Seven Eight Play It Straight (Grasshopper Lawns Book 4) Page 13

  Matilda looked slightly offended and Edge backtracked hurriedly. ‘Actually, he does look good in his regimentals, he looked great on Burns Night. So will Donald and Rory get dressed here and travel through in character?’ She started to laugh. ‘On the train?’

  Matilda shook her head. ‘There’s an old cellar under the main house, completely separate, which they use as the main dressing room. All the outfits have been ordered and sent there. I’m really quite looking forward to that bit,’ she added in mild reminiscence. ‘I’d like it if you came along to keep me company, Edge, with everybody else busy getting dressed. Jean and I did used to laugh, sometimes, nekkid singers everywhere you looked. Everyone brought along extra clothes and begged, borrowed and stole from each other, and did each other’s makeup, music blaring. It was a wonderful atmosphere. We did all the trickier makeup, you know, helped them get ready. She was as unlike Tobias as you can imagine, full of fun. All changed now, of course; they have professional makeup people and no doubt proper changing rooms. Catch that social-climbing vampire interacting with the hoi-polloi, I don’t think so. Apart from the good-looking ones.’ She glanced at Rory fondly, but he was oblivious, frowning between two record covers she had given him to look at. Edge peered inquisitively, but he was holding them so that no-one else could see.

  ‘Oh, I do want to come too! It sounds such fun.’ A sudden thought struck her. ‘Will Major Horace be helping in the dressing room?’

  Donald rolled a delighted eye at her but Matilda said composedly that she didn’t think that was entirely wise. He would be arriving just before eight.

  ‘I’m going back to my researching,’ Brian said reprovingly. ‘You seem to be forgetting there’s a killer out there, and you and Fiona could be in real danger. I could really,’ he took Edge’s hand, ‘do with some help.’

  ‘Oh Brian, you already said there’s nothing I could do to help you, and I can be your man on the outside. I won’t go to the party, but I can’t resist seeing Donald transformed into Alice Cooper. I tell you what, though, since you were so brutal about my Grease costume, I’ll donate it to the dressing room. And I’ll phone Iain McLuskie now about Gerald.’

  She walked back with him, stopping outside her door and impulsively squeezing his hand. ‘I’m sorry we all seem to be ignoring Fiona’s danger. I’m not feeling very friendly towards her but you like her, don’t you?’

  ‘She’s had a tough life,’ he said defensively. ‘She lost her mother at a difficult age, her father took off to the far side of the world with a woman only a few years older than herself, then her marriage broke down—that’s hard, Edge. You never went through a divorce. It isn’t pretty. Now she’s raising a kid on her own, and still trying to follow her dream.’

  Edge blinked. ‘No wonder she likes you so much. You’re a very kind man,’ she said after a moment. ‘Let me know if you find anything, I’ll have my phone with me. By the sound of it Donald won’t be that long. We should be back by ten at the latest and can do some brain-storming then. Use Vivian and William until then. William is brilliant at finding a logical thread through odd facts.’

