The Start of Something Wonderful

by Jane Lambert

  My eyes flicker open, and I focus my stare on the chandelier suspended from the cracked, wedding-cake ceiling. I reach out, tracing my fingers along the crocheted mat, feeling for my watch. I peer at the hands: eight fifty-five. I pull on a woolly sweater over my pyjamas, pad across the tiled floor, and open the flaky shutters.

  I step through the beam of sunlight, out onto the balcony, and soak up the sounds of the bustling Rudolfstrasse below: the rumbling tram, car horns, the shouts from the market stall holders, the putt-putt of scooters, and the clinging of bicycle bells. I lean over the wrought-iron railing, and the trailing geraniums (valiantly still flowering) brush my bare feet.

  Faye would be proud of me. I am living more and more in the moment these days (since 18th October to be precise, when I moved out of Colditz and into apartment thirteen, thirty-two Rudlofstrasse, home of Frau Anna Schildberger, retired nurse, now theatrical landlady).

  The church clock, around the corner in Ringstrasse, chimes nine, reminding me that I’ve had my daily dose of I-am-one-with-the-universe, and to get my arse into gear if I’m to squeeze in my caffeine fix by rehearsal at ten-thirty.

  * * *

  I am now the proud owner of one of those sit-up-and-beg bikes, complete with wicker basket, which I picked up for just forty euros among the second-hand clothes, ornaments, paintings, and general junk at the flea market.

  Vienna is great for cyclists, there being plenty of cycle paths and places to park. As someone who regularly runs the gauntlet of the A316 to Richmond and beyond, this city is a dream.

  I slot my bike into the rack outside my favourite coffee shop, Kaffeehaus Vancl. According to my guidebook, this has been a meeting place for poets, writers, and artists for centuries. It’s rather shabby, but full of bohemian character, with its marble-topped tables, creaky wooden chairs, faded drapes, and ornate, gilt mirror. The atmosphere is warm and theatrical – gemütlich, as the natives say.

  ‘Guten morgen, Fraulein,’ says the waiter in tuxedo and bow tie, scraping a chair across the floor. ‘Bitte sehr?’ Without waiting for my order, he says, ‘Kaffee mit Schlagobers und zwei Buchteln, bitte‚’ mimicking my Anglo-Viennese accent. I hold this waiter solely responsible for my growing jam-filled bun addiction.

  I run my hands across the cool, mottled table and wonder who else has sat here, learning lines, sketching, penning novellas and music, and did they too dunk their pastries in their coffee, or did the art of dunking not evolve until modern times?

  With sticky fingers, I pull the script from my bag and scan my lines for the section we’re working on today. It’s a scene between Ethel (my mother) and me. Chelsea is a dream of a part to play: complex, at odds with her father, and unlucky in love.

  There are some great emotional moments – something to really get my teeth into. I think I can safely say my days of stumbling about the stage sporting a dodgy wig and an even dodgier accent, grappling for my next line, are now firmly in the dim and distant past.

  Ethel is played by Mags, the only other female member of the cast.

  We hit it off right from the moment we met in the departure lounge that day at Heathrow …

  ‘Snap!’

  My head bobbed up. Sitting across from me was an elegant woman of about seventy, silver-grey hair piled up on top of her head, an identical green script clutched in her hand.

  ‘My daughter, I presume?’ she ventured, leaning forward.

  I hesitated momentarily, and then it dawned on me. ‘Ethel, how nice to meet you,’ I said, shaking her hand with an enthusiastic grip.

  By the time our plane touched down, we’d crammed two lifetimes into those two short hours. A retired French teacher and keen amateur actress, she’d turned professional after years of caring for her husband.

  ‘Dementia has stolen him from me,’ she said candidly. ‘When he finally had to go into a home, I decided I needed to make a new life for myself. I feel guilty because he’s still alive and I’m carrying on as if he’s dead,’ she continued wistfully. ‘But most of the time he doesn’t even know who I am.’

  I didn’t know how to respond; what words could possibly be of comfort? ‘Things will get better’ would sound hollow and insincere; but then the stewardess asked if we’d like another drink from the bar, and a mischievous smile stretched across Mags’s face as she said, ‘Oh, I think we could manage one more, don’t you?’

