The Start of Something Wonderful

by Jane Lambert

  Then I remember the look of fear in his eyes less than twenty-four hours ago, and despite everything, I can’t help feeling sorry for him. Beneath that fierce Italian bravado, he can be just as vulnerable and scared as the rest of us.

  * * *

  The kitchen now closed, I pour myself another glass of Valpolicella and pop a stuffed zucchini flower into my mouth – whole.

  ‘I am serious about what I say before,’ shouts Francesco, straining to be heard above the enthusiastic clapping and singing of Funiculì, Funiculà. ‘About teaching you Italian.’ His warm breath tickles my ear.

  ‘Great!’ I say, hand covering my mouth to avoid showering him with bits of batter.

  ‘Allora, tomorrow at … Costa Coffee? Two o’clock, sì?’

  I give a cool nod, keeping my eyes on the stage, but biting back a hamster-like grin as I sway in time to the music.

  ‘Sogni d’oro,’ he says, swinging his jacket over his shoulder.

  ‘Scusi?’ I say, turning to face him.

  ‘This means, “golden dreams.” Ciao!’

  ‘Ciao!’

  From the corner of my eye I watch his tall, broad-shouldered frame weaving swiftly through the revelling crowd and out of the door.

  It’s gone two before the last few customers are persuaded to leave and past four by the time the tables are cleared and re-set, chairs stacked, floor swept, dishwasher loaded, and tips divvied up.

  I whizz down a deserted Richmond Hill, the wind at my back, my heart beating in time to the mambo from too much wine, caffeine, and too little sleep.

  Sogni d’oro, sogni d’oro … hmm. I like it.

  * * *

  When I arrive at Costa’s the next afternoon Francesco is already there, perched on a high stool, sipping espresso and reading the Italian newspaper, Corriere della Sera.

  The chef’s garb of white jacket and checked trousers has been replaced by faded Armani jeans and a pale blue, collarless shirt, with a navy cashmere jumper casually draped around his shoulders.

  ‘Buongiorno, principessa!’ he says rising and pulling out a seat. ‘Cappuccino?’

  ‘Mmm, please,’ I say launching myself up onto the stool. I peer at the book lying on the table and rummage in my bag for my glasses – Italian for Beginners.

  I shoot him a specky-four-eyes grin. He winks at me and disappears to the counter.

  Page 1

  Verbs

  avere – to have

  ho – I have

  hai – you have

  ha – he, she, it has

  abbiamo – we have

  avete – you (pl.) have

  hanno – they have

  ho una bicicletta – I have a bicycle

  Francesco sets down my coffee.

  ‘Grazie.’

  As we talk, I dare to study his face close-up: aquiline nose, square jaw, deep-set eyes, teeth slightly out of kilter, dark, wavy hair, tinged with grey; not handsome, in a smooth, Johnny-Depp way, but more of a Tom-Hardy type – rugged, raw yet charming; the type of man who’d protect you in a street brawl …

  ‘Allora …’

  ‘What? Oh …’ I flip the book open again. ‘Ho una bicicletta.’

  He shakes his head and fighting back a smirk, says, ‘No, no, no. The “h” is silent – like “o”. O una bicicletta.’

  I slurp my cappuccino and repeat, ‘O una bicicletta.’

  He fires me a bemused look over the rim of his coffee cup.

  ‘What?’ I say awkwardly.

  He indicates my mouth. Is he making fun of me?

  ‘O - UNA - BICICLETTA,’ I repeat, louder this time.

  He smiles, leans across the table, and gently wipes cappuccino froth from my top lip. His gaze is unflinching. My heart speeds up.

  ‘O una bicicletta,’ I say hurriedly, blushing madly.

  ‘Bravissimo!’ he exclaims, high-fiving me.

  * * *

  And so two afternoons a week I buy Francesco coffee and he teaches me Italian.

  If I get stuck and break into English, he puts on his serious face and says, ‘Non è permesso.’

  I’m discovering that often, by adding the letter ‘o’ or ‘a’ to the end of an English word, you can create the Italian: e.g. ‘sense’ = senso, ‘minute’ = minuto, ‘romance’ = romanza.

