‘Not your usual scene, Tash,’ muttered Luke.
‘Just wait,’ she whispered, surprised by the degree of her excitement. The soaring orchestra was a memory jogger for the twice weekly fix that had lifted her out of the gloom of her early teenage years. She owned several box sets but this was taking her passion to another level. The sound system was brilliant, a cascade of strings taking her back fifteen years, filling her body with thrilling apprehension.
And not just the music, not just the big screen, but the chance to see her idol in the flesh. So what if the rest of the audience were forty years older? Canada Row had been special and still was.
She hadn’t explained the connection with her pupil supervisor whom Luke simply knew as Mel. And indeed, Mel was far from her mind as Natasha sat waiting for the lights to go down. It was Darcy Black she had come to see. Darcy with her brilliant repartee, her effortless charm, her ruthless ambition, had been a role model to the young Natasha. There was one moment when she wondered if Mel would turn up to see her mother, whether Jacob would saunter in. Too bad if they did. It was a public event. She had every right to be here. And having Luke beside her was a reassurance. Gentle soul as he was, she knew he would lay down his life for her if necessary.
The presenter introduced himself, cracked a few lame jokes, and promised them a night of nostalgic wonder. The lights went down, the music soared again, and they were into Canada Row. Immediately Natasha was back in the glittering world of cut-throat fashion. The designers, the buyers, the models, the financiers and directors. It was dated of course, a pre-internet dream of retail success. But the struggle for the top, the ruthless pursuit of money and fame were as timeless as ever. And through it all strode Darcy Black, arch manipulator, trampling her male admirers, outshining all the women.
The clips were of the most famous encounters. Natasha was relieved they didn’t show the terrifying episode when Darcy got killed in a car accident. But when the lights went up and Isabel Goddard walked in, Natasha’s first reaction was disappointment. How old she looked. Her long-sleeved purple suit would once have been a glamourous outfit, but its flowing lines were now slack on the shrunken body. However, disappointment faded as Isabel Goddard moved slowly across the stage. She trembled a little, the old swagger was gone, but the gait was stately, the presence undeniable. Isabel had the indestructible majesty of a true star.
And as she sat down on the sofa, head high, back straight, legs crossed, as she smiled to the audience, Darcy Black was reborn.
Natasha glanced at Luke who was staring into space. Not his thing.
The content of the interview was unremarkable. Yet Isabel was riveting. It was not what she said, but the way she said it. The deep tones, the full-throated consonants and purring vowels, the perfectly timed pauses. She used her hands with graceful emphasis and, from her seat near the front, Natasha could make out sparks of colour as the spotlights caught the precious stones on the rings that adorned her idol’s long thin fingers.
‘Tell us more about those amazing costumes,’ urged the presenter.
‘In Canada Row we lived and breathed elegance,’ replied Isabel. ‘Do I mourn the decline of true sophistication? Of course I do. It’s a concept that seems of little interest to the young these days.’ She paused and looked out across the audience. ‘With notable exceptions of course.’ Then she smiled. Was it Natasha’s imagination or was that smile aimed at her? Impossible. From the brightly lit stage Isabel wouldn’t be able to see Natasha’s perfect French plait, nor the neat blue dress that matched tonight’s azure eyes.
When Isabel spoke of the car accident which ended Darcy’s career Natasha was sure she could detect a tear.
‘Shall we sneak off?’ asked Luke when the presenter introduced the next clips. ‘You’re not interested in these other two are you?’
‘No, but I want Isabel Goddard’s autograph. And he’ll give her the last word. You’ll see. We have to stay.’
Luke didn’t complain. Natasha suspected he was amused by what he saw as her childish enthusiasms. Well, she put up with his football and political protests.
Isabel was sitting on the sofa, smiling blandly as other actors joined her, a villain from EastEnders, a beloved matriarch from a Liverpool soap which Natasha had not bothered to watch. The smile didn’t falter. Yet it never failed to appear genuine. There was nothing obviously fixed or false. Isabel Goddard was a true professional.
* * *
‘It may sound daft to you,’ Natasha whispered to Luke as they waited at the stage door. ‘But this show kept me alive. It’s like my life was totally grey. And there was this flash of scarlet and gold twice a week.’
Other fans were standing by, programmes ready, pens poised.
Isabel emerged, her purple outfit hidden under a light summer coat of mauve silk. A matching scarf was draped loosely around her long neck. Natasha waited for the others to have their programmes signed. She would go last. That way they might linger.
‘Who shall I say it’s to?’ asked Isabel in her warm contralto.
‘Natasha.’
‘That’s a pretty name,’ said Isabel. Leaning against the edge of the stage door, her writing hand a little shaky, she wrote: To Natasha, with kind regards Isabel Goddard.
They hovered at the door a little longer. Isabel’s glance darted from side to side as if she were looking for someone.
‘I was expecting my daughter to come. She said she might be late, but I hoped she’d be here by now.’
‘She’ll be sorry to have missed it,’ said Natasha.
‘Can we give you a lift anywhere?’ asked Luke.
Darling Luke. He was brilliant.
‘Please don’t trouble yourselves. I’m sure I can find a taxi,’ said Isabel.
‘Oh, you can’t rely on taxis,’ said Natasha quickly. ‘You could wait all night. We’ll give you a lift.’
‘That’s very kind. But I don’t want you to go out of your way.’
‘No problem at all,’ said Luke. ‘We’d be happy to help. Where do you need to get to?’
Her Luke. So tactful. Not even, ‘Where do you live?’ but ‘Where do you need to get to?’ As if Isabel were spending the night in a hotel with a youthful lover. The old lady’s anxious expression melted as she took in Luke’s movie star looks, his cool assurance.
‘How very kind.’
‘I’ll get the car. You wait with Tash.’
They waited at the back of the building. Isabel was easy to talk to. All Natasha had to do was tell her how much she had enjoyed the show, how she had watch Canada Row as a child, and she was unstoppable. Natasha asked about her fellow actors, her co-star. There was so much to tell. When Natasha admired the purple outfit, Isabel told her she had a near complete set of costumes in her house.
‘I’m thinking of organising an exhibition,’ she announced.
‘That sounds amazing!’
When Luke turned up with the car, Natasha suggested sitting in the back with Isabel so they could carry on chatting. Luke was happy to act as taxi driver and they set off for Dulwich. He asked for Isabel’s address and tapped it into Google maps.
Natasha had to hold back telling Luke where to stop as he drove slowly around the crescent looking for the house. Isabel herself seemed uncertain, but eventually she told him to pull up outside the unlit dark house with the overgrown garden. It was some distance to the nearest street light and remembering the state of the garden Natasha was worried Isabel might trip over in the dark.