Every Vow You Break by Julia Crouch

reveal a mini-kitchen. He reached a chilled bottle out of the fridge, popped the cork and poured three flutes of bubbling, straw-coloured Prosecco. While he was doing this, Lara stole a glance at Marcus. He looked like he wanted to run away. She really hoped, for his sake, the show was going to be all right tonight.
    ‘There we go,’ James said, passing round the cold-clouded glasses.
    Lara let the biscuity liquid prickle down her throat to pick her up after her afternoon glass of red.
    ‘Lovely,’ she said.
    A door underneath the sweeping, polished staircase burst open. The calm of the pre-show foyer was shattered by a towering six-and-a-half-foot figure – all black lace, high hair and startling crimson lips – brandishing a spiralled dress of boned black satin.
    ‘Betty darling. Prosecco?’ James drawled.
    ‘Can you talk some mother-fricking sense into that be-Jesused bitch?’ Betty threw the satin spiral across the floor, where it landed at James’s feet, sending a ripple of dust-motes into the beams of evening sunlight that sliced into the room. The voice was smooth, dark and Southern, a Blanche Dubois intonation to match the bedroom furniture back in the Waylands’ grimy home from home.
    ‘Oh not still,’ James sighed. ‘I thought we’d done with that .’
    Betty acknowledged Lara and Marcus with a slight, lip-pursed incline of the head. ‘Hi. I’m Betty. You must be Marcus and Lara. Charmed to meet you.’ She nodded and turned back to James. ‘Madam says she can’t sing in it. Says she can’t breathe . I told her it’s just a matter of control. This is exactly the same style of dress I wore in Marguerite at the Cavern Club Theatre in Silverlake. Sang in it six nights and two matinées every week for an eight-month run. It’s just she’s put on so much fricking weight since I measured her and now the damn thing’s too tight.’ Betty stooped and picked the spiral up, holding it against her own piece-of-string form. ‘Besides which, there’s no alternative. She’s got to wear it. Oh, James, sweetie, would you go and tell her? I’ve had it up to my tits.’
    James puffed out his cheeks, took the dress from Betty, and went through the door under the stairs.
    ‘And he’s started now, too. Says his shoes pinch. I’m giving up on the lot of them,’ Betty grumbled, following James down the stairs. ‘I tell you, James, honey, this is the last time I’m working with this bunch of—’
    The door slammed behind them, mercifully cutting off Betty’s last word and leaving Lara and Marcus alone in the foyer. For a moment, the only sound was the faint mechanical click of the ceiling fan as it circulated and cooled the air, making welcome goosebumps prickle on Lara’s arms.
    ‘More wine?’ Marcus said, going over to the bottle and pouring them both another glassful.
    ‘Cheeky,’ Lara said. ‘So that’s Betty then.’
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘Formidable.’
    ‘Indeed. The musical’s supposed to be her life story, with a few flourishes.’
    ‘I shouldn’t imagine she’d need too many.’ Lara suddenly felt very pedestrian standing there in her flattering Boden thing. Like a daisy in front of an orchid. She took a gulp of her wine then slowly climbed the stairs leading up the side of the foyer, surveying the framed posters of past Trout Island Theatre Co. productions that lined the wall.
    ‘These are really all quite hideous,’ she whispered to Marcus who came up to join her. They were all the same style: literal, stiffly posed photographic treatments of the plays’ subject matter. Hamlet had a man holding a skull, Hedda Gabler a woman holding a gun. Unsurprisingly, the typography was a mess – Lara spotted seven different fonts on one poster, including the dreaded Comic Sans.
    ‘Someone’s put a lot of work into them,’ Marcus said, trying to sound positive.
    ‘And the repertoire’s very ambitious. Do you think I should offer to help out with the graphic design?’ Lara said.
    ‘Do you