Theatrical Page 6

  It makes our conversations a little…one-sided, to say the least. Worse, it means that she feels she’s got to tell me literally everything about the school show to justify her call – including those moments that every show has in rehearsals, the ones that were funny at the time but afterwards just feel a bit mean. Priya isn’t mean, she’s just trading gossip. Except I have nothing to trade. While she’s busy with the school show, I’m busy chasing lunches and making tea – and even those seem stupidly hard. I feel like the stuff I have got right has just been a fluke, like I’ve somehow tricked my way in there, or that Amy mixed my form up with somebody else’s, and at any moment she’s going to turn around and tell me there’s been a mistake: they wanted someone more confident, someone who knew what they were doing – and that’s clearly not me. I’ve been lucky so far – but surely my luck has to run out soon. And when it does, they’ll see…and that will be that.

  The fact I can’t tell anyone any of this – not even Priya – because of that NDA and my own idiocy in trying to keep this whole thing a secret, makes it even worse.

  There’s a break in the chatter down the phone.

  “You’re not really listening, are you?”

  “Sorry, Pree.”

  “What’s up?”

  I want to tell her about the fact I’m spending my days (my blissfully anonymous days) in a room with Rick Hillier and Tommy Knight, and that they’re brothers; that I’m watching a show, which I know is going to be massive, being built from the ground up. I want to tell her how it feels to sit in that room and listen to the cast sharing all their stories and gossip about the shows they’ve been in before… But I can’t. All I can tell her is that I’ve made a lot of tea.

  Except…there is one thing I can talk about, isn’t there?

  “It’s not so much about the placement, but…”

  “But what? Go on.” I can hear her on the other end of the line, sitting a little more upright and holding her phone a little more tightly.

  “Okay. So, there’s this guy…”

  I wake from a dream full of mini-Tommys chasing me around while an impossibly huge Rick stands on a stage, telling me I’m wasting his time and to get out before he calls my parents to come and fetch me.

  And frogs. There are lots of frogs. Which I’m trying to collect in a bucket.

  My bucket has a hole in it.

  Wondering what my subconscious is trying to tell me, I shake off the remnants of the dream and tell myself that no, Rick is not going to call my mother and ask her to come and take me home. He doesn’t even know her… Does he? Mind you, unless I do something about the paperwork and rehearsal notes scattered all over my bedroom, nobody’s going to need to tell her anything – she’ll be able to figure out exactly what I’m doing just by looking at my floor. So I shove everything under my bed.

  Better.

  I mean, you can just about see them, a few sheets here and there, but they kind of blend in with everything else.

  The poster I got when we went to the RSC.

  The tickets from shows stuck to my pinboard.

  The collage of columns I cut from The Stage.

  The faded photo of me, little me, outside the stage door of the Earl’s, with its glowing light above the entrance shining like a tiny sun. I used to try and see inside every time we walked past when I was a kid, because I knew there was magic in there.

  There still is. I know there is.

  I get dressed.

  When I get to the rehearsal room, the foyer is less cluttered than it has been – there are a few coats, but most of the company clearly aren’t in yet, and despite the fact I spent ages staring at the sheet last night I have no idea who’s on the schedule for today. I’ll have to look when I sit down.

  Thankfully there’s no sign of a motorbike helmet.

  I slip into the rehearsal room to find Amy sitting with Rick and Nina at the director’s table, chairs arranged in rows behind them. Hearing the door, Rick’s head snaps around to check who has come in. He’s holding a whole red apple in his mouth; it reminds me for a second of those illustrations of whole roast piglets you see in history books. Amy laughs, and he remembers it’s there, biting off a chunk and putting the rest of it down on the desk.

  “Good morning, Hope. Ready for another day?”

  Rick Hillier said my name.

