Wicked!
Page 33
‘Din’t know we had any friends,’ said Graffi.
‘“Why Uncle, ’tis a shame”,’ muttered Feral.
‘I’m going to throw up again,’ said Paris.
‘No you’re not.’ Hengist swept in resplendent in a beautifully cut pinstripe suit, sky-blue shirt and dark blue spotted tie. ‘The audience are arriving. I want you all down in the General Bagley Room. Take the back stairs so no one sees you.’
On the way they passed props tables groaning with policemen’s helmets, Sally’s old scent bottles filled with coloured water for Monster’s chemist shop, pots of rosemary, camomile and foxglove for Friar Lawrence’s garden, phials of fake blood, retractable knives and pistols, which Emlyn constantly checked for the real thing.
Self-conscious yet astounded how newly beautiful Pearl had made so many of them, the cast took up their positions in rising tiers on three sides of a square. Amber and Jade had become glamorous society hostesses, Milly an innocent vast-eyed angel, towards whom even Paris felt a flicker of lust.
‘I look almost as good as Mummy,’ sighed Milly.
Graffi, aged up with wrinkles, parsnip-yellow bags under the eyes, a shaggy grey wig and a Norland Nurse’s uniform, with a fob watch on his starched bosom, looked nearly fifty and decidedly unattractive. Milly loved him but she wished once again he looked as sexy as Feral who, with his lithe beautiful body encased in black, his amazing tawny eyes elongated to his temples and with a suggestion of ebony whisker, looked indeed the Prince of Cats. Paris had refused blusher or lipstick, but Pearl, with bronzing gel, had warmed his deathly pallor to the olive glow of an Old Master and defined his pale unblinking eyes with eyeliner and mascara. He looked drop dead gorgeous with his officer’s peaked cap shoved on to the back of his head.
‘I must not fancy Paris,’ pleaded Milly.
Standing facing his young audience, Hengist smiled.
‘You all look fantastic.’ Then, sternly: ‘But remember your job tonight is to entertain. Invite the audience on stage with you, invite them to become part of this amazing story. It’s all about eye contact, even if you’re a bad guy or one of the crowd – look out at the audience.
‘Up until now, no one’s given more than seventy-five per cent. Tonight I want one hundred and fifty per cent. It’s already a great show. I want it to be a brilliant show. I want you to change what the audience feels about you. Your parents are out there, longing to be proud of you.’
Not for Paris, thought Janna in anguish.
‘Stand up,’ ordered Hengist.
As the children struggled to their feet, the girls swaying on their high heels, his voice became almost messianic:
‘Shut your eyes. You are young, you are beautiful, you’re energetic, you have ability and gifts. You have time to entertain.’
‘Yeah, man.’ Rocky punched the air with his fist.
Kylie suppressed a nervous giggle. Aysha was horrified to feel her hand creeping into Xav’s, and nearly fainted when he squeezed it back.
‘Make the audience want to be what you are,’ Hengist’s voice dropped seductively: ‘Make them adore you. Your job is to break their hearts.’
Against the force of Hengist’s personality, Feral wrenched open his eyes and caught Bianca gazing at him; then she smiled shyly. Feral was jolted, he must get a grip on himself. Quickly he looked away. Cosmo, intercepting this exchange, was determined to negate it.
‘Good luck, God bless you all,’ ended Hengist to a round of applause. Hovering at the back, glancing at the rapt, inspired faces of the children, Janna was reminded once again why he was head of one of the best schools in the country. He could have sent entire armies over the top.
And he looked so divine. The strong features, the ebony eyebrows, the high colour, the slicked-down hair already leaping upwards, the vitality tamed by the dark-grey establishment suit. An arrogant public-school shit, and yet, and yet . . .
‘My only love sprung from my only hate’, she thought helplessly, stepping out from behind a tier of seats, then leaping back as Pearl shouted, ‘Miss, Miss,’ and all the children took up the cry.
But Janna had fled, racing down the corridor, losing herself in the crowd gathering in the foyer outside the theatre. All round the walls were Cosmo’s blown-up photographs of the cast. Janna swelled with pride. Paris, Feral and Kylie looked so beautiful.