  Norman, my father, is played by theatre veteran, Oliver. With his CAA (Concert Artistes’ Club) tie, highly polished shoes, and trilby (which is raised whenever a lady enters the room), he is the archetypal, courtly English gent. We love to hear his stories of the good old days, touring the classics to exotic places with the Sir Donald Wolfit Company. I swear those rich, sonorous tones could be heard over the Rolls Royce engines of a 747.

  Not the same can be said, I’m afraid, for top of the bill, Alan Hastings, who has been cast in the role of my fiancé, Bill Ray. Alan has spent the last twenty-five years playing psychiatrist Doctor Chris Lane in the crime drama Mind Games, which has catapulted him into stardom.

  This is his first foray into stage acting, and I can see why the producers chose him: he’s suave, sophisticated (if a little arrogant), and has earned a huge following of die-hard fans (mainly female and gay), who are willing to travel in their droves to see him, so is a huge box office draw. There’s just one small problem: he mumbles. This type of method acting is all very well if you’re Marlon Brando in The Godfather, where an understated look, a grunt or a whisper is all that’s required to subtly communicate emotions to an audience of one: i.e. the camera lens, but not in a one-thousand-seat auditorium.

  But no matter, for there are always queues of adoring autograph hunters at the stage door every night, pens, programmes, and cameras at the ready.

  Alan is chauffeured between the Hotel Sacher and the theatre every day (I can’t begin to imagine how many euros he earns a week), and is always jawing on about lunching at The Ivy with Michael Caine or golfing with Hugh Grant.

  I imagine this must all be very galling for Oliver, who’s a wonderful stage actor, with a list of notable credits to his name, yet walks to the theatre every day, and is staying in a three-star Gasthaus. When I once asked him about his feelings on the subject, he simply said, ‘Acting is not a contest, Emily. I’m proud of the work I’ve done, and am not interested in keeping score. “When envy breeds unkind division: there comes the ruin, there begins confusion.” Henry The Sixth, Part One.’

  (How I would love to have Oliver’s ability to quote Shakespeare at the drop of a hat – and to have the grace to think more kindly of Alan.)

  But try as I might, there’s absolutely no chemistry between us, which is unfortunate, as we’re supposed to be madly in love.

  Mags tells me it’s a good test of my acting skills, and recalls how she once had a similar problem, playing a sadist lesbian in The Killing of Sister George. The only way she could pull it off was to totally immerse herself in the thoughts and emotions of the character. (I suppose I should give thanks for small mercies: at least Alan’s a man.)

  What was it Portia said?

  ‘Acting is about finding the truth in imaginary circumstances.’

  Note to self: MUST TRY HARDER TO FANCY ALAN BILL RAY.

  After all, if Mags and Jason can do it, why not me? Jason plays Charlie, the mailman. Charlie’s known Chelsea since they were kids, and still has unrequited feelings for her. He’s gay (Jason, that is, not Charlie), but those soul-searching eyes regard me with such adoration on stage, that an unspoken frisson has developed between us. (Oh dear, I’m falling for the wrong guy.)

  I wish Jason were around more, as his presence immediately fills the air with fun and laughter. (He reminds me of many of my gay steward colleagues, who, through their razor-sharp wit and charm, would turn a ten-hour flight packed full of delayed, grumpy passengers into an on-board party.) But Jason has a boyfriend, Matthias, who lives in Vienna, and so he scoots off every night after the show.

  The role
of Billy Ray Junior, Bill Ray’s teenage son, is shared between two young teenagers, who attend the American International Theatre School here, and play the role in rotation.

  The scenes between crotchety octogenarian Norman and thirteen-year-old Billy Ray are a master class in fine acting. The arrival of the young man at Golden Pond pulls the world-weary Norman from the quicksand of his melancholy, their fishing trips and man-to-man talks reviving the old man’s zest for life. The powerful bond played out in their scenes together makes my heart hurt.

  It gets me thinking about family and growing old – how we all need a little sunshine in our lives; just because you’re done with work or raising children, this doesn’t mean you’ve passed your sell-by date and are happy to spend the rest of your life in solitary confinement, with only the telly for company. Every human being needs to feel useful and wanted. I don’t imagine Oliver is still treading the boards purely through financial necessity, and as for Mags, this contract is the key to her sanity.

  * * *

  After two weeks in a church hall, today we are to rehearse on stage for the first time.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the On Golden Pond Company, please make your way down to the auditorium to walk the set,’ the deputy stage manager instructs over the tannoy.