  I have got to get over this.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  Amy sets her mug on the table. “I’ve got a checklist for you – let me get it out of my bag.” She rummages in the pile of things under the desk, and behind me the door opens again as George, immaculate in black jeans and a scarlet and silver T-shirt, walks in with a portfolio and waves it at me. I’m about to wave back when I spot the figure right behind him in the doorway.

  Mr Blue Eyes.

  He takes in the room, and I swear his eyes rest on me a moment longer than they need to. Then, head down, he walks straight past me over to the table and says something to Rick – who nods, makes a note on one of the sheets in front of him, then tucks his pencil behind his ear.

  I have made up my mind. I am going to talk to him and give him his book back. I am. Definitely. Yes. Probably. Almost certainly… Because if I don’t, Priya will never let me live it down.

  Amy reappears and flaps yet another piece of paper at me. “Today’s schedule,” she says.

  As I take it, I nod over at the guy. “Sorry – who’s he? I’ve seen him around, but I don’t actually know what he does.”

  He passes me again on his way back across the room, stooping to peer under the chairs, pulling what looks like another script book out of his pocket.

  “Luke, you mean? He’s a drama student. Funnily enough, he works part-time as one of our front-of-house staff too – a lot of them do, because the staff get free seats for the shows. We’re lucky to have him, though – he’s good. You’ll see when we run some of his scenes today.”

  A drama student. I guess that explains the script.

  “I didn’t see his picture in the files. What’s his role?”

  “You should know that already, Hope,” she says. “Picture or not.”

  I should? How?

  “Here. He’s on the call sheet I gave you yesterday.” Amy flicks through the schedule in her hand to the copy of today’s call sheet. “Do you want to start ticking the names off as they come in?”

  My eyes slide down the list, looking for a Luke. And there he is in black and white: Mr Luke Withakay. Lancelot. The second-in-command of the Piecekeepers, and the Magister’s right-hand man. Not the biggest role in the show – that’s Jamie, and then maybe Lizzie – but an important one. Not bad for a student. On the line below his name, there’s something else written in smaller italic text.

  Jamie (U)

  He’s not just Lancelot. He’s Tommy Knight’s understudy.

  I take the sheet.

  “Hi there.” I stop beside the seat he’s looking under. “You’re Lancelot, right?”

  He straightens up and adjusts his beanie hat. “Uh…” He seems to be looking at the sheet, the floor, over my shoulder – anywhere, in fact, but at me. His gaze darts about the room like a bright fish, flitting this way then that.

  “I mean you’re playing Lancelot. And understudying Jamie? You’re Luke?”

  He relaxes – his posture softens and suddenly his eyes lock onto mine, and I can feel the warmth of his gaze. “That’s me,” he murmurs. His voice is unexpectedly deep.

  Also, this is awkward, because now we’re both just standing here. And I should leave. Or he should. One of us should, anyway – or at least say something. But my feet don’t want to move…

  In the end, it’s me who cracks first. “I think I have something for you,” I blurt at him. “Wait here?”

  I dash for my bag before I can second-guess myself and pull out the copy (slightly more dog-eared than it was) of The History Boys.

  “Here.” I hold it out, before spotting the bent corner. “Oh. Sorry about
that.” I try to fold it flat and press it down against my leg.

  Seeing the book, his face lights up. “Thanks – uh…?”

  “Hope. I’m Hope.”

  “Hope.” He makes my name sound full. “Thanks. I was looking for that – I thought I might have lost it or…” He tails off, staring at the book in my hands. “It’s got my notes in it,” he adds – and I understand. Losing your notes is never just about losing your notes. It’s about losing your connection with a play, with a character. A connection you’ve made by letting them become a part of you. But he can’t know that when I started flicking through his script, I couldn’t stop. I’ve spent time reading his notes, poring over them, turning over the different line readings of each scene he’s annotated. Too much time – time I should have spent on our own play, on my own script – but I couldn’t help myself. This felt like a window I couldn’t pass without looking in; a door left ajar with a golden globe of light above it.

