The Summer Theatre by the Sea

by Tracy Corbett

  Scooping up the clothes on the bed, he dumped them in the second suitcase and zipped it shut. ‘I thought it was easier this way.’ His tone bordered on belligerent.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She smoothed away a crease in her grey skirt. ‘How long is this job for? A week? A month?’

  He hesitated. ‘It’s permanent.’

  It took a moment before the penny dropped. ‘Are … are you leaving me?’

  If she expected instant denial and assurances that she was mistaken, followed by a plausible explanation as to why he was taking a job in another country, it didn’t come.

  His eyes dropped to the floor. Silence descended. It was a good while before he nodded, confirming her fears.

  The heat she’d felt just moments before turned to an icy chill. Her skin contracted, sending shivers racing up her arms. ‘But … why?’

  He rubbed his forehead. ‘You can’t be that surprised, Charlotte. Things haven’t been good for a while.’ He rammed the suit-carrier bag into the suitcase.

  Hadn’t they? This was news to her. ‘Things are fine … aren’t they?’ She walked towards him. He’d crease his suit if he carried on shoving it like that. Why was she thinking about his suit at a time like this? But she knew why. When faced with adversity, her default setting was to try and erase the problem. She cleaned, she straightened, she dusted and scrubbed, anything to maintain the polished exterior and disguise the mess lying beneath. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

  He wheeled one of the cases from the bedroom, refusing to make eye contact. ‘I’m not happy.’

  She followed him into the open-plan lounge. ‘What’s not to be happy about?’ She gestured to the space around them, the pale dove-grey walls and glass French doors leading onto a balcony overlooking the Thames. ‘We’ve created a beautiful home together. We have good jobs … or at least we did until an hour ago.’ She shook her head, still trying to come to terms with her new unemployed status. ‘We eat at fancy restaurants. We’re planning to visit interesting destinations. We lead the perfect life …’

  ‘And that’s the problem, Charlotte. Everything has to be perfect.’ He picked up one of the mauve-silk cushions, strategically placed in the middle of the corner sofa. ‘There’s no room for spontaneity. Everything has to be planned and logged on that bloody calendar of yours.’ He threw the cushion against the wall. ‘We’ve never even visited any of the places on that damned list.’

  She flinched. The soft furnishings hadn’t come cheap. Instinctively, she padded across the wooden flooring in her bare feet and picked up the cushion. ‘But we lead such busy lives …’

  He threw his hands in the air. ‘I know, but it’s like my whole existence is mapped out for me. I can’t take it anymore, you’re too exacting, too uptight. Look at you, even now you’re tidying up.’

  She glanced down at the cushion. He had a point. ‘I like a tidy house. I thought you did too?’

  He shook his head. ‘But you take it to the extreme. You won’t even let me make you a cup of tea because I don’t make it to your specific requirements.’

  She hugged the cushion, trying to stem the onset of tears. ‘That’s hardly a reason to break up.’

  He walked towards her, his gait animated. ‘The other night you said no to sex on the couch.’

  Why on earth was he bringing that up? ‘Well, of course I did. It’s brand new.’

  He ripped the cushion from her hand, making her flinch. ‘It’s a couch! Who cares?’

  The sight of her carefully chosen accessory being tossed away as if it were a used tissue triggered a surge of indignation. She was tired of being blamed for all that was amiss in the world. ‘I thought you appreciated having a nice home? I’ve spent the last two years creating a beautiful living space for us to enjoy as a couple, and now you’re saying it’s not what you want?’

  ‘It’s too …’

  ‘What, Ethan?’ She rounded on him, hurt fuelling her anger. ‘Because I don’t understand. What is it that’s so bad you feel the need to up sticks and leave for Paris?’

  He seemed to search for the appropriate word. ‘Suffocating.’

  The word landed like a blow. Hard. Fast. Zapping the air from her lungs.

  Suffocating …?

  Ethan looked at her, defiance in his stance. ‘There, I said it. I didn’t want to, but you forced my hand.’ He turned and marched back into the bedroom to fetch the second suitcase. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to be like this.’

