Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [57]
The younger man was Sam Botha, an Algerian-British playwright who’d been making his mark in avant-garde London theatre circles. He’d been introduced to Bancroft at a party the last time he’d been in London, and Bancroft had attended one of his plays, which he’d detested, terming it to Kipp “an exercise in arrogant self-indulgence. The man is obviously without talent.”
“This is Kitty Wells,” Botha said after Kipp, to Bancroft’s dismay, had invited the trio to join them at the table. “She’ll be appearing in my next play. In fact, I’ve written it for her.”
“How wonderful,” Bancroft muttered.
“And how are you, Sydney?” Wainsley asked.
“Couldn’t be better, Philip.”
“What brings you to London?” said Botha.
Bancroft’s first words of response came out in a stammer. “I—I—well, I suppose there’s no harm in letting the cat out of the bag, is there? Truth be to tell, I’m here putting the finishing touches on my one-man show.”
“How impressive,” said Kitty Wells. “A one-man show. What will it be about?”
“About me, dear girl,” Bancroft said as the waitress delivered their food. “It will be—well, let me say that it will encompass various highlights of my career, particularly my experiences performing Shakespeare.”
“Obviously a brief play,” Wainsley said. “If it depends upon highlights—”
“Are you suggesting I have had so few, Philip?”
“No, no, of course not, Sydney. I’m simply saying that few of us have amassed enough high points in our careers to sustain an entire evening on a stage—alone.”
“Speak for yourself, Philip,” Bancroft said, digging into his meal.
“Will you be opening in London?” Botha asked.
“Oh, yes, of course, London. London it will be. Is there any other place on earth to open?”
“Have a theatre yet, Sydney?” Wainsley asked.
“Purpose of my trip, make those sort of decisions on the spot. I thought I might incorporate film clips of the Bard’s plays on the silver screen. Zeffirelli and I go back a long way. I—”
“Is it already written?” Kitty asked. “Your show.”
“No, not quite finished,” Bancroft said through a full mouth.
She placed long, slender fingers tipped with red on his arm and said sexily, “Any room in your show for me?”
“I’m offended,” said Botha with mock seriousness. “Here I’ve written you a starring vehicle and you cozy up to him.”
“Maybe you could make it a father-daughter show, Sydney,” Kipp said, laughing. “Or an examination of how old men make fools of themselves falling for pretty young things and—”
As they bantered back and forth about how Bancroft’s show could be reconfigured to explore relationships between old men and young women, Bancroft fell silent. No, it was more than that. He’d slipped into what might be called a trance state, his eyes fixed on Kitty, his lips pressed tightly together. Their voices swirled around him like noisy insects, punctuated by her high-pitched laugh that seemed to become shriller by the second. She had long, silky black hair worn straight that reached her waist. Her lips matched the crimson of her nails; her eyelashes were long and curved, and her chalky white face was becoming ghostly. She came in and out of Bancroft’s focus, like someone manipulating a zoom lens. He rubbed his eyes. It was no longer the pretty face of a young woman he’d never met. It was Nadia’s face, smiling, then laughing at him after he’d patted her rear end backstage at Ford’s Theatre … a sharp, cruel laugh.
“JESUS, SYDNEY, keep your hands off me. I don’t get off on old farts.”
Her words, and laugh, stung. He was embarrassed. Others had heard, including a handsome young stagehand named Wales