  He reaches for the script, takes it…and as he does, his hand brushes against mine, just for an instant, just the slightest touch…

  His skin is warm and soft.

  Warm like his voice.

  “Thanks,” he says again, quieter this time.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I just stand there like a total muppet.

  And then I remember what I’m supposed to be doing.

  “Right. Well. So, you’re clearly here, so I guess I’d better tick you off on the call sheet. There you go.” I put a little tick next to his name.

  The door opens, and a couple more actors dressed in their rehearsal uniforms – tracksuits and trainers for most of them – stroll in carrying their bags. They head off to the far corner of the room and start doing some warm-up stretches.

  I roll up my little register sheet. “Duty calls, I guess. Nice to meet you, Luke.”

  I try to walk away, cool and professional – but I can’t.

  I have to look back – and I do, quickly: a fast glance over my shoulder, letting my gaze slide across the room. I could be looking for anyone, at anyone. But I’m not.

  He’s still holding the script in his hand, his face turned down towards it. What would I do if he looked up and saw me now?

  Do I want him to?

  Dodging round a couple of chairs, I tick off a few more names as I spot new company arrivals coming through in a steady trickle. And when I take one last look over, Luke is leaning back in his chair, ruffling his hair with his fingers…and this time he is looking right back at me. I snap my eyes away from him and over to the other side of the room, pretending to be concentrating very hard on the first thing I see. Which happens to be George, who instantly panics and starts mouthing “What?” at me.

  The rehearsal room has filled with a buzz of energy – not quite noise, but something between sound and excitement. Today’s the deadline Rick gave them to be completely off-book. With the actors (hopefully) knowing their lines and not needing their scripts, the creative team gets to see what they do when their hands and their minds are free and their bodies have settled into who they’re meant to become. Words, movements, feelings: it’s the first time the production breathes.

  It also means that I need to concentrate more than ever. With the cast off-book, there’s bound to be a few times they forget their lines, and my job is to prompt them, which means I’ve got to follow the script line by line…all while checking we’ve got the movements and cues marked on the prompt copy. On a smooth scene, it’s all right – but on a bad one, it’s a little like jumping on a trampoline while wearing stilts and drinking a glass of water, blindfolded.

  It’ll be fine.

  I carry on ticking off the last few names until there’s only two left: Juliet, our Lizzie, and – surprise – Tommy. Well, we can’t start without him, can we?

  George has settled down with his iPad on his lap and is flicking through what looks like a Pinterest page full of hairstyles, making notes in an A4 pad alongside him and occasionally looking up to study the actors as they mill about, warming up.

  I lean on the back of the chair next to him. “Morning!”

  “Hey you!” he says brightly, half-turning in his seat and holding up the tablet. “What do you think about this for her?” He points to a tightly braided style on the screen and then at Ruby, the understudy for Lizzie as well as one of Jamie’s friends, currently wriggling her way out of a sweater across the room. “I have to find three different styles for her wig, research them and write a pro and con thing for each one, then Jonna and Nathalie said I can do the wig fitting for the one they all choose.” He glows with excitement. “Me! They’re letting me help choose her style!”

  “That’s amazing!” I peer at the screen. “Have you got the other two there as well?”

  He nods and proudly flicks through another couple of near-identical hairstyles. “What do you think? I don’t want to get it wrong and look like a total idiot.”

  I make a vaguely approving, thoughtful sound, even though I can’t actually see any difference between them. But what do I know?

  George is still looking at me expectantly. “What do you think?” I ask, hoping that’ll do.

  “I like this one.” He taps the second of the identikit hair-triplets. “But I don’t know where I’d put the mic…”

  I’ve checked enough costumes in the moments before an actor steps out onstage to know about the perils of mic tape. “You could try there?” I point at the middle of the front edge of the hairstyle, where a parting would sit.

