Theatrical Read online

  Fragments of conversations drift past me: “smaller than I thought”, “lucky Tommy, though”, “just off a plane”, “that voice”… I shoo away as many of the crew as I can and squeeze my way into the dressing room to check over Tommy’s personal props and costume rack.

  I’ve seen pictures of Emery Greenway before. I’ve seen videos of her singing onstage. I’ve heard her songs plenty of times…but nothing quite compares to actually seeing her there, in person.

  She’s folded onto the sofa in the dressing room, her shoes kicked off and her feet tucked under her; a bright red headscarf wrapped around her hair and knotted behind her head and a gorgeous shimmering yellow dress pooling around her. Her voice is like honey poured over silk, quiet and soft and liquid – but there’s so much strength there that you can feel it. She looks up at me, and her eyes are the most incredible warm brown shot through with gold…and rimmed with perfect winged eyeliner. No wonder everybody loves her – she lights up the room just by being in it. She gives me an enormous smile, and raises an eyebrow as though she’s waiting for me to say something…

  “Miss Greenway? Five minutes.”

  My spine rattles, and I risk a quick look over my shoulder to see that the corridor is entirely filled by suit.

  As she looks past me, I realize this is my chance to clear up everything about those photos with Tommy. What better way to make sure she knows that nothing happened than to tell her, face to face and in person.

  I feel her gaze slide back onto me as she uncurls herself, scooping her shoes up off the floor with one hand – and I’m just about to open my mouth to speak when I spot Tommy, standing just out of her eyeline, shaking his head vigorously. In case I didn’t get the message, he’s also mouthing the word “No!” over and over again, crossing and uncrossing his hands in front of his chest.

  I guess he doesn’t want me to say anything at all to Emery. Maybe it’s a sore point between them…maybe I’m a sore point between them?

  Yikes.

  My mouth stays shut, and now I’m standing in the middle of Tommy’s dressing room, staring at Emery Greenway like an idiot.

  And she’s still looking at me, still waiting.

  I glare pointedly at Tommy – who stops flapping and takes Emery by the hand.

  “Well, if you want to squeeze in a quick meet-and-greet we’d better get a move on. Don’t want to keep them all waiting, do we? Oh, don’t worry – we’ll pick your things up from here…”

  And with a dazzling smile (and only the quickest of glances back at me) he sweeps her out of the room to say hello to the fans at the stage door.

  Right.

  Okay.

  I may as well just go and get the necklace and come back in a minute: it’ll be easier when everyone’s gone. I squeeze back out again, and decide against trying to pass the slab of walking muscle, still blocking the hallway, instead making straight for the production office. I drop my bag and punch the combination into the safe for the necklace, running through my list of personal props one more time as I fill in Amy’s sign-out sheet for the jewellery. There’s a whole row of premium seats in the stalls tonight for assorted sponsors and prop-lenders all keen to see their support onstage, including, right in the middle of the best row, the guy who’s actually loaned us the necklace. I’m not quite sure who he is, but everyone seems to be very keen that he’s happy – although that probably has less to do with the jewellery loan and the massive advert he’s taken out in the programme than the big sponsorship cheque he gave us. Nobody’s mentioned just how big it was, but from the way Rick and Amy talked about it, I’m guessing it was big-big – the kind of sum a show like this, with all its costumes and special effects, needs before it can even open. Hopefully Tommy will actually manage to put the necklace on Juliet the right way round tonight – unlike at the dress rehearsal.

  I fish a couple of the other more valuable props out of the back of the safe and scoop them into my arms, and when I get to the prop table in the wings, George is already bouncing around beside it.

  “Have you got the glasses? I need the glasses to go with Magister costume three.”

  I hand over his prop. “Here you go – calm down. And it’s not a pair of glasses, it’s an antique pince-nez. Says so on my props sheet. And why aren’t you on your dinner break?”

