by Jane Lambert
‘“… Andrey could be good-looking, only he’s filled out a lot and it doesn’t suit him …”’
A mobile phone goes off.
‘Hello …’
‘“But I’ve become old, I’ve got very thin …”’
‘It finishes around 10.30, I think … I hope …’ (snigger) …
‘“I suppose because I lose my temper with …”’
‘Okay, darling, see you in the bar. Hmm? I’m not sure …’
‘“… the girls at the Gymnasium. Today I’m free, I’m at home, and I have no headache …”’
‘Ooh, I know … make it a vodka and orange … a double … I’ll need it! Byee!’
‘Shh!’
‘“I feel younger than yesterday …”’
We haven’t even reached the end of Act One and I am consumed by an overwhelming sense of despair. Marvellous method acting? Would it were true.
A car alarm goes off.
What in God’s name is that guy doing?
‘“… Andrey, don’t go off …”’
I don’t believe it. He’s getting up. KER-CHUNG! goes the seat as it flips up. EEEEEEAK! creaks the door. A shaft of light streams through from the bar.
‘“He has a way of always walking off. Come here.”’
‘GOAL!’ comes a collective, triumphant cry from the bar, just as the door swings shut.
I guess Chelsea must have scored against Sheffield then.
We brazen it out to the interval - somehow. Acts Three and Four go a little better, and apart from the odd cough, our meagre audience seems to settle down. Maybe they’re actually getting into it. On second thoughts, judging by the lukewarm applause as we take our curtain call, maybe they were comatose.
It wasn’t meant to be like this; I didn’t expect a standing ovation and flowers to be thrown at our feet, but I wasn’t prepared for this: to be in a production where the actors outnumber the audience. Is this what I have sacrificed my job and everything for? This is not my dream. I had such high hopes. Things are just not panning out as I expected. My bubble has burst already. My nails are chipped and dirty; my knees are bruised from pushing and shoving desks around the office and scrubbing stone steps at the pub. I wouldn’t care had I had one reply from a casting director or agent; even a WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU would have been nice, courteous.
‘Well done, everyone!’ enthuses Hugh, giving us the thumbs-up as we trudge up the stairs. ‘The drinks are on me.’
I’m about to make the excuse of having to be up at 0430, when Susannah, who plays Masha, as if reading my mind, says, ‘Come on, sis’, shall we show our faces and have just one?’
‘Why not?’ I say flatly, forcing a smile.
‘Ladies!’ calls Hugh, waving us over to the bar.
‘Hugh’s a sweetie,’ whispers Susannah. ‘I’ve worked for him before, and not only is he a brilliant director, but he really values his cast. The theatre is his life-blood. He should be at The National – but then shouldn’t we all, darling?’
Despite early success (she was plucked from drama school at the age of nineteen to play Rumpleteazer in Cats), Susannah tells me she has struggled since, doing the odd commercial and bit part on telly.
‘The only way I get to do the juicy, classical roles is on the Fringe, in productions like this, with a couple of students or maybe a pensioner or two for an audience at matinées. But who knows, one of these days, Sam Mendes may be out there scouting for new talent,’ she says brightly. ‘Top-up?’
She’s right, and I feel ashamed for harbouring snobbish thoughts about the lack of dressing room space, the non-existent set and having to cobble together our own costumes. This cast has great talent with TV and film credits as well as West End stage. Yet despite the lack of money, they are dedicated and determined to make this production the best it can be. I need to learn to be more realistic and patient. They are an inspiration to me.
I will not give up. NEVER.
* * *
Poor Dean. I don’t imagine for one moment that a long, dreary Russian play about three miserable sisters is his cup of tea. Nevertheless, desperate for a paying public (fewer than ten in the audience and performances are now threatened with cancellation), I cajole, chivvy, then bully him into coming along – and to bring as many of his mates as he can muster.
‘Okay, you win,’ he says eventually, holding up his hands, mouth breaking into a wide, toothpaste-ad grin. ‘I’ll come. I seem to remember I saw the movie with Whoopi Goldberg when I was a kid, and I quite enjoyed it.’
