by Rosie Thomas
Helen watched spellbound. It was Rosalind’s scene, but this Orlando was more than equal to it. Tom Hart’s right, she thought. Oliver does have a feel for it. All the self-confident grace of Oliver’s natural movements stayed with him on the stage. And the loose, half-ironical lightness of his manner spoke subtly for Orlando. The girl opposite him had a sweet, melodious voice but her body looked wooden beside his.
Chloe leaned across to Helen. ‘If they’re going to play it in doublet and hose,’ she whispered, ‘that girl’s legs are too fat.’
‘Thank you,’ Tom called. ‘Can we try it again with Belinda now?’
Another hopeful Rosalind climbed on to the stage. This girl was taller and slimmer and she moved well. But as the to and fro of the elegant, sparring speeches began again, it was still Oliver who drew all the attention. He looked gilded on the stage, as if he were already spotlit instead of quenched by the dull house lights like everyone else.
Stephen fidgeted in his seat and peered impatiently at his watch. ‘So much for the perfect Rosalind,’ he murmured.
There was a shade less confidence in Tom Hart’s manner as he retraced his steps to the stage.
‘Thanks,’ he said briefly. ‘Stephen, could we talk about …’
From the back of the auditorium a clear voice cut across the ripple of talk.
‘Is this the right place for the audition?’
They turned to stare at the newcomer.
Helen heard the soft hiss of indrawn breath before she turned round too.
A girl was standing against the red velvet curtaining that hung over the exit doors. In the second before she spoke again, she looked almost too pretty to be real, like an exquisite statue without warmth of flesh and blood. But as soon as she moved, smiled her question again, animation came flooding back and lit her face up.
‘The As You like It audition?’
Still no-one answered. The girl came down the aisle towards the stage. She had silver-blond hair, cut fashionably short and feathery to show the oval perfection of her face. Her wide-set dark blue eyes flicked from one to another of them and she smiled again, teasingly, and with a little challenge now. Although she was young, no more than nineteen, the newcomer was evidently used to the effect of her appearance.
‘Who is this vision?’ Chloe breathed to Stephen.
‘No idea. But I’m not going without finding out.’ He winked at her, and Chloe had the pleasurable sensation that there was already an understanding between them.
Tom collected himself first. ‘Yes, we’re auditioning now. You’d like to read for us?’
The girl turned her dazzling face to him.
‘May I? I don’t want to butt in. Let me explain first – my name’s Pansy Warren, and I’ve just come to live at Follies House. The landlady, Rose Pole, told me that you were looking for a Rosalind. I’d love just to have a try. I’ve acted a little bit, at school and in Switzerland, but …’ Pansy shrugged, self-deprecating.
‘Okay,’ Tom’s voice was crisp again. He handed his copy of the text to Pansy and helped her up on to the stage. Oliver bent to take her hand, and between them they led Pansy into her scene as if she were a piece of priceless china.
Helen sank lower in her inconspicuous seat. I could never, she thought, ever have walked in here as she did, unknown and unexpected, and asked to be auditioned. But then I don’t look like that.
There was a faint shadow on her face as she watched the players begin on the familiar lines again.
Pansy was wearing a loose roll-collared sweater that masked her slim, small-breasted figure, jeans, and soft suede ankle boots. With her cap of tousled hair she looked completely the girl-dressed-as-a-boy which the scene demanded.
‘Love is merely a madness,’ read Pansy, ‘and I tell you, deserves as well a dark house, and a whip, as madmen do.’
Her voice was soft, but surprisingly resonant.
There was no need for Tom to tell her to speak up.
She’s good too, Helen told herself. Good in the same way that Oliver is. She doesn’t care who is looking at her, or what they think. She can just be herself because she’s sure of being right. Like Oliver, she doesn’t have to try.
Helen was too intent on Pansy herself to notice something else, but Chloe saw it. There was a crackle between this Orlando and Rosalind that had been completely missing from the earlier attempts. There was a new edge of seriousness in Oliver’s performance as the youth in love with love, which made his posturing credible. Before, it had only been amusing.
And Pansy’s Rosalind, although she was mocking her lovesick youth, showed the girl’s attraction to the young man too.
That was right, as well.
