Free Dying to be Famous by Tanya Landman Page A

and said, “It’s kind of you, Hannah, but frankly, my dear, I’ve given up. Our fate is in the lap of the gods. We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed for this evening. I’m going to lie down in a darkened room and pray. I suggest the rest of you do the same.”
    Shepherded by Daphne, we had to file back to the dressing room, where we spent a long and agonizing day fretting about the coming performance. Everyone showed their terror in different ways – talking non-stop or not talking at all; cheeks flushed red, or faded to a sickly pale; bursting into tears or giggling hysterically.
    Graham and I sat together, muttering.
    “Who tampered with her microphone?” he asked. “Do you think it was Jason?”
    “It can’t have been! He wouldn’t have helped her all this time just to stop now. It doesn’t make sense,” I replied. “Who else knew about her miming?”
    “I don’t know. Do you think Peregrine worked it out?”
    “Might have. But why would he wreck his own show?” Then I remembered Hannah’s face. “Maybe Hannah did it. I think she guessed ages ago that Tiffany was miming. And she did just offer to stand in for her, didn’t she? Maybe she did it so she can play the part tonight.”
    “Well if it was Hannah who fixed the mike I hope she doesn’t let on,” said Graham gloomily. “I wouldn’t fancy her chances if Tiffany finds out.”
    The trouble was, we couldn’t really think straight. As the afternoon wore on we got more and more paralysed with stage fright. Graham looked like he was going to his own execution. I didn’t think it was physically possible to feel so scared without actually passing out. I kept having to rush to the toilet and each time I stood up I felt faint and dizzy. It was horrible.
    Half an hour before curtain up Elizabeth tapped on the dressing room door to give us our thirty-minute call. She continued down the corridor knocking on all the doors. Two minutes later she let out a blood-curdling scream.
    Graham and I stared at each other. “Hannah!” we both shrieked.
    But it wasn’t Hannah who was lying dead.
    When Tiffany hadn’t answered the knock on her door, Elizabeth had pushed it open.
    Tiffany was dead. And the writing on the mirror said: I A LWAYS K EEP M Y P ROMISES .

opening night
    The police wanted to stop the show. For a while I wondered if Peregrine would let them and if he really had done away with Tiffany to collect the insurance money. But no, Peregrine was adamant the production would go ahead. We could hear him in the corridor saying urgently, “ ‘The show must go on.’ That’s not a cliché, Inspector Humphries, it’s the simple truth. It really cannot be cancelled.”
    “I’m sorry, sir,” came the policeman’s reply. “I can’t allow…”
    “There’s a full house out there,” Peregrine persisted. “If we don’t proceed, the financial loss will break the company. As it is I’ve had to remortgage my house to cover our debts. An awful lot of jobs are dependent on this production’s success. I beg of you. Please reconsider.”
    There was a long pause but eventually Inspector Humphries said, “Very well. You can go ahead. I’ll take statements after the show.”
    Dizzy with shock and sick with nerves, we took our places.
    Cynthia had been right, I noticed. Without her Goth make-up, Hannah – who’d had to get costumed up in five minutes flat – was very pretty. Very pretty and faintly familiar – I had the vague feeling that I might have seen her face somewhere before. And I wasn’t the only one. When Jason – fingers shaking, lip trembling – tried to pin a microphone to her dress, she turned away and muttered, “I can manage without amplification, thanks.”
    She put a hand up as if to shield her face, but the movement just focused Jason’s attention more closely on her. He stared, frowned and said, “Katie…?”
    But he didn’t get a chance to say any more because it turned out that Hannah was sick with nerves