  She followed him. ‘I’m sure you didn’t, which is why you were planning to sneak out without even telling me. What were you going to do, text me when you arrived in Paris?’ She had to jump out of the way when he wheeled the suitcase past, perilously close to her toes. ‘I deserve better. At least say it to my face.’

  He turned abruptly, causing her to nearly bump into him. ‘Fine. I’m leaving you, Charlotte. I don’t want to be with you anymore. I’ve accepted a cash offer on the flat. The buyers will be renting it furnished for three months first. They move in at the end of May.’

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘That’s only three weeks away.’

  For the first time since she’d arrived home he looked contrite, but only fleetingly. ‘Sorry, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.’

  That was it? ‘But surely you can’t do that without my consent?’

  ‘Actually, I can.’ He went into the hallway and unhooked his jacket from the stand. ‘I’ve owned the place for seven years. The mortgage is in my name. You’ve lived here for less than two. That doesn’t entitle you to claim a beneficial interest. I’ve checked.’

  Her head throbbed, each pulsating thump as painful as the impact of his words. Who was this man? She barely recognised him. They’d shared a life together, a bed, a five-year plan, and all he could say was that she had no legal right to anything? ‘But you could’ve told me you were selling up. You didn’t have to spring it on me last minute. Didn’t I at least deserve that?’

  He slipped his jacket on. ‘Probably. I’m being selfish, I know.’

  She folded her arms, in an effort to stop herself from shaking. ‘You said it.’

  For a moment, he looked like he was about to retaliate, but then sighed. ‘I thought that’s how we worked. We’ve never been overly mushy or sentimental. Our relationship has been pragmatic and mutually beneficial. I bought the place, you did it up. An agreeable business arrangement.’

  ‘A business arrangement?’ Was that really how he saw it? How could he be so cold, so unfeeling?

  He shrugged. ‘Of sorts, yes.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder, the weight of it unwelcome and invasive. ‘Come on, you have to admit it was never going to go the distance.’ He held her gaze. ‘It’s better this way.’

  Tears were beginning to surface. ‘How is it better, Ethan? I’ve just lost my job and now you’re telling me that in three weeks’ time I’m going to be homeless.’

  He kissed her cheek. ‘Think of it as a new start. You’ll bounce back, you’re made of tough stuff. It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you.’

  Stung, she stepped away from him. ‘Wow, just what every girl longs to hear. How much she’s admired. Lucky me.’

  He opened the door. ‘Take care, Charlotte. Good luck.’ And with that he was gone, wheeling both suitcases towards the lift.

  She’d need more than good luck. In the space of one morning, she’d lost everything. Her career, her boyfriend, her home. She had nothing left.

  Slamming the door behind him, she sagged against it, fury giving way to heartbreak as she slumped to the floor. Angry tears ran down her face. She hated crying, it always made her feel so out of control, so untethered, but she couldn’t stop the onset. She was hurt, mad, shocked. Her perfect life was gone. Shattered. Wiped out.

  What the hell was she going to do?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tuesday, 17 May – 14 weeks till curtain-up

  Barney Hubble leant against the iro
n railings and drew in a breath of salty air as he watched a fishing boat drag its nets from the water. There was nothing remarkable about this particular Tuesday evening in May, and yet the sight of the water sparkling under the fading daylight and the rush of waves ebbing and flowing over the sandy beach below, was strangely hypnotic. How different his life was now compared to back in London.

  For a start, he walked everywhere. He’d never walked anywhere in London, other than endlessly marching up and down hospital corridors. And he swam most days, relishing the battle of challenging riptides and the exhilaration of diving into freezing-cold water, feeling his skin contract beneath his wetsuit. He was also able to indulge in his passion for music. He didn’t earn much from his gigs, but he enjoyed it and it made him feel alive … unlike when he’d worked on the hospital wards and he’d felt permanently dead.

  As a kid, he’d learnt both guitar and piano at school before progressing to singing in bands. He’d never ventured into acting before, but last summer his housemates had coerced him into joining the local amateur dramatics group. Despite his initial reluctance, he’d discovered that it was a great way to make new friends and ingrain himself into the local community. Something he hadn’t even known he’d wanted, and certainly something he’d never experienced in London.