  He gave her a surprised look. ‘I thought you knew? After you went to bed last night, William and I talked Vivian into going to the party too. That’s why I wanted to get cracking. I thought if I found anything I could let them know before they leave, or even phone them at the party so they could warn Fiona, but at least they’ll be there keeping an eye on her.’

  ~~~

  Edge was thoughtful as she shook out the leather jumpsuit, which admittedly did look even skimpier than she remembered. Unlike the film costume, it was all in one and all leather, with a long zip up the back and a brutal padded bodice with a built-in push-up bra that had nearly made Patrick drop his drink when she first shyly appeared. She’d ordered it on the internet and it had only arrived on the day of the party. She smiled at the memory of his disappointment when she said if she couldn’t wear his letter jersey over the alarming outfit, she wouldn’t go to the party. She’d nearly melted during the evening, and it was a hideously uncomfortable thing to wear, but the party had been fun.

  She folded it carefully into a weekend-sized shoulder bag, adding the short Pink Lady jacket and red kitten heels that originally went with the outfit. The wig was a cheap one, but pretty. For a moment she was tempted to put it back on the shelf, but added it to the bag. She shed her evil gardening clothes with relief, showered quickly and pulled on red cotton slacks, a red t-shirt and a big black overshirt with the sleeves turned up to the elbow, black leather sandals with heels she could walk in, not much makeup because of the heat, and a squirt of Number Five to finish the outfit. Still too fuddy duddy, Fiona? Happy with the colour, Sarah? She glowered at her reflection, shrugged and hurried out to meet the others.

  PART THREE – CLIMAX AND RESOLUTION

  A Festival homage, with melodrama, fancy dress, and curtain calls

  A thing of beauty is a joy forever

  Since trains ran until midnight during the Festival, and parking would be a nightmare, the group went through by train: William unfamiliar and magnificent in full dress kilt, Vivian and Matilda gorgeous in evening gowns and glittering in the late afternoon sun. Vivian’s dress exactly matched the thread of pink in the blue and purple Robertson tartan, and Donald pointed out with interest that William was rapidly approaching the same hue. William eased a finger round his collar and growled, insisting, when they realized they were early, on detouring to have a drink in what he called civilized surroundings. They’d drawn glances on the train but the crammed escalators up to Princes Street from Waverley Station had several other parties in formal wear, a troupe of musical mime artists carrying large instruments, and actors and actresses—or people who wanted to be thought actors and actresses—in every possible variation of hair colour, makeup and outfit. Workers heading home on the down escalators, even those in dress-down-Friday clothes, looked tired and drab by comparison.

  When they emerged from the Balmoral bar, the last clouds had cleared from a flawless deepening sky, the air warm velvet and the dipping sun sliding behind the highest buildings so that brightness and hard-etched shadows striped the city as its pulse quickened. The skirl of the inevitable busking piper blended oddly with the very vocal cast of a musical performing an impromptu street show across Princes Street on one side of Wellington’s statue, while a seagull perched on Wellington’s head to add another distinguished grey streak to his granite hair. On Wellington’s other side a pavement artist worked swiftly in chalks, impatiently waving curious passers-by back as his creation grew rapidly. Taxis pulled in to the curb constantly to disgorge more visitors into the throng.

  ‘I told you this was better than queuing with the plebs,’ William said with satisfaction, and raised an imperious hand to claim a newly-vacated taxi.

  ‘We’ll never all squeeze into one,’ Donald said resignedly, and waved them on. ‘You don’t mind?’ he asked belatedly and Edge shook her head. She was enjoying herself. Edinburgh during the Festival, in perfect August weather, was unlike any place on earth, the beautiful city throbbing with the excitement of the evening ahead, and flickers of the unusual and bizarre playing out in every direction. An invisible man sauntered impossibly past, his floating hat turning from side to side with grave nods to any women in his path, and a two-headed alien marching up the pavement divided with a wet sucking noise to go round them, then re-joined smackingly. It was a bit too reminiscent of the Major’s birthday kiss the night before. Even as she thought it, Donald said in her ear, in a surprised voice, ‘Hello, Horace, we weren’t expecting you so early?’ making her snort with laughter. The crowd thickened, and the theatrical group finished their street performance with a shout, and scattered to applause to hand out leaflets for their show. She was almost sorry when a taxi pulled up moments later.

  Incident in a courtyard

  ‘This is as close as I can get you,’ the taxi driver told them after a short but slightly hair-raising drive through the crowd
