Priya.
As usual.
She beams at me when I walk through the door, then holds up the piece of paper she’s obviously been reading. “Look what I’ve got!”
“A free pass from PE?”
“The notes from Miss Bartlett.”
“For the DramSoc Spotlight Show?” I try not to pull a face. Every year, Miss Bartlett and the school drama society put on a spring show, entirely written, directed, performed and produced by them – but not crewed by them. For that, they need us. “Is it any good?”
Priya’s expression makes her thoughts clearer than words ever could, as I fold myself down to sit beside her on the platform.
“Ah.” I rummage in my bag for my lunch.
“So?”
I look up from my bag. Priya is staring at me. I start unwrapping my sandwich, pretending I don’t know what she’s waiting for. Of course it doesn’t work.
“Are you going to tell me then?”
“Tell you what?” I gulp down a large bite of chicken and lettuce sandwich; Priya rolls her eyes.
“Okay, so I get one lousy message from you saying you got the place and you’ll tell me about it tomorrow – which is today – and then you avoid me all morning—”
“I did not!”
“You sat next to Kemal in chemistry.”
“He’s better at titration than you are!” (This is true.)
“Yeah. But he doesn’t let you copy his notes, does he?” (This is also true.)
I shrug.
“Sooooo? You got the place? Tell me!”
“I got the place.” And even though I told myself I was going to be cool about it, that I wasn’t going to make it a thing, my heart swells inside my chest…because I did. I got the place.
“I knew you would!” She nudges me happily, and I try not to feel guilty. Priya could have applied for it too – she’s been at the Square just as long as I have. But when I asked if she was going to, all she did was shrug and say, “I don’t think I want it like you do. It’s fun, but it’s not my life.” Which, given we’re here talking about theatre while she’s working on two different shows, is kind of ironic. She nudges me again.
“And was he there?”
“I told you – yes, he was there, and yes, he is exactly as terrifying as I thought he’d be.”
Priya snorts with laughter. If anyone is ever going to understand the way I feel about Rick Hillier, it’s her. Mostly because it was Priya I dragged along with me to stand outside the stage door of the Bristol Old Vic, waiting in the pouring rain for forty-five minutes…only to completely lose my nerve and run away right before Rick came out. I still remember hiding around the corner, watching his back disappear off down the street while Priya poked my arm and hissed “What did you just do?” at me until he was out of sight. She still brings it up, which is why I have absolutely no intention of telling her about the whole wizard-ninja thing.
“And what did your mum say when you told her you’d got it?” When I don’t answer, Priya’s eyes narrow. “You did tell her, didn’t you?”
“Nooooo?”
“Hope! Why not? I thought it was only a secret in case you didn’t get it!”
“I…was never going to tell her. Them. At all.”
“You’re joking.” She stares at me. “You’re really not? What the hell?”
“Come on – you’ve met my mum. She’ll be all…her about it. And I just want to get on with it, you know?”
“But what are you going to tell your parents about school?”
“I told them I’ve been offered some work experience in the back office at the Square Globe. Marketing, mostly.”
“And they believed that?”
“Mum’s so busy, she’s on her own planet right now, and Dad couldn’t be happier at the thought of me working in an office like Grace. If they ask any questions, I’ll just…improvise.”
“You? Improvise?” Priya makes her snorting sound again. “Sure thing. But she’s going to find out. Not from me,” she adds, “but she will. You can’t hide this – not from your mum.” She shakes her head. “What are you going to be working on? Is it what I think it is? Because it has to be, right? Rick Hillier’s working on Piecekeepers, so you must be too?”
She beams at me, and I’m halfway to saying that yes, it is Piecekeepers, when my mouth snaps shut. If they want me to sign an NDA and I blab everything to Priya straight away, I’ll have wrecked any chances I have of being taken seriously before I even set foot through the door. I shrug enigmatically. It’s Priya. She’ll figure it out – and then I won’t have actually told her. I lean over and grab the notes from her hand. “Talking of shows, what is it this time?”
“You know Bronwen in Year Eight? The one with the dark hair and the glasses?”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“The one who thinks she can act?”
“Guess what…?”
“Don’t.”
“She thinks she can sing, too.”
Priya runs through the notes like a pro – of course she does. But even though I want to listen, I can’t seem to focus on her voice. Her words keep fading out like an old car radio, and instead – cutting through the static – there’s the echo of Rick Hillier, of Amy, of the whole interview playing back in my head; of Mum, and how I told her I’d be at the Square Globe.
Of how I lied.
But what else could I do?
This is where everything starts – everything I’ve ever wanted.
And if that’s not worth one teeny tiny little white lie, then what is?
Second time around, it doesn’t take me long to track down unit thirty-two – not even on a Monday morning. Although I am slightly surprised to find it where I left it on Thursday: I was half-expecting it to have moved, just to spite me. But there it is, and I am dry and (despite having spent an hour getting dressed, changing my mind, getting undressed again, and trying to find an outfit that says “serious, reliable, totally belongs here”) I am on time.
Early, in fact.
