The Start of Something Wonderful

by Jane Lambert

  ‘Yesh!’ I call, through a mass of congealed strawberry, orange, and lime jelly.

  ‘Well done, baby!’ drawls Rick, bursting into the room, frilly shirt unbuttoned to the waist, a bottle of bubbly and two glasses clutched in his strong, manly hands.

  Whoa! I blink several times, jaw scraping the floor. I need a reality check here. Standing before me is the demigod, Rick Romano: a man adored by millions of women the world over, inviting me to drink champagne with him. And here am I, with what resembles a pair of tights on my head, mouth so crammed full of Jelly Babies I’m unable to string two words together.

  ‘Tank yub,’ I drool, flashing him a gummy smile.

  * * *

  ‘Sophie’s broken her foot,’ says Simon in a phone call two hours later. ‘She’ll be in plaster for the next few weeks, so you’ll be playing Constance until the end of the run.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I blurt out. ‘I mean, not great that she’s broken her foot but …’

  ‘We’ve scheduled an extra rehearsal for you tomorrow afternoon at three on stage. Okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, mind buzzing. ‘Yes, of course.’

  He hangs up. My stomach heaves. Oh shit, shit, shit. I’ve got to go through it all again tomorrow night, then another one, two, three … twelve performances after that.

  ‘But this is the big chance you wait for, cara,’ says Francesco during our now routine late-night call. ‘It’s your dream.’

  ‘I know, I know. I just wish I had more time to prepare.’

  ‘There is never enough time. Live in this moment, cara, and appreciate. Sogni d’oro. Golden dreams.’

  I sleep with my script under my pillow, just in case there’s any truth in that old theatrical superstition that lines can be passed from pillow to brain.

  * * *

  Rick is committed to a radio interview this afternoon, so I have to imagine his presence in rehearsal, while the stage manager calls out the lines from the front row in between frantic phone calls. It’s fine during my soliloquies, but becomes a little tricky during our big love scene, where I have to embrace and kiss thin air. Even a tennis ball on a stick would have helped.

  As the week progresses, I begin to relax into the part more and start to enjoy it, actually listening and reacting to what’s being said on stage, instead of thinking, Oh shit, I was supposed to shut the door when I entered just now, wasn’t I? or I know it’s my line soon, but which line? The motion sickness I suffered due to the revolving set during my early performances has also settled, and I’m able to get on and off it quite smoothly now.

  Rosalind flew up to see a matinée and has invited some of her Scottish contacts, but I told her it’s best I don’t know who or when, so as not to get my hopes up. Then whatever happens is a bonus.

  I have been living my dream in one of my favourite cities these last few days, not thinking about the past or worrying about the future, but focusing on the now. I wish I could hold on to this feeling and keep it safe in a bottle. Then next time I’m having a severe case of what’s-to-become-of-me blues, I’d uncork it, close my eyes, and inhale deeply. With just one whiff, my flagging spirits would be instantly revived, and I’d be back on track.

  * * *

  I arrive at the theatre on our final Saturday evening to find three bouquets of flowers waiting for me – three!

  I close the dressing room door, switch on the kettle and rip open the envelopes.

  Hear you’re a triumph, darling!

  Thank you & break a leg tonight,

  Sophie x

  Emily to the rescue!

  Thank you for your hard work,

  The Producers

  In bocca al lupo!

  Mille grazie ~ Sergio

  I let out a sigh, drink my tea then head to the stage for my very last warm-up. I look out into the silent auditorium, studying the glittering chandelier, the detailed plasterwork, the gilt cherubs, the plush red velvet seats, and the Royal Box – which, according to Arthur, is haunted by the Poet of Stockbridge, who was deeply in love with one of the actresses from the theatre, but she was the muse of the Duke of Stockbridge. In a fit of jealousy, the poet threw himself from the Royal Box during a performance and died in front of her.

  Before I knew this story, I swear I fleetingly saw the hazy figure of an otherworldly gentleman in a top hat during a matinée, but without my glasses, I can’t be absolutely sure.

  I wave to the ushers and wish them well before returning to the dressing room to put on my make-up and wig cap.

  * * *

  As we take our final bow to cheers and whistles, Rick takes hold of my hand and kisses it. I smile as I think how impressed my teen self would be.

