Theatrical Page 16

  No. He doesn’t know me – how can he? We’ve barely spent any time together, and he’s an actor. It’s what he does, making people feel a certain way, right?

  And yet…

  He walks beside me, still in step; waiting for me to say something else.

  Say something, Parker. Actually out loud, not just in your head. He can’t hear interior monologue.

  I clear my throat. “I guess it’s because I’ve only ever wanted to work in theatre, but as me. On my own terms, my way, even if that means I mess up sometimes. Does that make sense? It’s…when your mum’s good at something – and she is, I know she is – and you want to do something-that’s-a-bit-like-what-she-does-but-not-quite, it feels like everyone’s judging you. If you do well, it’s because you had help. And if you don’t, you’re…I don’t know, a disappointment or trashing her reputation or something. You can’t win.”

  “That’s not what she’d think though, is it? That you were a disappointment?” He raises an eyebrow as he says it and I instantly feel disloyal.

  “No! Mum would never say that… Well,” I correct myself, “unless we’re talking about a me versus my sisters situation, in which case I’m always a disappointment.” I snort.

  “How come?”

  “Mostly because I’m not Faith and I’m not Grace,” I say flatly.

  “No,” he says – and as we pass through the pool of light below a street lamp, he glows in the fog. “You’re Hope.”

  Which is the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in ages, even if it is only my name. Because the way he says it makes it sound special – like it should be up in lights. Nobody ever makes it sound like that.

  I’m not even sure what to say back: I suppose I could say “thank you”, but then I’d be thanking him for saying my name, and that’s starting to get weird – even by my standards. So I don’t.

  “But you must get the same thing, right? With your parents and acting?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What, you don’t feel any pressure doing what they…”

  And then I remember. Were.

  My parents were…

  I stop. It’s not subtle, and he reads my panic like a script in his hand.

  “It’s okay,” he says, and he nudges me to show he means it. “It was a long time ago. I was just a kid when they died.”

  “Sorry. And sorry for being a colossal idiot, talking like that. I should have thought…”

  “Thought what? It’s not as if I’d told you my life story, is it? ‘Hey, Hope – just to let you know, my parents died when I was three and my gran brought me up, so make sure you don’t ever mention them’?” He pulls his jacket closer and smiles a little sadly. “How did you know, by the way?”

  “You said they were actors, and it was the way you said ‘were’. Then you started talking about your gran looking after you and stuff, and I sort of filled in the blanks.”

  “You paid attention,” he says, and when we walk under the next street lamp he’s looking at me with an entirely new expression on his face; like I’m someone he’s known for ever and we’re meeting again for the first time in years. It’s another little splinter of Luke that I didn’t expect, another splinter of him that slides under my skin…and all I want to do is stop, right here in the middle of the street, in this warm pool of light, as the mist wraps around us like a blanket and the sky overhead slips from silver grey to orange to black. I want to stop time, stop the world. Pause the clock, reset the sun. Just stop.

  Because I can’t see past how his eyes widen right before he smiles, or the way the muscles in his arm moved just so when he reached down the stairs for all those sheets of paper, and there hasn’t been a day that I haven’t thought about him since I met him, however hard I try not to – first thing in the morning when I open my eyes, or last thing at night, slipping into the hazy drifts of my dreams.

  “Which way are you going?”

  “Whuh?”

  He points up the street, then down it. “Which way?”

  I’ve been too wrapped up in my own head again. All the thoughts I haven’t had time for today have ambushed me, not caring that the person they’re actually about is right here.

  “Oh. Bus stop. It’s just there…somewhere.” I wave in the direction of where the bus stop usually is. Not that either of us can actually see it through the fog, which is even thicker here. It feels like a chunk of the March sky just fell down and landed on us; thick white swirls of vapour cloud around our feet. Everything is velvet and soft grey.

  “I’ll wait with you,” he says. “As long as you don’t…?”

  Don’t mind? Are you kidding?

  “No. That would be nice.”

  Nice. Nice?

  His hand brushes against me, and it’s so quick and so gentle that at first I think it’s an accident. But then the backs of our hands touch again, and I don’t want it to be just an accident, a move at the wrong time; I can feel the glow of the heat from his skin against mine, and I don’t want it to be a mistake.

  With the curtain of the fog swirling around us, I risk a glance down at our hands.

  He’s looking down at them too – and then he looks up and catches me watching him, and our eyes lock, and he smiles, and I smile, and we are perfect mirrors of each other and we could so easily be the only people in the world, lost in our own little fog bank.

  His thumb moves, slowly at first – hesitant, then more certain – to graze the back of my hand. It traces a line across my knuckles and I will him to slip his fingers through mine, to take my hand in his…and right as I think he’s about to do it, a rumbling sound tears through the fog as a bright yellow-eyed dragon comes snarling out of the mist.

  “My bus!”

  It roars past, heading for the bus stop. I have to go.

  I don’t want to go.

  But I have to, because Mum’s home by now and I’ve already blown one secret today. I don’t want to blow another.

  “I have to…I…”

  “Go! I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

  His hand drifts further from mine. But his eyes are still with me.

