Red Rainbow by G Johanson (top books of all time TXT) 📗

the grande dame bit may fly with them or it may flounder,” Charlotte said.

“Hedging your bets there, aren’t you? That’s the same of anything: it might be a success, might be a failure. Whatever happens, happens.”

Patience was supposed to be measuring Florence for wardrobe purposes, only Patience’s dress had caught Florence’s eye. Those outstretched arms came in, Florence grabbing the yellow triangular patch at the short-sleeved cuff of Patience’s otherwise scarlet red dress. She rubbed it between her fingers curiously, forcing Patience to comment on it. “I add patches to most of my clothing.”

“It’s quite well done,” Florence said, pulling on it sharply. “Economy?”

“Personal choice,” Patience replied. Her late mother had taught her how to sew, amongst many other things. Neither she nor her father had done very well when it came to disposing of her things. Most of her mother’s dresses remained in the house, but with her being shorter than her daughter it meant Patience couldn’t very well wear them even if they had shared the same style, which was largely not the case. Her mother liked bright colours and open-necked tops, Patience preferred collars and buttoned tops, dark colours and patterns and neutrals. Rather than binning her mother’s dresses, Patience used her sewing skills to recycle parts of the dresses and add small fragments into her own clothes at the collar, the hem, the sleeve, always only one patch per item of clothing. It was a way of remembering her as well as enlivening her clothes and individualising them. She did not want to share this with Florence, who made her uncomfortable and timid, which was not like her. She was a house owner, not the pauper Florence made her out to be.

“I may have you add one for me, purely for stylistic purposes, of course. You’ll have to be quick, mind you. I don’t see this company going the distance,” Florence said, their (very) likely imminent downfall amusing her.

Charlotte couldn’t let that one slide. “Some of us can’t afford to be indifferent about this company. We’ve invested a lot into this...”

“Not financially. I have put money into this. You didn’t know that, did you? Meyer and I are partners, in this and maybe more.”

“I don’t want to argue...”

“We won’t argue because there’s no discussion to be had. Work around me or don’t work. You don’t need to keep measuring, I can tell you. 26, 24, 28.”

The bust measurement was correct, taking into account her blouse (which Patience could feel had no brassiere underneath). Florence was skeletally thin, her looks so unusual, her manner so over the top that Patience fancied she could score well as a character actress. Provided she could bring this persona to the stage, the audience would lap it up. She’d made an impact as the one witch, certainly confident, even if she did throw her colleagues to the wolves through her unpredictability.

Patience tried to play peacekeeper, looking down into her little jotter as she made a note of the measurements. “As Charlotte says, these are trying times. We’re pleased to have you on board...”

Florence cackled at this, reaching and feeling Patience’s hair, earning her a confused look before she sat back down again. “Eager to stay on the right side of the investor to keep your job, aren’t you?”

Patience rubbed her eyes, fatigued by the utterly unnecessary conflict. “I work in close quarters with all of the actors and actresses. It’s easier when we get on.”

“Don’t worry about it. I won’t be sticking around for long. Take a seat. You’re swaying.”

She was right, she was. Patience grabbed a small mirror of Charlotte’s and left the room, hearing Florence mutter something about not dropping it, that old superstition. What a difficult woman. She was a grotesque and seemed far more like a female impersonator than a woman. Gaunt, angular and haggard, all she was missing was a pale horse.

Deveral had suggested that he and Florence head to the meeting on the concourse together to present a united front, an us and them stance. She had things she wanted to do in the limited time she had before she would be a wanted woman and arranged to meet him there. It didn’t really matter if she didn’t show. He could do enough damage alone.

Deveral was stopped even before he’d made it past the theatre by an old acquaintance and friend. Peltier ran a bar in the district, a bar which any German was welcome to drink in if he didn’t mind having glasses selected that had been rinsed with chemicals and sometimes piss. Deveral could tell from the way his surname was hollered that Peltier was displeased with him. Peltier was much younger, in his 40s, and bounded over and caught him before he could get away.

“I heard a rumour about your show, Meyer, and I disputed it only to see that sign there proving it. I’ll have to apologise to my contact…”

“You should. Good contacts are worth their weight in gold. What part do you take exception to?” There were many posters, signs and banners around the outside of the theatre – though Deveral knew damned well which one was problematic to him.

“Free admission for Germans?”

Deveral nodded. “Every Wednesday, yes. It’s a quiet night anyway, and it means they don’t come the rest of the week. For that alone it’s worth it.”

“I’d like to believe there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

“I could hardly admit it if there was. You can come to our shows five days a week, and you won’t see a single one of them. Parsimonious bunch, they are. If you’re desperate to come for free, just get your hands on one of their uniforms. We don’t check it out beyond that. Word to the wise, though – I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“So you are planning something? A dangerous game.”

“You have no idea.”

Peltier let him walk away. Deveral questioned if he had said too much to him. He probably had, but anything less and he’d have given him worse trouble,