Missing in Action Ch. 02

The tour was good. Clarrie and I managed to rent a small flat in the heart of Windsor, a stone's throw from the Castle and the theatre.

The first few days we were doing the technical stuff that has to be boringly and painstakingly precise. It's nothing like rehearsing normally. It's stop, start, stop, start while the lights, sound, and all the other bits and pieces get checked out. It is, however, a good test of how well we've learned the play.

The first half of Missing in Action is the set up. The scene, as for most of the performance, is the sitting room at my home. I"m Mrs Geoffrey Glass, Lorraine, and I am enjoying tea, brought by my maid, Angela, with Barbara (Clarrie). We're sorting out the arrangements for my wedding to her brother, Lionel, who was my late husband's best friend and best man.

Lorraine - "I still have the telegram." Rises, moves to a sideboard and opens a drawer, removes telegram. Reads. "'We regret to announce that your husband, Flt Lt Geoffrey Glass was lost in action and is missing, presumed dead.' Twenty words. I bet they had to limit the words to save money." Picks up picture frame. "I suppose I will have to hide this."

Barbara - "Look, darling, if you're still in love with Geoffrey, perhaps you should wait a bit longer before you re-marry. I know Lionel will understand."

Lorraine - "I've spoken to Lionel, he knows how I feel. I think it would have been better had I been able to bury Geoff. But, in my mind, he's still, this." Tuns the photo so Barbara can see it. "No, I'm not going to be unkind to Lionel. He's been so kind, so patient, so understanding. It's just that it all seems so, well, final."

So the deal is I'm about to marry, in 1946, my dead husband's best friend. My husband was killed in 1940, two years after we were married. He joined the RAF before we married and so, between our marriage and that telegram I'd spent so little time with him. Of course, many many others went through the same. England was a nation of mourning women.

The costumes were drab, befitting the fact that rationing was still strict and everyone needed to make do, repair old, frayed clothes and everything else.

The first performance went really well. Clarrie and I went back to our flat after we'd had a late supper (I can never eat before a performance) and took a shower together. There being no matinee the following day we didn't need to rise early. The shower developed, inevitably, into a lot of kissing and, at one point, your heroine (me) kneeling on the cubicle floor with my face pressed to Clarrie's cunt. That seemed to work! Next thing I knew, she was almost dragging me out of the shower and, after a perfunctory rub with a towel, two damp bodies rolled into bed to finalise the event. My own orgasm was brought on by that tongue stud doing a tango over my clit while a slippery finger went up my bum. Joy.

We fucked a lot during that week in Windsor. On one occasion, Clarrie nearly fell out of bed laughing. I brought this hilarity on by leaving the curtains open, 'so the Queen can watch.' Clarrie thought this was hilarious and it was at least five minutes before we could stop laughing enough to indulge our appetites.

Our next theatre was in Bath and so we were able to use my flat which was nice. It was doomed though.

At one point in the first act, the room that was the principal set, had to turn through forty-five degrees and there was a turntable in the stage that effected that manoeuvre. I was waiting in the wings when I heard a desperate cry and, looking out, saw that Clarrie had got her foot stuck and, it looked to me, like she was in agony. The curtain was hastily dropped and a few of us dashed on to help her. A theatre first aider took command and someone called an ambulance and the fire brigade in case special equipment was needed to free her. Poor Clarrie. I held her head in my lap while the professionals did their work and promised to go with her to the hospital. Tommy Lancaster went out onto the stage skirt and spoke to the audience, explaining there' been a serious but non-fatal accident, assuring them we'd open the next day and promising refunds or replacement tickets if available. The audience gave us a huge round of applause that we could hear and I am sure that heartened Clarrie. That she'd have to leave the tour was inevitable.

To my surprise, the Assistant Stage Manager (ASM), a youngster called Jenny Philpot had learned all Clarrie's lines and, when it was clear Clarrie wasn't going to be able to continue, she got her first ever acting spot. Let me explain the ASM's function. They are the lowest of the low in the profession. Often drama students looking to get a foothold on the rickety ladder, they do anything from cleaning, helping wardrobe or lighting, making coffee, calling the cast to stage, and generally being a dogsbody. Some of them crack under the sheer tedium, others work through it and actually get to act. I was one of that sort. Such was Jenny. About 25, she was ok for the part and was good looking. Not only that but she was good, actually very good. She moved into my dressing room and we became good mates. That was it though. Jenny was infuriatingly straight and so she did not understudy Clarrie's off-stage role as my lover. Such. as they say, is life.

