Chapter three:

"Sometimes I think she was a figment of my own damned head. How else can a woman get under a man's skin so well?"

"You loved her?"

"I would have died for her. A thousand painful deaths I've suffered since but to keep her alive I would have submerged myself into freezing water time and time again. After a while your body grows numb and the shivers take over. At least I would be numb."

They say that life imitates art, don't they?

Ironic how now, hearing those words spoken aloud in the play, even in Stuart's Irish brogue, Rose thought of another. Her own life. A man who she had loved herself, endlessly.

Alone within her dressing room and faced with just a reflection of her own features Rose watched the rise and fall of her chest. It was steady. Seeking her hands stability, she picked up a brush and ran it through the ends of her hair. Calm. Collected. Without an ounce of nervousness.

"She was a butterfly. The most beautiful creature on this earth. She made all that was beautiful look sour and stained."

The lines continued. Flowing. The pages of the wonderful script sat in front of her upon the mahogany dresser but there was no need to seek any reminders of her own lines. The words were ingrained. She was not a character but herself, for the first time in her whole career. The part was a woman, in love with a man who thought her dead in the war. A war fought in America many years ago. A war like the one she had witnessed first-hand mutilate not only however many men but also the beautiful country. A war which had changed her entire life.

"How many photographs do you need? Another batch delivered this morning!" A trail of cigarette smoke clouded her dressing room and Clara, the dressing assistant stood in just a short shift dress and black stockings, clutching a parcel within the door way. "You better clear some of these out, or there will no room left for anyone else."

"I like to have my pictures when I travel," Rose sighed, flipping away her hair, lightly annoyed that the examination of herself was interrupted but that could resume at some other point. Perhaps her sanity was lost. Perhaps the only anchor she had to life was this play. This very play. This very character. It was puzzling...

Could she ever play another? Really?

"Can I have a cigarette?"

Clara stepped out from the door way and simply handed her half-smoked cigarette to Rose. "What are these anyway?" She dropped the parcel onto the dresser with a thud before examining one or two of the framed pictures sat upon the ledge of the dressing mirror. The frames were nothing more than 4 planks of wood nailed together, pretty impressively one had to admit, but still, they held everything for her.

"My life." Rose hesitated. ''Every single moment of insignificance.''

"I can see." She tutted, wafting the scent of her perfume over Rose. It was sweet, slightly overwhelming. Clara pointed a fine manicured finger across a wood rimmed frame, then another. ''You travelled a lot?''

''Yes.''

''So, tell me, how does a well-travelled girl get stuck out here in London doing the same play she has for, what, three years?''

Rose puffed the cigarette, allowing it to soothe her. She had smoked on and off since as long as she could recall. The smell was wonderful, the taste not so much. Clara raised her thin, black and arched brow to Rose, expecting a response soon enough. They were friends, she supposed. Clara was every one's friend, but never one to brag or breach. She was loyal; or so they said. She enjoyed men as she did the latest fashions; here one moment and gone the next. It was admirable in one way, Rose always thought. Why should one be defined by a man in these modern times?

''I-I like the play.'' That much was true. She straightened her back against the leather plush chair and heard the heavy curtains come to a close above them on stage. There was another ten minutes before she was due back on the stage and it was a time which she usually spent in utter silence to collect herself.

''Is that so? Americans don't usually stick out here, well until the prohibition and now, they come for the night life. London is the new New York, or so they tell me, I wouldn't know.''

''You never went there?'' Rose was surprised. Rumour had it Clara was the most well-travelled amongst the troupe.

''Why don't I tell you, when you tell me something, huh?'' With a sly smile, Clara's dark brown eyes sparkled with mischief.

Rose stiffened and then, seeing that her friend had taken a seat on the opposite chair, reached into her make up purse and started lining her eyes with even darker kohl, she realised that this would never end unless she gave away a snippet of something about herself. Glancing back to her own photographs sat in a long line across her dresser, she tilted her head. What could she say? They were precious, to her at least. Times which one had been in such turmoil yet the smile upon her face spoke a different story.

''They were taken before the war, most of them.''

''Right.'' Clara raised her brows, wanting more than just a few words.

''I-I was a little lonely. Lost. I missed my—someone.''

