Staging Death Read Online Free Page B

her. Then she asked sternly, ‘What’s the matter with you?’
    ‘Nothing.’ I longed to pour out my woes, but her news was more important. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner but I was with a client.’
    ‘You’re still working for that brother of yours? How’s his hair?’
    ‘Tufty. And unnaturally dark.’
    She obliged with a snort of laughter. ‘Mind you, it’s so hard to keep dark hair looking natural, isn’t it? If you overdo the dye, you look even older.’
    You? Did she mean you as in people in general or as in you meaning me ?
    ‘I mean, look at Flora Thingy – looks nearer sixty than fifty. Well, I know she is, and I know it doesn’t help having a name like that. Goodness knows what she was thinking of, taking a stage name that makes her sound like someone’s maiden aunt, stupid creature.’
    ‘Do you think it would help if I went a bit redder?’
    ‘What? With this soap set in Cyprus coming up? Well, talk of a soap. I had you down as an expat, darling. Or even a rich local widow. So work on the accent. Get the old tapes out and practise, eh?’
    ‘This soap, Caddie—’
    ‘It’s only a rumour, darling. But you sounded so down last time we spoke I thought even a rumour might help. But a word to the wise. Never sound miserable. Stay positive. That’s what I always say.’
    It was true, she did. Even when she’d sent me up to Edinburgh for an audition for what turned out to be a role for a tall blonde half my age, she always told me to stay positive.
    ‘OK,’ I said, feeling flatter than ever.
    ‘And listen to the tapes,’ she said, cutting the call.
    ‘CDs,’ I corrected her silently, sticking out my tongue. It was the only way I’d ever get the last word.

    I would report the oddities of the Brosnics to Greg when I went back to the Stratford office on my way home. I still had a fistful of keys that ought to be in a safe somewhere. There was regular daily communication between the offices, so whoever went next to Henley could take with them the keys for the properties for which Henley was responsible. Meanwhile there was a courtesy call I needed to make. The Wimpoles’ enthusiasm might have been decidedly underwhelming but it was policy to phone every client after each showing to see what they thought. A couple of times I’d managed to reel in an elusive sale that way.
    Greg was busy with another client when I arrived, so I handed the keys to his receptionist, Claire, whose patience edged towards saintly. She had to endure Greg all day every day. She even brought me a cup of peppermint tea while I settled at a vacant desk and dialled. And it was a good job I was sitting down.
    ‘Hampton Fenny Hall really is much too big for us, Ms Burford,’ Mrs Wimpole said. ‘In fact, we only agreed to look at it because your brother was so…forceful. But we really like the look of Little Cuffley Court – from the brochure at least. Could you book us in for a viewing on Wednesday? My husband preferred The Zephyrs – but I suspect it got its name because it’s so windy there.’
    ‘I promise I’ll check that out for him.’ I would– even if it meant standing outside the front door with a wet finger in the air, as we did in Girl Guides. ‘But Little Cuffley Court nestles in that lovely valley – you get snowdrops there a week before you get them elsewhere.’ I crossed my fingers behind my back – it wasn’t so much a lie as a wild assumption. ‘What would be a good time for you?’

    Greg never congratulated anyone on their hard work and initiative, but the news of the Wimpoles’ next viewing didn’t even take the edge off his irritation over my obvious failure with the Brosnics.
    ‘It was you who insisted we never let punters out of our sight,’ I pointed out, with less than tact. ‘And I tell you I was really scared. If they want to see anywhere else, hang the commission – I go out with someone else or not at all!’
    He glanced significantly at the empty desk.