Stage Fright (8 page)

‘Hi there,' said a brisk familiar voice.

I wouldn't have been able to describe it beforehand, but as soon as I heard it, I felt I would have known it anywhere. My stomach flopped over and for a moment or two I couldn't speak.

The voice went on. ‘This is Joe Baldassarre. Can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message.'

An answering machine. Thank God. I took a deep breath.

‘Joe? It's, mm, it's Cassandra. Er, well, give me a call, why don't you?' Oh, God, what was my phone number. I simply could not remember. ‘Er, you've got my mobile number, haven't you?'

I managed to hang up before I started laughing. I was still sitting there, giggling, the phone in my hand, when Melissa came downstairs.

‘Well?' she said, looking at me expectantly.

‘Got the answer machine. Wouldn't you just know it? And my mind went a complete blank. I couldn't remember my own phone number.'

‘Nerves?'

‘Partly that and partly sheer exhaustion. I find numbers are the first thing to go. I can never remember my PIN number these days – and as for my mobile number, forget it.'

‘Tell me about it. I'm building up a serious sleep deficit. I never knew it was possible to manage on so little.'

She put up a hand to conceal a yawn. It triggered off a chain reaction. I yawned so widely that my eyes watered.

Upstairs a baby began to cry.

‘I don't think that's Agnes,' Melissa said.

‘No, I think it's Grace. Thought all this peace and quiet was too good to be true.'

I went upstairs. I'd just got Grace's dirty nappy off when I heard the muffled sound of my mobile phone ringing in my handbag downstairs. I went to the door and called down to ask Melissa to get it for me. A moment or two later the sound stopped and I heard the murmur of her voice.

Then she called up the stairs.

‘It's Joe.'

‘I'll be down in a moment.'

Of course, I was all fingers and thumbs. I accidentally pinched Grace and she yelled blue murder. I thought I would never be through, but at last I went downstairs with the grumbling baby in my arms. I heard Melissa saying:

‘Yes, we open next week. You must come.'

I raised my eyebrows. She grinned and winked. I handed Grace to her. She gave me the phone, took Grace out of my arms, and headed off to the kitchen.

‘Cassandra! Is that really Cassandra? Well, by all that's—'

‘How are you?'

‘I'm good. And you?'

‘I'm fine, just fine. Wow, it's great to hear your voice.'

Neither of us spoke for a bit, then I said:

‘I just don't know what to say…'

‘I know, I know…'

‘How long are you over for?'

‘Just a semester. Till Christmas. Cass, I can't get over this, hearing your voice … after all this time.'

‘How did you know I was in Cambridge?'

‘Nothing easier. Did a search on the net. You're on your university's website.'

It's one thing to wonder, to dream even, about what an encounter with the past would be like, but the impact is quite different. Perhaps in the silence that followed Joe was thinking the same thing.

‘So,' he said. ‘You married?' Right out with it. That was just like Joe.

‘Not married, no, but I am with someone, yes, Stephen's a lawyer, works in Cambridge. We've got a little girl, Grace, six months old.'

‘That's just great.' His voice was warm.

‘How about you?'

‘Two sons. Daniel's eight. Josh is six. They're great kids.'

There was a short silence. Joe said, ‘Hey, sounds like we've got a lot to catch up on. How about lunch?'

When I'd closed up the phone and put it back in my bag, Melissa emerged from the kitchen.

‘Well?' she asked.

‘Lunch tomorrow. He's meeting me at the theatre.'

‘Fast work!'

‘That's Joe all over. He sounds just the same. And now I think I really must go home. I know it's not far, but I'll be in danger of falling asleep at the wheel if I don't go soon.'

Melissa came to see us off. I'd put the car into gear and was about to drive off, when she tapped on the window. I wound it down. She bent down to speak to me and I caught a whiff of rose-water. She frowned. Her eyes met mine and I thought she was going to say something important. But all she said was:

‘I'll want to hear all about that lunch.'

