Pythian Games

This was written as a gift for Anita Marie

The curtain swept up and applause thundered as the cast of Dick Whittington and His Cat took another bow. The stars of the pantomime stepped forward, the handsome Principal Boy and Puss In Boots, whiskers twitching in response to the shouts from the children.
“Good house tonight,” The Principal Boy murmered to his companion as he swept off his feathered hat.
“Best yet,” agreed the cat, voice muffled through the make up. She flashed a wide Cheshire Cat’s grin. That had been her last role, in a London production of Alice in Wonderland. Appropriate, since her own name was Alice - Allice Enderby. But to everyone in show business she was known simply as the Cat Lady.
The curtain came down again and the cast wandered off stage, congratulating each other of what was proving to be a successful season.
Dick Whittington, or Martin Romaine as he was known in the record charts and the tabloids, pinched the Principal Girl’s bottom and got a frosty look in return.
“Being Number One in the charts means never having to say you’re sorry,” he winked at her. She marched off, her rigid spine registering her intense dislike of him.
“Actually,” he complained to Alice, “being Number One in the charts means nothing here. How come I’m being treated like just another performer when I’m the star?”
“Because you are just another performer,” Alice said. “The people in this troupe have all been in the business a long time, and we’ve worked together many times before. We’re hard to impress.”
Romaine pouted, and Alice turned away from him. The pretty boy pop star was very trying company, but his name on the playbills did bring in the crowds.
“I can’t abide him,” the Principal Girl, whose name was Rosie Allen, said. She wiped off her make up, revealing a face much older than it looked in the footlights. But her figure was still trim, and her voice, which had also once topped the charts, was still strong and clear. “He thinks women should fall at his feet just because he’s famous.”
“He’s just spoilt,” Alice said. She and Rosie shared a dressing room in the small theatre, as they had done on many occasions before. “Nothing like a dose of good old fashioned panto to put these little prima donnas straight.”
Rosie glanced at her, piling cream soaked tissues into the waste bin. Alice was still in full make up.
“How do you get that spirit glue off?” she asked. “I’ve always wondered - it must play hell with your skin.”
“It does,” Alice said. “That’s why I do it at home. It takes ages.”
“Better you than me - well, I’ll head back to my digs, before the landlady closes the kitchen and refuses to cook for us. Lucky you, living in your own motor home.”
“I like the freedom,” Alice agreed. “Not having to put up with cranky landladies.”
“I might try it myself,” Rosie said. She blew a kiss from the door. “See you tomorrow night.”
Alice called goodnight to the stage door man as she left the theatre. He barely looked up, used to seeing her with a face full of Puss in Boots make up.
Her motor home was parked on a camp site near the river. It was a good camp site, better than most, with showers and washing machines, and power outlets that the campers could plug into. It was good to open her door and just switch on the lights. She could run her computer and TV and laughed to think of the others suffering in uncomfortable digs.
It was a good life, she mused, as she made herself a cup of tea. Shge had found her niche in the theatre. “Get me the Cat Lady,” casting agents said. There was none better, no one else who could play a cat as well as she did. No one else had that rich throaty purr, such a ringing “me-ow!” that could reach to the back stalls, no one else could slink and pounce so convincingly. Of course, life hadn’t always been so good, but you found your way, you found your place in the world, if you were smart. The days of the freak shows and the pointing fingers were well behind her.
Her ears pricked sharply as she heard a noise at the door. She had not locked it when she came in - silly girl! - and now it opened. To her surprise she saw Martin Romaine peering in to her small home.
“Aha,” he said. “So this is where you hide out.”
“People usually knock,” she said icily.
“Oh come on,” he said, inviting himself in. “I’ve always wanted to see inside these things. It’s cosy, isn’t it? Where’s the bed?”
“Where’s your entourage?” Alice countered. “And the hoard of groupies?”
“Oh, I gave them all the slip. Oh, come on, Alice, I can be a normal person sometimes. How about a cup of tea? I’ll help you take off your make up.”
“What do you want, Pop Boy?”
“Just to get to know you better. I know you must be very beautiful under that fur - how do you stick it on, by the way? - and those golden eyes of yours are just amazing.” He reached out and touched her arm. “Maybe you needn’t take it off,” he added. “I find it very sensual.”
“Actually,” Alice said, “it doesn’t come off.” Her hand snapped out at him, each nail sharpened to a claw. Martin screamed as the claws raked down his face and across his chest.
It took a lot of make up the following night to cover the scratches, but Martin Romaine never told anyone how he had come by them.
Even the tabloids wouldn’t have believed it.