  “Was busy helping Jonna iron the shirt for Lancelot two. You know, for your lo-verrrrr… How’s that going, by the way?”

  “Not. Now. George. And go and eat something.”

  Book, pipe, candle, matches. Glass, bottle – refilled…

  I touch every marked-out section of the table, the way I’ve done before every run-through, the way I’ve practised – reading out the name of the prop and putting my hand on it.

  We’re all good. Just the necklace to deliver to Tommy’s dressing room.

  Chris’s voice shouts down from the fly-floor above us. I can barely hear him over the sound of the vacuum cleaners sweeping the auditorium. “Hope? Do you know where Amy is?”

  I peer up into the darkness, and finally make him out, leaning over the railing. “I think she’s on her break! What do you need her for?”

  “Question about one of the cues.”

  “Now?”

  “It’s from last night.”

  I look at George. “What do I do?”

  “Get up there – you know the answer as much as Amy does, right?”

  “Do I?”

  He folds his arms and scowls at me.

  I look back up at Chris. “I’m coming up – hold on.”

  I haven’t been up to the fly-floor since my first day in the theatre. The ladder is no less terrifying, and the gantry is still alarmingly narrow, with its wall full of ropes on one side and its drop down to the stage on the other. But Chris, gloves still tucked into his belt, dressed in his blacks just like I am, doesn’t seem anywhere near as intimidating as he did then. Now, he’s leaning over the narrow workbench bolted to the safety rail, peering at a script with a pencil in his hand. I pick my way over to the bench through the counterweights he’s been sorting.

  “What’s up?”

  He points at a scribble next to a line – which has also been scribbled over – with the tip of his pencil.

  “This.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you read it?”

  “I…can’t. No. Whose writing is it?”

  “Whose d’you think?” he says wryly.

  “Rick’s. Okay.” That explains it – the only people who can read Rick’s handwriting are Amy and Nina. Both of whom are still out on their dinner break.

  “I just need to know whether to change the weight.”

  I study the lines.

  Everything on the grid – all the backdrops and curtains, anything that has to move up and down from the fly-tower – has to be counterweighted. And the lead flyman has to work out that counterweighting precisely. Too much, and he’ll struggle to keep control of the rope. Too little and it’ll go zooming up and crash into the grid.

  I remember this conversation. I know I do.

  “Give me a minute.”

  Chris opens his mouth, but I shush him. I need to think.

  Rick was standing there, and he said…what?

  Something about…

  I close my eyes – and then open them, grabbing Chris’s pencil, scribbling alongside all the other scribbles. “Three. It says three.”

  He tilts his head to one side, pointing to the squiggle through the line. “And that?”

  “He was taking it out, so he crossed it through – but then they put it back again later, so he’s uncrossed the crossing out.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’ll ask Amy to double-check when I see her, but is that okay for now?”

  He looks over the line one more time and nods. “Yeah, that’ll do it. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  I’m halfway down the ladder when he calls me back, and at first I wonder whether maybe he’s going to do something lik
e wink and tell me he misjudged me that first day; that actually, I’m all right… But when I stick my head back over the top, he’s holding up the necklace in its case. I put it down on the workbench, didn’t I?

  “Lose something, did we?”

  “Thanks. Don’t tell Amy.”

  I can still hear him chuckling when I get to the bottom of the ladder.

  Thankfully, the crush outside the dressing room has broken up. There’s no sign of Tommy, but as there’s a coat and expensive-looking handbag folded into the corner of the sofa, he must still be outside with Emery…and something tells me I probably shouldn’t be here when they come back in to collect her things. I leave the necklace in the middle of his dressing table, clearing a space for it among all the not-good-luck-because-you-can’t-wish-an-actor-good-luck cards, flowers and gifts. Roly’s been collecting presents from the stage door all day. (The big pile of cuddly toys have, however, been relegated to a corner of the production office since he announced they gave him “the creeps”.) Tommy’s dressing room, in short, looks just like a star’s dressing room on their opening night. His costumes are all there on the rack, personal props all ready…

  Dressing room number one? Done. Now all he’s got to do is get himself onstage on time, and we’re away.