  I don’t want to go, but I have to go and I don’t want to and I don’t want to…

  And before I even realize I’m going to do it, I lean forward and brush my lips against his cheek.

  It’s a goodbye, and a hello; an I know you and I don’t and I want to know you – and almost before it’s even begun, it’s over and I’m running for the bus. I make it just before the driver shuts the doors and fling myself up the steps, waving my pass, making for the empty seats at the back and pressing my face to the window.

  He’s there, and the glow of the street lamp through the fog circles him like a spotlight. And as he grows smaller and smaller, and the bus turns a corner and he’s lost from view, I can feel it. I can.

  That a moment ago, in the quiet of the fog – so like the velvety silence of the auditorium and yet so unlike it – there was definitely something there.

  “Late. Late late late.”

  “You can’t be late again, surely?” Mum rolls her eyes at me over the rim of her teacup. “You’ve been up an hour – how can you possibly be late?”

  “Dunno.” I stuff a banana from the fruit bowl into my pocket. I’m not exactly going to own up to the fact that I’ve spent the last hour emptying my entire wardrobe onto my bed and trying to pick out the right outfit for today. Not the dungarees – they make me look like a playschool teacher. Or possibly a playschool pupil.

  My goodbye to Luke replays and rewinds in my head over and over and over again.

  Oh god. Why did I do that? Why? Why?

  I mean, it was only a kiss on the cheek, if you can even call it a kiss and not me sort of…gently headbutting his face. And it’s not like I planned it. But then, standing there in the fog…

  Not the blue skirt either. And not the dress with the cherries on.

  Grey jeans, the white T-shirt with the charcoal stripes and a yellow cardigan. Gree
n trainers.

  Done.

  Still late, though.

  And – oh, look, what a surprise – it’s raining. Just as well I didn’t have time to do anything exciting with my hair…

  The bus crawls through the traffic in the middle of town, and every minute we spend sitting, sitting, sitting makes me later. I’m dry, yes, but I’m now about to push into chronically late – and I can’t be late. Not today. Not on the first day of…

  Ah.

  The first day of technical rehearsals.

  I look down at myself.

  The first day of technical rehearsals, for which – like the rest of the crew – I should be wearing black.

  Bollocks. Bollocks bollocks bollocks.

  There’s nothing I can do – no time to go home and change. I’m already so late that I’ll be miracle-level lucky if Amy doesn’t freak out at me. Or worse. And I need this. I need a reference from her, or I’ll never get onto a course, especially now I’ve not got the Square Globe to fall back on. I can’t really ask them for a reference again, can I? And there’s no way I’m asking Mum for one. Because if I don’t get onto a course on my own merit, that’s it – I’ll never get to do the job I want without Mum’s shadow hanging over me. What I need is to get on a good course, get a good result and get some good work experience – if I can do that, nobody will look at me and think Miriam Parker’s daughter, only here because of her mother’s name. They’ll see me, not her.

  But only if I get that far.

  My bus finally pulls up at my stop, and I sprint for the portico of the big hotel at the bottom of the road – only for my bag to sabotage me by coming undone and spilling notes all over the (thankfully dry) pavement under the canopy. Sheltered from the rain, I try to stuff everything back in when there’s a loud, piercing whistle. I look up and groan, because there, standing at the other end of the portico, just past the revolving glass door into the hotel, is a depressingly familiar figure in an expensive coat and – even in the rain – sunglasses. Having caught my attention, Tommy waves a lazy hand and rests what must be the biggest umbrella I’ve ever seen against his shoulder. It’s enormous – you could probably fit half a dozen people under there.

  With his other hand, he slides his sunglasses down his nose and peers at me over the top of them. “Are you coming, or do you want to spend the whole day soaking wet?”

  I take a moment to ponder which option is less appealing: running for the theatre in this monsoon and getting drenched, or walking with Tommy under his massive umbrella. Of course, if I walk in with Tommy, I might be able to somehow imply it’s his fault I was late…

  I make up my mind.

  “Good morning, Tommy.”

  “Morning. Shall we?” He nods at the rain, and together we walk out from the shelter of the portico.

  This is the most awkward umbrella I have ever shared. “You’re late this morning.” I’m actually close enough to be able to smell him. He smells expensive.

  He makes a sound a little like a laugh, but not quite. “So are you.”

  “I…the bus. Traffic.”

  “Mmm.” Tommy sniffs. “Always so cagey, aren’t you? What’s the matter – afraid of getting into trouble?”

  “I didn’t think that what ever would give you that idea what ever would make you say that?” It all comes out in a big rush. I’m not that transparent, am I?

  This time, he really does laugh. “Look. My job, when you get down to the heart of it, is to pay attention to people. I admit I might not be the greatest actor, but you’ll be pushed to find someone who’s as good at reading people as I am – yes, even including my brother, before you say it.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  (This is a lie. I totally was.)

  “Of course. So let me give you a piece of advice – professional, personal…take this how you want, but do take it: stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  “This. This thing you do. You walk around with your head down like you’re terrified someone’s going to find you out. It’s…disingenuous.”

