When the Curtain Falls

by Carrie Hope Fletcher

Genres: Ghost; Romance

Synopsis

Theatres have a certain kind of magic. When the curtain rises, we are all enraptured by the glare of the lights and the smell of the greasepaint but it's when the curtain falls that the real drama begins . . .

In 1952 two young lovers meet, in secret, at the beautiful Southern Cross theatre in the very heart of London's West End. Their relationship is made up of clandestine meetings and stolen moments because there is someone who will make them suffer if he discovers she is no longer 'his'. But life in the theatre doesn't always go according to plan and tragedy and heartache are waiting in the wings for all the players . . .

Almost seventy years later, a new production of When the Curtain Falls arrives at the theatre, bringing with it Oscar Bright and Olive Green and their budding romance. Very soon, though, strange things begin to happen and they learn about the ghost that's haunted the theatre since 1952, a ghost who can only be seen on one night of the year. Except the ghost is appearing more often and seems hell bent on sabotaging Oscar and Olive. The young couple realise they need to right that wrong from years gone by, but can they save themselves before history repeats itself and tragedy strikes once more?

Moulin Rouge meets Phantom of the Opera in this spellbinding and magical story of unrequited love and revenge. When the Curtain Falls is Carrie Hope Fletcher at her romantic best — it will take your breath away.

Release date: July 12, 2018

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

A certain kind of magic is born when the curtain rises. Intoxicated by the smell of the greasepaint and powered by the glow of the footlights, lovers successfully elope, villains get their just deserts and people die in epic stunts and yet live to tell the tale. Thousands pay to sit and be fooled by illusions and still jump to their feet to applaud despite their gullibility. It’s an inexplicable, delicious, addictive power that keeps people entranced and coming back for more, again and again. However, for one theatre on one special night of the year, it’s when the curtain falls that a whole different kind of magic takes to the stage. Mice scurry through the gaps in the walls, mirror lights flicker in the small hours of the morning and ghosts roam the wings in search of props from productions long past. When the curtain falls in the Southern Cross Theatre, the lonely stage door man wanders the halls checking each door is firmly bolted. All, that is, except one. He turns the key of dressing room four and swings the door open to find the lights still on and a faint scent of jasmine in the air. A high-backed green velvet armchair faces the mirrors, hiding the woman in the reflection from view. The man doffs his cap to the red-headed lady and her green eyes sparkle at him.

‘You’re here,’ she says.

‘Not disturbing you, am I?’ he says with a wry smile.

‘Never,’ says her reflection. ‘I’m always glad of the company. It’s rare one finds it these days. Come and sit with me a while, won’t you?’

‘Always.’ He walks to the green armchair and swivels it around, only to find it empty, just as it is every year, on this day, when he comes to dressing room four. He sits down and faces the mirror where he watches the woman pull her pink silk dressing gown tighter around her shoulders.

‘You look beautiful.’ He smiles, stroking his chin, trying to hide the wrinkles beneath his palm.

‘Stop hiding,’ she says, reaching out a hand. ‘I know what you look like and you know that I like it. Seeing you is such a rarity. I can’t bear it when you hide yourself away. It’s almost unfair.’ Her eyes glisten in the yellow light, and he is afraid her tears will spill over.

‘Sorry.’ He pulls his hands away and places them on the dressing table, his fingers splayed apart. ‘I know, I know.’ Every day of his life builds up to seeing her on this night each year and every year he feels like he lets her down. He’s grown older, his skin has wrinkled further, his hair has greyed and yet she’s stayed vibrant and sparkling, full of life and full of love for him.

‘Please don’t hide,’ she begs, her fingers pressing up against the glass.

‘I won’t ever hide from you. Never,’ he promises, pressing the tips of his fingers against hers, tricking himself into believing that he can feel the warmth of her skin.

‘It’s almost time.’ Her voice catches in her throat.

‘Already?’ He checks his watch. 11:45 p.m. Fifteen minutes.