I look at him quizzically. Movie? Whoopi Goldberg doing Chekhov? ‘Aah,’ I say, cruelly amused. ‘I think you may be mixing it up with Sister Act.’
‘Hmm,’ he says pensively. ‘But it’s funny, right?’
‘Er … not exactly.’
His eyes bore into mine. ‘All right, I’ll come, and I’ll bring some of the guys as well – but on one condition,’ he says, folding his arms as he leans against a desk.
‘And what’s that?’ I enquire breezily, scooshing some anti-static cleaner onto a computer screen.
‘That you’ll let me take you for dinner one night.’
Unaccustomed as I have become to being asked out on dates (let alone by a guy twenty years younger than me), and particularly when I’m looking like Gollum in Marigolds, I blush a dark shade of red.
‘Well?’ he says expectantly, fixing me with a challenging look.
‘I … but … well … you don’t have …’ I say guardedly. ‘Okay … but no fewer than six friends, agreed?’
‘Yay! Gimme five!’ he says.
‘What? Oh … yay!’ and we slap palms. Please don’t laugh.
* * *
‘How old?’ splutters Wendy over lunch the next day, looking at me agog.
‘I told you, about twenty-seven, twenty-eight,’ I reply, nonchalantly taking a bite of my ham and cheese toastie.
‘You cradle snatcher, you!’ says Rachel, putting down her coffee cup.
‘Now listen, he was really insistent and we need an audience, so what choice do I have?’ I say reverently.
‘Maybe he has a fetish for rubber gloves?’ says Wendy.
‘Either that, or he’s got an Oedipus complex,’ adds Rachel.
‘Hey, I take offence at that,’ I say, screwing up my face. ‘You’re all just jealous.’
‘Damn right we are,’ says Wendy. ‘So when are we going to meet this antipodean hunk?’
‘Whoa, not so fast! He’s only asked me to dinner, not to walk down the aisle with him. And I never said he was a hunk.’
‘No, but I bet he is,’ says Wendy, eyes twinkling mischievously, desperate for details.
‘Okay, so he is tall and looks like he works out, but what has that …?’
‘I knew it!’ she says, thumping her fist on the table, sloshing coffee and mineral water everywhere. ‘Isn’t life funny? Here we are, flying all over the globe, never meeting anyone, and you work as a cleaner at the crack of dawn, when the only people around are milkmen and all-night garage attendants, and quick as a flash – oops, excuse the pun – this gorgeous, young guy from the other side of the world sweeps you off your feet!’
‘You know, when I was a teenager, I watched films like The Airport Affair, and read novels like Love in the Skies and Captain of My Heart,’ says Faye wistfully. ‘I was sold a dream of an air stewardess’s life: stolen glances in the cockpit and romantic, candlelit dinners overlooking the Taj Mahal. And the reality? “I didn’t have a starter so knock five dollars off my share of the bill.”’
‘The people who wrote this stuff should be sued for misrepresentation. They should tell it as it is,’ chips in Wendy, toying with the sugar. ‘That you’re more likely to meet your Mr Right cleaning toilets than on board a plane bound for Rio.’
‘Somehow I don’t think Love in a Broom Cupboard or Kiss of the Cleaner would exactly fly off the shelves,’ I remark. ‘Now, talking of dishy, charming pilots, which we weren’t, any developments in the Mike/Céline
situation?’
‘Don’t ask!’ they groan loudly, in triplicate.
‘The latest thing is, he and his wife are now moving to a bigger house with land and stables so the kids can have horses. I mean, honestly, are these the actions of a man who is about to leave home?’ says Rachel, shaking her head wearily.
‘Why she stays with him, I’ll never know,’ I say. ‘Such a lovely girl, with so much to give.’
‘She once said to me, “What if there is no one else out there for me?” As if, and anyway, surely being on your own is better than this constant heartache?’ says Wendy.
‘I guess things are never black and white. I mean he must have something, mustn’t he?’ I say feebly. ‘Maybe I should have kept my dislike of him under wraps though. She never returns my calls or texts. Does she ever mention me?’
There is a thick silence between them as they stare into their empty coffee cups.
‘I only told her about Mike because I care, you know,’ I continue defensively. ‘She would have done the same.’