  I let that last part slide on past me into the rain. I’m too shocked to do anything else – and Tommy sees it.

  “You’re afraid you’re an impostor. You feel like one, don’t you? Like you’re a fraud, and someone’s going to discover you.”

  “No?”

  (Yes.)

  “Let me tell you a secret. Everybody feels like that. Amy, Nathalie, Jonna, your little friend Luke…even my big brother. All impostors. All waiting for someone to unmask them. I can’t imagine there’s a single person in this business who doesn’t know the feeling.”

  “Not you, though?”

  “Oh, especially me.”

  “Sure. Even though you’re ‘Tommy Knight’?” I put little air quotes around his name – and it’s almost like I’m talking to a normal person.

  “But I’m not, am I?” he says calmly. “I’m just Thomas Hillier, Richard’s little brother. That’s who I am, and the rest of it’s just…” He holds a hand out into the rain and catches a handful of drops, letting them pool in the bowl of his palm and then tipping them away in a tiny river. “You know why he’s so irritated with me at the moment?”

  This feels like it’s supposed to be a dramatic pause, so I wait.

  “I’m sure he’s already told you – he seems to have told everybody else. It’s the producers. They insisted on casting me, and they took the whole process out of Rick’s hands. I didn’t even have to audition. My name was my audition, whether I earned the part or not.” He stops and, because I’ve got to quite like not getting rained on, I stop too. But then he turns to face me and pulls his sunglasses off, tucking them into the breast pocket of his coat. He has dark circles under his eyes, circles I’ve not noticed before, and already the stubble is standing out dark against his pale cheeks. “You can’t outrun your name, Hope Parker, so there’s no point hoping you can. Believe me, I’ve tried. So show them you own it, not the other way around.”

  An anxious ball rolls around in my stomach. Is he talking about my mother? How would he know that?

  I can see the stage door from here, with its collection of umbrellas waiting outside. Any second, one of his fans will turn around and spot him…

  “Show who?”

  Tommy grins, and it’s not his Hollywood smile – it’s a real one, for the first time. He raises an eyebrow and leans closer, resting his free hand lightly on my shoulder. There’s a muffled shriek and as one, the fans turn and huddle more tightly together. Safety in numbers.

  “Everyone,” he whispers, and then he straightens up… And before I can even think, let alone answer, he’s striding towards the door and the Tommy I’ve sworn at under my breath is back in the building.

  And I’m still late.

  “George! George!” I open the door to wardrobe and stick my head through the gap. “Are you here?”

  “Where’ve you been? Amy was looking for…” George appears from behind a rack of old-fashioned dresses, wearing a neat black shirt and black jeans. Even his trainers are black. He looks me up and down slowly; measuring me carefully. “Isn’t it tech today?”

  “I forgot. Please help?”

  “Help you?” Again, another look up and down. “I don’t think anyone can help you.”

  “I meant help me find something black – there must be…” I stop. “Hang on, did you just diss my outfit?”

  “Outfit? You mean you planned that? I thought you’d just shut your eyes and picked up the first things you touched.”

  “I…well, that’s just rude.”

  “You want my help or not?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then get in here and we’ll find you some blacks. There’s bound to be something somewhere.”

  “Thank you!”

  “That cardigan, though…?”

  “This happens to be my favourite cardigan.”

  “You have a favourite cardigan? My god. I was right the first time. You’re beyond a
ny help.”

  I follow him into the depths of wardrobe and shut the door behind me.

  For a theatre nut, the wardrobe department is its own Narnia. Any theatre gets through hundreds of costumes a year; if a piece can’t be bought, it’s made by whoever can work a sewing machine, or it’s hired. The Earl’s isn’t that different from any other theatre – unless there are suitable pieces from past productions, most of it is made by Jonna and her team for each show. And most of it is here, through a door at the back of the wardrobe and make-up room.

  “Wow.” It’s the world’s most insane walk-in wardrobe. Four neat columns of rolling clothes racks stretch all the way down to the far end of the storage room, stuffed with every imaginable costume from First World War soldiers’ uniforms to Regency ballgowns and what I’m pretty sure is a coronation robe. There’s a leotard covered in bright coloured silk flowers (all hand-stitched) and a green silk Grecian dress and a whole rack of 1970s suits with wide lapels and weird ties looped over the hangers. George disappears through a gap in the rails, then pops back out in front of me.

  “I got you these from the lost-and-found buckets,” he says, holding out what looks like a collection of black rags.

  “Do I look that desperate?” I lift the end of a dangling sleeve, which – judging by the pattern of little holes around the cuff – has been part of a mouse’s lunch. Roly’s cat clearly doesn’t come to this end of the building very often. I let it drop again.

  “Yes. Go.” George shoves the bundle at me, then pushes me behind another rack to change.

  It could be worse, I guess. What he’s found in the piles of clothes abandoned or forgotten by actors coming through the Earl’s over the last six months are a cropped yoga jumper, a vest top and a pair of leggings, all in slightly grey-edged shades of tatty black. But they are black, and that should keep me out of trouble…as long as Amy ignores my green trainers, and does not kick me straight out of the building for being as late as I am.