ed streets and a final swoop into Cockburn Street.

  ‘No worries, pal, behind that other taxi will be ace,’ Donald assured him and they scrambled out to join the others as the other taxi pulled away. William looked slightly dubiously up the narrow close rising into scattered light and deep shadows but Matilda pointed confidently upwards.

  ‘Follow the wynd. There’s a courtyard near the top, that’s our access. Brian would like this, Edge, the courtyard is where one of the older buildings used to be. It was pulled down and paved over at cellar level, but Jean always said there’s a level below.’

  She gratefully took Donald’s offered arm for the steep ascent as William and Vivian started cautiously upwards. Rory climbed rapidly ahead with Edge a few steps behind him. The courtyard came level with their heads, then revealed itself as a squared-off area about thirty feet across. A rumour of thudding music drifted across, but all six visible doors were closed, two of them accessed by temporary bridges across a deep ditch which flanked the foot of the right-hand wall.

  ‘Looks like they’re digging down to the next level after all,’ Edge remarked, slightly breathless, but Rory just nodded, more interested in their destination.

  ‘I can hear music, cannae tell which door but.’

  ‘Well, the house is on Castle Hill, isn’t it? Must be one of the doors on the right. They’re the only houses that would front onto the Mile.’

  Vivian, puffing a bit, stepped onto the courtyard and William started up the last two steps as Rory crossed the nearer bridge. Edge, getting out of their way, followed him across, peering with interest over the side. The excavation, unsurprisingly, was on hold for the Festival, the scaffolding covered by tarpaulin but the tops of at least two deep-set doors just visible.

  As she turned away Rory stepped back abruptly and cannoned into her, spun round looking horrified, and knocked her completely off her feet. She hit the railing painfully with her hip, and went over backwards, one foot snagging the other side of the bridge and her big shoulder bag swinging back to thump onto the tarpaulin.

  For a timeless moment she teetered in mid-air, her snagged foot anchoring her to safety. Then, with a screech, the temporary scaffolding slid sideways, dragging the tarpaulin with it. As she twisted her head for a terrified glance, she saw an ancient close, shadowed doorways, and a glimpse of the muddied bottom of the earthworks some eight feet below her. Rory stood frozen with horror as she reached frantically to him but her shoulder bag, slithering away with the falling scaffolding, tipped the scale and she gave a muted shriek of horror as the insistent tug of gravity pulled her foot free. The nearest doorway, a few feet below with a decrepit deep-set door, glinted a tiny coin-sized flash of silver and mockingly returned a thin echo of her shriek. She was going to fall: it was unavoidable, inevitable. . . Then a big hand closed like a clamp over her wrist and William said with deep satisfaction, ‘Gotcha! Rory, you festering moron, grab her other arm.’

  In seconds she was fully back on the bridge and clasped against William’s beautifully tailored chest, shuddering with reaction. He patted her comfortingly and Vivian, after one horrified glance into the exposed alleyway, touched her arm, her voice trembling.

  ‘Edge, poppet, I hope you don’t think William saved your life. Considering how obligated you tend to feel. . .’

  Edge snorted a gust of slightly hysterical laughter, and grabbed her hand to squeeze it.

  ‘Well—if you’re sure;’

  Matilda and Donald, looking startled, arrived in the courtyard as William set her back on her feet, his eyes kind as he teased, ‘Don’t listen to her, the woman’s raving. I totally saved your life and I expect the standard payment in full. Are you okay?’

  She rubbed her wrist, then touched her smarting hip gingerly. ‘Thanks to you, you big lug. Would you settle for a hug and a kiss?’

  ‘I could throw Rory down into the close if that would up the ante?’ he offered, grinning, and Rory shifted away, still looking embarrassed.

  ‘I thought the music was coming from this door, until I got close to it. I’m really sorry, Edge. I didnae realize you were so close behind me.’

  Matilda, breathless from the climb, pointed wordlessly at the next little bridge. Even as she did, its heavy old door was pushed open by two smokers coming out. James Brown roared out behind them that he felt good, and a hubbub of laughter and shouted conversation billowed out into the courtyard, to be shut off abruptly again as the door was pushed shut.

  Dressing room

  The cellar was long, low, noisy and well-lit, with wheeled dress rails the length of one rough-plastered wall and a deep dressing-table shelf running along the other. This wall was well supplied with mirrors which were fringed with makeup lights, and there were curtained-off changing areas at the far end for the extremely modest. They weren’t much in use. The room seemed crammed with people in varying states of undress, including a nude girl flipping languidly through the hanging outfits on a dress rail. There were standing fans whirring full blast every few feet, lockers for street clothes, eight or ten people already dressed and at the mirrors, and several makeup staff looking keyed-up and eager.