‘With all my heart, good youth,’ said Oliver softly.
‘Nay, you must call me Rosalind.’ The balance of humour and longing in Pansy’s exit line was perfect. They want each other already, Chloe thought. And people like those two always get what they want. She shot a quick glance at Helen’s rapt profile and sighed for her.
The spatter of involuntary applause brought Oliver and Pansy to the front of the stage, flushed and pleased.
‘Weren’t they good? Wasn’t Oliver good?’ Helen was beaming at Chloe.
‘Very good,’ she answered shortly. ‘Unless the director is as blind as a bat, Follies House has provided the world with a Rosalind. What do you think of our house-mate?’
They looked at the slim, silvery figure between Tom and Oliver on stage.
‘How exotic to be living in the same house as someone like that. But she looks nice, don’t you think?’ Helen kept her voice deliberately neutral.
‘Mmmm.’ Chloe thought that indeed she looked nice, but it wasn’t the kind of niceness that Helen would benefit from.
Clearly the auditions were over. The two disappointed Rosalinds had slipped away and now Tom was flicking off the lights. Helen stood up uncertainly, longing to go to Oliver but too shy to make the first move. Behind her, she heard Stephen Spurring murmuring to Chloe, ‘There’s still time for some lunch. Would you like to?’
Tactfully, Helen hurried to pick up her things. She didn’t want to make Chloe feel that she should be invited too. ‘See you later,’ she said firmly. Oliver and Pansy were still standing at the edge of the stage.
When they spoke, neither of them mentioned their first meeting in the mist on Folly Bridge. Instead they let the memory of it hang between them like a shared secret.
‘You read well,’ said Oliver. ‘It was a good scene.’
Pansy’s eyes looked straight back at him.
‘Thank you. You weren’t too bad either. Quite good, in fact.’ When she laughed, Pansy’s prettiness took second place to her overflowing vitality. It was an irresistible combination. ‘We should do quite well together. If your friend the director gives me the part, of course.’
‘Oh, I think he will. Unless he casts you as my Rosalind, he’ll find himself with no Orlando either.’
Oliver vaulted down from the stage and, reaching up for Pansy’s hands, swung her down beside him. At once Tom went to join them.
Helen saw that they were absorbed and oblivious to her. Don’t get in the way, she told herself. They’re busy. He’s busy. She walked away to the exit briskly enough, but then she found herself lingering bleakly in the deserted foyer. She wanted to see Oliver. The prospect of going back to her books without even a word from him seemed impossible. But how could she go back and interrupt him?
She was still hovering indecisively when the three of them came out. They saw her at once.
‘Hello again,’ Oliver said lightly, as if they had last met at a bus stop or in a cinema queue. ‘What did you think of it?’
‘It was good,’ Helen said weakly. ‘Both of you … very good.’
Is that all? Then, more sternly, she reminded herself, what else could he say? In front of … other people?
‘Are you part of the cast?’ Pansy asked warmly. At close quarters her eyes showed a dozen different shades of
blue. She was wearing a scent which reminded Helen of summer gardens.
‘No. But we will be seeing each other again. I live at Follies House too.’
‘Really? That’s wonderful. Isn’t it weird? And the woman who runs it all, Rose, what d’you make of her?’
‘Be careful,’ Helen warned her, ‘she’s a relative of Oliver.’
Oliver shrugged, not interested in the turn the conversation had taken. ‘A very distant one, for whom I accept no responsibility.’
Tom was impatient too. ‘Let’s go and eat, for God’s sake. Come with us, Helen. Are you sure you can’t do something for my production? Backstage, perhaps. ASM …’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Helen told him absently. Her eyes were on Oliver, wanting him to echo Tom’s invitation, but he had said nothing. Please, she wanted to beg him, it’s me. Don’t you remember our days together? Didn’t they happen? Then the other Helen, coolly reasonable, reminded her. Don’t grovel. He’ll hate that.
But as they turned to leave, it was Pansy who took her arm. ‘Please come. Let’s get to know each other if we’re to live in the same house.’
Helen went, incapable of walking away from Oliver just yet.
The pizza parlour next door was crowded and steamy. Oliver hung back with an expression of distaste but Tom strode past the queue and secured a table.