The remainder of the week was pretty good. When I could I went to see Clarrie in hospital and, by way of a farewell treat at the end of the week, brought her to a quiet orgasm in her private room. A nurse came in just as she'd stopped trembling and, whilst I reckon the nurse had a pretty good idea what had been happening, she gave a knowing smile and said she thought it better to take her temperature a bit later.

The rest of the provincial tour was uneventful on far too many levels. No, no, the play went well, was well received and every night when the 'big event' happened, there were intakes of breath and gasps of surprise. But, knowing my readership here, you've already worked out what the 'big event' was. Quite right. As I am leaving my house, or rather, as Lorraine is leaving her house, in a pink wedding dress as befits a widow, to tie the nuptial knot with Lionel, accompanied by Barbara as my matron of honour, who should appear but the undead Geoffrey? I know it was predictable, but trust me, Tommy Lancaster had directed it superbly and the audiences' surprise was palpable. The second surprise is that Lorraine, having developed a genuine and passionate love for Lionel wasn't best pleased to see her emaciated, slightly battle-scarred former/current husband. The relationship with Lionel had been developed though the play including a rather risqué scene in which Lionel and Lorraine have a hasty, if discreetly veiled knee-trembler against the wall of the set. During an early rehearsal the wall had given way leading to hysterics at the moment and dread in all subsequent performances that the bloody set might collapse again. As it was it reminded upright, rather like Chris Penfold who played Lionel. The first time we'd rehearsed the knee-trembler I'd had to suggest, somewhat acerbically, that Lionel might like to check his flies before getting my knee rammed into them. He was a nice guy and got the message, so there were no further attempts upon my inner sanctum.

The problem with a play like that is that the public begin to learn, through incontinent, spoiling critical reviews or social media etc, the outcome so we tried really hard to encourage critics and audiences not to reveal the denouement. That said, the author suggested a re-write for the last act prior to the West End run and that, Geoffrey murdering Lionel in the final scene, caused a sensation that got the play rave reviews and yours truly a nomination for a BAFTA.

By the end of the run in London, I was predictably knackered. I went down to Somerset again and wallowed in relative inactivity, leavened by a flying visit by Maz Foster, long term friend with amazing benefits including that hand-technique I described earlier (Chapter One). She stayed one night and by the time she left I could barely walk. She fucked me on arrival, after supper, before bed, in the shower, in bed during the night and again in the morning and before she left, 'in case I was unsatisfied.' Fat chance.

I spent many an evening with Lilly who regaled me with her sexual conquests. Such revelations might seem tedious from anyone else but Lilly had that wonderful gift of telling a tale with humour and exuberance.

"A curate?"

"Yes, darling," said Lilly. "Now, I know I am not exactly churchy, but, well, he's rather impressive as it happens. I met him at the Connors' house during a party. I took to him because he liked whisky as you know I do. I invited him over to try a couple of my dear old former husband's collection, five hundred 'investment bottles', yet another benefit of my hugely profitable divorce, and discovered that the reverend Malcolm had a good nose and a formidable penis matched with an almost religious fervour to fill me with his holy spirit. It didn't last because it turned out he was evangelical with a few others, including the Bishop's wife. The Bishop didn't take kindly to finding a cuckold's horns on his mitre and Malcolm was despatched to darkest Lewisham," (one of London's poorer suburbs), "to undertake missionary work among the dispossessed."

"What about the vet?"

"Well, thereby hangs a tale. George, for such is his name, was not as, shall we say, enthusiastic, as Malcolm but, in his own way, rather satisfactory. We were getting along famously until he asked me to marry him. Once bitten and all that. The whole idea of marriage makes me feel positively de-libidinated."

"Is that a word?"

"I'm sure it is now. Anyway, darling, that was that I fear. I still let him look after the labrador."

It was in the March of that year that I was once again summonsed to the Caterham agency by my agent. On arrival, I spent a few minutes flirting with the delectable Rowan, her front of house operative. Flick had, of course, specifically warned me off Rowan so naturally I had to make a point.