  His parents had never been big fans of hobbies. It was all work, work, work, for Henry and Alexa Hubble. A philosophy they’d tried to instil into their son. Not that he was against hard work, he just wanted more from life. Maybe it was selfish, but specialising was his parents’ dream, not his. He’d given med school his all, but nothing had prepared him for the relentless onslaught of being a junior doctor.

  So, he’d taken a gap year. But the year was now up and his parents wanted to know when he was returning to his studies. It was a reasonable enough request. Trouble was, he wasn’t ready to leave Cornwall. He was still working out what he wanted out of life. He loved living by the sea, he was rediscovering his passion for music, and he was trying out new experiences … like playing Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  The sound of voices rose above the crash of waves below. He turned and watched his mates Nate and Paul cross the quayside to join him.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m being forced to wear a dress again.’ Nate slung his worn leather jacket over his shoulder. He’d never forgiven the last director for casting him as an ugly sister in Cinderella. For everyone else, the sight of a tattooed, bearded twenty-five-year-old dressed to look like Amy Winehouse was hysterical. Nate had never enjoyed the joke. ‘I mean, seriously, which part of me screams love-struck damsel in distress?’ He held out his tattooed arms. His biker T-shirt was stained with grease, and his normally spiky brown hair flattened from wearing his crash helmet.

  Paul shrugged. ‘Comic irony? No one would ever mistake you for a girl, even in a dress. Ergo, visual humour.’

  Nate didn’t look convinced.

  ‘And anyway, men have often played female roles in the theatre,’ Paul said, heading up the hill towards the hall, looking dapper in his blue Ben Sherman suit, complete with narrow tie and pointed shoes. ‘Where do you think the word “drag” comes from?’

  Nate looked blank.

  Paul gave him a questioning look. ‘It stands for “dressed as girl”. It began during Victorian times to denote a male actor playing the part of a female for comic effect.’

  Nate shrugged. ‘I never knew that.’

  Paul raised an eyebrow. ‘Unsurprisingly, I did.’

  Unlike his mates, Barney didn’t feel as though he had a specific style. He favoured jeans and T-shirts, wore leather flip-flops in the summer, and owned a few Fat Face shirts. Not exactly the height of fashion. He’d often been told he was a dead ringer for Elvis Presley, but he couldn’t see it himself. It was probably his Hawaiian heritage on his mother’s side. Whatever the reason, he imagined the three of them made an unusual sight when they went out together, especially when Dusty joined in the fun.

  ‘At least I get to play Demetrius as well as Thisbe,’ Nate said, as they reached Bridge Street Hall. ‘But I’m still not happy about playing a girl.’

  Paul patted his shoulder. ‘That’s life, I’m afraid. Others don’t always see us the way we see ourselves.’

  Barney picked up on the sombre note in Paul’s voice. ‘I thought you were pleased to be offered the part of Helena?’

  Paul smiled. ‘I’m delighted, dear boy.’ But his response lacked conviction.

  Barney was prevented from questioning him further by the noise coming from the hall. As they pushed through the wooden doors, they were greeted by the distinctive odour of stale sweat and smelly feet, a constant no matter how thoroughly the place was cleaned.

  Most of the village got involved in the productions, even if it was just selling programmes or helping backstage, but getting enough people to audition was always the tricky part, hence the multiple roles. The summer production was performed at the Corineus Theatre, a beautiful outdoor amphitheatre cut into the Cornish coastline. With its stone walls and clifftop views, and a backdrop of crashing waves and swirling winds, it was a stunning location. Performing there was magical.

  Barney didn’t need to be told that Lauren Saunders had also arrived at the hall. He could tell from Nate’s body language: his eyes homed in on her like an FBI tracking device. There was nothing subtle about the way Nate gazed longingly at her. And there was no way Lauren was as oblivious to his interest as she made out. Whether she felt the same remained a mystery. Sometimes Barney sensed she did, other times not so much.

  Tonight, she was wearing a grey tunic dress over leggings, her long hair tied loosely at the base of her neck. ‘Freddie! Stop pulling Florence’s hair!’ she yelled, her expression softening as her twin eight-year-olds ran across the hall, their startling red hair and freckles a contrast to their mother’s pale skin and dark hair. Both kids were eagerly talking and laughing. They each drew in a big breath, then simultaneously told their mum they’d been cast as fairies in the play.