She nods sadly and stands, her limbs carrying her to the reflection of the door. Her body moves slowly, as if through treacle, every muscle fighting against a force she can’t control, a force that is carrying her away from him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he sobs, a tear trickling down his weathered cheek.

‘Don’t be. All I ask is that you come earlier next year. Just a few more minutes, that’s all I need.’

‘I hate letting you go,’ he whispers.

‘Our time gets so much shorter and shorter and…’

‘And what?’

‘I feel like I’m losing you.’ She clutches the door frame, fighting the invisible tide that’s crashing against her and forcing her back.

‘You will never lose me. Not ever.’

His gaze follows her reflection as she is pulled from the doorway. He gets to his feet and stumbles forward on his aching knees. Mirrors of all different shapes and sizes have been hung in an uneven line along the corridor walls. He catches a glimpse of her hair in one, the hem of her dressing gown in another and then her pleading eyes in the last one. Where he hasn’t been able to hang mirrors, he’s lined them up on the floor and propped them up against the walls so he can follow her stumbling legs. Some years she takes different routes through the corridors, past different dressing rooms and through different wings, desperately trying to cling to the theatre and the man she loved but ultimately, she is always pulled back to the same fateful place: centre stage. He chases her reflection, sometimes losing her and racing backwards, retracing his steps; it has become harder and harder every year as he struggles to keep up with her body elegantly bending and bowing away from him. It is a dance he had never learnt the right steps to and certainly one he never enjoys.

She calls his name and her voice echoes through the corridor as he turns the corner to see her silver shoe stepping through the golden frame of a mirror and delicately touching the floor. Despite the solid click of her heel against the stone as she pushes her way out of the frame, he can see the end of the corridor through her body. She is transparent and hazy but her green eyes still dazzle him to his very soul and his lips tremble at the sight of her, now in costume, ready for the stage. The train of her burgundy evening gown sweeps along the floor behind her as she is pulled from him once more, her beautifully coiffed blonde-wigged head twisting reluctantly away. People often speak of ‘the magic of the theatre’ but they usually mean what happens on stage during a show. They don’t know about the real magic that lingers within the theatre walls, left behind by every actor who treads the boards. And they don’t know about the magic that takes hold of her every year, whipping her old pink dressing gown into burgundy silk and spinning her red hair into gold. The old man hobbles after her but with less desperation than before. Now that she is in costume, nothing can stop her and all he can do is watch from the wings just as he has done every year before. She pulls open the double stage doors and a silence falls over the theatre. Mice stop their scurrying and lights cease their humming. His breath catches as he watches her delicately sidestep props and set pieces, even though were she to come into contact with anything, she would float right through. She turns to face the stage and slowly the warm glow of the lights fades up and he can see the outline of her lovely face. It’s all so achingly familiar – the way her cheeks flush at the thought of stepping out in front of an audience, the way she still touches the bridge of her nose even though she isn’t wearing her glasses and the way her eyes swim when she turns to him and whispers, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s me who couldn’t save you.’ He stumbles forwards, steadying himself against the black painted walls, but her smile stills him.

‘Oh, but you did, my love.’

She takes a deep breath and makes her entrance onto the stage. He doesn’t want to watch but the force that had dragged her to this place now has a hold on him too. It gently pulls his body to the spot she had just left. He dodges the props with much less grace but eventually he is manoeuvred into the same position that he takes up every year. Her dress ripples around her young, curved frame and her transparent skin still glows in the light but quickly that light turns blue and cold and the floor becomes slick with a thin layer of dry ice.

‘You were never supposed to find out this way,’ she says, her voice sultry and low, no longer her own.

‘You didn’t do well to hide it,’ snarls a snide voice from the shadows. A figure steps into the blue light, tweed clad around his slight frame and smoke billowing from the cigar in his right hand. His thick, waxed moustache twitches against his powdered cheeks as his pale blue eyes drink in her beauty.

