Theatrical Page 7

  Why didn’t I get Tommy to speak to them on my phone before I left?

  Why didn’t I tell Tommy to go fetch his own stupid phone?

  Tightrope of Fired. That’s why.

  I half-walk, half-run along the pavement in the direction of the cab office. Luckily, there are three cars out front – and even from the road I can see the drivers sitting in the waiting room.

  I completely forgot to ask Amy for money. There’s a petty cash box, isn’t there? Why didn’t I just think? I decide to sort it out when I get back, and ask for a car to the Grand.

  I slide into the back seat of the cab; the driver clears his throat loudly, slamming the car door.

  It’s fine. It’s fine. I’ll just get a receipt and—

  “So where are we going?” The voice comes from right next to me, and it’s all I can do not to shriek.

  George. Bundling himself into the back seat with an expectant look on his face.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss at him. I’m about to tell him to go away, but we’re already moving.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, looking out of the window. “Are we off on an adventure?”

  “Tommy’s forgotten his phone, so naturally I’m fetching it. Because that’s my point and purpose in life, you know. Why are you here?”

  “Followed you. Why’s Tommy need his phone so badly?”

  “Hang on – you followed me?”

  “I saw you talking to Mr Hollywood. Thought you might be on some exciting secret mission.”

  “Apparently Tommy must be contactable at all times, and it can’t possibly wait until the end of the day.”

  “Oh.” George ponders this. “Why’s that then?”

  “Maybe he’s waiting for the call to tell him he’s won Dickhead of the Year.”

  “Sounds likely. So where are we going?”

  “His hotel.”

  “His actual room?”

  “Easy, tiger. They’ll never let us up there.”

  “Then how…”

  “Shhhh.” I shut my eyes and rest my head against the seat.

  The hotel concierge is, as I predicted, not having any of this “going up to the room” business. Not even my offer to call Amy and get Tommy on the phone seems to be enough.

  “His room?” He studies us carefully: me, trying to look at least slightly together, and pretending that yes I absolutely knew I had a pencil stuck in my hair when I walked up to the desk and I definitely and completely meant for it to be there…and George, who is trying to take a selfie in front of the enormous vase of flowers in the middle of the lobby.

  “George!” I hiss at him under my breath.

  I’m sure I can see a vein bulging in the concierge’s forehead that wasn’t there a moment ago.

  I sigh. There’s no way I’m getting out of this, is there? “Crème de menthe,” I mutter.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He said…Mr Knight said to tell you ‘crème de menthe’, and you’d know it was really him. Or me. You’d know that I was here for him.”

  “Wait here, please.” His raised hand is as immovable and unavoidable as a granite cliff as he picks up the phone handset with his other. “Housekeeping? Who am I speaking with? Zelda. Perfect. How are you, my darling? Yes. Yes. Listen – a guest believes he has left his mobile phone in his room? Mmm. Mmm-hmm. Mr Knight, in the penthouse. Yes. His assistant is waiting in the lobby to collect… Could you? Perfect. Wonderful. Thank you, my darling. Yes, yes. You’ll know her. Mmm.” He hangs up and fixes me with a stern look. “Wait. Here.”

  So I do. And I picture telling Tommy exactly where he can stick his phone.

  “… and so they cast Tommy,” says George, his voice breaking through my thoughts. “Apparently, he didn’t even have to audition. Can you imagine?”

  “Sorry – what?”

  “You’re in a world of your own, aren’t you?” He shakes his head. “Calm down. It’ll be fine.”

  “This is such a waste of time. I’m not his assistant.”

  “You’re meant to be keeping him happy, and if this is what keeps him happy then it’s what you’ve got to do. Stop stressing.”

  Said like that, with his Geordie accent, it’s almost impossible to argue. “What were you saying about the show?”

  “Just something I read online this morning. Gossip pages on the SixGuns website.”

  “SixGuns is pretty trashy, George.”

  “So you don’t read it, then?”

  I open my mouth, realize I have no answer, and close it. George takes this as his cue to continue.