  Unlike Nate, Freddie seemed delighted to be wearing a dress. ‘It’ll have a skirt made of petals and everything,’ he gushed.

  Paul ruffled his hair. ‘Good for you, mate.’

  They were joined by Lauren’s dad, who was followed into the hall by his two lady admirers, Sylvia Johns and Glenda Graham. No one could work out whether Tony Saunders was genuinely clueless that both women were into him, or whether he was just stringing them along, enjoying the attention. Either way, it was amusing to watch.

  Barney nodded a greeting. ‘I’m assuming you got cast in the show, Tony?’

  Tony grinned. ‘I’m playing Bottom.’ His flash of white teeth evoked an audible sigh from both women. At sixty-two, the man would shame most men half his age. His reddish-blond hair hadn’t greyed; his stomach hadn’t inflated, and his tanned skin hadn’t suffered from hours spent at sea. ‘Including two other parts. That’s a lot of lines for someone my age. You youngsters have it easy.’

  Nate didn’t look like he agreed.

  Despite being a decent actor, Nate wasn’t a confident reader, so often tripped up over the text. Unfortunately, the show’s director didn’t possess the art of tact, and if someone messed up, he wouldn’t hesitate to humiliate them in front of the whole room – as Nate had discovered at the audition, when he’d mispronounced his line, ‘Tarry, rash won ton!’ causing the director to bellow, ‘Wanton, not won ton! You are not ordering Chinese food, Mr Jones!’

  Jonathan Myers was a typical theatrical type, who wore glasses on a chain around his neck and sported a terrible comb-over. Appearing at the front of the stage, he asked everyone to take a seat. ‘As you all know, my name is Jonathan Myers. I’m a professional, RADA-trained actor’ – as he liked to remind everyone on a regular basis – ‘and the director of this year’s summer extravaganza, William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I think you will agree, this will be the Isolde Players’ most adventurous production to date.’ He started clapping, encouragi
ng everyone to join in, always eager to receive a round of applause. ‘We shall begin this evening with an improvisation, something to warm up our bodies and focus the mind. The single most important attribute an actor should possess is …?’ He cupped his ear, encouraging a response.

  The group mumbled, ‘Focus’, only to be met with a shaking of Jonathan’s head and an exasperated, ‘Louder!’ to which everyone dutifully yelled, ‘FOCUS!’ – except Nate, who yelled, ‘Louder!’ and then cringed when everyone laughed.

  Jonathan waited for calm. ‘Thank you. Now, I would like you all to pair up and prepare a short mime entitled “A Fool in the Forest”.’ Before he’d even added, ‘You have ten minutes’, Kayleigh Wilson had sprinted the length of the hall and ‘bagsied’ Barney as her partner, ever hopeful that their brief spell dating would turn into something more meaningful. But there was no spark – not on his side at any rate. She was a nice enough girl, but he wasn’t interested in getting serious with her. Trouble was, she had other ideas.

  Nate didn’t fare much better. He lost out on partnering Lauren to seasoned actor Daniel Austin.

  A despondent Nate was stuck with Paul, who, never one to take offence, said, ‘It’s just as well we’re mates,’ and slung an arm around his shoulder. ‘Your enthusiasm for working with me is quite touching.’

  Ignoring Paul’s sarcasm, Nate shoved his hands inside his jeans pockets, staring daggers at Daniel. ‘He does it to wind me up.’

  Paul sighed. ‘Then don’t let him see it affects you, or he’ll keep doing it.’

  In contrast, Kayleigh was beaming like she’d won an Oscar, sparkling like the diamanté lettering adorning the backside of her pink velour tracksuit. Kayleigh had big eyes and waist-length brown hair, making her an official ‘babe’, as Nate would say. But she wasn’t Barney’s type. Too girly, too annoyingly bouncy, and far too young aged just twenty. He was only twenty-seven himself, but five years studying for a medical degree, followed by two years completing his foundation programme, had induced a level of maturity that defied his age … not that his parents agreed. ‘Immature’ and ‘irresponsible’ were accusations regularly thrown in his direction.