''Your husband, right? I heard he died right after you married.'' Clara stopped lining her eyes, caught Rose's startled gaze and softened. ''I am sorry, I heard from whispers months ago. People were surprised to know you were married, you seemed so shy—at first.''

Rose smiled knowingly. ''The truth is, I wasn't. I was—in love with a man who died some years ago.''

Clara raised her brow, in surprise. ''Oh, I am sorry, it must be hard.''

''It was.'' Rose then corrected. ''It is.''

''So, he took the pictures?''

''Actually no, they were just photographs of me, fulfilling a promise, I suppose.'' Rose reached out to the first one. ''I said I would live my life how we would have and I did, but without my heart. He took that with him when he died.''

''My, my, Rose. I am truly sorry.'' Clara reached out her slim fingers to Rose and she almost recoiled at the touch, not used to allowing people see any side of her past. It was a time which was difficult to recollect for it felt as though it was a lifetime ago. ''This won't go past here. I am trustworthy. I value your friendship.''

Rose nodded. A friendship? With Clara Booth? They had taken drinks after work a time or two. Conversed about a new design or nail polish colour but never intimacies. ''Thank you.''

''So, tell me about the pictures. I never went New York. I told people I did to make me sound interesting but I never went past Margate for a summer break.''

Rose laughed, and Clara bumped her shoulder to scoot over so they could share one chair. Allowing her to join, a wonderful lightness spread about her stomach, as though revealing something of herself was perhaps sharing a burden rather than keeping it tightly locked away.

''Well, this was in the summer of 1913; I spent a whole summer in Santa Monica. It was wonderful and warm.'' The first photograph was of Rose on a horse in front of the large rollercoaster. Looking at the woman who was in the grainy image almost a decade ago was like watching a child. ''I was eighteen years old.''

''You were beautiful. Your hair was darker, right?''

''Yes. It was auburn, almost red. The most hideous colour one could ever be born with,'' she laughed, ''but I grew to like it.''

''What was it like there in California?''

''Warm. Like heaven. I rode the rollercoaster, most days until I was sick as I could be. They say you have to cast up your accounts to truly appreciate it.''

Clara clutched her stomach. ''No! I am terribly sea sick.''

Rose laughed, filled with lightness.

''This one was on a boat and a wonderful couple took me fishing out there. We caught nothing the first day but the second I caught that. I never knew what it was, but I was so happy.''

''It looks hideous.'' Clara examined the fish up close. ''Is it a shark?''

''No, I should hope not.'' Rose took the photograph from Clara to allow herself to fall into the moment captured in time of a person she vaguely recalled been. The smile was pure enough but littered with such shattered moments of heartbreak.

'''You look wonderful here.''

Rose placed the frame back within the line and looked at the one beside it. She was doing a ballet stance; it wasn't perfect but it was wonderfully freeing. Beside it was another image of her sat upon an upturned barrel, barefoot after dancing in the yard.

''I would dance all the time. That was just before the war broke out.'' Rose recalled, with a smile. ''I was a governess and the kids were wonderfully rebellious. I taught them to take a photograph; I have several of them. I taught them to dance. That was when they took those pictures.''

''You were so carefree, I suppose. That damned war ruined so much.''

''I volunteered as a nurse right away.'' Rose could have continued, but there were no memories of the time between the war starting and finishing. It was like a void. A void that changed her life entirely. Those years were completely filled with everything which Rose never wished to speak of again.

''What is this one?'' Clara picked up a smaller one of Rose, about to fly in an aeroplane. She laughed, forgetting.

''Oh, I actually trained to fly a plane. It took months and months in this tiny place outside Texas. I still don't know how I wound up there. I never had a licence to drive an automobile but that I managed to fly every day for a week. I left after that-''

Clara's laugh broke Rose's trail. ''You. Are. Just. Fabulous.''

With an elbow in her side, Rose blinked several times at the compliment.

''You are a wonderful actress but beneath that, to finally know a person is exciting.'' Clara stood from the chair, straightening out her shift dress. ''You wasted that cigarette.'' She pointed to the faded ash sat within an abandoned tray.

''We were talking so much I forgot.''

Clara raised her eyebrow, in that annoyingly pretty way. ''You buy my next Friday night cocktail.''

''All right.'' Rose pushed the chair back, as stood to straighten out her period dress. It was American Civil War era and uncomfortable from her neck to the floor.