  We enter through the swing doors and stop dead in our tracks. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. The cables and ladders have disappeared, and the hollow, cavernous stage of a fortnight ago has now morphed into Ethel and Norman Thayer’s rustic, lakefront house in Maine, New England.

  The audio engineers are hunched over a huge mixing desk in the middle of the stalls, the lighting guys are working overhead, and day turns to night in an instant, the lake shimmering in the moonlight beyond the screen door. The eerie sound of the loons echoes around the auditorium. Mags and Oliver slip quietly unprompted into character.

  ‘“Shh. Norman, the loons. They’re calling. Oh, why is it so dark?”’

  ‘“Because the sun went down.”’

  ‘“I wish I could see them. Yoo-hoo! Looooooons! Loony looo-oooons!”’

  ‘“I don’t think you should do that in front of Chelsea’s companion.”’

  Gerhard, our director, sits at the front of the stage, calling instructions to the crew. We settle silently into the plush, red velvet seats until they are ready for us.

  * * *

  Opening night

  ‘Guten Abend, Olaf,’ I say to the stage doorman as I tick off my name and eagerly check my pigeonhole for post.

  ‘Guten Abend, Fraulein,’ he says, summoning me back to the desk with the crook of his finger. He disappears momentarily to the small office at the back and re-emerges with a huge bouquet of crimson roses. ‘Für Sie,’ he says, thrusting them towards me, amused by my astounded expression.

  ‘Danke,’ I say, barely able to contain my soaring joy, whilst silently castigating myself for assuming Francesco would forget my opening night.

  As I make my way up the stairs, Oliver’s vocal warm-up exercises sweep down the corridor to meet me. ‘What a to-do to die today at a minute or two to two. A thing distinctly hard to say, but harder still to do …’

  The theatre manager, in full penguin suit, gives me a fleeting nod as he rushes past, squawking into his walkie-talkie.

  ‘Entschuldigung! Sorry!’ calls out the wardrobe mistress, narrowly avoiding me as she clatters down the stairs, the mailman’s costume slung over her shoulder.

  The deputy stage manager’s voice echoes through the tannoy: ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the On Golden Pond Company, the house is now open. Please do not cross the stage.’

  I open the door to dressing room number three, which Mags and I share. She’s already there in her paisley silk dressing gown, applying her make-up.

  ‘Wow! Are those flowers from your Italian amore?’ she asks, a girlish glint in her eye. ‘How romantic!’

  ‘I think so …’ I say, secretly hoping, as I rip open the card.

  In bocca al lupo!

  Luigi, Maria, Rosalba, Luke e Francesco

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your half-hour call,’ cuts in the deputy stage manager’s voice again. ‘Thirty minutes, please.’

  A ripple of excitement mixed with sheer terror courses through my veins.

  As I flick my powder brush to and fro, my thoughts drift again to Francesco. I wonder what he’s doing at this very moment. Concocting one of his delicious sauces, no doubt, whilst singing along to Zucchero or Renato Zero …

  ‘Break a leg, my darling,’ whispers Mags, pressing her cheek against mine.

  ‘God, have I missed the beginners’ call?’ I say, coming back down to planet earth.

  ‘No. Don’t panic. I like to get down there early to check my props – and I have a daft little ritual I need to perform in the wings before every opening night,’ she says confidingly. ‘It’s too silly for words, so don’t ask. See you down there. Let’s knock ’em dead!’

  A little jitter creeps back into my tummy. This is it. Two scenes, and I’m on. All the rehearsal and anxiety of the last three weeks, wondering if it would all come together in time, has culminated in this moment, and I’m thinking about Francesco and his pasta sauces. I give myself a severe ticking off, and take one last look at my lines, in an attempt to block him out and discipline my thoughts.

  From the moment I make my first entrance, my nerves vanish as the magic takes hold, and I get lost in Chelsea; one moment a grown woman in complete control of her life, the next, a little girl, insecure and desperate for parental approval.

  I am one of the lucky eight per cent of actors in paid employment, and to prove it, blu-tacked to the dressing room mirror (with light bulbs all around it!) is the invitation to my first proper opening night party …

  THE MANAGEMENT OF THE RIEGER THEATRE, VIENNA

  INVITE THE CAST & CREW OF ON GOLDEN POND

  TO FIRST-NIGHT DRINKS IN THE HAYDN BAR

  * * *

  ‘Fraulein?’ says the waiter, clicking his heels as he tops up my glass of Sekt for the second time.

