seat next to the window. Seth ostentatiously took a seat two back from her next to Alan. Phoebe sat next to the window in the seat in front of them in order to show off her charming profile.
Toby took a seat up the front next to Alban so they could discuss shooting and people they knew.
Having waved them off, Chrissie rang Joey:
‘All clear, but they’ve landed me with bloody Priceless.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll find somewhere. We’ll have to go dogging.’
Accustomed to playing queens, empresses or other powerful women on stage, Corinna treated other humans as subjects. Only happy if the centre of attention, demanding, imperious, charismatic, she took violently against anyone who criticized or disagreed with her. On the other hand, she took her art incredibly seriously, watching people the whole time, rowing, insulting, enchanting so she could study the hurt and anger or delight in others’ faces.
Junoesque with a white opaque complexion, which seemed impervious to booze or late nights, she had a strong face, shaggy shoulder-length dark hair, drooping red lips, and dark eyes that swivelled, not missing a trick. She seldom looked people straight in the face because she didn’t want them to suspect the truths she was absorbing about them.
Corinna tended to wear black or brilliant colours, chucking her clothes on like a throw with which one hides a beautiful but dilapidated sofa. Above her black boots, her tights were laddered. There was a food stain on her black cashmere polo neck. Becoming every character she played, she didn’t mind looking ugly if the part required it, confident she could be beautiful and irresistible when needed.
As the bus set off north-west through the icy rain, seeing Alan and a boot-faced Seth getting stuck into the red and the racing pages, she ordered Chris to pour her a half-pint of champagne.
Noticing Debbie more beetroot than her trilby and about to explode, Etta, attempting to defuse things, took the window seat in front of Corinna. ‘What a beautiful coat.’
‘One should always have a red coat in one’s wardrobe. It looks good in photographs, even if one doesn’t.’
‘There’s a picture of you in the Telegraph today, Miss Waters, you are so photogenic,’ gushed Phoebe.
‘Must have been taken years ago, very airbrushed,’ sniffed Debbie.
Seeing Corinna stiffen, Etta said firmly, ‘You’re much prettier now.’
‘Bit tired, darling.’ Corinna smiled at Etta. ‘Just done Macbeth in America, standing ovations in every city, but it does drain you.’
‘It must do,’ said Etta sympathetically. ‘I’m so excited to meet you. My late husband and I were huge fans, he worked in London and never missed one of your first nights.’ Then, struck by a chilling thought that Sampson might have been one of Corinna’s lovers, she hastily added, ‘How did you and Seth meet?’
‘We were in Private Lives, playing Amanda and Elyot. Critics said we set the stage on fire. The press got wildly excited because Seth was a bit younger than me.’
‘Still am,’ drawled Seth, not looking up from the Independent.
‘Naughty Seth.’ Phoebe shrieked with laughter, then, turning the page of the Mail: ‘Oh look, Bonny Richards, she really is pretty.’
Corinna seized the paper. ‘Pretty chocolate-boxy,’ she said dismissively, then reading on in a simpering little girl voice: ‘“Valent Edwards is my significant other,” dear, dear, God help us,’ then glaring at the picture at the bottom of the page: ‘She’s got Valent into “a crisp white tunic with silver trim”. God, he looks a prat. She goes on: “I want Valent to get in touch with his feminine side.” Sounds like a women’s football team. Poor sod, he is attractive though.’
‘For an older chap he is,’ agreed Phoebe. ‘Is he joining us at Ludlow?’
‘He’s not coming,’ replied the Major. ‘He phoned, very graciously sent his regards but said he’d got too much on.’
‘That appalling kaftan for a start,’ said Corinna. ‘That’s a pity, we were promised the great tycoon.’
She got a red book out of her bag.
Feeling disappointed yet relieved because she was looking so awful, Etta asked Corinna what she was learning lines for.
‘Phèdre. Doing it in Paris, the English are far too philistine to go to a play in French.’
‘What’s it about?’ asked Etta.
‘A stepmother falling passionately in love with her stepson. It caused a sensation when it was first produced in 1677. And Patrick O’Hara’s writing a play for me called Virago. He should know, his mother Maud and his partner Cameron are both impossibly difficult. I like playing impossibly difficult women.’