Free Death Of A Diva by Derek Farrell Page A

...”
    “Yes,” I interrupted, seeing the window cleaner’s green eyes staring at me across space, “how’s Andy?”
    “Andy?” Robert stopped dead, confused for a second and then recovered himself. “He’s fine. He sends his love.”
    Be better if he could send the contents of my wardrobe , I wanted to say, but I was too shocked: Andy, it seemed, was still around. And Robert, more to the point, seemed to think that sending the fucker’s best wishes to me was acceptable.
    “Look, Robert: no offence, but I’m a little busy right now,” I said, summoning up a pair of balls from god-knows-where. “What do you want?”
    “Want?”
    “Require; request; what are your intentions?” I pressed, conscious of some new movement at the end of the stairs.
    “I wanted to say hello,” he said in his best Hugh Grant.
    “You’ve said it,” I replied as a veritable cloud of white – lilies, roses and delphinium – ascended the stairs in the grip of a still frowning Ali.
    “There’s still no one stocking shelves,” she grumbled, “and if I wanted a job as a florist’s delivery girl, I’d have taken one.”
    “Wait,” I stopped her, hunted through the plastic wrapping and discovered the little envelope containing the card.
    “Why wait?” Robert was saying. “Tomorrow night would be good. Just one or two things...”
    “What?” I jerked myself back to Robert. “What are you talking about?”
    “The Roof Bar,” he said referencing one of his favourite bars in Soho.
    “Wait, Robert, what–” I glanced at the card.
    Lyra , it read, I hope the show displays you as you truly are. And I hope…
    “So,” Robert said, “all sorted. See you then.”
    “Wait, Robert,” I stuffed the card into the bouquet, waved Ali on and returned to the phone, but it was too late; my bastard ex had arranged an assignation with me and I had had no chance to, as I had repeatedly been instructed, stand my ground .
    And, to make matters worse, as I was about to discover, I had just let a death threat past me and into Lyra’s dressing room.
    Chapter Fourteen
     
    Morgan, having disposed of Leon, had followed Ali up the stairs and on into the dressing room. He was on the threshold when Lyra, her hands in the midst of a French polish, received the tiny white card I’d just reviewed, read the greeting I’d just read, turned the card over and, as I subsequently discovered, found that the greeting that had started out as “ Lyra , I hope the show displays you as you truly are. And I hope” finished up as “ that you die screaming you worthless fucking whore. ” To clarify their intent, the sender had completed their handwritten greeting by scrawling the words “ Die Bitch! ” across the bottom of the card.
    Really, in hindsight, one could have forgiven Lyra Day for going totally mental.

Chapter Fifteen
     
                  Except she didn’t.
                  I stood in the dressing room, awaiting the inevitable and Lyra, instead of screaming, turned on Morgan.
                  “Where the hell have you been? And why are you so red? Have you taken your pills? Where’s bloody Dominic? Have you seen this?”
                  Morgan, sweating profusely and gasping slightly, read the card and put a hand on his chest, at which Lyra leapt from her seat and lurched at him.
                  “Did you take your pills?” She demanded again.
                  “I took them.”
                  “Well where were you? I could have been attacked right here.”
                  Morgan raised a hand, nodded and looked at me. “Do we need the police here?” he asked.
                  “ The police ?” Lyra, Liz and I chorused.
                  “This is a threat.”
                  “This is a confirmation ,” Lyra said triumphantly.
                  Liz, Morgan and I stared at each other, as Lyra