Page 42 of Kiss Me at Christmas
“Bravissima!” he boomed. “I’ll be in touch!”
And with that, the line went dead.I think that went rather well, she complimented herself, and headed for the kitchen, where a delectable three-course meal of a packet of crisps, a carton of instant noodles, and two mince pies waited.
Thirteen
By Tuesday the twenty-first ofNovember, just one week since Harriet had discovered her students in the crusty old theater, the building now resembled a work in progress rather than one awaiting the wrecking ball. The stage had been fixed and declared safe, and almost all the ropes, rigging, and sandbags, bar those holding up the curtains, had been removed. The bulk of the maintenance team now focused their expertise on the main lobby and backstage areas. You couldn’t go ten paces without finding someone wearing a toolbelt and wielding a hammer, tape measure, or drill. Paint fumes drifted out from private dressing rooms and public bathrooms, while the lobby smelled like burnt varnish and sawdust as the handrails and balustrades of the main staircase were sanded down.
Delittering the theater had instilled the famous five with a sense of personal investment in the space, which Harriet hoped would help their motivation in the weeks to come. She had brought in an old travel kettle, tea bags, and coffee and set up a makeshift breakroom in one of the recently painted dressing rooms. The original old mirrors, patchy with oxidization, still lined one wall with the dressing table running beneath them. The names of long-forgotten performers were scratched into the woodalongside the stains of old greasepaint, the waxy tang of which still lingered in the air.
Ken had informed her that the carpets would be replaced sometime in the next week. But some of the original features were salvageable. A team of professional upholstery cleaners dotted the auditorium, dressed like Ghostbusters with heavy packs on their backs as they steamed fifty years of dust and dirt out of the seats. The whirr of their machines echoed around the space. The chemical freshness of upholstery shampoo had all but eradicated the pungent perfume of stale beer, tobacco, and urine.
“I think it might be better if we work in one of the dressing rooms for now,” Harriet said over the ruckus.
“Ahh, miss, it’s too cramped in those rooms,” moaned Isabel.
“The paint fumes make me feel dizzy,” agreed Carly.
“Yeah, but it’s too noisy in here,” reasoned Leo.
“It’s even worse in the foyer,” added Ricco. “It sounds like the chain saw massacre.”
Harriet puffed out a breath. “Well, where, then?”
“What about the basement?” Billy asked.
Harriet frowned. “There’s a basement?”
Billy shrugged. His friends eyed him with curiosity; clearly, they didn’t know about the theater basement either.
“It’s under the stage,” he said. “It’s kinda hidden.”
“Wait a minute. How do you know about the basement, and I don’t?” Ricco looked hurt.
Billy shuffled on the spot.
“I used to come here sometimes before, at night.”
“Weren’t you frightened, by yourself? In the dark?” asked Isabel. “I would be. This place is creepy enough in the daylight, I only hung out here because of you guys.”
He looked down at the cigarette burns on the carpet. “Buildings don’t frighten me…”
Harriet felt her chest constrict. Once again, she was reminded of how tenuous some kids’ safety ropes were, how reliant young people were on the adults who were meant to protect them, and what could happen when those adults let them down.
“Okay, then, Billy, lead the way. Wait, it’s not dangerous, is it?” Harriet asked.
“Define ‘dangerous,’ ” Billy replied, grinning.
Harriet shook her head. “You kids will be the death of me.”
She fired off a quick text to James, letting him know where they would be, and then followed Billy up the steps onto the stage, then into the left wing, where it was darker. Billy flicked on his phone torch as they walked gingerly through the space and squeezed single file past stacked wooden stage blocks, eventually reaching a narrow staircase—hidden from view unless you knew where to look—that led down into darkness.
“This is somePhantom of the Operashit,” mumbled Ricco.
There was no need to whisper and yet they spoke in hushed tones as they tiptoed down the rickety stairs. The door at the bottom was unlocked and Billy pushed it open, causing a gust of cold, musty air, with more than a hint of old weed smoke, to whoosh past them up the stairs.
“Did I mention I’m claustrophobic?” Leo hissed as the step he was on let out an eerie creak.
“It opens out, once you get inside,” Billy replied. He flicked a switch on the wall and a line of naked bulbs swinging from the ceiling sputtered to life.
