The Start of Something Wonderful

by Jane Lambert

  I turn off the music and pick up my script. I know I’ll feel better as soon as I’ve got that dreaded scene over with.

  * * *

  The loons have flown and so must we. The run has sadly reached its end. Goodbye, Vienna. Goodbye, Chelsea. Hello, London. Hello, Insecurity and Unemployment. Are you going to accompany me on my journey once more? I’m trying to think positively and visualise drowning in a sea of scripts, but I’m well aware that jobs are thin on the ground. Perhaps I’ve been living a little too much in the moment of late, splashing out on pastries, coffees, wine, the opera – and a need-it-now winter coat by the Viennese designer, Franz Blumauer.

  Oh God … even if Luigi gives me my job back, how long can I survive on a waitress’s wage? Do I want to work there anyway after Francesco has left? It won’t be the same. Maybe it’s time for me to move on as well. But where to?

  * * *

  Half asleep, I pull my bag off the carousel and head through the green channel towards the exit.

  ‘Excuse me,’ calls a customs officer. I turn my head towards him and mime, ‘ME?’ He nods and beckons me over. ‘Mind if I check your bag?’

  It’s the early hours of the morning, I’ve had about two hours’ sleep, and there’s a gorgeous man waiting for me on the other side of those doors, so of course I mind, but I somehow doubt Mr Customs Man would reply, ‘No? That’s okay, love. I’ll try someone else. You have a nice day now.’

  So with my best you’re-barking-up-the-wrong-tree smile, I reply, ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  ‘Olly and I will wait for you outside,’ says Mags reassuringly.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ I say airily. ‘It’s just a formality.’

  They throw me a dubious look.

  ‘Really. I’ll be fine. Your son will be waiting. Give me a call soon.’

  We hug and they disappear.

  I unlock my suitcase, and while the officer rifles through my toiletries and manky washing, I study the mixed bag of bleary-eyed passengers, sleep-walking their way to the chilly, outside world.

  Snapping my bag shut, he says sternly, ‘Come this way,’ and I’m promptly ushered into a small interview room. As we enter, he slides the OCCUPIED sign across sharply and firmly closes the door.

  ‘Passport, please.’

  Hot-faced, I surrender it to him, hand jittering uncontrollably. He flicks through the pages in silence. Then looking at me with a weighty stare he says, ‘Apart from Vienna, where else have you been travelling to?’

  ‘Where …? I … nowhere,’ I stammer, face reddening, doubtless giving the impression that I’ve got bags of heroin strapped to my thighs. I wiggle the loose button of my coat nervously. One eyebrow raised, he studies me for several seconds, a smug, disbelieving look on his face. I swear he’s deriving some sort of twisted pleasure in watching me squirm.

  He disappears, leaving me alone. I look around the stark white walls, my eyes coming to rest on the poster of a man behind bars. Underneath, in bold lettering are the following words …

  HM CUSTOMS AND EXCISE

  DRUG SMUGGLING ZERO TOLERANCE

  I scream inwardly. Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. I have absolutely no reason to feel guilty, so how come those words strike raw terror in me?

  The flickering strip lighting is starting to make my head spin. Small beads of sweat are forming on my neck. I glug a cup of water from the machine.

  Scenes from the film Bangkok Hilton are flashing through my mind. You know the one, where Nicole Kidman’s boyfriend hides heroin in his camera case and gives it to her to carry, then she’s banged up abroad in a filthy jail until she eventually has to dig her way out? A knot of fear grips my throat.

  The customs man reappears, accompanied by a formidable female (at least, I think she’s female) officer, wearing latex gloves. She looks like she’s been flown in especially from Prisoner: Cell Block H – not someone you’d like to bump into on a dark night, let alone be body-searched by.

  The chairs screech harshly as they are pulled out from under the table.

  Several plastic bags containing a white substance are shoved under my nose. Two sets of eyes glue themselves to my startled face.