‘No, I’m afraid it’s mine,’ he told the protesting party who had been just about to take possession of it.
‘Neat,’ said Oliver, with grudging approval as they sat down.
When the pizzas came, Oliver scowled at his. ‘Why are we eating this garbage?’
Helen remembered the splendours of the meals they had shared and smiled to herself. She stopped herself from murmuring how the other half live. Tom, completely uninterested in food except as the means of supplying himself with more energy, said briskly, ‘This isn’t a gourmet outing. We’re here to do business.’
The conversation centred on the production.
They were drinking red plonk, over which Oliver had also made a wry face, and Tom raised his glass to Pansy. ‘Here’s to you,’ he said. ‘You’re not quite the perfect Rosalind, but you’ll do.’
‘What do you mean, not perfect? I shall be a theatrical sensation, just wait and see.’
Helen sat quietly, watching and listening. Plainly Oliver and Tom had eyes for no-one but their new Rosalind. And Pansy bubbled between the two of them, laughing delightedly and turning her perfect face from one to the other. It must always be like this for her, Helen thought. She must always be the centre of attention. No wonder she can just stroll into auditions and expect to be heard. Not only to be heard, but to walk off with the part.
Helen’s gaze took in Pansy’s expensively casual haircut, her light all-year-round tan, and her tiny, jewelled wristwatch. I don’t suppose anyone ever denies her anything, she thought. Jealousy was an unusual emotion for Helen but she felt jealous of Pansy now.
Oliver was leaning negligently back in his chair, but his eyes were fixed on Pansy’s face. He had forgotten Helen, but she was no less electrically aware of him than ever. The four of them were packed close around the little table, and her skin prickled with the nearness of his long sprawled legs. The sight of his fingers curled round the wineglass brought a flush to her cheeks and the sound of his voice, not even what he was saying, obliterated the clatter of the noisy restaurant. Yesterday, just to have been close to him like this would have enough to make her happy. But the intrusion of this beautiful, assured newcomer had changed all that. Helen looked from Pansy to Oliver, whose dégagé air had completely disappeared, and felt a twist of apprehension.
She turned back to her unwanted food, oblivious to everything but the threat that suddenly loomed in front of her. She didn’t see a pair of her College friends gazing round-eyed across the room at the sight of quiet bookish Helen Brown in such glossy company. It would have come as a surprise to Helen to know that she was part of a striking picture, with the two bright blonde heads and two intensely dark ones bent close together.
At last Pansy looked at her tiny gold watch. ‘God, look at the time. I was supposed to be at a tutorial five minutes ago.’ She made the word sound archaic and faintly ridiculous. And she made no move to get up. Instead, she poured herself another glass of wine and beamed round at them. ‘Still, I expect he’ll wait for me. I’m not a real student anyway, I’m just doing a one-year art history course. To please Daddy, really. He wanted me to come to Oxford to meet the right people. Future kings of Broadway. And lords, that sort of thing. And brilliant women dons.’ Generously, she included Helen too, and Helen felt herself warming in response to Pansy’s friendliness. ‘I have to do something while I’m here and I don’t know anything about art or history, so it seems as good a choice as any. Daddy said doing a typing or cookery course wasn’t “suitable”, and Kim backed him up. Kim’s my stepmother. My third stepmother, actually. She’s all of twenty-seven, and acts like seven. You must all meet her, it’s a real eye-opener.’
‘Why?’ asked Tom, interestedly. ‘Does she beat you and dress you in rags, like a proper stepmother does? Even though she’s a bit young for the job?’
Pansy laughed merrily.
‘Just the opposite. I don’t care much about clothes, but Kim endlessly drags me round to shops and fittings and designer shows. And she’s too languid to mix a cocktail, let alone beat me. But if you think I’m not very bright, you should meet Kim.’
‘I suspect you’re quite bright enough,’ Tom said quietly.
‘You are a darling. And don’t worry, I’ve got enough native wit to handle Rosalind. Inherited from Daddy, no doubt. Oh Lord, he’ll be furious if I don’t even get to my first lesson. I don’t even know where the place is.’
Pansy fumbled in the soft Italian leather pouch bag that was slung over the back of her chair and brought out a list. ‘Ashmolean Museum?’
