Page 52 of A Snowfall of Silver

“Hmmm,” Viola sniffs. “I’ve had my fair share of melodrama, and it’s not all fun and games.”

“With Kit?” I ask.

“I suppose,” she sighs. “When I broke it off with him I know that I hurt him, and I feel badly about that. I thought he understood, but…” She trails off then and gives a little sigh of frustration. “I’m not worried about Kit anyway, not really. He and I will get back together eventually. It’s just – these small, provincial tours make me wild. I want to get out.”

“Get out?” I feel my eyes widen. It never occurred to me that this tour, with all of its excitement and delight, might be something to break free from.

She shoots me a quick, irritable look. “I thought you, at least, weren’t going to be shocked by a woman demonstrating a bit of ambition.”

“I’m not,” I say hastily. “I suppose I’ve just had quite a painfully small life so far. It seems to me that this production – well, it’s something to be proud of. On tour with Rhys Cantwell and Eileen Turner, of all people! And you’re doing great work.”

“My work is not the problem,” she says. “And, yes, Rhys and Eileen add some clout. But the rest are no good. Provincial audiences are easily pleased, and Rhys could drag a decent performance out of a rock, but Russ is middling at best, no matter what he likes to think of himself. Dan too – he’s passable but he’d be out of his depth without the rest of us to carry him.”

“What about Alma?” I ask anxiously.

Her eyes narrow. “She’s all right,” she says slowly. “She’s got potential, anyway. But that just brings its own set of problems, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?”

“Don’t be so naive,” Viola says coldly. “You can’t be if you want to act. If Alma’s talented then she’s a threat – she and I will end up competing for the same parts. And her looks are a director’s dream, all pale and blonde and blue-eyed and saintly. The crowds will love her even before she opens her mouth. We’re all competing against each other, and pretending that we’re not is dishonest. I may be a lot of things, but dishonest is not one of them.”

“But you don’t need to compete with Alma,” I point out. “No matter how good she is, she’s just starting out, whereas you’ve got experience. The audiences love you. Just look at the write-ups.”

She gives a short laugh. “They don’t review my performance. They just go on about my looks, like I’m a plant or a parrot,” she says. “It’s the same with directors and producers. They want me to be the ‘exotic’ beauty, but never too exotic. Did you know,” she says, leaning forward, “I met with a producer once, who had a whole story planned for me that could explain my background. He suggested I could say I was born in Australia, rather than India. Said I was fortunate that I could pass.”

“Pass for what?” I ask, confused.

“White.” The word is blade sharp, slicing through the air. “Of course.”

The breath catches in my chest and my lips form a silent, “Oh.”

“You really haven’t seen much of the world, have you?”

I shake my head. We sit in silence for a moment, and then I say hesitantly, “I’m sorry about – well, I’m sorry about all of it. I didn’t know, I mean, I hadn’t thought...”

“You wouldn’t.”

There’s another pause then and Viola pulls something from her pocket. A piece of paper, severely crumpled, as if it’s been folded and screwed up and smoothed out again many times.

“Do you know what this is?” she asks, but she doesn’t wait for an answer, because how on earth would I? “It’s a telegram from Marco. That producer I was seeing. He’s so sorry but he doesn’t think I’m right for the part after all. It’s going to someone else. Someone well-known and uninspiring who looks an awful lot like your Alma. He feels awful, but the decision’s been made. How unoriginal it all is.”

She leans back, briefly closing her eyes. When she opens them again they’re full of fire.

“I’ll get there, though.” Her voice is low. “I’ll show them all.”

Nora sticks her head round the door then, and Viola jumps up and moves forward. I try to organize my scattered wits. I know that Viola is right – growing up in a small Cornish village means I have a very shuttered view of the world. It is one of the reasons that I wanted so badly to get out. I suppose I just hadn’t really thought about what I would find once I did.

I think about what Viola said, and about the question that had been tugging at me ever since I had first seen her perform – with her talent, why hadn’t I heard of her? Why was she having to work so hard to charm the producers and get the parts she wanted? Was this the answer?

I follow Viola into the room where Nora is showing her some of the beautiful gowns that hang from the rails.

“It was this gown you meant for Viola, wasn’t it, Freya?” Nora drapes the dress over her arm. “You do have a good eye.”

“Yes,” I manage. “That’s it.”

Viola strokes the silk with elegant fingers. “I don’t know if it’s my colour.”

“Try it on,” Nora urges her.