  ‘Can you explain to me what this is, and what it was doing in your suitcase?’

  I look from one to the other in disbelief. ‘I … what … erm …’ I bury my head in my hands. How idiotic of me. I should have left them behind. They were bound to cause suspicion.

  Expelling a long breath, I look up and humbly confess. ‘It’s bath salts.’

  The customs officer pauses for thought, brow furrowing. ‘Bath salts? Hah! That’s a good one.’

  Reading the scepticism in his face, I do what I always do when I’m nervous or scared: PRATTLE. ‘Really. It’s salt, mined in the Austrian mountains. This guy, Gerhard, he’s the director of the play I’ve just finished doing in Vienna, well, and oh, he’s an Elvis impersonator too, anyway, he makes all these spa remedies from purely natural things, and … I’ve got loads. You’d be welcome to take …’

  He bursts the bag open and tentatively puts a little on his tongue, then passes some to Scary Mary.

  Shaking his head, he pushes the bag and my passport towards me and deadpans, ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m more of a Radox man myself.’

  With that they both stand up, indicating that it’s okay for me to leave.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice diminished to a wobbly whisper. ‘Sorry, I should have … sorry.’

  I click my case shut and exit hastily through the sliding doors to freedom.

  Francesco is pacing up and down by the barrier, looking overwrought and confused.

  ‘C’è un problema? Your friends, they tell me you were stopped by customs …’

  ‘No, no problem.’ I smile, wearily holding up a mollifying hand, then pecking his cheek. ‘Just a silly misunderstanding. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you in the car.’

  Hmm. Not quite the cinematic, running-towards-each-other-in-slow-motion reunion I’ve been dreaming of.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Agony & the Ecstasy

  Three months later

  I SWING AROUND THE CORNER into St Martin’s Lane WC2, collar pulled up against the driving rain.

  TONIGHT AT 7.30

  Private Lives

  by

  Noël Coward

  There’s still a part of me that’s convinced I’ve been dreaming, and whenever I arrive at The Congreve Theatre, the stage doorman will say, ‘Not you again. Look, love, I’ve told you before, you can’t come in. This is a professional theatre for professional actors.’

  I mean, my name’s not up in lights with the others, is it? No, but if you happen to have a magnifying glass handy, at the foot of the poster you can just about decipher …

  Introducing Emily Forsyth as Louise

  My character doesn’t appear until Act Three, but it’s a great little cameo role. My lines are all in French – my language degree may not have led to a job at The United Nations, but it has landed me the role of a French maid in a West End show – not a maid in the sexy, oh-là-là style of Carry On films. In fact, she’s described as ‘frowsy-looking’ and her clumsiness and inability to speak English give her some of the best laughs in the show.

  At the audition, when the director asked me to leave the room and mime staggering back in with a tray laden with coffee pot, milk jug, sugar bowl, and basket of brioche, I was glad I’d not only prepared my lines, but had also done some character research by studying Julie Walters as the elderly, deaf waitress in the ‘Two Soups’ sketch on YouTube. I think that clinched it.

  I may also get to play the leading role of the glamorous Amanda, as I also understudy this part. There’s no revolving set in this production, but you never know. That’s all I’m saying.

  No cobbled-together costume here, stumbling on stage with half-learned lines, unsure of whose turn it is to speak; we’ve enjoyed the luxury of six weeks’ rehearsal, carefully planned fittings at Angels Costumes,
dialect coaching sessions, and previews.

  A year’s contract in London’s West End – with a possible Broadway transfer – is more than I could ever have dreamed of.

  ‘Evening, Doug,’ I say, ticking my name off.

  ‘Evening,’ he grunts, slithering down from his stool and taking my key from the hook, eyes glued to The One Show. ‘Don’t suppose any of those are for me?’ I ask longingly, indicating the array of first-night bouquets.