Listening for the commotion above them, Clara started towards the door, her black heels clacking against the floor.

''You are on in about a minute and I need to prepare for the next scene to dress Stuart.''

''About two minutes.'' Rose corrected, knowing every rhythm of the damned play. She lived and breathed it.

Clara smirked, leaning against the door frame just as when she had entered. ''Are you seeing him?''

''Who?''

''Stuart?''

Rose felt her stomach sink until it couldn't any more. ''No, absolutely not!''

''Oh,'' Clara rolled her eyes. ''I heard you were, he took you home after the party at the Savoy. I heard you went together and he stayed over.''

''No!'' Rose paused; the memories of the night still unclear. Like a very real dream which one had still not fully digested. ''He was a gentleman. Walked me to my door and then I assume returned to the party.''

''What about that handsome photographer?'' Clara clasped her hands together. ''You know it made the morning papers?'' That eyebrow rose again, suggestively.

''Tha-that was-''

That was what? Real? Fantasy? That much was still to be determined. The truth was, life had resumed as thinking of such a dance with a man who may or may not be real was as frightening as losing him to start with was.

''It was wonderful. How you two danced like long lost lovers or some-''

Lovers. Lovers. Lovers.

Were they lovers?

Was it truly the man she believed him to be?

Clara had continued to speak, but Rose had long since tuned out, just as she did regular. When on stage, she had mastered to only listen to her own intuition, to discard of the crowds. Falling into some sort of distant dream where she became another being, becoming another version of herself. Stuart would play his character wonderfully, Rose would respond. She would thrust herself into his arms, curl herself about him and kiss him as though he was the one truly beneath her skin. His wonderfully full lips would capture hers, tickling with his slight upper lip hair. His thick, swept back chestnut hair would fall into his narrowed but bright chocolate eyes. He was seductive; a sweet and slowly painful winding invitation which she took, in the end. He would hold her still, watching her move and as he caressed her face, as innocently as he did. She would return his kiss, with as much passion as she could.

''If I should die tomorrow. I would go down with a smile on my face.''

That would be her cue to return.

She manoeuvred about the stage as though it was her only home; her sanctuary and safe place. It was. Hostility was far away. Performing for others; to allow them to escape their own humble lives for an hour or two, was the attraction. Never look out at the crowd. Not until the end. Until the curtains went down and then finally rose up to allow the bows.

Rose never watched the crowd. As soon as her foot stepped onto the stage, she became her character. Her vogue. Her muse. Her other life. Draining herself entirely of every fluid which had been contained since the evening before. Crying. Completely. Sobbing. The words were spoken like every night. Stuart would hold her, but tonight, she felt those lines within her stomach; stabbing at her like knives and piercing her lungs, her heart and every ounce of flesh upon her body. It was hard to breathe, to stand but she managed to, somehow. She was less her character tonight; her own vulnerability was shining through; her own memories. The pain which had buried itself many years ago was back, with wounds exposed once more and she was open. Bleeding. Dying.

The curtains closed, just like they did every other night. They were heavy ones-a rusted red colour, covered in dust that wasn't visible unless you walked up to examine them closely enough. They were thick, hanging from ancient wires, and each time they moved, a familiar rumble echoed over the wooden stage that sounded as though the entire place would cave in. The cast stood in total darkness, breathing heavily-tired and worn from this night's performance. But outside, the chairs in the audience were squeaking, and hands were thrown together in loud claps.

Rose closed her eyes and gripped the hands of her fellow players; waiting patiently for the grand finale. As always, her heart was racing, and although she was physically exhausted, this thrill which she felt right now, never left. Over and over, Rose would eagerly explore the audience she had devotedly performed in front of for the previous two hours. During the show, there was little time to glance out into the sea of people, and curtain call was her only chance to see the faces behind such jubilant clapping. Often, she recognised repeat visitors in the front row.

Rose heard the clanging as the curtains reopened and she took a deep breath, opening her eyes to the scene before her. It seemed that the entire house was standing this time, a few people even shouting or whistling over the noise. She smiled and tossed her head back, trying to keep the tiny tendrils of her blonde hair from her face. She could feel the tight bun on her head loosening, and surely the tiny bobby pins would fall out any second and release her hair into her face. But in the excitement of this moment, she certainly did not care. Her heart was closing again.