Elegant as ever, Flick stood in the doorway between Rowan's reception area and Flick's own office and said, "I've told you two. Millerton, leave my secretary alone. Rowan, wipe that leer off your face and find a bottle of bubbles for me. Three glasses as long as you sit at least six feet away from Millerton." She turned and knew I'd be on her heels.

"To what do I owe the summons and bubbles?"

"To success, Faye. I, who have worked tirelessly on your behalf while you've been getting soused with my much-loved sister, have secured you a rather wonderful opportunity."

"This will have nothing to do with my acting skills, I take it."

"Don't be silly. Broadway, darling."

"Ealing Broadway?"

"There was a time when, I admit, I feared that might be your zenith but it seems that Missing in Action has come to the attention of no less than Leonard Opperman."

Let me explain. Leonard Opperman was one of America's top theatre impresarios. Not content with his first fifty million dollars, aged 30, he acquired theatres in many cities including New York and was regarded as one of the most influential, powerful producers of the time. He had, it was said, none of the usual vices. He wasn't abusive to his people, didn't demand sex from either gender (or any gender as I suppose one should say these days) and was generally a bloody nice bloke.

"Are you working in your byzantine way to telling me he wants me to reprise Lorraine on Broadway?"

This was the moment when Rowan made her ill-timed entrance. Long legs always distract me and hers were very long. She did some business with a champagne bottle, pouring in such a manner that I got, first, a fabulous view of her rear end and then, the cow, an even better view of breasts in a sheer silk brassiere beneath a flimsy blouse, moving tantalisingly, before settling a glass into my shaking hand with one of her beautifully manicured hands on my shoulder. With a slight smirk, she sat at the prescribed distance, crossed those bloody legs and sipped from her glass with a slight nod.

"Are we back with me now?" Flick was, I knew, almost laughing. "Indeed. The charming Mr Opperman has asked me to sound you out for a six week tour before a further six week run on Broadway."

"And?"

"Well, I had to do a bit of juggling."

"She's been amazing," said Rowan. "It's been crazy here, trying to shift your filming schedule to fit around it."

"I haven't said I'll do it yet."

Flick stood as if to advance on me to throttle me. "I have indicated that, subject to your being of sound mind, you will agree. That provision may not be assured of course; your being of sound mind, I mean. If you decline I will be very embarrassed."

I was, of course, teasing. Broadway? Opperman? Only a total fucking half-wit would have turned that down. I turned to Rowan. "Another bottle, please. This is a rather special day."

The day turned out rather more special than I thought.

Mind in a whirl and having obviously agreed to the job, I went home in a state of utter disbelief. No matter how well one has done in my profession, there are always new pinnacles to climb and here was one of them. The best, most appreciative audiences, also the most demanding audiences are on Broadway. They are accustomed to a fare of excellence. They don't accept anything less than the best. Make the grade and you become world-famous but, more importantly, a sure-fire bankable artiste for the rest of your working life.

I'd just showered, got into a pair of comfortable silk pyjamas despite the time being only 8pm and poured myself a large Calvados, when my entry-phone buzzed. Rowan's face was framed in the video screen. "Flick said I ought to pop round and make sure you're ok." Her grin was a joy to behold.

As I opened my door, I said, "Liar."

"Me?"

"Flick doesn't know you're here, does she?"

She followed me through to the sitting room where I poured her a brandy too, assuming, rightly, that she wasn't driving. "Actually, she does. She wants us to discuss something."

"What sort of discussion did you have in mind?"

"Well," she said as she sat and crossed those awe-inspiring legs, "it's about America. You know Hattie runs her US office of course." I nodded, secretly wishing I'd worn something a bit more interesting. "Hattie's really busy and Flick feels you might need someone to help you while you're there, a sort of PA cum minder."

"Who does she have in mind?" I imagined some retired policeman or ex-serviceman.

"Me, in fact."

"She warned me off you."

"She warned me off you, too, but she's a realist."

"And how does her realism manifest itself?"

Rowan's eyes looked down into her drink for a second, then rose to meet mine. "She knows how I feel about you."

"She's usually well ahead of me and this is no exception."

"May I be perfectly blunt?"


"Of course."

"I've always fancied you. She knows that. I don't know if we'd work but Flick thinks we might. She loves you in her way, you know. Her idea is that if we work together we'll probably either get it out of our systems or make something work. And she really means it about my helping you."

