Everything changed then. It wasn’t just her career, it wasn’t just George’s, although his relentless rise to megastardom had begun at exactly that time. It wasn’t just their
marriage, which had been happy until that point and a sham ever since. It was the whole world.
During her months of purdah, younger, prettier actresses
made their mark. Less talented but that didn’t seem to matter. There was no way back in at the top.
The directors and producers seemed to think badly of her for rejecting them. Or they thought her sadness would taint their
ductions. They were right, of course.
Audiences looked at her and smelled the stench of mortality. The Biz didn’t
make it easy for her. She’d had to accept any old rubbish just to start working again. But it was different; the camaraderie and joy had gone from the profession.
There was a harsher climate and no space for the glamorous star anymore. Actresses called themselves ‘actors’, big names worked for Equity minimum and did ‘ensemble’ shows where everyone wore black leotards and slunk around a rehearsal room for six weeks empathizing with each
other’s auras. No thank you, that was not for Kate Fitch.
But what was? Precious little. She’d taken tacky tours and done stupid commercials for washing-up liquid, furniture
polish, any product that wanted her endorsement but that only confirmed her new lowly image in the eyes of casting
directors and the public alike. She was still most definitely in the second rank as far as being a star went. She couldn’t see any way of scaling the heights again.
Unless
The rumors surrounding the transfer of 0 Jackie from Broadway to the West End were, she had no doubt, being carefully planted in the press in order to engender the kind
of pre-production hype that had worked so well for last year’s blockbusters A Question of Taste, the show about the cannibalistic serial killer, and Arriba Malvinas. If anyone
knew the truth about the show or any other showbiz gossip her agent would. Yes, it was time she saw Robin again.
“Goodbye, ladies. goodbye to you all.’ George was still
Pressing – and pecking – the flesh, making sure no stray hands got too near the hairpiece.
“ Thank you so much for coming to see me. Bless you, all. Now, don’t stand about
here and get cold, your varicose veins will give you hell!”
They giggled and simpered at the same time, clutching their mementos of this special occasion to their heaving bosoms. Kate climbed into the Rolls and George backed in
next to her, still smiling and waving, blowing kisses like a teenage rock star. It really was pathetic.
Once they had pulled away and the tinted windows had made their world private once again, Kate let her fixed
smile collapse; George slumped down into the soft leather seat and let out a fruity, reverberating fart.
“Oh, thank Christ for that. I’ve been hanging on to that for too long. That biddy with the lipstick from nostril to chin nearly squeezed it out of me just now.” He sniffed
the air. “Phwaaw! That could kill at fifty feet!”
He opened the window again to share the perfume with the good burghers of Shepherds Bush.
They drove as far as the NCP car park where Kate left them to their business and transferred to her own car, a
bright red Mercedes 500SL. One of the benefits of being married to George was the caliber of toys she got to play with.
She drove fast, as fast as London afternoon traffic would allow, to Robin’s office. One or two heads turned as she
passed but she knew they were impressed by her wheels, not her.
Robin had recently set up his new stall in Chelse Harbour. Others said he was mad to move out of ‘The
Garden’, as they called that special theatrical corner of WC2, but he said with his usual aplomb,
“ I’m exclusive. They beat a path to my door.”
And it was true, he was
perfectly at home in this bright, shiny, soulless environment, looking down his long, slender nose at the incongruous mixture of ersatz glamour and dereliction with an air
of patrician disdain from his eyrie on the seventh floor.