‘Shit! Is that the time?’ says Faye, gesturing for the bill, a slight wobble in her voice. ‘I’ve got to pick Tariq up from school, and I daren’t risk being late.’
‘Lunch is on me,’ says Wendy, helping her put on her jacket. ‘Now go!’
‘I’ll call you,’ mimes Faye, cupping her phone between her ear and shoulder as she dashes out of the door.
‘I’d better make a move too,’ says Rachel, pulling out her purse. ‘I’ve got to check in in three hours, and I haven’t packed yet.’
‘My treat,’ says Wendy. ‘Skedaddle! You know what the M25 can be like at this time of day.’
‘Thanks, angel,’ calls Rachel. ‘I’ll see you both at the play. Sooo excited! Break a leg, Em!’ she says, grabbing her car keys and blowing a kiss.
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re all hiding something from me?’ I ask Wendy when we’re alone. ‘I’m not asking you to take sides. I’d just like to know why you look uncomfortable whenever I mention …’
‘Céline knew,’ says Wendy.
‘Well there’s a surprise. She’s obviously in denial …’
‘About Nigel,’ Wendy blurts out.
‘Sorry?’
‘Mike told her about Nigel and … Miss Mile High, but made her swear not to breathe a word.’
‘What? You mean she knew all the time and didn’t tell me!’
‘Yes.’
‘How long?’
‘About six months.’
‘Six months! And did you know?’
‘No – none of us knew until you told us you were splitting up.’
‘I can’t believe it. Six months! And she just stood by and watched …’
‘Mike put her in an impossible situation,’ says Wendy. ‘And she feels awful about it.’
‘Yeah, but then to add insult to injury, she takes out her guilt, anger, hurt, and whatever else on me!’
‘I’m not excusing her, but according to her therapist, it’s a common reaction.’
‘She’s in therapy? But she always comes across so confident, so comfortable in her own skin, so …’
‘Many of us do, sweetie but underneath …’ Wendy shrugs. ‘Please don’t let this cause an even bigger rift between you. Give her a call. Please.’
‘I don’t see why I …’
‘Please, hon. She’s not in a very good place right now,’ says Wendy, tapping her PIN number into the hand-held machine.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I reply.
Wendy escorts me to the bike rack. As I lean forward to release the padlock, I flinch.
‘Darling, you’ve got to give up this cleaning lark,’ she says, rubbing my back gently. ‘Surely there’s something else you could do – less physically demanding and better paid.’
‘I know. I promise once the run is over, I’ll hang up my Marigolds for good.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she says, sliding elegantly into her car. ‘Now go home, get some rest, and oh, do something about those nails, please. I can hardly believe that this is the same Emily Forsyth who was once awarded a distinction for Cabin Crew Grooming.’
I peer at my distorted reflection in my bicycle bell, face like a Cabbage Patch doll, messy hair poking out from under my cycle helmet. Was that woman really me? The one who had monthly manicures, pedicures, and facials? The one who was photographed for the in-flight magazine, gracefully pouring tea into a china cup, and lovingly tucking in a sleeping passenger with a tartan blanket?
I pedal through the park, my tyres making a scrunching sound on the crisp, copper and gold autumn carpet. A startled stag bounds out of the bushes and off into the distance, a garland of ferns trailing from his battle-scarred horns. An unexpected rush of contentment floods through my veins. There’s definitely something to be said for this spartan life. Sometimes, like now, it gives me a fresh view of the world. I must have driven through this park hundreds of times in my nifty little sports car. Did I ever notice things like this back then? Did I ever smell the damp undergrowth, or stop to watch the heron balancing on one leg in the rushes?
Despite being flat broke, exhausted and spotty, I wouldn’t swap my life now. It’s a small price to pay to be allowed to act on a professional stage (albeit four wooden pallets shoved together, barely twelve feet long). No one ever said it was going to be easy. Most good actors start from the bottom, don’t they? It’s not as if I have dreamy aspirations of becoming the next Kristin Scott Thomas or anything; but so long as I can keep myself financially afloat, who knows what opportunities may come my way.
