Theatrical

by Maggie Harcourt

  “We need to talk,” she says, and gently but firmly, she shuts the door. “Your father has insisted on grounding you – and to be honest, I agree with him. You lied – and you know you did.”

  All I hear is the word grounded. “But the show!”

  “Hope Parker, I may be angry, but one thing I’m not is unprofessional. You’ll finish the internship…then you’re grounded. In the meantime, I think you’ve got some explaining to do, don’t you?”

  She settles on the end of my bed, the mattress shifting beneath her – and in a funny way it’s a relief. I don’t have to pretend any more, I don’t have to pretend that I’ve spent the day being someone I’m not, doing something I haven’t.

  “There was an advert in The Stage for places at the Earl’s. Student places, shadowing the crew and helping out. Stuff you need, experience and a reference and everything, if you want to apply for theatre school. Or if you want to have a chance of getting in, anyway.”

  “So you applied.”

  I nod. “I had to. It was like I didn’t have a choice.”

  She makes a sound a lot like a sigh – but she doesn’t actually seem angry. She said she is, but she isn’t. Why isn’t she angry? I would be, if I were her.

  “I didn’t think I’d actually get it. Not in a million years, not me. I thought somebody smarter or just…better would. And then I did, and then…” The words dry up and all I can do is look helplessly at her.

  Mum passes me one of the mugs, taking a sip from the other.

  “Is that why you didn’t say anything to begin with? Because you didn’t think you’d get it?”

  The tea burns the back of my throat, but the hurt in her voice burns all of me.

  “I didn’t want you to be disappointed when I didn’t get it. Mostly.”

  “Mostly?” Another sip. “And when you did?”

  It takes me a long time to answer. I almost say a dozen different things, but in the end I know I have to tell the truth.

  “I didn’t say anything because of you.”

  “Me? But I could have helped you – I want to help…”

  “And that’s just it. You would have.”

  Bad start. I can actually see her prickle at this – but I need to go on now I’ve begun to talk.

  “I know the theatre is your thing. I know it’s where you come from and you love it. It’s always been your place…and I love that, I do. I love that you care about all the costumes and the dresses and the people. I love that other people see how amazing your stuff is and think it’s amazing too. But do you have any idea how hard it is to walk into a theatre – the only place I’ve ever wanted to belong – and be…just me? Everybody knows you already. They know who you are and they know what you can do, and everyone respects you for it. But they don’t know me. And all I want is to show them what I can do – show them that I can belong there. That I do belong there. Not because I’m your daughter, not because of you or your name, or you calling in a favour, or someone wanting to impress you…but because of me. Nobody else. Just me.”

  Everything fades to a whisper, and I rub my hands over my eyes to stop the room from blurring. How can I make her see – my mum, with her awards and her reputation – that I’m not rejecting her or everything she wants for me? I just have to earn it for myself – otherwise how would I know it was really mine? If I’m ever going to stop worrying about people whispering behind my back, I have to do this on my own.

  But then I see it, and suddenly it’s so clear that I don’t know why I didn’t sooner.

  The only way to make them all stop doubting I really can do this job, have this life, is to stop doubting it myself.

  Mum looks down at the quilt cover and – ever the seamstress – picks up a loose thread, snapping it off and neatly balling it into her hand.

  “I’ve never told you what your grandfather said, have I? When I told him I wasn’t going to work in the shop, cutting suits from patterns and turning up hems. That I’d been offered an apprenticeship at the Opera House.” She pauses meaningfully, then adds: “One I’d applied for without telling a soul. He was furious, I think – but he didn’t really show it. All he did was look me in the eye, and say, ‘Well, if you think you can do it, then good luck to you.’” When she looks up, she’s paler than I’ve ever seen her. “So I understand. I know what it takes, and I know how it feels. And I know what it means.”

  It honestly looks like there are tears in her eyes.

  “Oh, Hope,” she says softly, and her voice is rough, like there’s a knot in her throat. “I’m so very proud of you.”

  She puts her mug on the floor and she reaches over and pulls both my hands into hers, pressing them tightly.

  “If anyone can do this – and I mean anyone – you can,” she says.

  And as soon as she says it, I start to think that maybe she’s right.

  Now I’m not running around trying to hide what I’m doing from everyone, now everything I am and want is out in the open and I can just get on with it…I think I might believe it too.

  I can – and I will.

  Watch me.

  The crowd of fans I’ve got so used to seeing – for good or bad – outside the stage door every day has moved. For a heart-stopping moment I wonder whether all this nonsense about “me and Tommy” has made them, I don’t know, abandon him. And then, of course, I see the queue snaking around the front of the building from the box-office doors and I kick myself for being such an idiot – they’re all trying to get one of the last tickets for tonight and it’s nothing at all to do with me. Tommy’s ego is obviously contagious.

  Because tonight? Tonight, we get to show Piecekeepers to the world for the very first time.

  Tonight, we open.