Yes. I, Hope Parker of the Perpetual Tardiness, am ten minutes early.
Which is why my heart sinks when I turn the corner and spot Amy sitting on the pavement outside the rehearsal room unit.
Is she waiting for me? No. She can’t be. Why would she be? She did say ten o’clock, didn’t she? I can’t be late. Not today.
Casually, I fiddle with the sleeve of my coat and check my watch as I get closer. Definitely ten to ten.
Amy glances up as I reach her. “Don’t worry – you’re not late. I needed some…air.” She glances over her shoulder in a way that instantly makes me feel I’m missing something. But then she looks back at me and grins, flicking her blonde ponytail behind her as she clambers to her feet. Even though it still feels like the depths of winter rather than spring, she’s wearing knee-length shorts with pockets all over them – most of which seem to be full to bursting point – and boots with socks scrunched down around her ankles. The black fleece which completes the outfit looks like it’s two sizes too big, and has bits of sawdust stuck to it.
“So, then. Are you ready?” she asks, and there’s something about her voice that tells me whatever I say, and whatever I think, I’m probably not and never will be.
“Definitely!” I say, following her into the reception area, where the shabby sofa is piled high with jackets and scarves and the coat hooks have overflowed onto the floor. In the middle of the glass table – on top of all the old papers and sitting in pride of place like it’s some kind of art installation – is a gold-painted motorcycle helmet, while dumped on the floor in front are a pair of expensive-looking motorcycle boots. “Ready for anything!”
And then she pulls the blue door open – and wow, am I not even close to ready.
Part of the room is taken up by what must be the end of a warm-up: ten actors are standing on yoga mats with their hands in the air and their eyes closed, sticking out their tongues and making loud “Aaaahhhh” nois
es.
Picking her way around them, Amy waves towards the mats. “They’re just finishing up, but you’re welcome to join them other mornings if you want to. Some of the technical crew find it helps, especially when you’re on your feet all day.”
“Mmm.”
They’ve started shouting “Ha! Ha! Hooooo!” now. All of them.
Beyond the shouting yoga there’s another knot of actors, who look like they’re working on a scene. Five of them stand in a loose semicircle, scripts folded over in their hands. Another two are perched on chairs outside the group, obviously sitting this section out. Amy points apparently randomly around the room, reeling off name after name. I almost immediately forget them all – except for Nina, the assistant director, who is sitting at a table piled high with papers and files, making notes on a script. She looks like she might be in her early twenties – younger than a lot of people in here, but definitely older than me, with tightly braided dark hair and an expression of serious concentration. Standing next to her, his sleeves rolled up, his arms folded across his chest and shaking his head furiously, is Rick.
I am definitely the youngest person here. No pressure then.
“We’re just waiting for Tommy. You’ll have seen some of his film work, I’m guessing,” says Amy quietly as she tucks my signed NDA form into one of her pockets.
Oh god.
Tommy. Knight.
I’d completely forgotten. How? How could I forget?
I was so stuck on the idea of being in the same room as Rick that I forgot Tommy Knight.
Tommy Knight with his hair and his eyes and his…him.
If Rick Hillier is a theatre god, Tommy Knight comes direct from the cloud where they make movie stars. In his case, tall and slender RADA superstars, fresh from playing the villain in a string of Hollywood blockbusters. And now he’s making his triumphant stage debut – here, of all places. This is supposedly his way of proving himself as a “serious” actor – whatever that means.
“I should warn you that he and Rick are not getting along at the moment,” Amy whispers. “Tommy’s been a real pain, missing early rehearsals and skipping out when he’s supposed to be here. He was meant to have his hair cut for the role yesterday, and he didn’t even turn up. I know he’s around, though – that was his bike outside. Could you have a quick look and see if he’s on his phone somewhere?” She points me back towards the door.
“Me? Sure!” If it comes out a little too fast to be cool (or even remotely normal), it’s because I have just been given My First Job. Go talk to the cast, like a human. Okay. I stride across to the blue door, trying to keep my heart from exploding. This is really it. I’m here and I’m part of the company. And I’m looking for world-famous actor Tommy Knight. Obviously.
Sitting at the side of the room, a guy with dirty-blond hair glances up from the script he’s annotating, his feet up on another chair as he peers over at me. He’s young, too – maybe my age, maybe a year or two older, and kind of cute – but the most striking thing about him is his eyes, which are the most astonishing shade of blue: really, really blue-blue. The kind of blue you only normally see in adverts for Caribbean cruises. But realizing I’m not coming for him, his eyes soon flick back down to his script. I take it as a sign I look like I should be here, that I fit right in.
I confidently push the door to the reception area open and…
There’s a loud thunk as it hits something on the other side and bounces right back at me.
And then a loud “Ow! Jesus!” from the something on the other side.
Oh god. I recognize that voice. It’s a Hollywood voice, and it can only belong to one person.
What if I’ve just broken Tommy Knight’s nose?
A little more carefully this time, I push the door open and peer around it. In the foyer on the other side, our lead actor is doubled over, his hands cupped around his nose and his jaw-length black hair falling across his face.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I’m so, so, so sorry. Can I get you something? Do you need help?” I take a step closer to my victim.