‘Leave her be, goddamn it.’ Another man appears in a tuxedo, his hair slicked back, jaw chiselled, but his eyes are hollow and don’t appear to focus on her or the man in tweed. He isn’t as present as she is, just a recalled memory, destined to rewind and repeat, year after year. He’s on his knees, his lip bleeding. She runs to him and tries to help him up, but his body is heavy.

‘Please. Go back inside. Go home. Go anywhere but here.’ She looks behind her and lets her eyes settle on the figure watching them from the wings.

The woman he’d met in the dressing room only moments ago has been replaced by the woman from years before and he wishes that he’d seen back then the signs that something had been so utterly wrong. She, so usually full of light and hope, so young and oblivious, looked like a woman who was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. He could see it all so clearly now in this cruel memory; in the way she held herself and in the dullness in her eyes. If only he had noticed all those years ago, he may have been able to stop her, but his twenty-two-year-old self had been so blinded by love and the eagerness to escape to a new life with her. This night was meant to have been a night of triumph. A night of life for their love and a night of death for all that stood in their way.

‘Yes, Larson. Do as she says.’ The man in tweed smiles, taking a long drag on his cigar, the smoke billowing from his lips as he speaks. Larson stays put.

‘Please, Lars. Not here.’

‘She’s not yours,’ Larson hisses through gritted teeth and from the wings he mouths the line along with him.

‘Actually, Lars… I am.’ She holds up her left hand and reveals a large engagement ring that sends slivers of light dancing on the black stage floor. The ghosts of the audience gasp and a few let out audible sobs.

‘Eliza… no,’ Larson whispers. ‘NO!’ Larson pulls out a gun from his inside jacket pocket and aims it at the man in tweed. She jumps back, out of the way.

‘Oh, Larson.’ The man in tweed sighs and taps his cigar, ash falling to the floor. ‘When will you learn? It doesn’t matter how well you scrub up or how many lavish parties you sneak yourself into. It doesn’t matter how many of London’s finest you rub shoulders with or even how many wealthy women’s beds you wheedle your way into. You will never be good enough.’

‘Please don’t listen to him, Lars. Just go back inside.’ She is Eliza now, immersed in her role. She puts her hands on Larson’s arm and tries to lower the gun but Larson’s hold is strong and steady.

‘Do you love him?’ Larson asks, not daring to glance away from the other man. Eliza looks at Larson, her eyes filling up but her face unchanging. ‘Do you?’ he demands again.

‘I fear you’ll kill him either way.’

‘Eliza,’ he breathes. ‘If you tell me yes, how could you think that I would kill the man you love and put you through that misery? No, Eliza. Should you say yes, I will turn this gun on myself and the bullet will be destined for me.’

More sobs erupt from the auditorium.

‘Must we have all this drama? It’s terribly dull,’ says the man, waving his hand, the smoke from his cigar billowing into the air, ‘We all know you don’t have the gall to shoot a rabbit, let alone a man. Just put the gun down, Larson.’

‘Do… you… love… him?’

‘I…’ She hesitates and, back in the wings, Walter feels every nerve ending fizz. That wasn’t her line then and it isn’t her line now. He had wondered then if maybe she’d forgotten but she had never forgotten a line in her entire professional life. Was this the moment when she had second thoughts about their plan? He had wondered all those years ago what could possibly have stopped her from saying the line, but had he known, he wonders if he would have had the courage to stop it anyway. And now, utterly powerless, he is forced to watch once more.

‘I…’ A tear rolls down her flushed cheek. Her chest rises and pushes against the fabric of her dress. ‘I… do not,’ she says and what happens next is a blur.

The trigger is pulled, the sound of a gunshot rings out, the lights go out and the gasping audience is plunged into darkness. All of this is as it should have been.

‘Bring up the lights! The lights!’ shouts the man playing Larson. There is panic in his voice. Real panic.

Slowly the lights fade up to reveal her body, centre stage. Her limbs are grotesquely twisted underneath her from where she has fallen and blood is starting to pool and trickle onto the stage. The audience erupts into screams and people start to push their way out of the aisles, desperation and fear driving them forward. The crew and actors flood the stage but no one goes to her.