  “Tommy was spitting feathers over missing out on the award nominations again this year. Apparently he wanted to be taken ‘seriously’ so he told his agent he needed to do some theatre. The producers demanded a star – and voila! Tommy Knight, on a stage near you!”

  “No, I know that. But I thought the whole point of him doing theatre was to not be…Hollywood-y? He wanted to do something that got away from all that star stuff, didn’t he?” Not that you’d know it from the way he’s behaving so far.

  At that moment, a woman wearing a housekeeping uniform and carrying a phone appears from a side door. She hesitates, scans the lobby…and then spots me and starts walking over. I give her a less-than-enthusiastic wave. Obviously that’s what “You’ll know her” meant.

  “Mr Knight’s phone?”

  I thank her and practically snatch it out of her hands.

  “Watch it,” George mutters, jumping out of the way as I swing around.

  We bundle back into the taxi with the precious cargo.

  “Did you see that?” George leans over me to look out of the window as we pull away. “I could’ve sworn that guy just came out of the hotel and took our photo.”

  “You what?”

  “He had a camera.”

  “It’s just a tourist, George. Why would anyone want to take a photo of us?” Turning Tommy’s phone over in my hands, I elbow George onto his half of the back seat. “Anyway, I get that if you’re going to have a big name in the play then Tommy’s perfect.”

  “He is, isn’t he?” George sighs.

  I elbow him harder. “Yeah, all right. But what I don’t get is why they even needed a name for Piecekeepers. Have you seen how many copies the book has sold since it came out? And all the fan stuff online?” I have. I looked. I wasn’t exactly crazy about the book, personally, but plenty of people are.

  George snorts. “Doesn’t mean anyone will come and see it though, does it? You know how it goes. You can’t guarantee anything in theatre – it’s why so many telly actors are getting cast in things they’ve got no business being in, just because they’re a name.”

  “Wow. Bit harsh.”

  “No it isn’t. Besides, the Earl’s doesn’t exactly have a reputation for the most cutting-edge productions, does it? Maybe they wanted to show what they can do if they have the chance? Prove themselves or something.”

  It’s why the news that Piecekeepers would open here before going to the West End has caught everybody by surprise. Shows like this don’t open all the way down here in the south-west, an hour (and then some) out of Paddington. This kind of theatre happens in London. Okay, maybe after a few years it would tour here – but opening? No way. Suddenly, the Earl’s has become the little regional theatre that could, and is punching well above its weight. And people are watching; not all of them friendly.

  And what that means is that nobody on this show can afford to mess up.

  Nobody.

  Paying for the cab leaves me completely broke. George didn’t think to bring his wallet on this so-called exciting secret mission, so it’s down to me. The cab driver reluctantly hands over a receipt so I can claim the money back from Amy, muttering the whole time about the traffic like that’s my fault. Mind you, thanks to the traffic, it’s also taken much longer than I was hoping – the lunch break is almost over, and it’s already quarter to one by the time I walk through the rehearsal room door, brandishing my
prize…

  Only to see Tommy, handing Amy’s phone back to her.

  I walk over to him and hold out his precious, precious handset; he stares at me like I’ve tried to hand him half a potato.

  “What do I need that for? I’ve just made my call.”

  And with that, he sashays off to pick up the rehearsal where we left it.

  I sit at the creative team desk, making notes with one hand, popping the last few crisps from the lunch table into my mouth with the other. Seeing as I spent my entire lunch break fetching and carrying for Tommy, I didn’t get time to eat – and all that was left on the food trays by the time I got back were a few packs of crisps and a couple of sad-looking cheese and pickle sandwiches which George leaped at and shoved in his mouth as fast as he could.