She smiled and stepped back. She blew a kiss. Then I was reversing away. I turned the car and drove out on the track. In my wing mirror I could see her outlined against the golden rectangle of the doorway, her arm raised in farewell. I remembered that I'd meant to ask her something. What was the other thing she had thought was strange about the anonymous letter? It really wasn't worth going back just for that, I thought. I could ask her tomorrow. A turn of the track whisked her out of sight.

Chapter Six

I dried my face on a paper towel and stood staring into the mirror. I was alone in the female dressing-room getting ready for my lunch with Joe. I still hadn't heard anything from Stephen. My thoughts ran round what was now a well-worn track. There had probably been some misunderstanding with the clients over which hotel he was booked into, and then it might have been too late to ring me. It was now nearly half past twelve so that meant it was the middle of the night in LA. I'd probably hear from him this evening. And after all, what could have happened? I knew there hadn't been an air crash – it would have been all over the news. But all the same the fact remained that I didn't know where he was or how to contact him. And what would I do if he didn't ring? I told myself to get a grip. I'd ring his office of course, speak to his secretary. I'd feel a fool but.…

There was a spluttering like the sound of something being thrown into hot fat. I came to myself with a start. It was the Tannoy.

‘Dr James to the stage door, please. Professor Baldassarre for you.'

Oh Lord. My stomach turned over. I looked at myself in the mirror, seeing myself now as Joe would see me. Lack of sleep had taken its toll. I'd been up with Grace in the early hours of the morning. I'd got so worried by her persistent crying that I'd rung the National Health Direct Line. Twice. And Grace had at last fallen asleep during the second phone call. Teething had been the verdict. I rubbed some colour into my cheeks. Lipstick would help. My hand wobbled and I smeared it over the edge of my lower lip. I had to scrub it off and start again.

The Tannoy seemed to clear its throat. ‘Dr James…'

I couldn't put it off any longer. I grabbed my bag and ran down the stairs.

Joe was waiting for me outside the front of the theatre. He was looking up at the façade. He must have heard my footsteps on the pavement. When he turned towards me, my first thought was that he had been made up for the stage. Those lines, the wrinkles round the eyes, the fuller cheeks, must be paint and latex, and the thickness round his waist was padding. The next moment I understood. Joe was middle aged. The skinny youth I'd known was now a roly-poly, teddy-bear of a man with a thick waist. The abundant hair had receded, was cut close and was generously salted with grey.

My surprise must have shown on my face. Joe laughed.

‘Not quite what you were expecting, huh? Guess I've changed a little over the years. You look great, though. It suits you, having your hair short.'

‘It's only been like that for a few months, actually.'

We stood looking at each other.

‘Interesting place you've got here,' Joe said, gesturing towards the theatre.

We stood looking up at the stone exterior with its first floor balcony and twin leaded domes. It wasn't as spectacular as the auditorium, but the balustrades and swags and turrets were still impressive.

‘I could show you round after lunch,' I offered.

‘Terrific. I've booked a table at a neat little Italian restaurant down near Magdalene Bridge. It's a bit of a ways from here, I hope you don't mind a walk. I fixed it for one o'clock, so there's no hurry.'

‘That's fine.'

We set off down the street in silence. Has this been a terrible mistake? I thought. It's been too long: we're strangers now. How could I break the ice …

As we passed the Racquet Kings, Joe slowed down to look in the window.

‘A shop entirely devoted to selling and restringing racquets. Only in Cambridge,' he said.

I caught his eye in the reflection in the glass. He grinned at me.

‘What am I thinking of?' he said. ‘Come here.'

He turned to me and pulled me into a hug. There was a smell of aftershave, something sharp and tangy, and the pressure of his solid chest and belly against me. He squeezed me hard and then stood holding me at arm's length. Our shared past had lived on in my mind like a series of stills from an old movie, drained of life and power. The feel of Joe's arms, the smell of him that lay beneath the aftershave, brought it vividly to life. I remembered how much I'd liked this when we first met: his confidence and lack of physical inhibition, his readiness to hug and hold hands, were so unlike the other boyfriends I'd had.

We started to laugh.

‘Gee,' Joe said. ‘I almost felt shy there for a minute.'

‘But only for a minute!' I said.

