“Madbadanddangeroustoknowthatswhatheycallmemadbad anddangeroustoknowthatswhattheycallme…”
—and then he heard a click and a mechanical whirr and the safety curtain began, ever so slowly, to trundle up, like a guillotine blade being hauled into position. He felt the air of the auditorium mingle with the air of the stage, as if an airlock were opening on a spaceship, and he instinctively held on hard to the writing desk with one hand to prevent himself from being sucked out into the vacuum. Trying not to become aware of the absurdity of pretending to compose poetry with a large white feather, he wrote on the piece of tea-stained prop parchment, in imaginary ink, in a big, loopy Byronic scrawl:
HELP
HELP ME
HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP
MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Then the curtain was fully up, and the music began to fade down. He felt the warmth of the spotlight on his face, and a drop of sweat run down the length of his nose, and in his head he started the slow ten count—1, 2, 3—that he knew was always so effective—4, 5, 6—when Josh did it—7, 8, 9—
When he reached 26, he heard a cough from the auditorium, a get-on-with-it cough, and he realized that there was no avoiding it, he’d have to look up; he’d have to say something. My motivation is to be…extraordinary, he told himself, and felt the drop of sweat on the tip of his nose quiver, fall, and splat on the paper, the noise booming around the theater. He unfocused his eyes, looked out straight into the light, and said his first line—
“Bad, mad and dangerous to know. That is what they call me in England now.”
He heard the voice in his head, as if played back on a tape recorder at slightly the wrong speed, so that it sounded several registers too high, thin, slightly strangulated and nasal. And hadn’t he said bad-mad instead of mad-bad? Had he or hadn’t he? That’s the title of the play—how could he get that wrong? How stupid could one person be? Should he start again? No. Doesn’t matter, forget about it, say the next line, quick, you’re taking too long, you’re being too slow, get on with it, and be better this time. Remember—aloof, magnetic, charismatic. What Josh said isn’t true. You are not invisible, you can do this. You are Lord Byron, the most notorious man in Europe. Women desire you, men envy you. Now, smile slightly mockingly, not too much, one side of your face, and speak again…
“Or so I am told. And it is, I must confess, a reputation that I have done little to assuage.”
Not bad, better, but you still sound poncy, lispy, like you’ve just had dental surgery. Talk properly. Clearly but properly. What now? I know! Why not get up! Walk around a bit. Move. That will get their attention. Try and move with a sensuous feline grace…
And he placed the quill down, stood, and caught his hip against the edge of his desk. He remembered that old line, that acting is all about remembering the lines and not bumping into the furniture, and it suddenly seemed that he was incapable of either.
He had also become horribly aware of his arms. It was as if these spare appendages had suddenly sprouted from his shoulders—strange, alien tentacles that he had never seen before, had no experience of, or control over, that just sort of dangled there uselessly like meat in a butcher’s shop window. Where did they go? Where could he stash them? Clearly, he would need to get them out of the way before he could say the next line. He decided to dispose of at least one of them by putting it in the pocket of his breeches.
He tried this four times before he realized that there were no pockets in his breeches. He reassured himself that this was the kind of thing Byron probably did all the time, and instead he slid the arms behind his back, and left them there, hands clasped, until he needed them again. It felt good to get them out of the way. It also felt authentically “period” too, properly late eighteenth/early nineteenth century, and, eyes still unfocused, staring out into the spotlight, he sauntered downstage, taking one, two, three strides before he remembered Byron’s clubfoot. He turned the fourth stride into a limp, a slightly excessive limp he felt, a Richard III–limp, as if Lord Byron had just twisted his ankle. Best tone it down, best keep it grounded, but too late now, because he was at the front of the stage, as far as he could go. There was nowhere left to limp, and it felt like standing, naked and blind drunk, on the edge of a precipice.
Or a diving board.
What next? The next line.
“Like all reputations it is simultaneously accurate, yet fanciful.”
He could hear his own voice echo back at him, and it sounded better this time; strong, confident. Professional. In control. What now? He pictured the page of the script in his mind, scanned down the lines, saw the words “survey audience.” He assumed his expression of wry, mocking amusement, let his eyes slip into focus, looked down into the auditorium, looking around, surveying the audience, taking in the seats…
The empty seats.
Row upon row of empty seats.
Hundreds of empty seats.
Close eyes (slowly). Open eyes (slowly). Look again (calmly).
Time slowed, and stopped.
There is nothing quite as empty as an almost empty theater.
There were, as far as he could tell, six people in the stalls. He recognized three of them—Alison and Sophie and a little farther back, absorbed in his program, Frank. Two people, young, Japanese, sat to one side, their feet up on the back of the seats in front. In the gloom, the sixth member of the audience sat in a seat at the end of the row, got up, hunched over, and scurried to the very back of the theater, and in the light of the EXIT sign, Stephen recognized her as a program-seller.
