CHAPTER EIGHT

      KAT WAS THE last person to audition, which meant by the time her name was called her stomach had grown teeth and they were gnawing all the way to her backbone. The director asked her to take position, but instead of feeling the buzz of being onstage she felt sick. What if she blew it? What if she made an idiot of herself? Who was she kidding? She was an amateur. She hadn’t been to a performing arts school. She had rehearsed in front of a mirror, not an acting coach. All she was good for was toilet-paper ads. She was rubbish at acting.

      She was rubbish, period.

      ‘Ready when you are, Miss McTaggart.’

      It took Kat a moment to realise the director was speaking to her. She had used her grandparents’ surname instead of her own. ‘Erm...right.’ She stepped into position. The contents of her stomach curdled and began to crawl towards her windpipe. Sweat broke out on her brow. Her throat felt like someone had put a choke collar around it. A studded one, around the wrong way. The stage lights were making her eyes water. Or maybe it was because she felt ridiculously out of her depth. The spotlight was focused on her but she felt like it was shining on all of her faults. The irregularities of her features, the figure she wished was fuller in some places and more toned in others. The hair she hadn’t had time or money to have professionally styled. The supermarket brand of make-up she’d used instead of a designer brand.

      The stalls were in darkness but Kat noticed a woman sitting at the back of the theatre. The woman was dressed in nondescript clothes but she had an aura about her that suggested she wasn’t one of the theatre or ancillary staff. She looked vaguely familiar but because the lights were off in the stalls it was hard to make out any distinguishing features.

      ‘Is there a problem, Miss McTaggart?’ The director’s voice contained a thread of impatience. A steel-cable thread.

      ‘Sorry.’ Kat wriggled her shoulders to shake off the tension. ‘I’m just getting into character.’

      ‘Would you like a bone to chew on?’ the woman at the back of the theatre asked in a tone dripping with sarcasm. Not dripping—flooding.

      Kat bristled like a cat, which wasn’t all that helpful, given she was supposed to be a dog. She took a deep breath and channelled her angst at the woman into her performance, using it to galvanise her into the performance of her life. She became Sylvia. She used every bit of Cricket’s quirkiness she had born witness to: his pleading looks, his energy, his over-the-top excitement and his frantic rear-end wagging and wriggling. She felt so authentic in the scene she wished she had a tail when it was over so she could wag it.

      ‘Thanks, Kathy,’ the director said. ‘I’ll let you know what we decide in a day or two.’

      The woman at the back of the theatre rose from the chair she was sitting on. ‘I’ve already decided,’ she said in an accent that this time Kat recognised as none other than Elisabetta Albertini’s. ‘I want her. She was by far the best.’

      Kat’s eyes widened as Elisabetta came out of the low light of the stalls towards the stage. Her dream felt like it was balanced on a high wire without a safety net. As soon as Elisabetta recognised her it would plummet to the cold, hard floor of reality. There was no way Elisabetta would want to star alongside her husband’s love child. No way in the world. It wouldn’t matter how brilliant a job she had done of the audition. It would be better to get in first to save everyone from embarrassment. ‘Erm...my name isn’t really Kathy McTaggart,’ she said. ‘My name is—’

      ‘Katherine Winwood,’ Elisabetta said. ‘Yes, I know.’

      Kat fought hard not to be intimated by that cold, dark-brown, assessing stare. Was Elisabetta searching for her husband in Kat’s features? As much as Kat knew it must be galling for Elisabetta to face the living, breathing evidence of her husband’s betrayal, she still wished she could be accepted at face value, for herself, not for the trouble she had inadvertently caused. ‘I really want the part but if you’d rather not work with me then—’

      ‘Didn’t you just hear me say I wanted you?’ Elisabetta gave an imperious arch of her brow.

      ‘Yes, but I thought since—’

      ‘I want you in that part,’ Elisabetta said. ‘Fix it, will you, Leon?’ she said to the director. She turned back to Kat. ‘Rehearsals start on Monday. Be on time.’

      Kat had trouble keeping her jaw off the floor as Elisabetta walked out with regal poise. Had that just happened? Had Elisabetta Albertini just insisted she get the part?

      But why?

      Was it because of her talent or was this some sort of publicity stunt? She hadn’t shown a skerrick of talent until Elisabetta had insulted her. How could she know for sure what Elisabetta’s motivations were? What if Elisabetta wanted to sabotage her career? What better way to get back at her husband Richard than by publicly humiliating his love child onstage?

      ‘Looks like you got the part,’ Leon said. ‘Congratulations.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Kat mentally chewed at her lip. What if this was not about her acting merit? What if this was all about revenge? Wasn’t it the director’s or casting agent’s decision as to who got the part? Or had Elisabetta insisted on choosing whom she would front up with onstage? She had a reputation as a diva. And she certainly had the star power to call the shots. No one would ever employ Kat again if this turned out to be a stitch-up.

      Why