‘Get out of here, boy.’

He feels hot, wet breath on the nape of his neck and can smell the cigar smoke but when he turns his head all he sees is the darkness of the wing. Yet, he still hears a voice say…

‘Run.’

He looks back to the stage and he knows exactly why no one had rushed to her aid that night. He knows why there was a perfect circle of people around her and not one of them dared to close the distance. It wasn’t fear or the amount of blood pouring from her. It wasn’t the shock and horror of it all, it was the simple awful truth that there was no helping her. It was too late. He crouches in the wing, his tears falling onto the dusty floor, and he can see that the light and delicious vulnerability that used to live in her eyes, the light that she so happily shared when someone happened to glance her way, was gone.

His muscles relax and she and all of the other ghosts shimmer and fade and the stage is empty and cold once more. His eyes sting and he wills himself to stop crying. He trudges back through the wing, his step heavy, and sighs at the thought of putting all the mirrors away. He has time though, so he walks past the mirrors, leaving them against the walls, useless to him now, and goes to his desk in his small room just inside the stage door. Newspaper cuttings cover every wall. Each one contains news and reviews of various productions of When The Curtain Falls, collected over the years, and clippings of the headshots of its ever-changing cast. He opens the laptop sitting on his desk and it springs into life and by the time he has managed to sink into the armchair, several emails have already pinged into his inbox. He scrolls through them, but one in particular catches his eye. It’s from the production company that owns the Southern Cross Theatre and the subject line reads Next In – CURTAIN FALLS. His old heart drums against his ribs with more force than he thought it still had and his veins fill with fire. He opens the email with shaking fingers.

 

Dear Walter,

I am very pleased to announce that once Gone With The Wind closes, April brings with it a brand new revival of When The Curtain Falls, exactly 66 years on, almost to the date. An obscure choice, perhaps, but we’ve discovered this play has a cult following, largely due to an accident that occurred during its last production which also happened to be at the Southern Cross Theatre. We think the combination of this connection and our new star-studded cast will pull in the punters!

The show also has a wonderful plot that we think audiences today will still connect with and enjoy. The show starts with a pair of young teens who we can tell are destined to spend their lives together. However, she is from money and sadly, he is not and while she is sent away to school in the USA, the boy, determined to win the girl and seeing no other way of earning the riches that may also earn his way into her life, becomes somewhat of a con artist. When the couple meet again as adults, he has far more money than he’d ever dreamed of having, gained by clever but questionable means and he isn’t exactly who he says he is and whilst he is now a man of importance, is it worth the price he’ll pay to get the girl?

We hope you will welcome our new family with open arms, as you always do. Attached is a cast list to help you get acquainted with them all. They start rehearsals in East London at the end of January and will be rehearsing in the theatre from February 12th, ready to open on April 1st.

Sad to say goodbye to such a successful run of Gone With The Wind but we’re all very excited here in the office about this new production and hope you are too.

Kind Regards,

Susie Quentin

Toastie Productions Ltd

 

He sits back in his chair, his breaths coming fast and quick. It’s only when his gaze settles on the pair of eyes looking out at him from the photo on his desk that he calms down.

‘Oh, darling. I wonder what you’ll make of this.’ He picks up the frame and looks at the glint of mischief in her eyes. ‘You’ve caused havoc for the shows you do like and pure hell for the ones you don’t. What will you do when you’re watching someone else play Eliza? Not to mention when they survive each performance?’ His desk lamp flickers. ‘Come now. You have to play nice. When The Curtain Falls is a good show. All casts are family but this one more so because this is your show. OK?’ His desk lamp flickers again. ‘Oh, sweetheart.’ He clicks on the attachment in the email and scrolls down to find the face of the actress who is destined to play Eliza.

‘Olive Green.’ The lamp turns off with a loud clunk. ‘I have a feeling you may be sorry you ever said yes.’

 







Where the lights were the dimmest and the carpets were the dampest. That’s usually where you would find Oscar Bright. He’d turn down the brightness setting on his phone and yet would still shield it with his hand just in case anyone might see his face as they passed the quick-change room in which he was hiding.