Struggling now to maintain his expression of wry, mocking amusement in the face of mounting terror, he looked up into the circle. Two more people, strangers, their heads resting on their arms on the balcony rail, looking at him expectantly. His vision started to blur, and he thought perhaps he might faint; not a good idea, given that statistically the chances of there being a doctor in the house were very slight indeed. Nausea rose up inside him, and he had an intense desire to take a few steps backward, turn and run, clubfoot or no clubfoot, run into the wings, and out of the fire door and out into the night air, and to keep running, as far away as possible from this terrible place, to run all the way home, and lock the door of his flat, and never, ever unlock it again…
And then what?
He scanned the empty rows again, focusing his eyes and finding them, Alison and Sophie, sitting forward in their seats, both madly grinning up at him, Sophie with a wide ecstatic smile on her face, on the edge of laughter. She looked directly up at him, blinked hello with both her eyes, and stuck two thumbs up over the back of the seat in front.
And he remembered that he could do this and, more than that, that he was extremely good at it, and that this was the thing that he’d always wanted, for as long as he could remember. To do good work. Find the thing you love, and do it with all your heart, to the absolute best of your ability, no matter what people say. Make her proud. He smiled back directly at his daughter, a smile that was just about in character, a confident smile, an in-charge smile. Then he took another deep breath and said the next line. And then the next.
And ninety-three minutes later, it was all over.
The Great Escape
“You were amazing,” said Sophie, sitting on the edge of the table in the dressing room afterward.
“Well, not amazing,” said Stephen, buttoning up his shirt.
“No, you were amazing, wasn’t he, Mum?”
“He was okay, I suppose,” said Alison, grinning broadly.
“That’s not what you said. You said you thought he was amazing too. How did you remember all those lines?”
“Well, I didn’t actually remember all of them. Some I left out and some I made up.”
“It didn’t show, though, did it, Mum?”
“No, Sophie, it didn’t,” said Alison firmly.
“It didn’t?” Stephen asked hopefully.
“No, no. Not really. I’m not sure if the real Byron used the
word ‘okay’ quite that much, but I don’t think anyone really noticed.”
A pause.
“Shame there weren’t more people in,” said Stephen, attempting a kind of wry, philosophical tone, as if immune to such trivialities.
“Yeah, yes, it was,” said Alison, attempting reassurance once again, but less successfully this time. “But everyone who saw it enjoyed it, that’s the main thing, isn’t it?”
“Exactly. That is the main thing,” said Stephen, not entirely sure if this was the main thing.
And there was another silence, a momentary pause, before Alison leaned over, a little stiffly, and punched the top of his arm. “Well…done…you.”
“Yeah, well done, Dad.”
“Well, thank you, thank you…” he mumbled, holding his hand up modestly, to an imaginary, invisible crowd, rather like the one he’d just performed for. “I wish you hadn’t given a standing ovation at the end, though.”
“Hey, it wasn’t just us. Other people were standing.”
“Only to put their coats on.”
“That’s not true!” insisted Alison. The remark had been intended as a joke, but now he wasn’t so sure. Another silence.
“Hey, you should have more champagne,” he said quickly.
“No, I’m all right, thanks,” said Alison, placing her hand over the top of the plastic cup.
“Come on, help me out, I can’t drink the whole thing myself.”
“I’ll have some,” said Sophie, holding out her paper cup.
“No, Sophie, you’re not allowed. You’re slurring your speech already.”
“Well, Mum isn’t allowed either, are you, Mum?”
“Sophie!” hissed Alison, in a warning tone, stern but unable entirely to stop grinning.
“Why not?” said Stephen, instantly knowing the answer. Oh God, he thought. Oh God, please no. Not that…
“Mum’s pregnant!” said Sophie.
…no, no, no, no, no…
“Congratulations!” he shouted, and pushed himself out of the chair, wrapping his arms around Alison tightly, scared of what might happen if he let go. “That’s fantastic news,” he said into her neck.
She pulled her face away so that she could see him, and said more quietly, “Is it?”
“Of course it is! It’s amazing news, I’m so pleased for you.”
“It’s only six weeks, mind, so we’re not meant to be telling anyone…” And she ruffled Sophie’s hair in mild admonishment. “You don’t mind?” she whispered in his ear.
“ ’Course not. Hey, it’s not mine, is it?” he whispered back.
He could hear the sound of her smile in his ear. “Wouldn’t have thought so. But you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. I’m…over the moon for you. Really, I couldn’t be happier,” he said.
It was by some way the most convincing piece of acting he’d done all evening.
A little later he saw Alison and Sophie out to the stage door. The snow was falling heavier than ever now, and Sophie gave a little whoop of excitement when she saw it, pushed the door open and went to stand in the alleyway, her face upturned in the streetlight.
“What is it in French again, Sophs?” Stephen shouted from the doorway.
“Il neige!”
“Exactly. Il neige.”
“I’m sorry about all that,” said Alison, holding both his hands. “I didn’t want to tell you tonight, but Sophie’s so excited and…you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“ ’Course not.”
“Because I was worried you’d be upset.”
“Well—it was bound to happen one day, wasn’t it? If you will keep sharing a bed with the man. But I’m pleased for you, really I am. You and Colin. Send him my love, won’t you?” Alison narrowed her eyes skeptically. “Okay, maybe not love—send him my…congratulations.”