  I don’t ever remember language learning being so much fun. But back when I was a gawky, pigtailed schoolgirl, my Modern Language teacher was a short, dour-faced Glaswegian, sporting shabby clothes and halitosis. And now? Now my heart flips over at the sight of my teacher’s smile, the tilt of his head as he listens patiently to my attempts at grammar, sentence construction, and pronunciation, the way he says ‘E-milee’ and calls me his ‘piccola studentessa’ in that make-your-knees-go-weak accent of his.

  * * *

  Isn’t life strange? It seems to me the moment you stop wanting something so badly, it comes and bites you on the derrière …

  ‘I hope you’re sitting down, darling,’ gushes Lionel in a rare phone call some three weeks later, ‘because I have got you a casting for an eight-week run with The Jeremy Hart Rep Company in Branworth by the sea!’

  ‘What? Where’s Branworth?’

  ‘Oh, somewhere up North. Anyway, I’ve got some bits of script that I’ll e-mail to you, darling, and Jeremy will see you tomorrow at The Spotlight Studios at three. Okay?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Got to dash. I’ve got three pantomime dames to find before Friday. Byeee!’

  CASTING BREAKDOWN

  To play a mermaid, secretary, bride, and maid.

  ASM duties: to assist stage management as required.

  Good team player, flexible, versatile.

  Turns out the original actress was offered a last-minute contract to play Maria on a six-month tour of The Sound of Music, so has dropped out. Aargh. Am I destined to be used only in emergency situations?

  In any case, I’m far too old to play a mermaid and a bride, but Lionel is having none of it and reminds me that my reward at the end of the season would be the much-coveted Equity union card – a little plastic card that is my proof that I am a proper professional, and which gives actors discounts on everything from theatre tickets to hair removal.

  I don’t know why I’m getting in such a tizzy. They’ll be seeing loads of people, so I probably won’t get it anyway. Nevertheless it will be good audition experience, and I can’t risk being dumped by my one and only agent.

  * * *

  Only hours after the audition, am in the newsagent’s deciding which lottery numbers to choose this week, when my mobile springs into life. As usual, it’s worked its way to the bottom of my cavernous bag, and not until my purse, a half-eaten tube of extra strong mints, my mini Italian dictionary, a Tampax, a bottle of water, keys, my Oyster card, a scrunched-up tissue, lip gloss, and satsuma are spewed all over the floor, am I able to answer it.

  ‘Emily, darling, it’s Lionel,’ he says in a singsong voice I’ve never heard before. ‘Terrific news – you got the job!’

  As he rattles off the terms of the offer my mind goes into overdrive. Monday? I can’t start on Monday! What about the restaurant? I can’t leave them in the lurch. And Beryl? I’ve paid next month’s rent in advance. What about my yoga class, my Italian lessons?

  ‘So pleased for you, darling. Firing that e-mail off to you right now. Toodle pip!’ and he hangs up.

  Where has my ambition, my drive, my self-belief gone? Over ninety per cent of actors are out of work. I should be swinging from the lampposts and here am I agonising over missing yoga and Italian lessons. It’s pathetic.

  I’ll call the girls. I can always rely on them for sound advice and reassurance.

  Beeeeep, beeeeep. Abroad. Every one of them. I hang up, disappointed.

  As I’m about to leave the shop, I notice a yellow Post-it Note on the floor.

  “Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.” Remember! Love & luck, Portia xx


  * * *

  CHIUSO/CLOSED. As I turn over the door sign for the last time, a feeling of melancholy swells my heart.

  ‘A cena!’ calls Luigi. Francesco slips into the empty space beside me on the banquette. There are a couple of bottles of Prosecco chilling in an ice bucket by the side, and a little pile of gifts by my place: a box of my favourite Baci Perugina chocolates, a bottle of Montepulciano, a copy of the Zucchero CD we play in the restaurant, and a notebook in which Nonna Maria has written several of her recipes.

  ‘Mille grazie, a voi tutti,’ I say, swallowing hard, looking at them all through a sudden mist.

  These people have become like family to me. Il Mulino has given me a sense of belonging, and they have taught me so much in just a few short months: the importance and enjoyment of the simple things life has to offer; good food, wine, conversation, music, friendship, and family.

  Luigi leans across the table and pinches my cheek.

  ‘It is not goodbye, cara, just arrivederci. There is always a job here for our piccola inglese.’

  ‘Grazie, Luigi,’ I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.

  ‘And if you need anything, anything at all, you just call your Zio Luigi. D’accordo?’

