The Start of Something Wonderful

by Jane Lambert

  ‘Buonasera,’ says Rosalba, appearing on the stairs in the beautiful red dress she wore for the opening.

  ‘Rosalba! Meet Wendy, Faye, and Céline.’

  ‘Piacere. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Piacere,’ they reply.

  ‘They seem like a great crowd,’ says Faye.

  ‘When do we get to meet the fabulous Francesco?’ whispers Wendy with a twinkly smile.

  ‘Shh. Later,’ I say, blushing in spite of myself.

  We disappear upstairs to have a quick rehearsal and a group hug thing, a bit like the haka before a rugby match, though not as boisterous.

  At seven-thirty on the dot, Luke opens the evening by playing ‘Come Fly With Me’, Luigi dims the lights and rings the bell, which is our cue to appear.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Buonasera, signore e signori,’ we announce. ‘May we have your attention please.’

  We then perform a choreographed comedy emergency demonstration.

  ‘There are three emergency exits. They are located here, here, and here.’

  This triggers unexpected laughter, which helps to settle my nerves a bit. They’re on my side. I just hope I can keep them there.

  I’m tempted to scan the room for my reserved tables to check if there’s anyone there, but decide against it. I’ve got more than enough to occupy my mind at the moment.

  ‘If there is a loss of electrical power, emergency lighting will illuminate,’ I say.

  This is the girls’ cue to flail about in the dark, holding candles.

  ‘Please switch off all electronic devices and enjoy the show!’

  Cue Luke on the piano …

  * * *

  I don’t remember much about the last ninety minutes, except for feeling relieved and sad at the same time that it’s over. I think it went okay, judging by the audience’s rapturous clapping, and of course the food is never anything less than five-star.

  For the post-show party, just in case anyone’s still hungry, Francesco has prepared platters of bruschetta, baked arancini, artichoke hearts, anchovies, red and yellow peppers, various roasted veggies, and olives.

  ‘You were wonderful,’ whispers a familiar voice in my ear.

  ‘Portia! Thank you so much for coming.’

  ‘You deserve some decent work after this.’

  ‘You’re very kind. I missed a line though …’

  ‘Don’t ever draw attention to that,’ she says firmly. ‘No one in the audience would have known. When I played Gertrude at the RSC, I beat myself up about missing a whole chunk of dialogue, but no one noticed – including the press. Is Lionel still your agent?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Well, I saw a couple of good agents in the audience tonight, so fingers crossed. Anyway, darling, I mustn’t miss the last tube home,’ she says, kissing my cheek. ‘Thank you for the invite. It was fantastic. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Auguri! Congratulations!’ says Francesco. ‘More wine?’

  As he takes my glass, his hand brushes mine and my heart races.

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘Yes?’

  I turn to face a tall woman in a cashmere camel coat and silk scarf, red hair swept up on top of her head.

  ‘Rosalind Holmes,’ she says, shaking my hand. ‘Holmes and Halford? Got to dash, but I’d like to have a chat with you sometime. Call me,’ she says, pressing her business card into my hand.

  Rosalind Holmes

  Holmes & Halford Theatrical Agency

  Shaftesbury Avenue

  London WC2 9NZ

  Tel: 020 7836 7777

  * * *

  I waited a day before calling Rosalind. Never having been asked to call an agent before, I didn’t know the etiquette. I know you should wait three days before contacting a date, but surely the same rule doesn’t apply to agents?

  * * *

  ‘Miss Holmes will see you now,’ says the immaculate receptionist, hanging up the phone.

  Straightening my skirt, I head towards the glass office, feeling like I’m about to enter the boardroom, to be grilled by Sir Alan.

  Rosalind Holmes swivels round in her leather chair to face me.

  ‘Ah, Emily,’ she says with a courteous smile, rising from behind her steel and glass desk to shake my hand. ‘Did you find us all right?’ she says, gesturing for me to sit down.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Loved the show, by the way. Very original.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But what I love more, is your determination. It takes courage to do what you did, particularly when – if you don’t mind my saying – you’re a woman of … a certain age.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I think we could work well together, you and I. So, I’d like to invite you to join us here at Holmes and Halford. What do you say?’