  People filter back from their break, actors heading off to the still-dark studio theatre for their warm-ups (cue a chorus of “Haaaaaaaaaaaah”s echoing through the building) and everyone gets back to the serious business of running last-minute checks. I spot Luke at the far side of the stage, checking one of the marks he has to hit during Lancelot’s monologue. Behind him, Lucinda – in full head-of-PR mode – counts off seats against a list on her phone. Amy’s walking the side of the stage with Rick, when Charlie, the head of front-of-house, appears at the pass door – smarter than usual in his opening night bow tie.

  “You heard who’s in tonight?”

  Amy raises an eyebrow. “Who?”

  “Haydn Swift – the guy who wrote the Piecekeepers book.”

  “You’re kidding? He’s in?”

  “And his girlfriend, apparently. Lexi something. No pressure.” With a grin, he disappears back into the auditorium – and very quietly, I hear Amy say, “It’ll be fine,” to Rick.

  From a distance, you wouldn’t know. You couldn’t. But what I’m seeing on the stage is a team who’ve put everything they have, everything they are into this…and who are nervous. Even Amy.

  “What if he hates it?” Rick’s usually booming voice is no more than a whisper.

  “He won’t.”“But what if he does? What if he thinks I’ve ruined it?”

  “Well, for a start, it wouldn’t be you, would it? It would be us. All of us.”

  She winks at me as she hurries past the prompt desk, and beams at Tommy coming the other way.

  Why is Tommy coming the other way? Why isn’t he in his dressing room, or warming up, or, frankly, anywhere other than here, with just over two hours to go before curtain-up? He needs to be preparing.

  He grabs me by the arm and pulls me into the darkest corner of the wings, right behind the proscenium arch.

  “I think we might have a bit of a problem,” he hisses into my ear.

  “Talk. Now. Fast.”

  “Emery.”

  “Talk faster?”

  “I think she’s taken the necklace.”

  “She WHAT?!”

  “I think she might have accidentally taken the necklace.”

  “How…I just…what?”

  He keeps saying it, but somehow I can’t quite make myself understand it.

  Emery. Has. Taken. The. Necklace.

  What?

  “She had some jewellery sent over to her on loan for tonight, and I was given some at the same time.”

  “Oh no. It was in your dressing room, wasn’t it?”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  “She thought the necklace was part of the loan.”

  “Yes?”

  “Okay. Okay. No harm done. It’s fine. We’ll just call her…”

  “On this, you mean?” He sheepishly holds up a phone.

  “She forgot it.”

  He nods.

  We both look at the phone.

  “Where’s she going?” I ask.

  “London.”

  “Back to the hotel first?”

  “I think so. She has to go back to collect her make-up artist and then she’s performing at some awards show later tonight. But by the time you get there…”

  “Does her driver have a phone?”

  “I don’t have that number – he’s an agency driver.” Tommy frowns. “I’ve tried her agent, but she’s not picking up – and neither’s her assistant. I can’t get hold of any of them, Hope, I’ve tried, I swear.”

  I feel sick.

  The necklace was my responsibility. Props are my responsibility. Mine, and only mine.

  And I’ve lost it. The ridiculous, stupidly expensive necklace whose actual owner is – even as we speak – heading for the theatre, looking forward to seeing his jewellery onstage tonight. And who will raise all hell if he doesn’t see it and demand not only his sponsorship money back, but my head with it…

  I knew that thing would be unlucky.

  Tommy is pacing back and forth unhappily. “This is just what I need. Just what I need tonight. As if I don’t have enough to think about already with him here…”

  His grumbling is irritating enough to cut through my panic, and – finally – I lose my temper.