  ‘D’accordo,’ I say, giving each of them a hug in turn. ‘Now I really should be going. My train leaves in six hours.’

  Francesco picks up my bag of goodies and opens the door.

  ‘Prego.’

  When I try to take the bag from him, he says matter of matter-of-factly, ‘I walk with you.’

  Our footsteps reverberate along the deserted pavement. He stops suddenly, gazing up at the low-hanging, milk-bottle-top moon.

  ‘Look! Orione and here, l’Orso, the Bear.’

  ‘Where?’

  He takes my hand and guides it towards the diamond-filled sky. I can feel his eyes on me. My heart quickens.

  He keeps hold of my hand until we reach the bicycle rack. He places my bag in the basket while I put on my helmet and flick on my lights.

  ‘Buona fortuna. Good luck,’ he says holding my gaze with his dark, soulful eyes.

  ‘Grazie. Arrivederci,’ I reply, smiling up at him, doing my best to sound Italian and cool.

  I go to shake his hand, he takes it and kisses it gently, then leans towards my face. I close my eyes, waiting to feel his lips on mine.

  ‘Eii!’ he cries as his nose bashes against the peak of my bike helmet.

  We both collapse into uncontrollable fits of giggles and my dolce vita moment is lost.

  He waves me off and calls out ‘Sogni d’oro!’, his voice echoing as I freewheel down the hill.

  After that near-kiss, the cold night air wakes me abruptly from golden dreams of constellations, moonlight, and a certain dishy, cheeky Italian teacher who has taught me to laugh at myself again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Flying by the Seat of my Pants

  August

  BRANWORTH STATION, BRANWORTH STATION, next stop,’ cuts in the guard’s muffled voice over the tannoy. I put Miranda away with the other three scripts – the other three, untouched, UNLEARNED scripts.

  I swing my rucksack onto my back and feel a twinge.

  I wonder if I’m capable of learning four parts in almost as many weeks, when I have difficulty memorising passwords.

  The Jeremy Hart Repertory Company is one of the few left of its kind. Nowadays most actors have the luxury of at least three weeks of rehearsal; not so here, with a new play to learn every week. The audiences are made up of the local community and regulars, who plan their holidays around the play season. Many of the actors have appeared here year after year and have a huge local fan base.

  When I’m not required to rehearse, I have to hunt for props, help paint the set, assist the wardrobe department, beg shops and restaurants to display our posters, and keep tea, coffee, milk, and biscuit supplies replenished.

  * * *

  ‘Three pound sixty, duck,’ says the taxi driver, as we draw up outside Gloria’s Hollywood Apartments – reputedly the best theatrical digs in town.

  I push a fiver into his hand. ‘Keep the change,’ I say distractedly, looking upwards.

  ‘I’ll look for your name in lights!’ he calls, peeping his horn as he pulls away from the kerb.

  I press the buzzer. A figure descends through the frosted glass, and I am face to face with a lady sporting a dated beehive, tight, velour top, leopard skin, stretchy ski pants, and black satin slippers with fluffy feathers.

  ‘You must be Emily. I’m Gloria. Come in, love, and I’ll show you your apartment,’ she says, beckoning me inside. ‘You’re in the Bette Davis Studio,’ she announces proudly, as she bustles up the flock-wallpapered stairway in a vapour of 4711 cologne and nicotine, gold pendants jingling. Framed, black and white, signed photographs of Gloria with various celebs whom I vaguely recognise from old sitcoms and soaps cram every square inch.

  ‘Would you like a cuppa?’ she asks.

  ‘Mmm, yes, please,’ I reply, dropping my rucksack to the floor. She disappears in a swish of bamboo curtain, through to the galley kitchen.

  ‘How about a Gypsy Cream as well?’ she calls. ‘You must be starving after your journey.’

  ‘That’d be great.’

  I take in my surroundings; the living room-cum-bedroom is spotlessly clean, with a standard lamp, crushed velveteen settee and sheepskin rug. There’s a giant television in one corner and a single bed in the other, covered in a paisley-patterned eiderdown. The walls are artexed, giving them that rough, Seventies, faux-farmhouse effect. Off the corridor is the burgundy bathroom suite, with matching, twisted-loop pedestal mat and loo seat cover.