  I look out into the packed auditorium through blurred eyes. In that instant I am reminded why actors struggle, do mind-numbing day jobs, and sacrifice the material things of life; it is for this. Pooh, pooh to all that psychobabble about us suffering from some sort of narcissistic personality disorder. All I know is, nothing else has ever given me the same buzz, joy, and satisfaction, or feeling of camaraderie. But while I’ve now had a taste of where I want to be, I’m not prepared to get there by ruthlessly treading on another actress’s toes – or by willing her foot to get trapped in a revolving set, for that matter.

  Faye says it’s all down to meaningful coincidences – that the universe is constantly sending us signs and guidance, but we need to be open and ready in order for the magic to work. It’s taken time for me to fully understand this, but I now realise it’s simply down to embracing new opportunities, instead of running for the nearest exit or the first National Express coach out of town.

  * * *

  After farewell company drinks in Rick’s dressing room, I stagger out of the stage door, laden with flowers, my vanity case, towel, and yoga mat.

  ‘Buonasera, Signorina!’

  ‘Francesco! What are …’

  ‘Brava, brava!’ he cries, picking me up and spinning me round, sending my yoga mat into the path of an inebriated passer-by tucking into a cone of chips.

  ‘Scusi, scusi,’ says Francesco, checking the guy’s okay.

  ‘Awa’ and bile yer heid!’ snarls the man, chips still in hand as he sways down the street.

  ‘Scusi?’

  ‘Bit difficult to translate,’ I say. ‘Why aren’t you at the restaurant?’

  ‘I ask Zio Luigi for two days’ holiday. He call Sergio and …’

  ‘How is he now?’ I ask. ‘He sent me flowers.’

  Francesco shrugs his shoulders. ‘Better. He want to come back to work, but slowly, slowly.’

  ‘And what will happen then?’

  ‘Then … then I must return to Naples.’

  Large spots of rain begin to pelt the pavement.

  ‘My hotel is just around the corner, in the Royal Mile,’ says Francesco. ‘Will you come and have dinner with me?’

  ‘I ate already, but … yes, Francesco, thank you. I’d like that.’

  He hails a cab, which drops us outside The Witchery, a sixteenth-century merchant’s house near the castle.

  As we enter the reception area, I catch sight of myself, hair like a toilet brush from being trapped inside a wig cap all day, scrubbed face and ripped jeans. Had I known I was coming here, I’d have made more effort.

  With its dark panelled walls, low, heraldic ceiling, lavish tapestries, and dim candlelight, the dining room makes me feel like I’m walking onto the set of Wolf Hall. I half expect Damian Lewis as King Henry to appear and start ordering everyone about.

  Over a dinner of caviar and Cairngorm venison, Francesco opens up to me for the first time, recounting a little about his childhood.

  ‘We live in an apartment, right on the edge of the sea. We can see Capri from the balcony.’

  He then goes on to tell me that as a teenager, he was a huge fan of Rick Romano’s TV cop show, and I confess he was my first major crush after Doctor Zhivago.

  ‘Francesco, I need to ask you something …’ I blurt out
, emboldened by several glasses of Montepulciano.

  ‘Che cosa, cara?’ he says, putting his wine down. I try not to drown in his stare.

  ‘Who’s Isabella?’ I ask, voice shaky. He turns away from me. My heart starts to sink. ‘I wasn’t spying. It’s just that ages ago, when we were at the coffee shop, your phone …’

  ‘Isabella is my daughter.’

  ‘Oh. Why didn’t you tell me? I don’t mind that you’re divorced or separated from …’

  ‘Divorced? Separated? No.’ A cloud drifts across his face.

  ‘What then? You’re still …?’ The words stick in my throat. Why didn’t I pluck up the courage to confront him about this before?

  ‘Alessandra, my wife …’ he says in a low voice.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, dreading what he’s about to tell me and thanking God I didn’t allow things to progress any further.

  ‘My wife and our second, unborn child were taken from me by a crazy motorcyclist driving too fast.’

  I look at him in silence, the candlelight illuminating his deep-set, glistening eyes. Moments pass.

  ‘God, Francesco, I am so sorry. I had no idea,’ I whisper, squeezing his hand.

