Theatrical Page 21

  “How come?”

  It’s a long time before he answers – although I can see he almost does at least twice before he finally speaks, changing his mind each time. At last, he makes a sound a little like a laugh, but sad. So sad it makes the inside of my chest ache.

  “Because I think my whole life’s been about trying on someone else’s skin. It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

  “Acting, you mean?”

  “No. Not just acting. Not like that.” He peers into the crisp packet as though the answer is at the bottom of it. “You remember I told you about my parents?”

  I nod, wanting to give him the space to speak.

  “They were both actors. They met when they were both in different productions and my dad’s friend knew someone in my mum’s show. The two of them went to watch it on their night off, and he saw her and that was it. And then they had me.” His eyes shift from one thing to another, skimming across the stage, the lights, the whole theatre. Never quite settling on anything, let alone me. He scratches his nose as though it’s been bothering him, and if I can see the acting happen, I can see what’s below it too. I know why he does it. “I always wondered when I was a kid whether I’d be someone different if they were still around.”

  The silence of the auditorium listens to him, taking in each of his words.

  “I never knew,” he says – and without realizing it, he’s slipped into his stage voice, the one with polished edges, the one that cuts through everything else – “whether I wanted to be an actor because it’s somehow in my blood, or whether I’m just looking for the person I was meant to be. Whether the next script will show me what I’m supposed to do. Whether that’s where the answers are.”

  “I don’t believe any of us are supposed to be or do anything – we’re just…us.” It sounds less confident than it would if I didn’t have a mouthful of crisps, but I mean it.

  “You reckon? You think you’d have wanted to work in the theatre if your mother hadn’t?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think any of us can know that, because it’s not like we can see the other versions of ourselves, is it?” I play with the cap of a bottle of water. “How did…I mean, do you want to talk about it?”

  He shakes his head. “I honestly don’t remember much about them. I was just a kid. They died in a car crash, on their way to a rehearsal.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I barely knew them, when you think about it, and they never got the chance to know me. Like you said, we never get to see the other versions of ourselves, and Gran’s been all the family I’ve needed – it’s why I’ve always wanted to take care of her. She’s taken care of me, and I feel like I owe it to her. Although she’d be mortified if she heard me say that.”

  “That’s why you take all those jobs here? The bar, the front of house – all of it?”

  He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twists into a smile of recognition. “Gran freaked out when I told her I wanted to go to drama school. Completely, totally lost it. I’d never seen her like that – and the worst thing was that she wouldn’t tell me why.”

  “Because of your parents?”

  “I guess that was it. Maybe she thought if I did the same thing as them, one way or another she’d lose me too. I didn’t think to ask. I just got angry about it. It felt like she was telling me she thought I’d fail, that there was no point in trying. The one thing that felt natural, that felt real and easy…and from where I was standing, she didn’t think I could do it. I thought she was trying to protect me. That’s what grans – grandparents, parents, whoever – do, right?”

  “Maybe she was trying to protect herself?”

  “I think maybe she was. Which makes me feel even worse.”

  “Why?”

  He closes his eyes and takes a breath, then looks up at me through half-lowered lashes. “Because I auditioned anyway, and I didn’t tell her until I got in.”

  Something curls around my heart; something that wasn’t there before.

  We’re the same.

  Two figures standing on the stage of a model box: one in the spotlight, one in the shadow, but each holding onto the other.

  And because we’re the same – and I know that now, as much as I know anything – I can tell him. I can tell him all of it, and trust that he’ll understand.

  “I think…I think I wanted to be part of the theatre despite my mother. She was always talking about theatre, and half the time we had other people coming in and out of the house to talk about plays or costumes or whatever – but that’s just it.” I stop, because this, more than anything, needs the right words. I try again. “My sisters, both of them, they’re smart. Smarter than I am. They knew that only an insane person would follow Mum into the theatre, because everywhere you go, everyone you speak to, all you hear is ‘She’s Miriam Parker’s daughter’ and suddenly you have no idea whether things would be different if you weren’t. And nobody else does either. There’s always this nagging little doubt in the back of their minds – did you earn this, or did your name? Are you there because of what you can do, or who you know? And it goes on and on, until that little doubt that everybody else feels? You feel it too.” The Hula Hoop I’ve been rolling around my palm breaks apart. “But the thing is, it was always just this for me. Theatre or nothing.”

  I drop what’s left of the crisp into my mouth, and when I look over at him I can see that he gets it. Gets me. Gets this whole ridiculous thing I’m trying to do. “I’ve only told you and George about Mum. I haven’t told anyone else, and I didn’t tell my parents that I was applying for this. I didn’t tell them when I got it, either. They think I’m working in the back office of the Square Globe, and I’ve convinced my best friend there to basically lie for me. For this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to do it on my own. And just for once, I wanted to be sure that it was all on me.”

