Puzzled, I walked away to return ten minutes later.
I knocked again.
Again no answer.
Worried, I opened the door.
“Don’t you hear me, Margot?” I asked.
Without glancing up, there came two words, no more. Two words, bitten off, crisp and sharp:
“G-e-t O—u—t!”
It was utterly unlike her. What had happened? I could not imagine. We had dined together the night before, together with “Freddy” Ashton, “Bobby” Helpmann and Moira Shearer. It had been a gay dinner, jolly. Margot had been her witty, amusing self. She had, I knew, been eagerly awaiting a letter from Paris, a letter from a particular friend. Perhaps it had not come. Perhaps it had. Whatever it was, I reasoned, at least it was not my fault. I was not to blame.
We met after the performance at the party. I was puzzled.
“Are you angry at me?” I asked her.