  ‘Many years ago now,’ he says, letting out a long sigh and laying his cheek on my hand. ‘Allora, cara, we must live every day like it is our last.’

  ‘You’re so right,’ I say, humbled by his tragic story, and ashamed for having suspected him to be a love rat.

  ‘I want to tell you before, but is difficult for me …’

  His mouth then breaks into its customary playful grin as he says, ‘Eh, you have a little caviale … how you say? … caviar on your chin.’

  As he wipes it off with his napkin, I feel the spark reignite. He leans across the table, tilts my face towards his, and kisses me lingeringly.

  His room is entered via a stone turret staircase. He turns the pewter key, the door creaks open, and as I step inside, I travel back in time, landing somewhere resembling Anne Boleyn’s bedchamber; the walls are upholstered in rich red brocade, the canopied bed is opulently draped in velvet, and the gilded ceiling is adorned with thistles and bagpipe-playing angels. I run my fingers along the bookcase and a secret door clicks open, leading to a chapel-like bathroom.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I say breathlessly, desperately trying to keep my raging emotions in check, as he plants a gentle kiss on the nape of my neck. Stay cool, Emily.

  ‘And you are lovely too,’ he whispers, turning me to face him, ruffling my hair and kissing me again, urgently, hungrily – this time on the forehead, then the lips. ‘I want to do this all night,’ he says.

  Coming up for air, I ask myself if this is wise.

  Oh, to hell with it! I am no Philippa Gregory virgin queen, for God’s sake; I am Emily Forsyth, aged forty-two-and-a-half, and I haven’t been kissed for longer than I care to admit.

  By the fading glow of candle and firelight, he undresses me slowly.

  Why, oh why did I wear my tattiest Primark underwear on today of all days? And dear God, I haven’t shaved my legs or armpits for weeks.

  He laces his long fingers through mine. Our breathing becomes faster, his mouth feverishly covering me with kisses.

  ‘God, Emily, I want you,’ he whispers, scooping me up and throwing me onto the four-poster, which squeaks loudly. I bite my cheeks, determined not to ruin another dolce vita moment. I let out a small, pleasurable gasp as I feel the warmth of his body pressing against mine. Farewell, feminism! I am being swept away by a tsunami of emotions, like those heroines in Barbara Cartland novels – and I am relishing every single moment of it.

  * * *

  Hardly daring to breathe, I study his sleeping face: the small scar above his top lip (the result of an altercation with the neighbour’s hungry Alsatian when, aged five, he carried home steak for Nonna), his slightly bent nose (broken at football as a teenager), his thick hair – inky black and silver in the morning sun’s rays. My eyes are drawn to his shoulder and the heart-shaped tattoo with the letters ‘F’ and ‘A’ intertwined. My finger gently traces around it.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ he croaks, pulling me towards him and nuzzling me with his stubbly chin.

  The promise I made to him over last night’s dinner of a pre-flight, whistle-stop tour of Edinburgh is broken, because it’s raining, and he says we can’t possibly go outside. And who am I to argue with that?

  We therefore make a deal: he will show me Florence, and Edinburgh will have to wait – until Festival time perhaps.

  * * *

  That night, back at Beryl’s, I toss and turn until the early hours. All of the hopes, the desires I had long ago are starting to stir, to grow and come together. I find myself wondering what would have happened if I had met Francesco sooner …

  NAPLES, ITALY. A HOT SUMMER’S DAY IN A GARDEN OVERLOOKING THE SEA.

  A WOMAN IS HANGING OUT WASHING, A CHILD PLAYS AT HER FEET.

  ALFREDO, THE POSTMAN, PASSES BY ON HIS BICYCLE AND WAVES.

  ALFREDO: Buongiorno, Emily! Buongiorno, Matteo!

  EMILY: Alfredo! Ciao!

  THE SOUND OF CRACKLING GRAVEL AS A 1950s’ VESPA GRINDS TO A HALT.

  MATTEO (excited): Babbo! Daddy!

  THE MAN REMOVES HIS HELMET AND RACES TOWARDS THEM. HE LIFTS THE CHILD HIGH IN THE AIR, SPINS HIM AROUND THEN RUNS TO THE WOMAN, WRAPS HIS ARMS AROUND HER, AND KISSES THE NAPE OF HER NECK.