  The lights glitter on the wires hanging from the grid, and from where I am – lying back on the blanket, my head resting on a cushion – if I close one eye and squint, they look a little like stars. In the stillness of the empty theatre it feels as if we could really be in the woods. If only there was a sky above us and not a fly-tower; if only the birdsong wasn’t on a fifteen-minute loop, the same bird call repeating and repeating and repeating…

  I know I should tell him this is a bad idea – that someone, anyone, Amy, might come back, might see us – but this feels right. Like it’s where we’re both meant to be and here is the place we’re both most ourselves. I felt it the moment I saw him standing at the bottom of the staircase, looking up at me. Maybe even before that.

  How could I get to know him anywhere else?

  How could he get to know me?

  We’re the only people here. The theatre feels like it belongs to us.

  He said he’s cleared backstage – and he has. I heard the door…so how’s he going to shut down the lights?

  And the sound loop?

  I look round at Luke, stretched out alongside me on the blanket, with his arms folded behind his head. He opens an eye and squints at me.

  “What?”

  “Are we on our own here?”

  “Of course we are! What kind of question’s that?”

  “The lights, the sound…everything’s still on.”

  “I told you, I called in a couple of favours and got it all set up. The only thing we’ve got to do is turn off the master switch and it’ll take out everything but the ghost light and the usual emergency lighting.” He grins. “You should know that, though – right?”

  I should. Whoops. “But how do you know about it?”

  “Ah, you know. You pick stuff up…”

  What this means slowly dawns on me. “You’ve even worked backstage, haven’t you?”

  He clears his throat awkwardly. “Work’s work.”

  “Is there anything here you haven’t done?”

  He considers this, pursing h
is lips. Eventually he says, “I haven’t done anything in finance.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or take him seriously. “Always here? Your jobs?”

  Like I don’t already know the answer. It’s because he has to be here. It’s where he’s meant to be. Just like me.

  He fidgets again, rubbing at the neck of his T-shirt, and shrugs. “Got to pay the bills somehow, right? Everyone here knows me – knows about Gran and my mum and dad too – and when there’s work they ask me first.”

  “Oh.” That wasn’t quite the answer I was expecting and he knows it.

  “You were hoping I’d say it’s where I belong. Sure it is, but I’m just lucky it’s worked out that way so far. I can’t afford to be picky. There’s dream jobs and just-jobs – and people here look out for each other.” He keeps on rubbing at the neck of his shirt, like something there itches. “Unless you’re someone like Tommy, acting’s not exactly the best-paid job in the world, and neither Mum nor Dad left a lot of money. And Gran…” He tails off. “What?”

  “What what?”

  “What are you looking at me like that for?”

  “Like what?” I blink at him, hard and fast enough to make myself dizzy.

  “Like that.”

  “Nothing. It’s just…” It’s just I didn’t see that coming. I didn’t see you coming. “…just that I’m trying not to be worried you’re going to have a crack at my job too. Seeing as you know all this stuff.” I shrug.

  He opens his mouth, then closes it again, as though I’ve surprised him. And then he smiles at me. “Okay. I see what you’re saying.” He puts a hand flat against his chest, tipping his face back towards the lights. “You feel threatened by my talent.” He flicks at his hair – and I get what he’s doing. It’s a pretty good impersonation of Tommy. More than pretty good – it’s uncanny.

  “Don’t.” I’m half-laughing, but it still feels like what he’s doing is a little mean.

  “Fine.” He eyes me, and something in the set of his jaw shifts; the way he holds his shoulders…and suddenly I’m looking at Rick, only with Luke’s face. Which is very confusing indeed.

  “Enough! Seriously.” I throw a cushion from the hamper at him and it bounces harmlessly into the stalls. Luke laughs and turns back into himself. “Are all actors such tremendous show-offs?”

  “I couldn’t say. I can only answer for me.” He laughs again, and takes a swig from the water bottle. “And I’m not, by the way. Not really.”

  I raise both my eyebrows at him. “That little performance wasn’t showing off?”

  “No.” His smile fades, and suddenly he’s serious again. “I just wanted to make you laugh.”

  The whole theatre twists around me; the pillars shifting in their places.

  “The only thing that would make me laugh right now is the thought of you backstage, doing a crew job. Sorry, but I refuse to believe you’ve done that – no way are you the type.”

  “You don’t think I could? Or have?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Prove it.” I fold my arms across my chest.

  “I don’t have to prove anything.” He shakes his head, laughing again. But this feels so real, so easy that I can’t let it slip away. I can’t let him slip away into one of those other faces he wears.

  “You sound pretty confident about that.” I pause for effect. “Or maybe you just know you’d lose.”

  “Try me.” His voice is half-laugh, half-growl, and almost enough to make me fall straight into him.

  Almost.

  “Okay, then – seeing as you’re sure. A challenge. First one to the Heffernan Room wins.”

  “Wins what?” He sits upright. Obviously I have his full attention now.

  “Bragging rights to a full and complete knowledge of the Earl’s Theatre.”

  He snorts. “You know I’ll win this. Easily. You’re sure you even want to try?”

  “If you’re so confident, how about this? You can only use the backstage areas. No foyer, no stalls, only backstage.”

  “You can’t get to the Heffernan from backstage. That’s a trick and you know it,” he says, and I pretend I wasn’t hoping he’d forget that in his enthusiasm to prove me wrong.

