We were touring. The play had been written by a wonderful but almost unknown writer called James Leader. He specialised in comedies for small companies and there weren’t many smaller than this one. I’ve mentioned Dole Queue before. Instead of our usual venue in the little theatre in Bristol we were on the road with Cloak and Haggard, a wonderful comic romp about incompetent spies. I played a glamorous Russian called Ludmilla and got to wear some fab costumes. We’d been booked into a number of low rent theatres, pubs, scout huts, you name it, across the country and we stayed in the cheapest possible accommodation we could get. I tried, and usually managed to find a room alone and on this occasion, in darkest Norfolk, I had succeeded.

Our female lead was Portia Parsons. Don’t blame me, blame her parents. Anyway, Portia was a good actress, gay like me but totally not my type nor I hers. She was terribly prissy and dull which is unusual in this profession.

“Faye, why are you so juvenile? Can’t you ever behave?” Well, no actually. I mean, isn’t acting simply juvenile. Oh, I know the luvvies will tell you it’s serious and blah blah but it’s kids, dressing up and making asses of themselves for, sometimes anyway, money. Marvellous. Portia didn’t even drink, for Christ’s sake. She was always word perfect (same here but I am just blessed with that kind of memory whereas she had to work at it), had all her moves neatly written on her script and all her props checked three times before the show.

I had a partner-in-mischief in the shape of our Assistant Stage Manager (basically the lowest form of theatre life), Harry Potter. This is not plagiarism, this all pre-dated the JKR phenomenon. Harry and I enjoyed ‘misplacing’ Portia’s props, putting the wrong makeup in her set and generally behaving like naughty children. We also enjoyed a drink together after the show most nights, all the pubs usually being shut by the time we finished.

I said Portia didn’t drink and it was true. But Harry, unbeknown to me, decided one evening that he would introduce her to the joys of vodka. This would never be achieved by the direct route and so he spiked her orange juice. Mischievous he may have been, but he wasn’t cruel and so he waited until the second half to introduce the demon drink. By the final curtain she was flying and, it must be said, had given the performance of her life. Even I was impressed and I couldn’t stand the bitch.

In the wings I said to Harry, “What’s got into her?”

He twinkled his eyes and said, “Well, I think it might be vodka.”

“Don’t be stupid, H, she’s TT.”

By the time we got into the communal dressing room she was decidedly chirpy and, to my amazement she slipped her arm through Harry’s and dragged him off before he and I could have our usual spirituous libation.

“Well,” said Harry the following morning, “she’s not quite as gay as everyone thinks!”

“You didn’t?” He smiled enigmatically. Instead of the hangover I had expected, Portia was bright eyed, bushy tailed and distinctly coquettish around Harry and I know a girl who’s been well fucked when I see one. My, my; who’d have seen that coming?

She continued to loathe me and vice versa but she had definitely crossed a line. Harry decided by the end of the tour that he was going to have to pack it in because, he told me, she had embraced heterosexuality with huge enthusiasm and he feared for the safety of his penis.

Some years later I was, as recounted in my previous chronicle, a member of the Royal Western Repertoire theatre and, under the skilled management of George Clutton, I was getting a lot of experience. My agent, Flick Caterham, wanted me to agree to a second season and when Flick wants something, well, she gets it. It wasn’t all bad to be fair, mainly because Elizabeth Wigram, the heiress to the local brewery company and as gay as you like, had taken a bit of a shine to yours truly so I was getting a lot of very pleasant sex when time allowed. Liz was a bit butch, a bit rough in bed and determinedly in control. No complaints from me on any of those scores.

The new season began, as always apparently, with a big cast lunch at a local hotel. We hired a ballroom, had lunch and then ran through a couple of bits of script as a way to work ourselves back into things and get to know any changes in personnel for the forthcoming season.

“I don’t know if any of you know Portia Featherstone,” said George, holding the new girl’s hand. I knew her alright, but back then she had been Portia Parsons and it’s pretty unusual for an actress to change her name. “She and her husband here, Bernie, are joining us this season. So, a big welcome to them please and help them get used to working with a bunch of morons like you.” George was all smiles.

Well, well, well; Portia, married! Whatever next? Happily, I am going to tell you whatever next because it was quite a surprise. I ended up sitting next to Portia over lunch and she smiled sweetly and said, “Faye, darling, how lovely to see you again.” Right.