  I thought it would be weird going straight to an opening night with no previews. Most new shows have a least a couple of nights in front of an audience paying lower prices, fine-tuning and tweaking before they officially open. But not us. I’m not sure if that’s a Rick thing – he had a notorious run-in with a critic after they broke tradition and an embargo and reviewed the first preview of a show he was in a while back. SixGuns – where else? – reported him saying that if it ever happened again, an embargo wouldn’t be the only thing that got broken.

  The stage door itself is shut, which means I’ve got no choice but to go in through the front. Taking a deep breath, I start edging my way cautiously through the queue, my head down in case they start with the hissing and booing again. Luckily, I arrive at exactly the same time the box office opens, and they’re so excited that they don’t even notice me, camouflaged in one of Grace’s old hoodies over my standard backstage blacks, along with a pair of sunglasses.

  The queue isn’t the only change – the foyer is transformed. The Piecekeepers banners hang from every wall, along with posters of Tommy in costume and character, reaching forward as though to pull you into the picture with him. A couple of the fans are taking turns to duck out of the queue and take selfies with them. I take a quick photo of it all and send it over to Priya. She pings back a photoshopped picture of a cat giving a thumbs up. I guess that’s a good thing? Across from Tommy’s poster, the one of Juliet as Lizzie, her arms folded and her hair blowing out behind her, is getting almost as much attention. There’s chatter and laughter and excitement filling the foyer like sunlight.

  The Earl’s is awake and breathing.

  The Earl’s is alive.

  George is already in wardrobe, brushing the main Lizzie wig, when I walk up to the open door. He does a double-take when he sees me.

  “This is a new look.” He scrunches up his mouth. “Not sure about the sunglasses. They might be a bit much.”

  “There’s no cardigan, though.”

  “We talked about that,” he says sternly.

  “At least the glasses got me past the queue.” I pull them off and shove them into the pocket of Grace’s hoodie.

  “I don’t know why you’re so worried about it – I know it’s a bit annoyin
g, but it’ll all blow over. Especially when people start talking about Tommy onstage.”

  “It’s just…why did it have to be me, you know? And you were right, by the way. My mum found out.”

  George puts the brush down. “You’re kidding me?” He sounds as Geordie as I have ever heard him.

  “My beloved older sister told my parents about the photos. And then it all kind of…unravelled from there.”

  “So? What did she say?”

  “My sister?”

  “Like I give a monkey’s about your sister. No, your mother – what did she say?”

  Luckily, I know better than to take personally the fact that he’s making this all about Miriam Parker.

  At least, I’m starting to.

  “It was…okay, actually. It really was. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m grounded until I’m at least thirty, but they’re going to let me finish things here first, so that’s a relief.”

  “And you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay.” I reach out to straighten a stray strand of the wig – and whip my hand away again before George gets the chance to slap it. “And like you say, it will go away, won’t it? The stuff in the papers?”

  “It will. Like they say about reviews – today’s front-page story is tomorrow’s chip wrapping. And even if it wasn’t, Tommy’s promo interview should sort it out when it’s printed. Has he done the follow-up yet?” He starts brushing again. “Pass that hairspray, will you?” The gold can he’s pointing to is almost as big as I am.

  “I hope so. I think he did it over the phone last night. Not that it’ll matter to him either way – why would it?”

  “One word.” George has disappeared behind a cloud of setting spray, but his voice is as clear as ever. “Emery.”

  Tommy’s girlfriend. Right. She doesn’t exactly seem the type to let something like this slide.

  “Is she really coming tonight?”

  “That’s what I heard. She’s not staying for the actual show, though – just to see Tommy beforehand or something. If you want to know, you’ll have to ask Lucinda up in the theatre office. She’s got a list of the VIPs coming. I’ve been hassling her for a few clues, but she’s not budging.”

  I shouldn’t even have to be thinking about this. There’s so much to do before we open, and however casual George is being, I can see he’s as nervous, as excited, as everything about tonight as I am. I don’t have time to be worrying about Emery Greenway. What I need to do is get back to being totally invisible again – which is just how I like it.

  “By the way,” he says through the comb he’s holding between his teeth. “Amy was looking for you two minutes before you got in. She’s nipped out to run a couple of errands and she’ll be back in half an hour or so – she wants you to check on Tommy. Apparently he wants something.”

  “Doesn’t he always? Right. Okay. It’ll be fine. It’ll be just fine. I can handle that.”

  George spits the comb into the palm of his hand and looks right at me. “You know one of the best things about you, Hope?”

  “My good looks. My sense of humour. Both of the above?” I toss my hair back in what, I realize immediately after, is a horrifyingly Tommy-ish manner.

  “No.” He pauses just a little too long for my liking. “It’s that you’re a terrible liar.”

  Everyone keeps saying that. I guess it must be true. Still, it’s probably better being known as a terrible liar than as someone who called themselves a wizard-ninja wannabe, I think as I leave George to his combing and his spraying and head for the production office… Only to find my way blocked by someone in the usual off-duty actor/student uniform of ripped jeans and a faded black T-shirt.

  “Hi,” says Luke.

  “Hi.”

  “I got your message after the dress rehearsal. Sixteen exclamation marks, huh?”

  “Well, you know, I thought it was more descriptive than ‘try softer’?” I shrug, and he laughs.

  “How’re you feeling this morning? Nervous?”