  “Okay, you can use the main staircase – but only from the dress circle upwards. Fair?”

  “Fair. But…” He leans forward and his voice is almost a whisper, drawing me in, beckoning me…

  I flash him a knowing smile, half-lean towards him…

  And then I run.

  It catches him off-guard, and I’m almost at the door to the backstage corridor before he reacts – but when he does, he explodes. I see him making for the other side of the stage – he’s heading for the fly-floor, and suddenly my head start doesn’t seem quite so big any more.

  I map the theatre in my head as I run, plotting each staircase, every corridor, just the same as blocking out movements onstage. Just the same as memorizing the layout of the wings, of the prop table, the quick-change sections. I can see it all, the whole labyrinth. If I take this set of stairs, that corridor; cut through this room…

  I crash out of the door into the darkened Scott Bar – deserted. But as I reach the stairs up to the Heffernan Room, feeling the soft carpet tugging on my feet with every step, I hear the same door flung open again.

  I make the bottom of the final flight of stairs, swinging myself around the curve of the banister, and take the steps two, three at a time, up and up past the glittering chandelier – still lit, even at night, its caged bulbs like captive stars shining with all their might.

  Halfway up, I see him across the turn of the stairs, laughing between the cords and the lights.

  He spots me looking back at him and stops; leans on the banister and raises an eyebrow at me. “There’s still time to admit defeat, you know,” he calls across the gap. “You’re not going to beat me in a flat-out race to the top.”

  “Really? Watch me!” And I’m running again, racing up the last flight…

  Behind me, so close, I hear his laugh, warm and open – even now, I want to step inside it.

  I reach the very top, and both my feet hit the floor a second before I feel his fingertips brush against the small of my back.

  Underneath the fabric of my T-shirt, my skin blazes where his fingers touched and I turn around to look at him, standing on the top stair like he’s been waiting there all day.

  “You lose,” I manage to pant with the very last of my breath.

  “Do I? You’ve not made it to the door yet…”

  And I’m not going to. Neither of us are.

  When I step back to make room for him on the floor, his lips curl into a smile and his arm curls around my back. And then he draws me closer, his fingers tilting my chin up towards him as he leans down to me. I can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and even though he’s barely out of breath, its beat perfectly matches mine.

  I keep my head down walking towards the stage door on dress rehearsal day. To say Mum was annoyed when I got in last night would be like saying that musicals have “a bit of singing” in them. But then I saw the good morning message from Luke on my phone, and my feet have barely touched the pavement the whole way from my house to here – despite the fact Mum has now moved onto full sister-preparation mode. I got up this morning to find a whole load of my stuff dumped out of the bathroom cabinet to “make some space” for Faith and Grace. They’re literally going to be here for two days. It’s not like they’re moving back in, is it? Although I guess at least I should be grateful Grace won’t be able to use all my conditioner like she did last time.

  But the minute I turn the corner to the theatre, I come back down to earth pretty hard. It’s not just nerves, either – it’s the crowd. One or two of the perpetual group spot me and actually hiss as I walk past – which is friendly. But then I recognize the girl I spoke to before – the one who asked me about Tommy – and give her a weak smile. She smiles back, so that’s somethin
g.

  Roly’s desk is empty, and there is nobody there to see me sign in a full, triumphant five minutes early. I wait there for a minute, just in case, but no. So I head into the auditorium (before waiting to tell someone I was early actually makes me late) sling my bag under the prompt desk and look over at the stage.

  Rick is standing centre stage, chewing.

  Arms crossed.

  Uh-oh.

  The actors stroll on, expecting Amy’s usual morning walk-through…and seeing Rick, stop dead. There’s some scuffling in the wings as someone obviously walks straight into the back of somebody else who has stopped, and a fair amount of shuffling and muttering.

  And then he starts.

  His voice seems to project from somewhere underneath his feet, never mind his chest or his diaphragm. It comes from a deeper place than that – like he’s part of the building, rooted in it; pulling something out of it…or maybe giving it a voice of its own. That’s what Rick does when he’s up there, and it’s a shock. I’ve got used to “Rick Hillier” just being “Rick”, sitting there in his chair, making notes or giving them, rubbing his hands over his cropped hair when he’s thinking, and I completely forgot what it’s like seeing him on a stage. It’s like watching a bird of prey in the air: they look intimidating enough on the ground but to see one circling above you, wings outspread, is to know where it belongs.

  “I know you’re all keen to get on with the dress this morning, and we’ve got a lot to do – but one thing before we start.”

  Everyone blinks at him, waiting.

  “It’s come to my attention – the theatre’s attention – that someone was here after hours.”

  Silence.

  “And while this wouldn’t be too much of a concern on most productions, well…obviously, there’s a lot riding on this one and there’s the question of spoilers and insurance and…”

  No. No no no no no.

  How does he know? Oh, god. We left stuff at the side of the stage, didn’t we? I shoved it over into the wings and I meant to clear it away and then…Luke…and I completely forgot. This is it, isn’t it? This is me done. This will be the final, final thing, won’t it?