‘Well, this is… classy,’ Olive whispered with a smile as she slunk in through the doorway after glancing back, making sure no one had followed. She closed the door behind her.

‘Shhh…!’ said Oscar, rushing to her and wrapping his arms around her waist, holding her as close to him as he could manage.

‘I’m being quiet!’ she laughed into his shoulder. ‘Is this really the best place we could have met?’ Her green eyes squinted at the peeling wallpaper and the props and odd bits of costume strewn across the chairs that lined the walls, bits of gaffer tape with names written on them stuck above them. Then she looked at him, taking him in properly even though she’d seen him the day before. His short black hair had clearly had nothing more than his fingers run through it that morning and the bags under his eyes were fuller than usual but even so, the blue of his irises shone down at her and his big toothy smile made her stomach lurch. As he sighed, happy to be close to her again, she caught the faint whiff of beer on his breath.

‘Were you out again last night?’ she asked, stroking his cheek.

He ignored her question and gestured around him. ‘This is best I could do at short notice.’ He shrugged, the movement bringing her closer to his face. ‘I wanted to see you before everyone else got here.’ He squeezed her tighter.

‘Before anyone was around to see us, more like,’ she sighed.

‘Hey, now. You know it’s not like that.’ Oscar rocked her from side to side.

‘Then why are we hiding? Why are we always finding the dingiest corners to be together in if it “isn’t like that”?’ Olive turned her face away but still stayed close to him. Oscar snaked his fingers under her blonde, sun-kissed hair and stroked the back of her neck with his thumb.

‘Okay, okay. It kind of is like that but you know it’s not because I’m hiding you. We’re hiding. Together.’

She raised her eyebrows, her lips pursed.

‘I know this isn’t ideal,’ he went on and kissed the top of her head. ‘But it’s all I can really give right now.’

‘I’m not asking for a grand announcement. I don’t want fancy hotels, flash cars and cocktails on tap, Oz. That’s not me, you know that. I’m just asking for…’ The word you got caught on her tongue and it melted before she could say it. ‘I’m just asking for a little more of your time. I’m asking not to be made to feel like you’re embarrassed of… whatever this is.’ She checked her phone. 8:55. ‘I’m asking to not have to meet you at the crack of dawn before rehearsals start and I’m asking if we can meet somewhere that doesn’t smell like dead mouse.’

Oscar pulled away and lifted her chin with a finger. ‘Is that what that is?’

‘Yes, Oz. That is the unmistakable smell of rotting rodent somewhere in the walls of this room.’ They both took a moment to take in the room and all its (former) glory. Although the door was closed and neither of them said it out loud, they shared the feeling that they weren’t entirely alone, but they both put it down to the adrenaline of hiding and the fear of being caught.

‘Wonderful. You don’t get many of them on set.’

‘The mice in the walls are harmless. It’s the rats in the cast you usually need to worry about.’ She pulled her face away from his touch and he noticed that the look in her eyes had grown a little colder, sadder.

‘Don’t do that.’ Oscar shook her lightly. He had seen her roll her eyes a thousand times. Heard her say things specifically designed to push him away. Watched her harden and put up walls within seconds. Whilst he knew it was all to protect herself, he already felt tired at having to fight against the barriers she built up between them.

‘What?’ she said, fiddling with the sleeve of his T-shirt, nibbling the inside of her lip.

‘Maybe we should just forget this.’ Oscar loosened his arms around her and stepped back, but Olive stepped forward, caught his hands and put them back on her waist. ‘Olive,’ he groaned. ‘I’m not what you need.’

‘Of course you’re not,’ she admitted. ‘But you are what I want. It just sometimes feels like… I’m not what you want.’ Although I’m probably what you need, she thought. ‘I never feel like I’m good enough.’

Olive had been warned about Oscar when she’d found out she would be working with him. He was new to the theatrical circles she’d been part of for most of her life, but he’d starred in one of the biggest soaps on televi. . .