A small pellet of gray snow impacted on the side of Stephen’s face.
“Sophie—put that snow down, it’s filthy, it’s got syringes in and everything,” shouted Alison, then turned back to Stephen. “Hey, and well done again for tonight—you were fantastic. I was very proud.”
“Thank you.”
“And I owe you an apology. For all those things I said.”
“That’s okay. I know why you said them.”
“But still. I was wrong. It doesn’t happen very often, but in this instance I was wrong.”
“Maybe.”
“No, really—I was. You were…extraordinary.”
Another silence followed.
“When’s Josh back, do you know?”
“Maybe tomorrow, maybe Monday.”
“Well—enjoy it, won’t you? Your moment in the spotlight.”
“I will.”
“And I hope it leads to other things. I’m sure it will.”
“Yeah, well, fingers crossed.”
He kissed her, then lifted Sophie up into his arms and held her tight.
“You were much better than the other man,” she whispered in his ear. “How d’you know that?”
“I just do.” Then, in her quietest whisper, she said, “I was really, really proud.”
He held her for a while longer, told her he’d see her on Sunday, then said good-bye again, and they were gone. He pulled the stage door shut, turned, and saw that Donna was waiting for him, arms crossed across her chest.
“Enjoy it, did they?”
“Seems so, yeah.”
“Good, good,” attempting a smile, then abandoning it as just too hard. “So—Stephen, d’you think you could join me for a quick postmortem? In private?”
“ ’Course,” he said. It was a tone he hadn’t heard for some time, her Nurse Ratched tone. He also couldn’t help wondering if “postmortem” really was the best phrase to use, but he followed her through from the stage door to the wings, and realized that he had started to make his noise again, his high-pitched humming noise, his turned-off-life-support-machine noise.
Onstage, the DSMs were resetting props for the Saturday matinee. Donna and Stephen found two high stools in the prompt corner and sat.
“So—well done tonight.”
“Oh, thanks, Donna. I was a bit sticky to begin with.”
“Yes, we noticed. But you got better toward the end, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?” Once again, Stephen wasn’t sure that this was the main thing, but let it pass.
“Well, thanks, Donna.”
“Terence phoned to say he’s sorry he couldn’t come and see it, but he’s directing this show in Manchester and just hasn’t got the time.”
“Well, that’s okay, maybe he can come tomorrow.”
“Ye-es.” They sat in silence for a moment, before Donna shook herself and said, “So, look, Steve, I didn’t want to talk to you about this before you went on tonight, in case it threw you, but the thing is…” Here it comes, looming toward him: The Thing. “The thing is—I spoke to Josh earlier this evening.”
What was it they always said in war movies? Tell them your name, rank and serial number, nothing else…
“Right, okay. And how is he?”
“He’s all right. He had just come back from the emergency dentist, and he’s a bit woozy from the anesthetic, so it was hard to work out what he was saying, but he’s fine, and his teeth are going to be okay.”
“Well, thank God for that!”
Donna narrowed her eyes in warning. “He’s back at his home now, taking it easy.”
With Nora, thought Stephen. At home, with Nora.
“He says he ‘fell over.’ In the street,” she said skeptically.
“That’s right, yes.”
“Right outside your house, apparently.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And that you were with him at the time?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right.”
“Well, look, he admits that he was drunk, and completely out of order, and that you were in no way to blame. He’s very, very keen to emphasize that. That’s all he wants t
o say on the matter, and obviously the management are keen to keep our star happy, so we are all prepared to leave it at that. Anyway, you’ll be delighted to hear that he’s probably going to be back onstage by Monday night.”
“Right. Good. Well, after tonight that’s fine by me.”
“However, he did have a message that he wanted me to give you.”
“O-kay.”
“He said that he’s very pleased that you got your big break, and that he really hopes it went well for you tonight, but when he comes in on Monday, he doesn’t want you anywhere near the building. In fact, Stephen, he doesn’t want you anywhere near him ever again.”
“Oh. O-kay. O. Kay,” said Stephen. My motivation is to stay dignified. To keep it together. My motivation is not to fall entirely to pieces. “Anything else?”
“Not really. Except he repeatedly asked me to call you Judas.”
“I see. Judas. So—so I’m being fired, then?”
“No, not fired. Well, yes, yes, you’re being fired. Obviously, we’ll pay you right to the end of your contract, for the next two weeks, right up until Christmas, and you’re owed holiday pay too. You just don’t need to…actually come into the building anymore.”
“And who’s going to play the Ghostly Figure?”
“Oh, I’m going to do that.”
“Well, you’ll be excellent.”
“Thank you. I like to think so.”
“And what about the two shows tomorrow?”
“Both canceled, I’m afraid.” She sighed. “The thing is, as you’ll have noticed from the audience tonight, with a show like this, a star vehicle, the general public really do want to see a star. Anything less, and it turns out they all just ask for their money back. Sorry, but there really is no nice way to say that.”
The Understudy Page 28