He took my hand and tucked it under his arm, anchoring me to his side. The theatre is on Newmarket Road, at the point just before it turns into Maid's Causeway. It's about a ten-minute walk to the river.

Cambridge is surprisingly quiet in August. The undergraduates and many of their teachers have drained away, and the place is left to locals and to tourists. Infected by the relaxed atmosphere, we dawdled along in the sun. Joe had a question about everything we passed. In his company I saw the familiar city with fresh eyes. We stopped to admire a fine row of elegant Georgian houses in Doll's Close and as we passed Jesus College, I said:

‘You should have a look round here sometime.'

Joe looked at his watch. ‘No time like the present.'

‘Oh, OK.' For a moment, I was taken aback, then I thought, why not?

We walked down the entrance known as the chimney: it's a long path flanked by high brick walls that conceal the Fellows' and the Master's gardens. We passed through the Tudor gatehouse into First Court. The college was built on the site of a medieval priory and one side of the court remained from that building. The two other sides were Tudor. But it wasn't just the buildings that made me feel that I was stepping back in time. The court was as secluded and cloistered as the nunnery it had once been. The noise of the traffic on Jesus Lane was scarcely audible and there wasn't a soul in sight. The only evidence of the twentieth century was a wonderful Elizabeth Frink statue of a horse on the striped lawn in the centre of the court. Off to the left was a vista of shaved lawns and mature trees in full bloom. As we wandered in that direction, we saw one or two people – a gardener trimming the edge of a lawn, a secretary walking between two buildings – but no one took any notice of us.

‘This is just great,' Joe said. ‘I want to see all the colleges while I'm here.'

‘That's more than I've done,' I admitted. ‘I have been here, but only once, and that was at night. I was a guest at High Table. They had grace in Latin.'

‘Tell me three things to do in Cambridge that I might not think of, things that aren't in the guide books.'

‘It's hard to choose…'

‘Come on. Off the top of your head.'

‘OK. Visit the Oxfam book shop on Sydney Street, you find all sorts of things there: it's especially good on American editions. Visiting students and fellows, like you, leave them behind. Eat a cheese scone in the University Library tea-room, and – this isn't original, but never mind – go to choral evensong in King's College Chapel, but it must be a winter afternoon, and preferably raining to get the full experience.'

‘No problem. I'm here all fall.'

‘Oh, and another thing.' I was warming to my task now. ‘Read the ghost stories of M.R. James. You might he able to kill two birds with one stone and pick up a copy in the Oxfam book shop. And then there's Kettle's Yard, that's just about my favourite museum anywhere, and the Scott Polar Research Institute, where they've got the relics of Scott's expeditions and—'

‘Enough, enough!' Joe was laughing. ‘Time for lunch.'

He steered me back the way we had come. We walked on down Jesus Lane and Bridge Street, always busy with shoppers, whatever the season. We paused on Magdalene Bridge for a few moments to watch the sun glinting off the water and the punts drifting beneath us. Joe told me about his return to academic life, how he'd grown tired of managing huge numbers of people and of always having to worry about the bottom line.

‘When the offer of a chair at Columbia came up a couple of years ago, it was too good to turn down. I wanted to get back to research. And there were other reasons.…

‘You must have taken quite a drop in salary,' I remarked.

He shrugged. ‘Who cares? It's only money. And, anyway, I've got plenty stashed away from all those years in business. I could afford to please myself.'

We walked on to the restaurant. When we were given the menus, Joe fumbled in his jacket pocket and got out a pair of half-rimmed glasses on a chain. He saw me looking at them and grinned.

‘Used to think these were the epitome of middle age,' he said, ‘but I had to give in to it a couple of years ago.'

He scanned the menu. ‘What shall we have to drink?'

‘I'll stick to mineral water. I've got to pick Grace up fron nursery later.'

‘Oh, a glass of wine won't do you any harm.'

That was something else I'd forgotten: how bossy Joe could be.

I ordered tagliatelle and wild mushrooms and Joe ordered penne with chorizo and chilli. A wine conversation followed and Joe ended by ordering a half-bottle of Soave and a half-bottle of Valpolicella. I smiled to myself. The old Joe would have been satisfied with beer or coca-cola.