  I keep an eye on the script as I chew, just in case someone forgets their line, but everything seems to be running pretty smoothly – if you ignore the stage illusion, which has now reduced Amy to sullen silence and which Rick has announced he’s not wasting any more time on until we can try it out on the actual stage. And Tommy might be a bit (a lot) of a dick – but he’s good. He’s really good. When he steps into the rehearsal stage area, everyone’s attention is drawn to him every single time. His voice is like a saw wrapped in silk: soft and quiet one second, sharp and cutting the next. Each word his character Jamie says, each move he makes, feels like it was always meant for him. Even Rick nods along thoughtfully, only occasionally taking his eyes off his brother to scribble something in the margins of his script. We’re flying through this rehearsal, and just like Amy said, things are starting to pull together into what feels like a whole play; with nearly two weeks before opening night, there might even be time to—

  Somewhere at the back of the room, a phone rings. Loudly.

  Rick rolls his eyes. “Whose is that?”

  The spell is broken, and everyone drops out of character. Postures change and the actors’ faces shift back to their everyday expressions. And then Tommy bounds out of the taped-off area, heading for the ringing mobile.

  “That’s my manager’s ringtone. I need to take this.”

  Maybe it was better when he didn’t have it…

  No apology, no suggestion of letting it go to voicemail. Nothing. He grabs his phone from his chair and swishes out through the door into the foyer. “Hello? Yes. Yes, I’m…”

  The door closes behind him and cuts us off from the conversation.

  Everyone in the room looks at one another, and at Rick – who is tapping the end of his pencil irritably against his teeth.

  “Luke?”

  Luke’s head snaps up from his notebook.

  “It doesn’t look like we’re going to make it to your scene today, I’m afraid. Fancy switching roles and taking a run at this one while we wait for Mr Knight to grace us with his presence once more?”

  Luke nods. “If you’re sure?”

  “If nobody has any objections, I think it would be good to keep things moving. I like the energy we’re getting from this run-through.” Rick glances at the actors, who mumble and shrug and nod and gradually slide back into their characters, dropping their usual selves like discarded coats. “Let’s back up a little – can we take it from Lizzie’s entrance? Whenever you’re ready…”

  There’s some shuffling as the cast find their positions and reset their rehearsal props – someone picks up a mug from the table at the back of the stage area and tosses it to another actor offstage, while someone else grabs a chair and turns it the right way round.

  And then they start.

  At first, it’s just the same: Juliet, playing Lizzie, does her thing, and all the while Luke is waiting at the side of the stage area. Rick is nodding and chewing and nodding, and Amy and Nina are both studying Juliet’s performance. And then Luke comes on…except he’s not Luke any more. The guy I was talking to earlier, the one who’s been sitting there all morning quietly reading and taking notes – he’s gone. Just…gone.

  In his place on the stage is someone else. Jamie. Every bit as real and magnetic as he was when Tommy was embodying him – but somehow different. Luke is following Tommy’s blocking, keeping to the same points on the stage like we all need him to, but the lines spin out of his mouth with different meanings. He leans in closer to Juliet’s Lizzie, whispering softly to her where Tommy used a barely-controlled growl…and I can’t be the only one who sees the blush creeping up her cheek.

  She didn’t do that when Tommy said the line.

  But looking at Luke standing there, only a breath away from her, I don’t blame her at all.

  Because that – what Luke’s doing – that’s the closest thing to magic I’ve ever seen. It’s a vanishing act: he’s still wearing the same clothes, still has the same colour hair, same colour eyes, but everything else about him is gone. His voice is different. He moves differently. The way he carries himself is different… He’s someone completely new.

  Never mind that he’s playing Lancelot – how is he only the understudy for this part? He’s better than Tommy.

  Every single person in the rehearsal room is focused entirely and completely on the stage, on the way Luke’s hand is resting on Juliet’s shoulder. It feels weird, like we’re watching something real – like we’re spying on something private. He moves closer to her, his hand sliding down her side, his arm wrapping around her waist and drawing her in…his lips almost brushing her cheek…and the whole rehearsal room is holding its breath…

  And then the slow-clapping starts from the back of the room.

  Tommy has slipped back in, unnoticed, and is leaning against the wall beside the door, watching with a sardonic expression.

  “Oh, bravo. Well done.” He stops clapping and sniffs. “And there was I, worried about holding up the rehearsal.”