  Not nervous, no. That’s not why I can feel my heart pounding and my pulse racing. It’s not nerves. “No. You?”

  He’s standing so close, so very close that it would be nothing to shrink the distance between us completely; to lean forward, lean into him. Rest my forehead against his shoulder…

  Here in the quiet of the Earl’s basement, hundreds of people have walked these halls before us – thousands. Actors and directors and stage managers and crew; wardrobe mistresses, stagehands, techs…and none of them matter as Luke’s arm circles my waist and pulls me closer to him. The corners of his eyes crease into a smile, and he draws me to him…and then we both freeze at the sound of footsteps coming down the concrete stairs at the end of the corridor and someone whistling tunelessly.

  Rick.

  In the kind of sideways lunge I’ve only seen in musicals, Luke dives into the laundry room and pushes the door shut, just as Rick rounds the corner. He looks remarkably calm and cheerful – more so than I’ve seen him this entire time.

  “Morning, morning.” It’s halfway between a song and a chant.

  “Morning,” I mumble, trying to manoeuvre myself in between him and the laundry-room door while looking completely casual. And alone, and definitely not mixing personal and professional, or distracting the cast or getting distracted myself on the day of our first night. Not me. “You were whistling.”

  There’s the briefest flash of panic across his face. “Bollocks. I was.” He turns around quickly, three times on the spot, then nods. And to think Priya makes fun of me for being superstitious. Rick clears his throat. “You haven’t seen Tommy, have you?”

  “Uh, no. Is he signed in?”

  “Signed in half an hour ago. He’s probably in his dressing room.”

  “I could check? Amy said he wanted me for something.”

  “Did she?” He looks puzzled, then his expression clears. “Ah, I know what that is. Yes. There’s something Tommy needs back at his hotel…” He rummages through the bundle of paperwork he’s carrying and I groan inwardly.

  Rick gives me a look.

  Apparently I groaned outwardly too. “Sorry. But I think the concierge at the hotel has probably had enough of me by now,” I say weakly.

  Rick grins and holds out a folded sheet of paper covered in Amy’s handwriting. I open it in the middle of the corridor as he walks off towards Tommy’s dressing room, humming loudly.

  There’s only the slightest pause in the humming when he hears the sound I make reading the note…and then he’s gone, vanished around the corner.

  Stage management, they say, is about being prepared. Being prepared for the next cue, the next show, the next crisis.

  That, I get. But I’ll admit that I was not prepared for this.

  The day of our opening night, our press night…and I am stuck in traffic, sitting in a taxi full of roses.

  It’s not as romantic as I might have imagined, mostly because there are several thorns from one bunch wedged into my side (oh, irony) and something with too many skinny legs that is probably an incredibly poisonous spider climbing out of one of the flowers by my knee. A five-minute cab ride has never taken so long.

  We finally pull up at the side of the road and the door opens and Luke peers in from where he’s been waiting on the pavement. I look at him helplessly.

  “Get me out.”

  I can see he’s about to make a joke – but one look at my face tells him that won’t go down well. Much like the look on my face when I read Tommy’s note meant that he immediately volunteered to come and help, rather than running straight back into the laundry room.

  “Please?” I add.

  I mean, he had to walk here. Maybe I should have asked him to get in the taxi with the flowers…

  He starts unloading bouquet after bouquet of roses from the car onto the hotel trolley the concierge has wheeled out onto the pavement. Red roses, white roses, pink roses, peach roses, roses that are apparently “gold” (although they look like plain
old yellow to me), white roses with green streaks down the petals.

  A lot of roses.

  Enough to fill a room before Emery walks into it, exactly as Tommy requested.

  And because I can still hear Amy’s voice telling me we need to support the cast, support Tommy – and despite the fact this is nothing to do with the theatre, or a stage, or managing it – I am here to make sure the roses arrive safely. Exactly as Tommy requested.

  Luke folds his arms, watching the trolley-load disappear through the doors of the hotel. “It’s pretty impressive, you’ve got to give him that.”

  “I don’t have to give him anything. I bought them. Me.”

  By which I mean I walked out of the theatre, hired a taxi and drove round every florist in town, begging, asking, bribing – sweeping up armfuls of flowers and putting them on the theatre account.

  All this so Emery can arrive to a load of roses ahead of Tommy’s opening night.

  Between us, we gather up the last few bouquets and follow the trolley.

  In the hotel lobby, people nudge each other as we pass, a couple, their arms full of flowers.

  A couple under a chandelier, lights in their hair.

  A couple lying on a rug in the woods.

  A couple under a street light in the fog.

  A couple.

  The lift pings and the doors open. Luke nudges me forward. “Come on. I think something just crawled down the back of my neck.” He rubs his chin against his shoulder, which is the closest he’s going to be able to get to scratching with his hands full of flowers.

  “Probably one of the poisonous spiders,” I mutter. The lift is tiny – we barely fit in there along with all the roses that have been unloaded from the trolley onto the floor because it’s the concierge’s trolley, and one look told me that no, taking it in the lift was not an option. My hands are too full to press the button, so I try and knock it with my hip.