I stood up and started wandering about, holding my half-full glass. "Christ, she's just like Lilly, matchmaking. Have you met Lily?" She nodded. "What the fuck has it got to do with Flick?"

Rowan stood too and picked up her bag. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be angry."


"I'm not angry with you. Sit down." She didn't, but she put her bag down. "I'm angry because Flick is such a fucking control freak. Now she's even trying to organise my love life. One minute she's telling me to keep my hands off you, the next she's proposing marriage!"

I had my back to her and suddenly felt a hand on each shoulder. Her mouth close to my ear, she whispered, "No, not marriage. She's suggesting you might like, need even, someone with you who cares. Hattie would have helped but she's too busy to travel with you and make everything smooth for you. That'd be my job."

I felt myself relaxing. She kissed my ear and pulled me gently to her, her breasts firm against my back. Her arms encircled me and she held me. I made myself break away and turn to face her.

"No, no sex, not now. I need to think this through. Talk it through with you. Sex will blur my thoughts and a bottle of Champagne and a fuck off great Calvados aren't helping, let alone a job for Opperman. It's all too much in one day."

Rowan sat back down, smiling. "Yes, it's a hell of a day, isn't it? Love the pyjamas by the way, where did you get them?"


"India. Do you really want to come with me?"

"Yes, I do. Whatever happens it'll be great experience for me. I'll learn a lot about the high end theatre, scheduling, organising, fighting battles. I'll get to see more of the States in three or four months than I ever have and I get to be closer to you."

"How old are you?"

"30."

I sat down and curled my legs up under me. "I'm 40."

"I know. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing. It's not just that you want to fuck a film star?" She looked affronted which made me feel ridiculous and ashamed. I waved a hand, "I'm sorry. It can make you paranoid."

"I'll go and let you think."

"No, please. Stay. I'm really sorry." I took a deep breath. "Right, well, the thing is I've fancied you from the moment i first saw you which is a bad basis for a working relationship. You're too good looking for your own good, you're, you're...." I couldn't find the words.

"I'm not going to be your minder. If you need me and I can help, then I'll be delighted. If we have some sex that we both enjoy, that's a delightful added bonus. If we fall in love, well, we do. If we don't, the same. I won't be a cry baby and I'm bloody sure you wont be either. You know what, it could be fun."

Now, you who have patiently followed my rather random revelations may well know that I longed for a long-term partner. I'd just imagined it would happen but, because of work and personalities and events, it never had. Now Flick was sanctioning a potential relationship with one of the most beautiful women I'd ever met and it felt like she was arranging my life even more than normal.

"Are you gay?" She nodded. "Not bi?"

"Nope. Bent as a slinky."

I laughed. "And you really fancy being my PA?"

"Yes, I really do."

"Don't those heels hurt your feet?"

Smiling, she took them off, stood and came to me. Her hands back on my shoulders, she kissed me. I stood up and together, me still carrying my drink, we went to my bedroom. Okay, so sex was going to complicate things. When hadn't it? She took her time. She held me as we stood beside my bed, her mouth disturbingly close to mine, which had to look up because, even without heels, she was a good five inches taller than I. Her pale blonde hair brushed my cheek and her arms went around me and caressed my back as her mouth closed the gap and we kissed again. One hand left my back and covered my breast through the silk of my pyjamas and she gave a little sigh of pleasure, or maybe that was me. Her teeth caught my lower lip and pulled it a little, just as her fingertips pulled my nipple. Time, I thought, for me to be a little more proactive, so I slid my hand inside her blouse and cupped one of those perfect tits and sucked her tongue while my free hand found her arse and explored it happily for a few minutes. The urgency between us built slowly but inevitably and it was only a few moments before my pj top was open, and her blouse was off, her bra abandoned somewhere and I was being held to her breasts which received some serious loving. She lost her skirt too and, oh God in heaven, she was so beautiful. I actually thought for a moment I was going to cum when she pushed me down to my knees and held my head in her hands, just looking down at me as I let my chin gently rub the front of her beautiful, sheer silk knickers that matched the bra (I only noticed that when, much later, I was picking them up off the floor). I discovered her pale pubic hair was neatly trimmed seconds later when I gently pulled those knickers down and that was when I lost all sense of delay and hesitancy and buried my face in her, her hands still covering my ears.