Oliver, who had been watching her with fascination, suddenly stood up. ‘I’m going over there. I’ll take you.’
Solicitously, just as he had done yesterday for Helen, he drew back her chair and helped her to her feet. Pansy put her hand on his arm, thoughtlessly accepting it as her right to be escorted and protected.
‘’Bye, then.’
‘Oliver …’ Helen had no idea what she wanted to ask him, but he half turned in response and she thought his face softened.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said. ‘At Follies.’
He was gone so quickly with Pansy that Helen found herself staring at the empty space where they had been.
I’ll see you soon. She would have to be content with that.
Opposite her Tom was staring blankly too. It was a moment before they faced each other and realised that they were alone.
‘Well.’ Tom was smiling crookedly. ‘Shall we finish the wine?’
Helen pushed her glass across to him. Instinctively, she liked Tom Hart and – more than that – he was Oliver’s friend. She could at least talk about him.
‘I’ve never met anyone like him before,’ she said softly.
‘Oliver? Neither have I. He’s got a lot of style, and I admire that. He doesn’t give a damn about anything either, and I don’t think that’s just because of who he is. Although that helps. Think of living in a place like Montcalm. Of coming from a family like that … holders of the highest offices in the realm for hundreds and hundreds of years.’
You’re impressed by that, Helen thought. Am I? Am I? Perhaps.
Tom was still talking. His dark eyebrows were drawn together over his high, beaked nose and his mouth, usually compressed in a sardonic line, curved wider as he looked into the distance.
‘That’s quite something, you know, to a Jewish boy like me. My family tree goes back no further than my great-grandfather. He was called Hartstein, and he arrived in New York with no more than the clothes he stood in. He scraped a kind of living for his wife and kids by doing piecework in the garment trade. The business he slaved for happened t
o have a sideline in theatrical costuming. My grandfather had a flair for that, took it over at the age of twenty, and ended up a celebrated costumier. And my father – well, my old man has a flair for everything. Greg Hart owns five Broadway theatres now, and a string more across the country.’
‘I think that’s more impressive than just being born a Mortimore,’ Helen told him gently.
Tom smiled at her in response, and she saw that although his face was stern and his mouth ungiving, there was real kindness behind his dark, hooded eyes.
‘Perhaps.’
‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘What are you really doing in Oxford, if you’ve got all that waiting for you in America?’
Tom picked up a fragment of bread from the tablecloth and rolled it between his fingers into a grey, doughy ball.
‘I’m in disgrace, as it happens. Serving out a year’s exile in the guise of doing my apprenticeship in the British theatre. By the time I get back, my old man reckons all the fuss will be forgotten.’
Helen stared at him, intrigued. She had forgotten herself enough not to worry about being tactful. ‘What fuss?’
‘D’you really want to know?’
‘Of course. What could be bad enough to deserve being banished from home for a whole year?’
Tom laughed shortly. ‘It’s not so bad. I miss New York, that’s all. Do you remember that production of The Tempest that was so successful in the West End last year? With Sir Edward Groves and Maria Vaughn?’
Helen nodded, dimly recollecting having read about it.
‘My father brought the production over for his summer season. With the original cast, starring the theatrical knight and his new wife Miss Vaughn.’
Helen remembered that, too.
‘Well, whatever Maria had married her knight for, it had nothing to do with bed. In spite of the fact that she’s very interested in that side of things herself. Most of us are, after all. When I was offered the choice, before the run had even started, I was hardly likely to turn her down. She’s very beautiful, and disturbingly sexy. Before long we were screwing each other at every possible opportunity. At my apartment, in her hotel room, in her dressing room. And that’s where Sir Edward caught us at it. Careless of me, really. The scene that followed was high drama – threats, screams, hysterical weeping, the whole works. It culminated with Sir Edward stamping down to my father’s office and announcing that the Hart family was not to be trusted, so he and Maria were back off to London and fuck the opening night. Greg flung himself into the scene like the old trouper he is. There were more accusations of filial disloyalty, immorality, perfidy and general filthiness. Of course, Edward really had no intention of missing out on the chance to bestow his Prospero on Manhattan. They compromised by despatching me to England instead. This job was fixed up for me in about forty seconds, and here I am.’