  George purses his lips and zooms in. “Interesting…”

  I don’t get to find out whether that’s a good “interesting” or a bad “interesting” because the door is thrown open and Tommy sails in. I guess I should be impressed that he’s not actually last. He sashays across the room, dropping an insanely expensive-looking leather backpack on the floor and draping himself over a chair. Rick spots him and folds his arms expectantly.

  “Are we all here?” His voice creaks with barely-contained irritation.

  Tommy ignores him.

  The silence in the room is deafening – and then George catches my attention. He’s making a rolling gesture with his hands, widening his eyes at me.

  Oh. Right.

  Me.

  “Umm…we’re just waiting for Juliet…” I brandish my register of ticked-off names, just as Juliet comes barrelling through the door.

  “Sorry. Sorry. My cat got out. I’m so sorry if I’ve held everyone up.” She’s been running – she’s out of breath and her words tumble out one after another, piling up in the middle of the floor along with her bag and her coat. This is obviously good enough for Rick, who nods and claps his hands together.

  “All right then. Two minutes, everyone!” He folds a new stick of chewing gum into his mouth.

  From his seat, Tommy snorts and mutters something inaudible.

  I’d better go put the kettle on…

  We break for lunch at noon and Tommy immediately snaps his fingers at me from the back of the room. Charming. Luke is sitting at the end of a row of chairs, his head buried in his show script, a spiral-bound notebook on the chair next to him where he’s been making notes about Tommy’s performance. The tricky thing about being an understudy is making sure that if you ever get to play the role, your performance is yours…but not so different from the lead actor’s that it throws the rest of the cast off-balance. I give him a smile as I pass, but he’s so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t notice me. Tommy, on the other hand, watches me every step of the way.

  “Good. I need you to fetch me something.”

  Hello to you, too…

  It’s part of the job. It’s fine. It’s fine. “Sure, what can I get for you?”

  Support the cast, be there for Tommy, keep his head in the theatre; keep putting one foot in front of the other along the tightrope across the burning pit of Fired…

  “My phone. I need my phone.”

  “Right…?” I wait. Unless he’s expe
cting me to magic it out of the air, he’ll have to give me at least a little more information.

  “It’s probably in my room at the Grand.”

  “You’re still in the hotel?” I thought he would be in digs or a flat or something, the way most actors would be…but then I guess it’s different when you’re Hollywood.

  “Yes, obviously I’m in the hotel. Unless you know something I don’t?” Somehow he manages both to roll his eyes in disgust and close them in pain at my stupidity all at once. “Well? Off you go. The penthouse. Tell the concierge ‘crème de menthe’, and he’ll be happy to help.”

  “Crème de menthe?” I repeat back at him.

  He blinks at me, and even though I can’t believe he’s asking me – telling me – to spend my lunch break on some stupid errand, even though I can almost feel my blood boiling in my veins…his eyes are fixed on me, and suddenly he’s Tommy Knight the movie star, and I am standing right next to him and…

  “Yes. It’s a password. I set one up with the staff at every hotel I stay in – it lets them know you work for me.”

  Oh, do I?

  “And Hope?” He gives me a dazzling, million-watt Hollywood smile. Perhaps he’s going to say how grateful he’ll be; how he knows it’s a lot to ask.

  “Mmm?”

  “The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back – yes?”

  I hate him – and I don’t even get the chance to tell him so, because apparently satisfied that he’s messed up my day enough, he spins on his heel and walks away.

  I shoot a stricken look at Amy, but she’s busy doing something complicated with gaffer tape.

  Tommy glances round, realizes I’ve not gone anywhere and makes a small shooing gesture with his hand.

  I look at the clock on the wall. Ten past twelve. There’s a minicab office three units down, isn’t there? If I go now, I might actually make it back for some of my break.

  Right.

  I grab my bag and I’m gone. Do I call the hotel? What do I even say to them, other than “crème de menthe” and hope that Tommy’s not setting me up for some elaborate prank?