“You too,” I lied. “Married? Bit of a surprise I have to confess.”

To my horror, she placed her hand very deliberately on mine and smiled. The smile felt, to me, like that of a shark spying a surfer’s foot. I am sure I shuddered. “I haven’t changed entirely, darling,” horrifying squeeze of my hand, “George and I,” here she paused for dramatic effect, “swing.” How I did not piss myself laughing I have no idea. Prissy Portia Parsons swinging! As likely as the Queen getting her tits out for the trooping of the colour. “You must come for supper one evening. We have a lot of fun.”

That was NOT going to happen. How I got through that lunch I shall never know. Gloria Somerville, a fellow troupe member, was one of those actresses who had nearly made it, missed it, and began accepting the solace of drink until it became the only way she got through each performance. A functioning alcoholic, just like Lionel Sheridan, male lead, they usually made it through the performance with occasional mishaps.

Lionel, famously, shot the wrong person during a murder and actually said, “Gosh, sorry old boy,” he then thrust his thumb behind him towards Billy Forbes, “I meant to shoot him. Silly me,” turned and fired again, which led to Forbes collapsing on stage, Gloria and me collapsing in the wings in hysterics and the audience giving Lionel a standing ovation!

Gloria’s greatest drunken triumph came when, during another murder, she, now the corpse, farted loudly, lifted her head and said, “Pardon,” and dropped off to sleep. You couldn’t invent it.

Anyway, Gloria said to me after lunch, “That Portia party. I’ve worked with her before. She’s a queer, like you. How come she’s married?” I told her the story of Portia and Harry Potter and she roared with laughter. “Amazing what a drop of vodka can do. Have you tried?”

“Many times, Glor, but it hasn’t worked its magic on me.”

That evening I went round to Liz Wigram’s ‘bolt hole.’ This was the top floor of what had originally been the family home when the brewery was built in 1945. Now it was the administrative block but Liz had retained the fourth floor as a place to get away from family and staff. It had beautiful views across the city and, being otherwise unoccupied at evenings and weekends, she could fuck as noisily as she liked, and nobody was any the wiser. Except, of course, her willing victim.

I pressed the entryphone and her face appeared on the little screen, smiled, and let me in. I walked straight through to the lift and ascended to her garret. She was naked except for a short black satin robe, a pair of black ankle boots and a black strapon. The cock poked through the robe, like an actor checking the audience through the stage curtain. I hadn’t been expecting that. Liz was something of a rarity in my experience. She could orgasm simply by fucking me with her strappy which was usually great. It meant, sometimes, that she ‘forgot’ to give me an O too. It was rare and I coped but it was a bit annoying now and then.

I hardly had time to draw breath. Liz had obviously been working herself up to this in more ways than one and the next thing I knew was, I was face down over the back of a chair, my knickers around my ankles and my skirt flipped over my back. She did a quick dip test with her finger to make sure I was appropriately slippery and then she was in me. She grabbed my hair, slapped my arse a couple of times and leaned right over me. I could feel her nipples, hard as stone against my back. My own, loose and hard too, were rubbing on the silk of my top and that was doing any harm either. Something about her fervour, her energy, her enthusiasm took me with her but when she suddenly plunged deep, held there and let out one huge sighing moan I wasn’t quite ready. I was there, pinned to the back of the chair by her weight and she was motionless, deep inside me as she recovered.

When she withdrew and went to get a glass of champagne, her tipple of choice (rich bitch) I muttered something like ‘well, never mind me.’

“What did you say?”

I was in the process of rising off the chair when she pushed me back down with one firm hand while the other administered a severe spanking to my arse. “Never talk to me like that, do you hear?” Now any sensible woman would have got out of there as quickly as possible but I was actually turned on by the whole thing. She then led me into her bedroom where she hastily unstrapped her dildo and pulled me by the hair to my knees between hers and I spent a good few minutes working her with my tongue until she had a less violent orgasm which was, however, delightfully wet and which led to my happy outcome as well. Win, win.

~~

Flick Caterham was not in a good mood. I could always tell. We were three months into the second season at the Rep and Flick’s assistant, Hattie had asked me to drop into the office.

“Go on through, she’s expecting you.”

“Cheerful, is she?”

“Not the adjective of choice, darling.”