"Rose, outstanding!" She turned her head to smile at Stuart. ''The best you have ever done. I struggled to keep up with you there.'' With one solid nod, she acknowledged his comment and prepared to take her bow. Her long, old-fashioned skirt whirled around her as she bent at the waist, lowering her head to the quickly increasing thunder of applause. She always found it difficult to believe that this was for her-such clear recognition, such a loud celebration. How long had it been since she had started this? Four years. Was it that long?

Rose lifted her chin and watched as the lights in the theatre were brightened. The magical setting of the stage seemed to fade away, and soon there was a rustling of coats and paper programs as people began to depart after the chorus of claps had disappeared into a sound of hushed voices.

It was customary for the cast to stay on stage until the seats were completely empty, just in case anyone wanted to greet them, take photographs, or simply deliver a bouquet. Rose let her arms fall to her side and kept her eyes on the line of those waiting to climb onto the stage. There were proud family members of her co-stars, as always, and a few lone fans who had decided to stay around to meet the cast. She let out a sigh, knowing that once again, there were no flowers waiting for her. And certainly no one she knew to talk to. Just the occasional stranger, who shook her hand or let out a timid thank you, on their way to meet someone else.

"Are you tired?" Rose turned at Stuart's voice.

"Yes.'' Rose grinned and pressed her hands to her cheeks, flushed from the overhead lights and still bearing the tracks of her tears. She was thirsty and eager to go home, to lose herself within a book and take leave of herself for a little while.

''I felt you tonight, Rose.'' Stuart nodded. ''I felt your pain.''

Rose parted her mouth to speak, but was distracted by Clara shouting something behind them. Stuart's dark eyes didn't leave hers as he waited with anticipation for her response.

''Isn't that our job, dear Stu? To make them believe in our stories.''

"I agree, I agree." Stuart nodded and smiled politely at her, his attentions elsewhere as he raised his hands in a wave. A tall, elegantly dressed woman was making her way towards them, and Rose stepped back a little, making room for his guest. She darted her eyes away from them as a small surge of loneliness flowed through her chest, making her heart flutter slightly. She swallowed hard, taking it in her stride. All around her, cast mates were surrounded by family and partners; not a soul came to her. Wasn't that the norm for her, though? Why did it sting so badly this past day or so?

Through the sound of footsteps on the cement floor of the theatre, she could barely make out a sharp banging. Coming from one of the far corners, it was most definitely a person; trying desperately to be heard. But the ghostly shadows of the walls, even with several of the lights on, hid the face.

Rose squinted and stepped forward, disoriented as the ensemble onstage started to disperse outwards. They passed her briskly, laughing and chatting, throwing a soft wind in her face. But still the solitary clapping persisted, until she heard nothing else. Frustrated, Rose brought a hand to her forehead, hoping to catch a glimpse of its source. For some reason, she began to feel goose bumps developing on her arms. Maybe it was the chill from outside, a door backstage left open by the janitor. That had happened on occasion during rehearsals just weeks ago and they had joked of a resident ghost.

The sound stopped abruptly, although she did not move her gaze from the corner where it had started. Once again, she heard the muffled voices of those still trying to exit the theatre, and their happy faces were a blur to her. She held her breath as a tall figure emerged from the dark spot she had been watching. It was a man; of that she was immediately sure. But still, the small crowd at the back of the room prevented her from seeing his face fully. A coat was draped across his arm, and he moved, gracefully amongst the narrow rows of seats. Rose felt her hands balling into fists as a sensation filled her like never before.

It couldn't be. She shook her head. ''Don't be-" Rose whispered to herself, impatiently craning her neck to see him. His head was turned as he leaned to enter the carpeted aisle. His hair was a dark blonde, swiped and styled to one side. Like it was the previous night...

Was it possible? Rose felt moisture in her eyes. Shaking her head, she thought for a moment that this was a mirage.

But when the man lifted his face, Rose gasped. And when his eyes met hers, she felt a pressure on her body, as if a great weight had been placed on her.

Rose knew in an instant that he had seen her. Even from this distance, she could see a smile on his face, and his hands moved as if he were trying to reach her from where he stood.

His mouth moved.

"Rose."

I just want to thank you all for reading this so far. I have completed it and it will be around twenty chapters long and hopefully a little different from what I usually do. It is a little dead on here at the minute and let's hope that sometime soon we have a place with more work on here!