As for the Céline situation: it’s taught me I can’t change others, only myself. If she chooses to be with Mike then that’s her business. I did what I thought was right and it backfired on me, but I refuse to beat myself up about it, have a stand-up row, or allow bad feelings to fester. Am I going to allow Nigel and Mike to destroy our friendship? No way. I will rise above the hurt and anger by sending her an invitation to a performance of Three Sisters.
This doesn’t mean I excuse her behaviour, or that I’m a walkover; it means I want to move on. I’m tired of playing the blame game and carrying a grudge. It’s weighing me down and is not good for the soul. If I am to survive in this crazy, turbulent, wonderful business, then I need all the inner calm and strength I can find.
* * *
‘Is that the excited chatter of an audience I can hear?’ says Susannah in disbelief.
‘OMG! Did someone say the word audience?’ says Ed, playing Chebutykin, sarcastically, cocking his ear.
‘Darlings!’ says Hugh, bursting into the dressing room, beaming expansively. ‘Now don’t let it throw you, but we have a full house! I knew that review in Time Out would do the trick. Good luck, everyone, and oh, this is your five-minute call.’
I take up my starting position and draw a deep, steadying breath. The atmosphere tonight is warm and vibrant, yet I’m the most nervous I’ve been throughout the run. Dean and his young friends, my friends, who regularly see the hottest Broadway shows, wouldn’t come to see an old, serious Russian play in a shabby pub had I not sold them the idea.
I think I can hear Wendy’s laugh. I dare to look through the spyhole in the drapes. My eye scans along the rows. In a space not much bigger than Beryl’s front room, having the audience in glaring proximity can be distracting enough when you don’t know them, but … there they are: Rachel, Wendy, Faye, and … an empty seat. Disappointment floods my veins. I should have resisted the temptation to look. I mustn’t let it throw me. Concentrate.
All at once the door at the back is flung open. Bright light spills down the aisle. The silhouette of a female figure. She hesitates.
‘Over here!’ hisses Wendy.
‘We have clearance,’ whispers the stage manager.
‘She came.’
He looks at me blankly. ‘You okay?’
I give him the thumbs-up.
The lights go down; the music starts.
What a difference an
audience makes; to hear reactions to what’s said on stage lifts everyone’s spirits and performances. Everything is heightened, and the lines ring out earnest and true.
Instead of the usual, muted interval break, the atmosphere in the dressing room tonight is lively and buzzing.
‘You know the bit where I say, “Your clock is seven minutes fast”? Well, I got a reaction! Woohoo!’ says Nick, playing Kulygin. ‘They’ve actually picked up on my psychoneurosis – that I’m more concerned about the clock than the fact that my wife may be sleeping with another man. Bitch!’
‘I do love you really, darling,’ says Susannah, blowing him a kiss in the mirror.
‘This calls for a celebration. Tea all round,’ I say, flicking the kettle switch and collecting everyone’s mugs.
As Act Four unfolds, we have the audience in our grasp – not one shuffle or yawn or mobile phone menace.
‘“If only we knew, if only we knew!”’
The music fades. The lights go to black and there is silence. Lights up, and we join hands for the curtain call. Thunderous applause cracks the air, accompanied by cheering, whistling, and stomping.
Soon the whole audience is up on their feet. We all look at one another in astonishment, savouring the atmosphere. Dean was true to his word, and his rent-a-crowd has come up trumps.
‘See the trouble I go to to get you to have dinner with me?’ he says later in the bar, handing me an enormous glass of wine. ‘We really enjoyed it, didn’t we, guys?’
‘Aw, you’re just saying that,’ I reply with a self-deprecating shrug. (Why do I always do this? Throw compliments back.)
‘Nope, but strewth, what was the big deal with Moscow? I was there in June, and I much preferred St Petersburg.’
‘Darling! Well done!’ A familiar, cultured voice cuts through the raucous babble, and I turn to see Portia walking towards me, arms outstretched, theatrical in her long, burgundy velvet coat and fedora.
‘Is this the same woman who, not so long ago, was embarrassed to lay bare her emotions?’ she says, clasping me to her. ‘You shone tonight, Emily. I’m proud of you.’
‘Really?’ I say, secretly thrilled, but my insecure side is telling me she’s only being polite.