  What do I say?? I want to grab hold of her and spin her around, to jump up and down, to fling open the window of her swish office and shout across London Town, ‘Listen up! I got myself a new agent! And not just any old agent – a top agent!’

  ‘Thank you. I’d be delighted,’ I say politely, shaking her hand.

  * * *

  Those first few days after the show and the agency meeting, I wake up every morning, relieved I have no lines to learn, no butterflies to tame, no commitments, apart from my evening shifts at the restaurant.

  I resume my Italian lessons, go to yoga class, and take long bike rides in Richmond Park. I freewheel down the hill, the wind in my hair, the sun, the rain on my face, and I feel free.

  But all too soon I resort to my old habit of checking my phone and e-mail at every opportunity, just in case Rosalind is trying to get in touch.

  She’ll call when the time is right, when there’s news.

  Why hasn’t she called? Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she decided a client “of a certain age” is not a sound investment after all.

  And then she does call.

  ‘Casting for you. Number One Tour to cover the female lead in a period piece. Am e-mailing you as we speak.’

  * * *

  And then three days later, she calls again.

  ‘They liked you. You start a week Monday. Sending you the contract right now. Any questions, give Becky – my assistant – a call. Is that all quite suitable?’

  Oh yes, that’s most suitable – in fact, it’s bloody brilliant!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Be Careful What You Wish For

  July

  I AM BEGINNING TO WORRY. There’s a dark side to my character emerging that I didn’t know was there.

  Whilst I’m naturally over the moon and grateful for this job, as the weeks go by, I’m becoming a teensy-weensy bit frustrated. I know the part now, and whilst I may not have starred in my own TV series or graced the cover of celebrity mags, dare I say it, I think I could play the role just as well. Does that sound conceited? Day after day, week after week, the waiting, the hoping …

  Wishing someone to be struck down with laryngitis or a mild tummy bug is one thing, but willing someone’s foot to get trapped in a revolving set is something else entirely. Evil. I’m horrified that I’m capable of such a thought.

  I breeze through the stage door, clutching the latest copy of Hello! and a bag of Jelly Babies.

  ‘Evening, Arthur. Dressing room ten, please.’

  ‘Reckon you’ll no’ be havin’ much time for readin’ the night, doll,’ he wheezes, glancing at my magazine as he hands me the key.

  ‘Mmm?’ I say, signing in, then checking my pigeonhole, mind elsewhere.

  ‘It’s no’ for me to say,’ he says, hoisting a shaggy eyebrow.

  I slowly start to climb the spiral staircase, calling in at the greenroom on the way for a brew.

  ‘Company manager’s been looking for you,’ grunts one of the lighting guys from behind his Autocar magazine.

  ‘Right. Thanks,’ I say breezily, spilling milk everywhere, my stomach dropping ten floors. Surely not? I
mean, I saw Sophie barely two hours ago. I watched her performance from the darkness of the stage-right wings and she was on fine form, giving her ‘I-love-you-but-we-must-part’ speech.

  It was at that point that I’d decided to make a break for it. Technically, I’m not supposed to leave the building until the curtain comes down, but I’ve religiously watched and mouthed every performance from the wings of Brighton’s Theatre Royal, to this, our final fortnight at The Dukes in Edinburgh. With just five minutes of the matinée left, what could possibly happen to her?

  Mistake no. 1: leaving theatre early

  Mistake no. 2: gorging on all-you-can-eat buffet

  Mistake no. 3: succumbing to large glass of house red

  Mistake no. 4: ordering garlic bread

  Mistake no. 5: forgetting to switch on mobile phone

  Mistake no. 6: arriving five minutes late for ‘the half’

  ‘… so, the silly cow’s been whisked off to A&E to have it x-rayed. You know what this means?’ says Simon, our company manager, running his hand nervously through his mop of unruly hair.

  An eerie sensation ripples through my body. Maybe I really do have telekinetic powers. I hadn’t intended anything serious to happen – just a minor ailment, something to lay her low for a week, a cold perhaps, allowing Rosalind sufficient time to arrange invitations and tickets for casting directors and producers.

  I swallow hard and force my lips into a weak smile. There is an expectant silence. This is the stuff of Hollywood musicals: the leading actress is taken ill, and the understudy has to take over at short notice.