Even more beautiful to the Larks parents was a splendid array of free drink. Two coachloads had been ferried over from the Shakespeare Estate by the heroic Wally and were fast losing their shyness. There was Pearl’s mother and her very young lover, who didn’t look capable of beating Pearl or anyone else up, and Chantal Peck in gold lurex and a high state of excitement, telling everyone she was a parent governor. Stormin’ Norman, in a black trouser suit, had been spoiling for a fight, but her aggression evaporated when she saw the blow-up of Monster as the apothecary. The small stocky man with black curls and naughty laughing eyes, drinking red wine out of a pint mug, must be Dafydd Williams, Graffi’s dad.
Out of loyalty to Vicky, but not bothering to change out of very casual clothes, Skunk Illingworth, Sam Spink, Robbie Rushton and Chally had overcome their loathing of private education enough to get stuck into Hengist’s drink.
Bagley parents, however, were in the ascendancy.
‘Darling darling, kiss kiss, yock yock, ha, ha ha, skiing, the Seychelles, the Caribbean, Egypt, Aspen, Florida, Klosters. Are you going to the Argentine Open? Must come over to kitchen sups,’ to show they’d got a dining room. Listening to the confident yelling and exchange of proper names, Janna had forgotten how much she detested the upper middle classes.
It was still light outside; through the open windows, birds were competing with the orchestra. Chantal and Stormin’ Norman were pointing out celebs.
‘Look, there’s Rupert Campbell-Black, ain’t he beautiful?’
‘Best owner-trainer in the country,’ agreed Dafydd, ‘and there’s Billy Lloyd-Foxe,’ as Amber’s father, clutching two large whiskies, pushed his way through the throng.
‘Never miss him on Question of Sport,’ said Stormin’. ‘’Ello Billy, don’t drink it all at once.’
Billy grinned back at them: ‘I hate running out.’
Dafydd was over the moon and in turn helped himself to two mugs of red.
‘And there’s Jupiter Belvedon, our Member,’ squeaked Chantal. ‘Evening, Jupe.’
Jupiter nodded coolly as he joined the group round Rupert Campbell-Black.
‘Pity I didn’t bring my autograph book,’ sighed Chantal.
Such was Janna’s paranoia, having been warned off by Ashton and Crispin and imagining everyone would be dubbing her a whore, that she was amazed so many parents hailed her.
‘She’s so nice, she’s our head.’
Maybe all those home visits were paying off.
Randal Stancombe, hovering hopefully round the Campbell-Black clique, kissed Janna on both cheeks. Mrs Walton, ravishing as ever in a Lindka Cierach cream velvet suit, to which she had pinned a big pink rose, Calèche rising like morning mist from her ravine of a cleavage, rushed up and insisted she and Janna have lunch soon.
‘I am so thrilled Milly’s playing Juliet,’ she whispered. ‘Randal’s livid that poisonous Jade didn’t get it. Have you met Taggie Campbell-Black? She can’t sleep for worrying Xav’s going to move the wrong chair, or Bianca forget her dance steps.’
Janna smiled up at Taggie, who, slender as a young birch, with a dark cloud of hair, kind, silver-grey eyes and soft pink lips, seemed infinitely sweeter and more beautiful than Mrs Walton.
‘I gather Bianca’s champion,’ she said. ‘She’s doing her dance with one of my most adorable pupils.’
‘Is that Feral? Bianca chatters about him all day. Rupert’s getting very jealous. But we’re so pleased Xav’s got involved. Darling, you’ve met Janna,’ Taggie called out to Rupert who, detesting school events, was cringing behind a pillar talking into two mobiles.
Peering out nervously, he waved at Janna.
Absurdly flattered to be remembered, Janna was thanking him once again for sending Gladiator and the huge cheque, when she lost her audience as Rupert muttered, ‘Oh God,’ and shot behind his pillar again, as a large woman, outcleavaging Ruth Walton and with the wide innocent eyes of a doll, appeared in the doorway awaiting adulation.
‘There’s Dime Kiri,’ shouted Stormin’ Norman, who was well away. ‘’Ello Dime Kiri.’
‘That ain’t Dime Kiri,’ chided Chantal as the large woman expanded like a bullfrog, ‘that’s Dime Hermy-own, stupid. ’Ello, Dime Hermy-own.’
‘It’s Dame Hermione, Cosmo’s mother, silly old bat. Hengist can’t stand her,’ said Ruth Walton with rare venom as Randal shot forward to kiss Dame Hermione’s hand, determined to harpoon this great whale to open his hypermarket.
‘Can I take your photograph, Miss Curtis?’ said a shrill voice. It was Dora, ostensibly covering the play for the Bagley school mag. ‘Oh bugger, here comes my mother, she’s crazy about Rupert.’