  I give myself an imaginary pinch; I am in Vienna. I AM AN ACTRESS, WHO IS SIPPING CHAMPAGNE AT AN AFTER-SHOW PARTY IN VIENNA. ‘Congratulations!’ says a deeply familiar, über-smooth voice.

  I veer round and find myself eyeball to eyeball with – NIGEL.

  ‘Oh my God, what are you doing here?’ I say, covering my mouth with my hand, heart hitting the floor.

  ‘Hey, I didn’t expect you to exactly fling your arms around me, but …’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just I didn’t expect …’ I whisper, my voice disintegrating.

  Why did I just come over all fluttery and apologise? This is the callous bastard who, in five minutes flat, sabotaged my whole life plan of moving to the country, having two kids (we’d even chosen names), a red setter, and a vegetable garden.

  ‘Minnie, you were fab-u-lous. Didn’t know you had it in you. Short hair suits you, by the way,’ he says, his hand running down my cheek. ‘It makes you look much younger. You should have had it cut years ago.’ Excuse me? Is this not the same man who warned me never to cut my hair or he’d leave me? His thumb strokes my bottom lip as he holds me with his wolfish stare for longer than is comfortable. That old familiar scent of Paco Rabanne swirls around my head, awakening the past uninvited.

  ‘God, the loos here are a bit funny, babe,’ simpers a long-legged, lissom creature, bouncing over in an eye-popping, figure-hugging frocklet.

  ‘Ah, darling, this is Emily. Emily, Natasha,’ says Nigel, not looking me in the eye.

  ‘Natasha?’ I say, raising a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Sorry, I thought …’

  ‘Natasha,’ he says firmly.

  ‘Hi,’ she says with a coltish toss of her glossy, strawberry-blonde mane.

  ‘We loved the show, didn’t we, Nige?’ she continues, resting her head territorially on his shoulder. NIGE? He hates to be called Nige.

  ‘So,’ I say after an awkward pause, ‘what brings you to Vienna?’ />
  ‘Tasha had a night-stop and I thought I’d come along for the ride.’

  ‘What a coincidence,’ I say wanly.

  ‘Actually, it wasn’t … a coincidence,’ he says, turning to ‘Tasha’ with a half-smile.

  ‘I did a two-day Houston with Wendy last week. She told me you were performing here, and then when Tasha discovered she had a night-stop, I … we thought we’d surprise you.’

  ‘We fancy getting married in Vienna, don’t we, babe?’ says Natasha in her little-girl-lost voice. ‘It’s so romantic. I saw the most gorgeous ring in a jeweller’s near the opera house, but Nige says he can get something much bigger in Hong Kong.’

  I take a huge gulp of champagne. That says it all. They make a good pair, these two. It’s all about the size of the diamond, not the sentiment behind it.

  And what became of whatshername … the bimbo he left me for … Maddie? Did she end up on the reject pile too? Did she have their baby? Poor woman.

  ‘Tasha used to be in show business – kind of, didn’t you, kitten?’ says Nigel, swiftly shifting the subject.

  ‘Really?’ I say flatly.

  ‘Yeah, a model – I was with Models One,’ she purrs. ‘I could have gone into acting as I know lots of directors an’ stuff, but I like this job for now. Maybe when I’m older, like you, and we’ve had a couple of kids, I might do it for a while.’

  My jaw drops. When I’m older, like you? The bloody nerve! Something inside me snaps. That’s it. How dare they waltz in here and invade my lovely opening night? Nigel may have movie-star looks, but to the new me, they now only accentuate his air of self-obsession.

  ‘Emily, my darling, the cars are outside to take us to the restaurant,’ calls Mags from the other end of the bar.

  ‘Well, it was nice meeting you,’ I say, switching on my haughty-yet-friendly voice. ‘Hope the wedding and everything is all that you wish for.’

  With that, I about turn, and with a theatrical swish of my pashmina, I head for the door.

  Out on the street, I slip into one of the waiting taxis and exhale deeply. The old me would have been swallowed up by sorrow. The new me is relieved that it didn’t work out between us. What a fool I was back then. All those wasted nights spent waiting for him to call from LA, pretending to myself that he’d been delayed or couldn’t get a signal. Were he to tell me now he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, I wouldn’t be tempted to take him back – not for all the diamond rings in Hong Kong.