  I can do it. I’ve been practising for months, says the heroine, with an assured toss of her pretty head. Bravo! More! A star is born! This is the moment I have waited for, longed for all these weeks, these seventy-two performances, so why do I now have this overwhelming desire to flee the theatre and catch the first National Express coach out of town? Well, apart from my all-consuming guilt, the auditorium will be packed to the rafters with legions of excited fans waiting to see Sophie Butterfield and her co-star, Rick Romano, give their highly acclaimed, headline-grabbing performances as star-crossed lovers, Constance and Enrique.

  The fact that their on-stage passion has spilled over into reality has fuelled the public’s imagination. The House-Full sign is now a permanent fixture on the pavement, while armies of eager punters camp outside in all weathers, hoping for returns.

  Exquisite pairing!

  The chemistry between Romano and Butterfield

  is electric. Beg, steal or borrow a ticket!

  ~ The Billingham Gazette

  This romantic duo sets the stage alight.

  You’d be mad to miss it!

  ~ The Yorkshire Evening Post

  ‘You up for it?’ Simon asks, knowing full well it doesn’t matter whether I’m ‘up for it’ or not. Why else have I been travelling up and down the country, getting paid £500 per week plus touring allowance? So I may sit in my dressing room, stuffing my face with Hobnobs and tea whilst reading trashy magazines, or to be allowed to finally finish reading Doctor Zhivago, which I started back in 2010?

  Nah – if it’s all the same to you, Simon, I’d rather give it a miss.

  ‘Of cour-hourse!’ I reply, with a loud laugh, verging on hysteria.

  ‘Knock ’em dead, girl!’ he says with more enthusiasm than he feels, I suspect.

  I feel my bottom lip trembling. Oh, my God. This is it. I’m trapped. There’s no way out. Stay calm. Deep breaths. STAY CALM. I AM IN CONTROL. I AM A PROFESSIONAL ACTRESS. I CAN DO THIS. I AM IN CONTROL.

  ‘Miss Forsyth to dressing room two immediately,’ cuts in the wardrobe mistress’s calm but commanding voice over the tannoy. I float downstairs in a daze.

  ‘Arms up!’ instructs Doris with a sympathetic smile, as she unravels an eighteen-inch corset. Before you can say ‘Mr Darcy’, I am stripped of my jumper and jeans and unceremoniously wrapped up like a pound of sausages. She yanks the laces tight. I gasp for air, secretly cursing the waitress for having persuaded me to have the banoffee pie with whipped cream to finish.

  ‘This is your five-minute call,’ crackles the stage manager’s voice through the speaker, barely audible over the excited laughter and chatter of the unsuspecting audience. ‘Five minutes please.’

  The show relay is switched off abruptly, and the only sound is Rick gargling in the dressing room next door. I stare at the stranger with big hair and heaving bosom looking back at me. God, I’m scared. My startled gaze falls on a bottle of Bach’s Rescue Remedy, sitting amongst Sophie’s numerous cards, flowers, make-up brushes, and other leading lady paraphernalia. Directions: Squeeze 4 drops onto the tongue. Bugger that. This is an emergency. Unscrewing the top, I swig the lot, in a desperate attempt to stop my knees knocking together and my teeth from chattering.

  Our doubts are traitors, our doubts are traitors …

  I toy with my mobile. To phone, or not to phone? Why not? I’m in need of some moral support, and that’s what friends are for: to call upon in your hour of need.

  ‘Francesco? Hi! It’s Emily.’

  ‘Cara! Che cosa? What’s going on?’

  I feel calmer already. ‘I just wanted you to know I’m on!’

  ‘Scusi?’

  ‘In five minutes I’m on! Sophie had an accident and I’m on!’

  I hear the sound of a pot lid spinning on the floor at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Francesco?’

  ‘Madonna mia! Fantastico! Eh, Luigi …’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Act One beginners’ call. Miss Forsyth and Mr Romano. Act One beginners, please.’

  ‘I’ll call you later. Ciao!’

  ‘In bocca al lupo, cara!’

  Oh my God, just hearing my name mentioned in the same breath as Rick Romano’s sends a wave of electricity around my body.