Still hunched over, he shakes his head (cautiously) and takes an equal-sized step in the opposite direction. Away from me.
“I think you’ve done quite enough already.”
“Really, I’m so sorry – I had no idea you were on the other side…”
“How fortunate for me, otherwise you might really have put your back into it.”
I don’t know what to do. Should I call for Amy? Should I get an ice pack or an ambulance, or…?
And then Tommy Knight straightens up and slowly, carefully, lowers his hands. He pulls a face, stretching his jaw and touches the end of his nose with his fingertips.
“And you would be whom, exactly?”
“Hope. Hope Parker. I’m the stage management intern.”
“I see.”
Dressed in skintight black jeans, a baggy white T-shirt that somehow clings to him in enough places to make it very hard to look away (I mean, I know for a fact he’s thirty-one this year which should seem ancient, but he doesn’t look it at all), and black studio trainers, he has a dozen woven leather bracelets tangled around his wrists. They slide up and down his arms as he examines his nose. Deciding there’s no permanent damage, he looks straight through me, and I jump out of his way as he storms through the door and into the rehearsal room.
I freeze. Should I even bother going back in there? Should I just walk straight across to the front door, open it and keep on walking until my feet wear out? I just (nearly) wounded our star. How can I go back in there?
Because you have to, says a small voice in my head. Get a grip.
I mean, it could have happened to anyone – couldn’t it?
I take a deep breath and walk back into the rehearsal room.
Standing next to Rick and the assistant director, Tommy looks fine enough, his hair bobbing as he gestures wildly at something on the sheet of paper Rick’s holding. Never mind not getting on – judging by the look on Rick’s face, these two are moments from going toe-to-toe with each other in a ring. As if on cue, Rick shuts his eyes in frustration and, without any more warning, slams the flat of his palm down on the tabletop. The legs of the flimsy folding table promptly collapse, sending paper and pencils scattering across the floor.
For a second, Rick looks embarrassed – “Sorry. Sorry, Nina. Sorry…” – and rubs at his eyes as Nina immediately ducks down and starts gathering bundles of pages into her arms. He props the table back up, and it looks like he’s about to kneel down and start helping her when he stops to glower at Tommy…who is standing with his hands on his hips, and one foot on a piece of paper.
A piece of paper that Nina is trying to pick up.
He’s actually stopping her from picking it up.
What an absolute bell-end. So much for all those interviews that bang on about how charming he is.
Rick fixes him with a look like a thunderclap and every actor is suddenly edging a step or two further away, as subtly as they can. Every actor except Tommy.
Giving him a hard shove, Rick grabs Tommy by the shoulder and half-drags, half-steers him to the far side of the room and through an open door marked Kitchen. The door slams shut behind them, so hard that everything in the rehearsal room rattles. Including my teeth.
I probably ought to help Nina pick up the scripts and the notes, but I can’t move. I’ve never seen a director treat…anyone like that, let alone the lead actor in their production – even if they are being a dick. It’s totally out of line, and nobody – not the assistant director, not Amy as the DSM, nobody – is stepping in to stop it. It’s not right.
“But this…he…that’s not…”
I feel Amy’s hand settle on my shoulder, patting reassuringly.
“Piece of professional advice, Hope. Don’t get in the middle of an ego battle between two brothers. Especially not those two.”
“They’re brothers?”
This is news to me – altho
ugh it definitely goes some way to explaining the look that Rick gave Tommy. I know that look. Anyone with a sibling or two knows that look.
“But…but…”
Amy has obviously had to do this more than once: she’s ready. She’s probably got cue cards somewhere.
“Rick finished at RADA first, and broke out right away with that role at the Donmar. When Tommy started working and registered with Equity, he picked a different professional name – probably just as much to annoy Rick as to make sure he didn’t get labelled ‘Rick Hillier’s brother’. They…don’t get along.”
“Why are they both working on this then?”
“Because whatever he might think, Rick’s not God. No, this is down to the producers – but they didn’t actually mention Tommy until Rick was already under contract to direct.” She sighs the deep sigh of somebody who is very, very tired of this. Then she spots my expression. “Don’t worry. Keeping the two of them from actually throttling each other isn’t your responsibility. Not your circus, not your monkeys. I just wish they weren’t mine…”
The sound of shouting, muffled by the door, filters through from the kitchen, along with a noise like a cupboard being slammed repeatedly.
“I don’t suppose it’s too much to hope that’s Rick banging Tommy’s head against a wall, is it?” Amy mutters, then pulls a face. “You didn’t hear me say that, by the way.”
“Hear you say what?” I ask in my most innocent voice.
“I knew I liked you,” she laughs. “First thing you need to know about stage management? Hear everything, say nothing unless you need to. Knowledge is power, and discretion is everything.”
I think back to Friday, and how I nearly told Priya everything as Amy leads me around the scattering of papers, smiling at Nina the AD as she passes. “All right?”
Theatrical Page 3