  Rick leans back in his seat, turning his head towards his brother. “That’s not what it looked like from here. We’re on the clock – and I thought it would be good for Luke to stretch his wings a little.” He grins darkly, and no one in the room could miss the threat. “He’s not at all bad as Jamie.”

  “Yes, well. He isn’t me, is he? He’d do better concentrating on his own part.” Tommy bats Rick’s words away – and he’s right. After all, it’s his name on the posters, isn’t it? His face.

  As he steps over the tape marking the front of the “stage”, Luke becomes himself again. I see it happen, and Jamie dissolves as he walks over to Rick for notes on his performance. The feedback he gets is quick and to the point – and good. Very good. Nina adds a comment from her notes, and Amy says something about watching his shadow crossing Juliet’s face…and then they all turn to me.

  “Hope. Any thoughts?” Amy asks.

  “Ummm….” I look at my prompt script. I have no idea why – I know I didn’t write anything down the whole time Luke was onstage. I was too busy staring at him, wasn’t I?

  I peer at the pages, hoping it at least vaguely looks like I’m reading something very interesting and important. “No, no, I think that was great. Really…yes. Awesome.”

  Luke smiles. “That’ll do me,” he says – and for a second it looks like he might actually be blushing. Trick of the light, probably.

  Amy raises an eyebrow at me, and I can actually hear George sniggering into his notes behind me. I turn around and glare at him, but it only makes him snort and huddle down behind his iPad.

  Even Rick looks like he’s in danger of breaking into a smile. Great. A chance to dazzle him with my insight and attention…and I’m an idiot.

  I stand up, pushing my chair under the table and not even caring that the legs squeal against the floor. I can’t be in here with everyone looking at me one minute longer. “Does anyone want tea?”

  “Great idea, Hope. Ten minutes, everyone.”

  I hold my head up as I walk to the kitchen, right the way through the door…and as soon as I’ve checked nobody followed me, I start banging my forehead against the mug cupboard.

  “Stupid. Stupid. S
tupid. ‘Really awesome.’ Hey, Hope, here’s your chance to do something other than take notes on whether the lamp’s supposed to be on the left-hand side of the table or the right-hand side of the table…and you come up with ‘awesome’ like some stupid kid.”

  I lean my forehead on the cupboard door. I just wasn’t expecting that, and it caught me completely off guard. He was so quiet, and so awkward…and then so good.

  “Don’t take it to heart. It wasn’t that bad,” says a voice behind me. I roll around, not quite taking my face off the Door of Shame. Nina is standing just inside the kitchen, her arms folded across her chest.

  “No,” I mutter. “It was definitely worse. I sounded like an idiot.” I sigh, and she cocks her head to one side.

  “You didn’t, not at all. Not having notes is fine – it means you’ve been invested in the performance. That’s the goal.” She picks up the kettle. “Need a hand?”

  I start pulling mugs out of the cupboard and doling out teabags, spoons of instant coffee, Juliet’s weird green-tea granules and something one of the other actors apparently brought back from a silent retreat in Spain. I don’t know what it is, but it’s gloopy and dark orange and smells like…well, something bad.

  We stand there, waiting for the first kettleful of water to boil. “What’s it like working with Rick?” I ask.

  Nina shrugs, but there’s a longer pause than I was expecting before she actually answers. “Oh, you know. He’s a perfectionist. Amazing, but he likes things done his way – which is fair enough. It does mean a lot of research, though, because that’s how he works. Even by the usual standards, you could say he’s an over-preparer. It drives my girlfriend crazy when we’re in pre-production. She says it’s like living in an old archive.”

  I picture the heap of papers I shovelled under my bed – the notes and printouts of actors’ headshots and half-crossed-through lists of props. “I know what you mean.”

  I load a tray up with mugs and the giant carton of milk (and the selection of smaller non-dairy milk cartons that seem to be breeding in the fridge at the moment: almond, soya, oat…and apparently this new one is hemp – who knew?) and nudge it towards her.