  Edge made a beeline for a refreshments table sandwiched in between crammed dress rails and poured herself a coffee. Her hands were trembling but she decided, after the first comforting sip, that she really was all right, merely shocked. Vivian joined her and poured herself a glass of iced water with a searching glance into her friend’s face.

  ‘Good, your colour’s coming back. Edge, my heart nearly stopped. That idiot Rory!’

  ‘I am very, very glad William was there,’ she agreed, with a shudder. ‘He’s unbelievably strong. And quick! I thought nothing would save me from plunging head first into that alley, or getting impaled on a bit of scaffolding. Vivian, I don’t even want to think about it. The nightmares will be bad enough.’

  Vivian nodded understandingly and looked past her as Rory’s bass guitarist waddled towards the dress rail next to them, his big face glistening with sweat as he studiously avoided looking at the nude girl. ‘Who will you be, Jason? Pavarotti?’

  ‘Nah, formal clothes, in this weather? Wanted to be Demis Roussos but Matilda said I sweated too much, the makeups girls ud never get the beard to stick. Then I tried to grow my own, since we had four days’ notice, but the missus said it had to come off. Grew out ginger. We switched me yesterday to Elton John, pink earrings and all. That bloody wig will melt me.’ He lifted down a pink suit which matched Vivian’s dress to a hair, and grinned shyly at her as she choked on her water.

  He vanished behind the nearest curtain and Edge and Vivian, fascinated, watched as the nude girl finally lifted down a rhinestone studded jumpsuit with much ruffling around the legs and drifted away with unexpected belated modesty towards another curtained cubicle. They looked at each, said together ‘ABBA’, and giggled. The next few were impossible to guess so they finally gave up and went over to join William, who had commandeered the only sofa in the room and was watching with interest as a buxom brunette wriggled with some difficulty into another ABBA-style jumpsuit. Rory and Donald had travelled in the clothes they would wear for the evening—black shirts and jeans—and had a head-start at the mirrors. Matilda was patiently gluing Seventies sideburns to Rory, who was staring at his newly bronzed reflection in horror, while Donald and an intent makeup woman drew faint outlines of the ghoul eyes he wanted onto his now-blanched face. It looked very odd with his superbly cropped iron-grey hair, but a Cher wig patiently awaited mutilation on a long-necked stand on the dressing shelf. The room was filling up, with half-familiar singers in front of nearly every mirror transforming themselves into very much more familiar singers from twenty, thirty, even forty years earlier.

  ‘Sammy Davis Junior!’ Vivian was delighted as a skinny young black singer donned the hat that completed his outfit and did an impressive soft-shoe shuffle to applause. ‘Su-perb! These guys are really taking it seriously!’

  ‘Just think, you could be a signed artiste an
d dressing up too.’ William looked almost wistful and Vivian flapped a hand at him to move up and make room for her.

  ‘Montserrat Caballe, perhaps, if I borrowed the unwanted Demis Roussos kaftan?’

  ‘The big lass who sang Barcelona with Freddy? Nah. Mebbe the New Zealand one with the impossible name, but she’s not as gorgeous.’

  ‘Kiri te Kanawa?’ Vivian looked at him in surprise. ‘For a non-opera lover, you’ve been doing your homework.’

  Edge slipped away unnoticed, smiling to herself, and headed towards the door. Even with the big standing fans, the heat was almost unbearable and the noise was making her head ache slightly. Outside in the warm velvety air of the courtyard she sipped at her coffee, spinning it out in a changing haze of smokers. Something was niggling at her, and she couldn’t think what it was. Something she had seen when she was tipping over the rail, but every time she tried to run the image in slow motion her imagination shuddered away in horror. She was trying to pluck up the courage to go back and peer into the sunken close again when Major Horace strode down the little wynd from the Mile, his sporran bouncing and his bulging eyes eagerly on the two ABBA girls, who were now fully made up and taking a smoke break. Most men look their best in the kilt and he was no exception, but even the kilt cannot work miracles.

  Edge recoiled into the safety of the cellar and stood quietly just inside the door, holding her breath. That disgusting birthday kiss—he was brushing up his moustache as he entered the dressing room moments behind her but didn’t even notice her, his attention claimed instantly by an Eartha Kitt carefully redistributing her bosom for maximum cleavage. He was certainly prompt; a distant clock struck eight times, and Sammy Davis Junior, Engelbert, Shirley Bassey, an understated delectable young Elvis, a sweaty Elton John and a very attractive David Essex started streaming past Edge towards the entrance on the Mile. Alice Cooper touched her arm, making her jump, and glinted at her with Donald’s blue eyes.