  EMILY: Ciao, Francesco.

  FRANCESCO: Ciao, cara. What’s for dinner?

  EMILY: I made your favourite – Pasta Al Forno.

  FRANCESCO: Mmm. Ti amo, Emily.

  EMILY: Ti amo, Francesco.

  Stoooop!! What’s happening to me? Have I learned nothing from past mistakes? I knew I shouldn’t have let romanza back into my life. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up that fragile, pathetic woman again, sobbing on the sofa into a family-sized tin of chocolates.

  My life no longer revolves around a man; my happiness does not depend on it. So yes, though I think I may be falling for Francesco Rossi from Naples, I am not the same woman I used to be, willing to give up everything for her man. I AM NOT.

  * * *

  Since that weekend, when our friendship turned into … more than friendship, everything has now shifted to a different plane at Il Mulino.

  The innocent, flirtatious banter we had in the kitchen now feels a teensy-weensy bit awkward, overthought. I wonder if Luigi, Maria, and Rosalba have noticed the change? There are obvious signs, aren’t there, when people go from being friends to lovers? Nothing you can put your finger on, but there’s a definite aura. And if anyone can sniff out amore, it’s the Italians.

  I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a good idea for me to carry on working there; much as I love Il Mulino and seeing Francesco every day, Sergio’s return to work will trigger big changes. Maybe it’s time for me to start letting go.

  * * *

  As if reading my mind, Rosalind calls me the next day.

  ‘Got a casting for you, Em,’ she says in her customary blunt tone. ‘Nice little telly. Nineteen forties’ period drama. One episode.’

  ‘Wow, that’s great. When?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Glasgow. I’m forwarding the breakdown to you now.’

  ‘Glasgow? Hello?’

  The line goes dead.

  I spend the next two hours scouring the internet for cheap flights, but they’ve all been snaffled. The train won’t get me there on time, and in any case, the only seats left are in first class, for the same price as a low-cost ticket to New York. It’s dawning on me with sinking horror that there’s only one solution: missing my shift at Il Mulino and taking the overnight coach from Victoria. Nooooo!

  * * *

  It’s 0730 and I’m staggering around the Glasgow streets half conscious, eyes like slits, mouth like sandpaper, looking for a coffee shop.

  The only place open is a depressing greasy spoon, reminiscent of the losers’ café on The Apprentice.
>
  I order a coffee and study the script: just one page of dialogue, but four days’ filming, as the character is in several crowd scenes, reacting to the action with a variety of looks, ranging from withering to firm. I haven’t quite mastered the firm yet, and just hope they don’t ask for it in the audition.

  I arrive at the TV studios in good time, so disappear to the ladies’ to repair my face and hair, do some deep breathing exercises, and practise my lines and various looks in the mirror.

  I return to the reception area, where there’s now another candidate waiting nervously.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘You up for the middle-aged spinster role?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply, a little affronted. ‘You?’

  ‘The girlfriend.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The door is flung open. ‘Emily?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ I say, standing up, legs wobbly after my night on board the National Express, heart pounding, cheeks flushed.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ says the casting director, pulling out a chair. ‘This is Rob, our director.’

  Rob stands up and shakes my hand, looking me over with a critical eye. Could I be the middle-aged spinster he’s been looking for?

  ‘Take a minute to familiarise yourself with this bit of script,’ says the casting director.

  ‘Oh, I’ve prepared the scene you …’

  ‘We’ve had a rewrite, so have a look at this,’ she says, pushing a couple of pages across the table.

  I fumble in my bag for my glasses.

  ‘Take your time.’

  My eyes scan the lines. A mobile rings.

  Rob gets up and strides over to the window.

  ‘Yep, yep. No. Tell him we start shooting in two days. That’s final.’ Throwing his phone onto the table he sits down, turns to me, and says, ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  The red camera light winks at me.

  ‘The key on screen is mental transmission,’ Portia told us. ‘Be subtle. Don’t project. The microphone will hear you. Don’t use your body too much. The camera will pick up the tiniest twitch, flicker of the eye. Don’t blink. Don’t pull faces. Use your brain. Less is more.’