Page 30 of A Snowfall of Silver

“Freya! Freya!” Dan calls, looping a casual arm around my waist. “You must hear the story Lindsey was telling me about when she was working with Dirk Hadley – it will shock you to your core!”

Lindsey, the friendly make-up girl with a cloud of dark hair, laughs. “It didn’t shock you,” she grins at Dan.

“Not a lot does, my sweet. But I do get a vicarious thrill watching Freya blush.”

It is a delicious feeling, being a part of this team. I hadn’t realized until we came to Oxford how alone I had always been. I never thought of myself as lonely – I was part of a big, noisy family, and I had my books, my costumes, my plays. Thanks to them, I spoke with kings and villains and saints, I travelled to Italy, to France, to America. It had all felt so real to me, and yet now that I am here, in the land of the living, this whirlpool of creativity and energy and laughter, I am starting to understand how insular it was. I was buried inside my own imagination, and however rich that imagination was, it didn’t, couldn’t, compare to the reality of going out into the world.

“I’ve got it.” Russ’s voice suddenly cuts through the noise. He is waving a newspaper. “Friend of mine slipped me a copy of tomorrow’s Times. And our review is in!”

Dan whips it from his hands and begins to rapidly scan the page.

All sound ceases then and people press eagerly towards Dan, surrounding him as he finds the review and begins to read aloud.

“A charming and witty production that keeps the audience laughing, and which teases out the shadow as well as the light,” he begins.

The review is glowing, praising everything from the staging to the individual performances. It’s hailed as a “triumphant return” by both Mr Cantwell and Eileen Turner, dwelling at length on Eileen’s “sublime, definitive” performance. It mentions Russ and Dan – and pays special tribute to the muffin scene that I had so enjoyed.

“Stepping in from her role as understudy, Miss Alma Blair is a fresh new talent and one to watch,” Dan reads, and I gasp, gripping Alma’s arm. She turns to me, dazed, as people reach out to pat her on the shoulder. I imagine briefly what it must feel like to have your first review, to step in as an understudy and to wow people like that.

“Anything else?” Viola asks. Her voice is calm, but there is a nervous energy to her.

“Yes, yes,” Dan says, scanning the piece of paper. “Here you are, darling: Miss Viola Edwards is a star, drawing every eye with her grace and exotic beauty.”

“My exotic beauty?” Something flickers across Viola’s face. “I see.”

“It says you’re a star,” Dan laughs, tapping the paper with the back of his hand. “Right here in black and white.”

Viola’s mouth twists. “An exotic one, no less.” She turns away slightly. The others push forward, urging Dan to read the piece again, and I think that only I see the flash of hurt and anger in her eyes.

Exotic. It’s the same word Del used to describe Viola, And I realize, suddenly, that it’s not the compliment I thought it was. It’s a way of saying other, foreign, different. No one would use the word exotic to describe me or Alma. It puts Viola in a box that has nothing to do with her talent but with something else entirely.

I wonder how many reviews Viola has read where she is described like this, how many times she’s heard that word exotic to describe a performance she has worked hard at. And for the first time I wonder whether this is the reason why an actor as talented as Viola is touring with a small company rather than stepping out on to a West End stage. Maybe it’s all she’s been allowed to do. I want to say something to her, though I’m not sure what. I take half a step towards her, but she has pushed her way through the crowd before I reach her side.

Eventually, the excitement over the review calms down and I get swept back in to the party. Alma and I chat and laugh, and when the record player wheezes to life, we dance. Russ appears then, and sweeps me into his arms. My heart clatters appreciatively. He looks down at me with those ink-dark eyes, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He smells delicious, and he doesn’t say very much. I look at his mouth and wonder what it would be like to kiss him. The thought makes my cheeks warm, and the way Russ looks at me makes me think he knows what’s going through my mind. At the end of the song he lets me go with a winning display of reluctance, and another man takes his place.

When I leave the makeshift dance floor to go in search of a glass of water, I run into Kit, leaning one shoulder against the door frame, talking with a pretty girl who assists with the props. He catches my eye and excuses himself.

“There you are,” he says. “Alma did a great job, didn’t she?”

“She did,” I agree. There’s an awkward silence between us then. There has never been anything awkward between Kit and I before. I keep thinking of Viola laying her hand on his coat, the way her voice dropped as she spoke to him. It was intimate.

“About earlier…” Kit begins.

“It’s none of my business,” I say quickly. “I just didn’t realize that you and Viola were – well…”

He shakes his head. “We’re not. Not any more.”

“Like I said, it isn’t any of my business,” I say. It really isn’t. But the thought of the two of them being together still makes me feel strange.

The look Kit gives me then is hard to read. Thanks to the press of the crowd, we’re standing close together, almost as close as Russ and I were when we danced.

“It’s complicated,” he says finally, running his hand through his hair.

“Isn’t it always?” I say brightly, because I’m not sure I want to talk about this. “Anyway, I’m going to turn in soon.” I lower my voice a bit. “Mr Cantwell has asked to see me tomorrow.”

Kit’s eyes widen. “That’s wonderful!” he says.