‘Christ!’ Rupert had now disappeared round the other side of the pillar to avoid Lady Belvedon, a very slim pretty blonde, crying: ‘Rupert, Rupert.’
‘Did I hear Rupert’s name?’ cried Dame Hermione roguishly and, leaving Stancombe in mid-supermarket pitch, rushed off in pursuit.
Advanced on from right and left, Rupert bolted for the bar.
‘Poor Rupert, he’s so naughty,’ laughed Taggie, then, lowering her voice: ‘He can’t stand Dame Hermione or Anthea Belvedon, but they’re like cats and always crawl over people who are allergic to them.’
‘Oh look, he’s now been clobbered by Poppet Bruce,’ giggled Dora. ‘I expect she’ll invite him to her workshop on behaviour management.’
Strains of Prokoviev’s Romeo and Juliet were rising above the din of chat as the five-minute bell went.
‘God, I loathe school plays,’ grumbled Amber and Junior’s mother, Janey, a blonde Fleet Street journalist who’d seen better days. ‘This one’s going to be even direr, since Bagley bonded with that grotty comprehensive . . .’
Ruth Walton laughed.
‘This is the grotty comp’s headmistress, Janna Curtis.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Janey, filling up Janna’s glass from her brimming half-pint mug, ‘I’m so sorry. You’re much too pretty and young for a head. I’m covering this for the Mail. I’ll say you’re charismatic and deeply capable.’ Then, as Uncle Harley sauntered in looking sleek and dangerous: ‘Who’s that utterly ravishing man covered in diamonds?’
‘Some African prince,’ said Janna slyly.
At least someone’s come for Feral, she thought as she waved at Harley. She was also delighted Nadine and Mr Blenchley from Oaktree Court had showed up.
‘Christ.’ Rupert had joined them again. ‘Hermione, Lady Belvedon and that ghastly Poppet: I thought the three witches came in Macbeth.’
There was an explosion of flashes as Hengist swept in with Anatole’s father the Russian Minister and his glamorous wife, who was wearing a floor-length fur.
‘It must have accounted for a hundred bears,’ said Dora furiously, ‘I’m going to blow her up.’
‘I feel one has a duty to support these functions,’ Lady Belvedon was telling Stancombe, then squawked as the long pink tongue of Elaine, the greyhound, relieved her of the vol-au-vent she was clutching.
The sixty-second bell was ringing imperiously. As everyone surged into the theatre, Taggie turned shyly to Janna.
‘Good luck. I’m so sick with nerves for Bianca, I can’t imagine what it would be like to worry about a whole school. You’ve done so well, Xav and Bianca have really taken to your Larks children.’
If only all posh people were like you, thought Janna, noticing Graffi’s dad tucking a bottle of red wine inside his jacket.
‘Thank you for helping our Graffi with his muriel,’ said his wife.
‘You must come and see it,’ said Janna happily, then any joy was drained out of her as she saw the Tusk Force: Russell, Crispin, Rod Hyde and Ashton Douglas, in a dark purple smoking jacket, with an uncharacteristically adoring expression on his bland, pink face.
‘Dame Hermione.’ He seized both her hands. ‘You were the most wonderful Elisabetta I ever saw. Pawis nineteen eighty-five.’
‘You’re very kind.’ Hermione bowed gracefully. ‘Perhaps you could rustle me up another glass of bubbly?’
‘Indeed.’ Ashton belted off.
‘You’re looking very iconic this evening, Dame Hermione,’ snuffled fat Crispin.
‘Where’s Vicky?’ asked Russell.
‘Backstage.’ Rod Hyde’s voice thickened. ‘The good general is always with his troops.’
Catapulted forward by the crowd, Janna couldn’t avoid them.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ she said coolly.
They nodded back equally coolly.
‘Good of you to turn up.’
‘We felt we must support Vicky,’ said Ashton.
Janna glanced at her ticket. ‘I must find my seat.’
Next moment, a big warm hand grabbed hers. ‘Gotcha,’ said a familiar deep husky voice. ‘Come and watch with me.’
‘I’m sitting with Tim and Mags Gablecross,’ shrieked Janna, aware of Ashton and Co’s delighted disapproval and wriggling like a stray cat to escape.
‘The Gablecrosses won’t mind,’ said Hengist. ‘We started this together, I want to share it with you,’ and he dragged her off to sit in the middle of the tenth row, making everyone move up.
