Page 60 of A Snowfall of Silver

“Viola,” she says. “Whenever there’s a scene, you can bet she’s at the centre of it. I suppose we were due one – she’s been surprisingly well-behaved this whole tour.”

I crane my head to see, and sure enough, there is Viola. It is as though a spotlight is on her, even in this crowded pub. She stands, poised and elegant, and I realize with a sinking heart that she’s facing Kit. A throng of people are not so subtly watching the drama unfold.

“What’s going on?” I whisper to Nora.

Nora rolls her eyes. “Viola’s about to enact a Cheltenham tragedy again. The way she was onstage, so keyed up – I knew she was spoiling for a fight tonight.”

“Oh, no.” Alma appears at my elbow, distress in her face. “I was afraid of this. Remember what she said? That she’d have Kit back by the end of the tour. Well, here we are.”

“I love you, Kit.” Viola’s voice is carrying. The rest of the room falls quiet, but Viola doesn’t seem to notice. She’s blazing up at Kit. I half-expect to see electric sparks to flash across her skin. She laughs, a slightly giddy laugh. “I know you feel the same. I made a mistake, a bad one, but I can fix it. You know I’m sorry. We need to stop wasting all this time and be together.”

“Vi…” I’ve never seen Kit look so pale. “Please don’t do this here.” He takes a step closer to her. “We’ve talked about this. I’ve said all I had to say.”

She holds up an imperious hand. “You’re saying that you don’t love me, then?” Her tone is derisive, disbelief writ large in every word. It is, I realize, a tremendous performance, for all that the emotion in her voice is real. “But I know you do. I know it!”

Kit’s face is bleak. He scrubs a hand across his eyes in a tired gesture. “Viola,” he tries again in a quiet voice. “Let’s go and talk about this somewhere else. I don’t want to…”

“Just a yes or a no, Kit.” Viola looks at him with challenge in her eyes. The consummate performer, playing to the crowd. And it’s working. You could hear a pin drop in the room. She’s hypnotic.

Kit’s shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. “No, Viola,” he says gently. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

For a second she stands there, stunned. “I know I hurt you,” she says in a small voice. “But I apologized. And I need you. You know how much I need you.”

Kit shakes his head. “You don’t need me, Vi. But I’m your friend, you know I’ll always be here for you—”

She turns away, cutting him short, and begins pushing her way through the crowd of people. She comes face to face with me for a moment and her face contorts with rage. “You!” she hisses. Her trembling finger points at me accusingly. “This is all your fault!”

And with that she leaves, slamming out of the door and into the night. The stunned silence holds for another second and then it shatters like a glass against a wall. Everyone is talking. Except for Kit. In the middle of the room, pale and alone, Kit stares towards the door, a look of such devastation on his face that I feel as if my own heart is breaking.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The next day, Viola and Kit are all anyone wants to talk about. It appears no one has seen either of them since their showdown at the pub. Kit left straight after Viola, and speculation was rife as to whether he’d gone to find her or not.

Of course, the peaceful night’s sleep I had been looking forward to did not materialize. All night, whenever I closed my eyes, I saw Kit’s face as it had looked when Viola left; so bleak, so helpless. I never thought to see easy-going Kit look that way, and it made something in my stomach clench.

I want to make sure he’s all right, but I’m not even sure where to find him. His bed, apparently, has been slept in, but he was gone before anyone was up. Viola’s door remains locked.

The day limps by, as we prepare for the evening’s performance. We have only tonight in Durham and then two nights in Newcastle before the tour is over. It has gone so quickly, and yet when I think about my life before the tour it seems like the far-distant past – as though that life belonged to a completely different person.

When I set out with the company, six weeks had seemed an awfully long time. But now the questions are creeping in. What will I do afterwards? Will Nora keep me on for the next production? Will my family let me stay? My salary was so meagre that most of it has been spent, a handful of coins at a time, on our evenings out. I have no means to support myself in London – although I suppose Lou might put me up.

That thought is a bad taste in my mouth. When I first arrived in London, I thought nothing of staying with Lou. But things are different now. I have got used to my independence. Our digs may often be horrendous, but I work hard for them and I’m proud of that. I don’t answer to anyone. It’s intoxicating and difficult to think of going back.

And, more than any of that, I have found a place where – finally – I fit. It is even harder to imagine leaving that behind.

I am not the only one in an introspective mood today. Everyone is a little quiet, a bit snappish.

I catch Dan and Russ squabbling over a linen shirt.

“It’s mine!” Dan says.

“No!” Russ exclaims, “Yours is over the chair, there.”

“That’s yours.”

“Boys,” I break in, “you’re acting like children. Give me the shirt.”

Sulkily, Russ hands it over, and I look closely at it, the telltale embroidery on the cuff. “It’s Dan’s,” I say.