  Little does he know that some twenty-five years ago, as the object of my teenage passion, his life-sized poster adorned my wall, smiling out at me, encouraging me through my A levels, comforting me when my pet rabbit died, and when Blair Galloway dumped me for Miss Young Farmer 1990.

  His hair is flecked with grey now, and he may be sporting a paunch in place of a six-pack, but there’s still something effortlessly magnetic and wildly attractive about him. His come-to-bed eyes are bluer than the sky, his seductive smile makes your legs wobble, and that mellifluous voice would make the football results sound like Fifty Shades of Grey. The moment I have dreamed of for a quarter of a century has finally arrived, and I’m so overfed and petrified I could vomit, and my breath reeks of garlic. I swipe an extra strong mint from my newly acquired cleavage, and crunch it fiercely.

  Other cast members pop their heads round the door.

  ‘Good luck!’

  ‘Break a leg!’

  ‘You’ll be fine!’

  Will I?

  With lines swirling around my head, and pizza, pasta, Waldorf salad, red wine, and Rescue Remedy sloshing around my stomach, I lumber towards the stage area, one hand clutching reams of heavy, burgundy velvet, the other the wall. I now know how Mary Queen of Scots must have felt as she made her way to the gallows. I can almost hear the solitary drum beat accompanying my every step.

  As I take up position at the stage-right wings, I let out an almighty burp, the lace of my corset straining to the max. Rick gives me an encouraging thumbs-up from the dimness of prompt corner, opposite. I have only ever rehearsed with the other understudy, and wonder if he actually even knows my name. Until this moment he’s probably been thinking I’m one of his many crazed, adoring fans, following the show religiously from Woking to Aberdeen.

  ‘We have clearance!’ hisses the stage manager. Oh, my God, what’s my first line? Breathe, breathe, you can do this. You are ready. Our doubts are traitors, our doubts are traitors. What is my first line? Help! I can’t remember! It’s too late to rush round to prompt corner. Why the hell didn’t I bring my script down with me? The lights are going down. Our doubts are trai
tors … The stage manager’s stepping out in front of the curtains …

  The excited chitter-chatter gives way to a deathly hush.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. Due to the indisposition of Miss Sophie Butterfield, the role of Constance at this evening’s performance will be played by Miss Emily Forsyth.’

  A gargantuan groan reverberates around the auditorium. I feel like the booby prize in a raffle. I can almost hear them tutting and spluttering on their Mint Imperials, saying things like, ‘Never heard of ’er.’

  ‘Has she been on the telly?’

  ‘Bloody cheek! These tickets cost a fortune …’

  The lights dim and an eerie silence descends. Our doubts are traitors, our doubts are traitors …

  I leave the security of the wings and venture out onto the vast stage. The curtain rises. Someone coughs. Any minute now they are going to start jeering, baying for my blood. All at once I am drowning in a sea of white light. I feel like a prisoner of war caught climbing the perimeter fence, exposed by the stark beam of a searchlight. Hände hoch! Sweat trickles down my spine. I step forward, push out my diaphragm, open my mouth to speak and – nothing comes out. Get a grip! a voice in my head tells me. My brain is scrambling for the words. You do know it.

  I can’t stand here like something from Madame Tussauds, so out of sheer desperation, am about to throw myself on the floor and burst into floods of tears, hoping Rick will take it as a sign to come on early, when the lines tumble out in the nick of time.

  The next two hours are a blur. It’s as if I’m on automatic pilot, drifting through a fog, the dialogue and moves appearing out of nowhere …

  Then all at once I am standing centre stage, hand in hand with Rick as we take our final bow to a standing ovation. It’s over. I’ve done it, and I didn’t muck up my lines or belch or bump into the furniture and no one demanded a refund at the interval.

  I close the dressing room door firmly and lean against it, heaving a mighty sigh of relief. Alone at last. I feel giddy and ravenous. I unpin the heavy, Antoinette wig, kick off Sophie’s two-sizes-too-small shoes, and rip open the bag of Jelly Babies. Those little red, black, and green faces smile back at me sweetly as I devour them greedily. There’s a knock at the door. Thank God! That will be Doris coming to unlace me.