‘Sally’s backstage, doing last-minute repairs,’ he told Janna. ‘Half our girls are so besotted with your Feral, the other half with your Paris. They’ve all had to have their costumes taken in.’
Oh God, thought Janna in panic as a flurry of ‘Excuse me, sorry, excuse me’ indicated that the Tusk Force had taken the seats directly behind her.
I haven’t seen Hengist since I last saw you, Janna wanted to scream at them, but then she thought defiantly: I don’t care, I don’t care. Maybe it’s three glasses of wine on an empty stomach, but I still really adore him.
Giving her a slug of Courvoisier from a silver hipflask, Hengist introduced her to two masters on her right.
These were Artie Deverell, the handsome, languid, gentle head of modern languages, whom Mags Gablecross, who taught the same subject, had fallen in love with on balloon day, and Theo Graham, the bald and very wrinkled head of classics, revered for his translation of Euripides.
‘I’ve got Jack Waterlane, Junior, Lando and Lubemir in my house,’ whispered Artie. ‘Theo’s got Cosmo and Anatole, so we both have our crosses.’
The Russian Minister and his wife were seated on Hengist’s left. Next moment, everyone jumped out of their skins as Dame Hermione started singing along to Prokofiev.
‘Lurex tremendous,’ murmured Hengist as Chantal Peck swept up to the front.
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It was a wonderful theatre, stark and forbidding, with black brick walls forty feet high and black leather seats. Saxophones and clarinets glittered like jewels in the pit; pearly drum skins gleamed in the half-light.
The only prop in front of the crimson curtains was a big cardboard television with the screen cut out. As Prokofiev’s menacing ‘March of the Capulets’ faded away, Kylie Rose appeared inside the now lit-up screen as a presenter.
‘“Two households, both alaike in dignity . . .”’ She held up cards saying Bagley and Larks:
‘In fair Verona, where we lay our scene.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-crossed lovers take their laife.’
‘Christ,’ muttered Rupert, ‘she’s been here half a term and she talks like Anthea Belvedon.’
Chantal was in ecstasy: Kylie looked so dignified.
Back creaked the crimson curtains to a howl of police sirens and a burst of clapping. Against Graffi’s fantastic
backdrop of mosques, tumbling twin towers, tower blocks and army barracks strangled by barbed wire was a street in Verona with an ice-cream van, AC Milan posters, a large bullet-pocked Shakespeare Estate sign, and a signpost saying ‘Bagley 5 miles, City Centre ½ mile’. There was the Ghost and Castle and Mrs Kamani’s newsagent’s with a broken window.
Oh God, thought Janna, but, rising out of her seat, she could see Mrs Kamani laughing. Revelling in the roars of applause, Janna forgot her nerves. This was no school production; it was slick, yet bursting with exuberance and passion. Larks’s confidence had grown so much, they were as assured as their Bagley counterparts.
Here was Rocky lumbering out of the Ghost and Castle and turning on the Montagues.
‘“No, sir, I do not bite my fumb at you, sir, but I bite my fumb, sir. When I have fought the men, I will be civil with the maids, and cut off their heads.”’
‘“The heads of the maids?”’ demanded Junior.
‘“Ay, the heads of the maids or their maidenheads.”’ Rocky leered round; the audience laughed.
Then Feral erupted on to the stage to huge cheers and boos.
‘“What, drawn, and talk of peace! I hate the word,”’ he spat, his fury scattering the Montagues, then paused.
Although the cast knew he’d dried, the audience thought it was terrific timing.
‘“I hate the word,”’ repeated Feral, recovering, ‘“As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee. Have at thee, coward!”’ And guns were flashing and blanks ringing out.
‘That’s Bianca’s boyfriend,’ whispered Taggie. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’
‘Very black,’ muttered back Rupert.
Paris stood apart in the wings, psyching himself up, mindlessly chewing gum. I am Romeo; I am in Verona; I am empowered; I am lovesick for a woman who hardly knows I exist. Plus ça change, he thought bitterly, I am about to crash a ball and fall in love for the first and last time in my life.
‘Good luck, Paris.’ Vicky’s clap on the back nearly shot him on to the stage. ‘Remember to speak up.’
Roars of applause greeted each new set, particularly the Capulets’ ballroom with long-legged beauties in masks and paparazzi hiding, like Rupert, behind every pillar.