  ‘You know, I always fancied being an actress myself,’ says Gloria, handing me my tea and biscuit. ‘When my mother died and left me the house, I decided to convert it and take in theatricals. They’ve all stayed here: the Roley-Poleys, Hinge and Bracket, Cannon and Ball, the Krankies, Dottie Wayne, Joe Pasquale … and last week I had the cast of Saturday Night Fever. If you could pay me on a Friday, please – and I prefer cash. Oh, and don’t forget to sign my visitors’ book before you leave. Don’t hesitate to knock if you need anything,’ she says handing me my key, then clip-clopping down the stairs.

  After unpacking, I wander down to the beach, and out to the end of the deserted pier. I look out at the heaving ocean and draw a deep breath. So, this is the life I’ve dreamed of – the life of a jobbing actress – how will it pan out? What will the rest of the cast be like? What if I can’t remember my lines?

  I head back towards the shore, buffeted along by the strong wind, whipped up from the sea. As I draw closer, I notice the lights are on in the chippy. I order a haddock supper, which I devour with greasy fingers on a bench in a draughty, graffiti-covered shelter.

  With the light now starting to fade, I find my way to the little repertory theatre.

  SEE TWO PLAYS IN ONE WEEK! boasts the poster pasted outside. And there’s my name in tiny print at the bottom of the cast list. No backing out now. I look down the list of plays, and the scary thought of all those lines hastens me back to Gloria’s for an early night.

  * * *

  Next morning, heart racing, I climb the stairs to the rehearsal studio. I pause momentarily as I turn the door handle and suck in a deep breath. The room is full of actors talking in loud, confident voices, laughing, squealing, hugging, and air-kissing one another.

  ‘Darling! How wonderful to see you again – can’t believe it’s been a year …’

  ‘Been working, much?’

  ‘Oh, this and that – a bit of voice-over work and one episode of The Street.’

  ‘I hardly recognised you – the Botox takes years off you …’

  ‘… I’m not complaining though – that soup commercial will pay my mortgage for the next six months …’

  The door opens and Jeremy, the director, whom I recognise from the audition, appears, followed by his creative team.

  ‘Good morning, everyone, and welcom
e to The Civic Theatre for this, our fortieth anniversary season. Gather round,’ he says, indicating the circle of chairs. ‘Now, for the benefit of those who haven’t been here before, to my left is Babs, who’s in charge of wardrobe; Lesley, set designer; Ellis, lighting; Richard, sound; Mark, stage manager; and his second-in-command, Abi, DSM.’ (Deputy stage manager.)

  ‘Hi!’ says Abi, who is crouched on the floor, marking the layout of the set with white tape.

  Jeremy looks anxiously at the door, then his watch. ‘Well, we’d better get started. Let’s go round the room, introduce yourselves, and then tell us the name of the character you’ll be playing in our opening production.’

  The door flies open and a well-preserved actress I vaguely recognise from an Eighties’ sitcom sweeps into the room, a long, red PVC raincoat draped around her shoulders, clutching what looks like a meerkat with hair extensions.

  ‘So sorry I’m late, Jeremy darling. You know how I hate early mornings.’

  ‘Margo darling!’ gushes Jeremy, leaping to his feet and kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Let me grab you a pew.’

  Scooping up a chair, he announces, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, she doesn’t need introducing, but put your hands together please, and give a warm welcome to our leading lady, Margo Dalziel!’

  Margo smiles graciously, gives a regal wave and says, ‘Aren’t you forgetting someone, darling? This is Phoebe, everyone,’ she says, proudly holding up a scrawny paw. ‘You see, she’s saying “hello”,’ she gushes, smothering the yelping meerkat in kisses.

  ‘Right, let’s crack on, folks,’ booms Jeremy over-brightly, eyes studying the ceiling. ‘Here are your rehearsal schedules. Please take one and pass them on …’

  As my eyes run down the schedule, my stomach twists and my heart quickens. I am perfectly prepared to earn my thespian wings by working my socks off, but I can’t help feeling a tad panic-stricken when I realise that after opening night, we begin rehearsals early the following morning for the next production, whilst performing the play we rehearsed the last week every evening, with matinées on Thursdays and Saturdays.

  At the end of each run, I have to pack away all the props, help ‘strike’ (take down) the set and put up the new one, which I have to dress with the curtains, pictures, rugs, books, ornaments etc. I have somehow miraculously sourced in time for the full dress rehearsal at 2.30.