Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [20]
Jeffrey sighed and knocked on the door.
‘Leave me alone,’ she yelled. There was a slight pause before the singer added, more reasonably, ‘Unless, you’ve something to drink.’
Patsy Monette glanced up at the mirror in front of her as Jeffrey slipped into the room, guarding his face with his arm, ready to fend off any more airborne shoes. On seeing who it was Monette’s expression slipped from mild interest to tired dismay.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she slurred, turning away. ‘Whatever it is that you want, the answer is no. Now be a good little boy and call me a cab. I want to get home.’
The singer slumped back in her chair and started to dab unenthusiastically at her stage make-up with a tissue.
Jeffrey watched Patsy Monette as she worked. The young woman was a complete mess. She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her sequined stage costume; just wrapping a grubby dressing gown around herself. Even the thick pancake make-up couldn’t hide the dark rings under her eyes. Her face was drawn and her usually perfect skin was coated in a light dusting of pimples.
Yet there was something deeply appealing about her vulnerability, and secretly Jeffrey wanted nothing more than to take her home and look after her.
She rummaged in her purse for a couple of tablets and swallowed them down with the dregs of a gin and tonic. It hurt Jeffrey to see her being so self-destructive.
‘I wish you’d ease up on those,’ he started, but Patsy cut him off sharply.
‘Are you still here?’ she complained, swivelling around in her chair to stare fiercely at him. ‘It’s bad enough that everyone else is moaning on at me without you having a go as well. Oh and do stop looking like a kicked puppy or I shall be forced to thump you one. Something – I feel I must warn you – that will give me a great deal of pleasure. Didn’t I tell you to get me a cab?’
She rooted through her dressing-gown pockets, pulled out a half-eaten chocolate bar and bit off a chunk. ‘Christ, I need a drink!’ she exclaimed 33
with passion.
‘You need to rest,’ Jeffrey blurted out, unable to stop himself. ‘You should take some time off. It’s ridiculous putting yourself through this. There’s no reason for it. No one will think any less of you if you took a holiday after. . . ’
Jeffrey paused, realizing what he was about to say. ‘Well, after what you’ve been through.’
‘Hah!’ Patsy shouted dramatically, and clambered to her feet. ‘You think I care what anyone thinks?’ She pulled her favourite black cocktail dress down from where it hung behind the door.
‘Turn around,’ she ordered and started to struggle out of her costume. Jeffrey automatically obeyed. ‘They can go to hell for all I care. But I won’t leave my audience, they’re all I have.’
She pulled her short fur jacket over her cocktail dress. In a quieter voice, she said, ‘I doubt that you could understand, but now that Robert is gone. . . ’
She paused and took a deep breath. ‘Now that he is gone for ever, the punters are all I have. Without them. . . well, I wouldn’t last a week.’ She chuckled hollowly. ‘And they aren’t enough. Not nearly enough.’
‘I. . . I don’t know what you mean,’ Jeffrey managed. The singer wasn’t making any sense. Was she ill? Certainly he’d never seen her so pale and drawn. Patsy’s skin seemed translucent, as if somehow she was physically fading away. Jeffrey shuddered.
‘Look, just think about taking some time off. The producer’s been in to see the show three times this week. There are rumours going around that he’s putting feelers out, looking for another singer to head the bill. He’s worried about the bad publicity.’
The telephone interrupted them. Patsy snatched it up, listened intently for a few moments, and then spoke a man’s name out loud, obviously repeating it back to the person on the other end of the line.
‘I’ll be right there,’ she said, and slammed the receiver down.
And then she smiled, her old wicked smile. And Jeffrey realized that he hadn’t seen her smile since Robert Burgess had died.
‘Do you know,’ she laughed, looking