Oh dear. So I opened the inner sanctum door and entered breezily, sidling past the desk and planting a big kiss on Flick’s cheek before she had a chance to stop me.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing my eternal gratitude for your continuing and loving support.”

“Well don’t. Sit down, behave like an adult if you have any idea what that means and listen.” So, I sat. “I, we have a problem.” Best not to interrupt Flick when she is in that sort of mood so I stayed silent. “Your contract with the Rep ends in September, three months from now.” I nodded, sagely. “You have been offered a job with the BBC. It’s a part in a new series, called Foreign Correspondent. They want you to play a war reporter. It’s an eight-part series with a second series already planned.”

“The problem being they want me before the end of the season.”

She looked up at me over her half glasses, surprised. “Exactly. What do you want me to do?” I said nothing. Flick only ever asked this when she was thinking things through. “I mean, we could just tell Clutton the situation and hope he’s generous but knowing him he wont be.” I stood u and started to leave. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“Give me a few hours.”

“Faye!”

I left without answering and, as I passed her desk, I said to Hattie, “Don’t let her contact George until I call you.”

Liz answered the entryphone and I made my way up to her suite. As she opened the door I grabbed her and kissed her, hard, demandingly and guided her as if we were dancing, to her bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

I didn’t answer. I kissed her again and undid her jeans and, as I pulled them down, I dropped to my knees in front of her. She held my hair and pulled me so I was looking up at her. “Hungry little bitch, aren’t we? What’s got into you?” I forced my mouth to her cunt and sucked and licked and probed, my finger going around her arse which, I knew, always worked for her. We manoeuvred onto the bed, she prone, I between her spread thighs and with fingers and tongue I brought her to a splendid climax. This seemed to have got to her because instead of her normal recovery period, she wrestled me onto my back pushed my skirt up out of her way and did the same to me with the added bonus of a finger deep in my arse at the critical moment. Perfect.

We lay, side by side. “What was all that about?”

“Lust.”

“There should be more of that.”

I grinned. I went out to her big, airy room overlooking the city and poured us both some champagne and carried them back.

“Are we celebrating?”

“Sort of. I’ve been offered a part in a BBC series for TV. It’s a big part and it’s great news but obviously I can’t take it because of my contract with the Royal Western. George would never let me go.”

“So, why the celebration?”

“It’s good to get offers, even if I can’t take them. Would have been a huge step up for me though.”

“Does George know?”

“I don’t think my agent has contacted him. Not much point really.”

“Would it mean you leaving Bath?”

“For location work, probably. Not much though.”

“Go down on me again.”

Obediently I slithered down the bed and started to give her the famous Millerton tongue and finger double act. I was a bit surprised when she started talking. I looked up but she pushed me back down. I kissed her cunt and then concentrated for a while on her arse.

“George, I have a proposition for you.” Pause. “It’s regarding Faye Millerton. You know how much I like sponsoring your company.” Pause. “Look, I want Faye to do well, she deserves it. I know you agree.” Pause. “Well, listen.” You’d never have known I was giving her my best efforts!

She went on to explain that she would pay the salary of any actress he needed to replace me if he let me go, should the circumstances arise. On the other hand, she said, if he didn’t, well, she might have to think about her sponsorship. Blackmailers come in so many guises.

Her orgasm was a bit muted because she was still on the call. I think the whole situation really got to her.

As I walked home I called Hattie. “Tell Flick that she can call George and ask him. I’m on my way. Get the bubbles out ready.”

Flick looked up as I walked in. “What the fuck did you do?”

I smiled, enigmatically. “I just kissed arse, Flick, simple as that.”

“Wigram?” So, she knew but then, Flick knew almost everything.”

“The third largest brewery in the West Country.”

“My, my. You are a clever little thing, aren’t you? Hattie,” she called, “call the Beeb and bring some bubbles.” Within seconds Flick’s phone warbled and she picked up. “Yes, Faye can do it.” She waited for a few seconds. “Excellent. I’ll let her know.”

~~

Postscript. George Clutton was kind about it, kind enough in fact to give my job to another actress I have mentioned in the chronicles, Marilyn (Maz) Foster. I had recommended her and he was grateful. So was Maz because she was between jobs and looking straight down the barrel of six months as a children’s TV presenter. “Thank fuck for that, Faye,” she had said. “I couldn’t face another half a year dressed as a fucking chicken.”