  “You? What the hell’s it got to do with you? What have you got to lose? If this doesn’t work out for you, you get to run back to your shiny film career, don’t you? Everyone makes a couple of jokes, and then you can just go back to earning insane amounts of money for waving your arms around in front of a green screen!”

  He stares at me, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

  “What about the rest of us? Stuck here in the real world? I need the reference from this. I need it. And losing a valuable prop means I think we can safely say I lose the reference too, don’t you?”

  “Oh, stop whining. Like dropping your mother’s name in an interview wouldn’t open every damn door you wanted.” He flaps a hand at me, and it’s the closest I’ve ever come to actually slapping someone. Everything else, I could take. The snitty comments, the attitude, the ridiculous errands – all of it. I can even let the question of exactly how he knows about Mum go… But this attitude? Now? This is over the line.

  “Okay, stop. Just stop. You think you’re so much better than me? Well, you’re not. You’ve got no idea, have you? You sail through life, not giving a toss about anyone else.”

  He blinks at me. “I think that’s a little uncalled-for. It’s only a necklace.”

  “Maybe to you! But this placement – and therefore that necklace – is everything to me. I have done whatever I’ve been asked to do – and not just the stuff in the theatre. ‘Keep Tommy happy,’ Amy said, and I’ve done literally everything you’ve asked me to do. Even when it’s ended up with me being booed in the street, having people photograph…me…”

  I stop and grab Tommy’s arm. He looks like I just wiped something awful on his sleeve, but I don’t let go.

  “Photographs. In the street. Outside the stage door. Social media. They put their photos on social media.”

  His expression shifts, changes…softens. And then he understands what it is I’m saying.

  “Emery’s fans. She’s always stopping to talk to them – and we’re always late because she does. It drives me insane…”

  I cut him off with a look.

  He clears his throat. “But she replies to their messages – and when she can’t, she gets someone on her team to do it. If her account’s suddenly flooded with notifications, or better, a hashtag, someone will notice. They might be able to reach her. And nobody loves a hashtag like Emery does. What about –” he purses his lips – “Stop Emy?”

  “Yes! Okay. So we try and contact her that way…and if I can
get to the hotel before she leaves for London, we can get the necklace back before anyone knows it’s gone. Okay. Nobody else needs to know what it’s about. Maybe we can say I’m getting her phone back to her? You said she’s got to pick up her make-up artist?”

  “Yes, but he might be waiting and just get straight into the car. If they get to the motorway before you get to them…”

  I pull my hands through my hair, trying to think. Can I actually do this? I’m not sure I’ve got a choice. “Call the hotel – tell them to hold her if they see her. I’m going now.”

  “What if Amy asks where you are?”

  “You’re an actor, aren’t you? Act!” I shout back over my shoulder, slamming through the pass door into the auditorium.

  “Luke!” I yell at the top of my voice. One of the ushers pokes his head through the stalls door.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes. No. Probably. Have you seen Luke? Luke Withakay? He was out here a minute ago.”

  “I think I saw him heading for the foyer.”

  He says something else, but I’m already running for the main foyer…and screech to a halt as I round the corner and realize that the front-of-house is not only open but full of people. The audience. They’re starting to come inside – even if the house isn’t open, the bars are. I freeze as Rick and Lucinda walk right past me, but thankfully neither of them see me to ask what I’m doing – they’re too busy ushering a tall man in wire-rimmed glasses and a dark suit towards the bar. I recognize that face. That’s Marshal Arthur, the country’s most influential theatre critic. I take half a step back, just in case…then I see him, underneath the chandelier. Of course.

  Slowing to my quickest possible casual walk, I thread my way through the crowd, smiling and nodding until I reach him.

  “Hey!”

  It takes him a second to see me. “Hey!” His face tenses, then relaxes into a smile. “I was just taking a last look before I came back to get warmed up…” He tugs at the hem of a fresh white T-shirt. I’m going to assume that’s one of his own personal actor-rituals – but I can’t stop to ask him now.