body lets down its guard.
When she sailed back on after her quick change, Sandra’s smile was frosted with triumph. However, in her tipsy determination to show Mr Brookes that anything he could do, she could do better (she’d always liked that song), she’d failed to notice that the zipper of her ball gown hadn’t caught properly. Three paces onstage, she let out all the breath she had been holding in during the tension of the change itself, and as her ribs deflated under the corsetry of the dress it slipped. The toe of her leading shoe caught in its front hem, and she tripped. She stumbled, grabbed at her slithering fur, and sent half the coupe of ginger ale splashing down the front of her burgundy satin. There was a laugh from some men in the audience, but it died; Sandra recovered as best she could, hitching the fur up over her breasts and letting out a high-pitched little giggle of her own, but by then the damage was done, and the
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