  ‘Take a look,’ he says with a shrug, still not looking away from the screen.

  Yesss! There, at the back, hidden by all the dramatic, OTT, beribboned floral arrangements, is a simple orchid with my name stapled to the cellophane. Could it be?

  Break a leg!

  Best wishes

  from all at Whiteley Productions.

  Lovely of the management, I’m touched, but I can’t help wishing they were from someone else.

  I wend my way up two floors to my dressing room. It has a brass plaque on the door …

  EMILY FORSYTH PRIVATE LIVES

  Sadly, the glamour stops there: step inside, and you will be struck by the faded, peeling Regency wallpaper, the grubby, threadbare carpet, the yellowish-brown stain on the ceiling, the one-armed chair with foam spilling from a rip in the seat, the dusty light bulbs (most of which have blown) around the cracked mirror, the rusty, Victorian radiator that doesn’t radiate, and the resident mouse, whom I’ve christened Colin. Yet, I am in paradise.

  Not long to go now until Act Three and my first entrance. I practise my breathing exercises and unwrap a Vocalzones lozenge. There is a faint tap at the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  ‘These just arrived for you,’ wheezes Doug, one hand holding the doorframe, the other a sheaf of deep red roses wrapped in green gauze.

  ‘Thank you!’ I say, leaping up and taking them from him.

  He mumbles something under his breath and shuffles off down the corridor.

  I rip open the envelope …

  In bocca al lupo!

  Amore mio, ti voglio sposare.

  Un caro abbraccio ~Francesco.

  How sweet! Good luck! My love, I want to ? you.

  Sposare? I haven’t a clue what this verb means. I want to ? you. The random, wild translations that are teasing my imagination cause me to blush profusely. I grab my pocket Italian dictionary, sitting amongst my good luck cards, put on my glasses, and flick through the pages:

  sportivo

  sporto

  sposa

  sposalizio

  sposare ~to marry; to espouse.

  The dictionary falls to the floor. I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs. I catch sight of my reflection: face flushed under my beret, eyes the size of pizza pies. This wasn’t on my write-it-down-make-it-happen list.

  ‘Miss Forsyth, this is your call.’

  Jelly-legged, I make my way downstairs to prompt corner, dizzied by the crazy, jumbled-up emotions spinning around my head. I collect my string bag of bread and lettuce from the props table, and take up position in the wings, waiting to make my first entrance, heart battering my rib cage.

  I love Francesco, of that I’m sure; I think about him constantly; he’s funny, generous, supportive, and kind, makes me feel alive, special, desired, respected, and I hate being parted from him; but if I were to marry him that would mean moving to Italy to live with his father and daughter, whom I have no doubt are lovely too, but I’m just not ready. I’ve worked so hard to get to this point and am not prepared to give up my dream again, just when I’ve been granted my first West End break. All the hardships, the sacrifices I’ve made, I owe it to myself to keep on this road and not allow my judgement to be clouded over by my emotional need to be loved, and my fear of this possibly being the last-chance saloon.

  Whilst I don’t want to end up like some old Norma Desmond with only memories and faded reviews for company, I know I must keep on this path for now, wherever it may take me. Maybe it’s time I accepted that you can’t have it all.

  Is it fair to keep Francesco hanging on? Family is everything to him. He deserves a loving, devoted wife to make the Rossi unit whole again.

  They say if you really love someone then you should set them free …

  ‘Miss Forsyth to the stage, please. Miss Forsyth to the stage.’

  From the darkness of prompt corner the stage manager mouths, ‘Break a leg!’ and points his thumb upwards.

  I flick away a tear and force my quivering lips into a smile. Mustn’t miss my cue. Here I go … I inhale deeply and move towards the light …

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my editor, Charlotte Mursell at HQ Harper Collins, my early readers, Clare Farrelly, Camilla Sacre-Dallerup, Claire Winsper, Ros Lambert, Sue Holderness, Jennie Madden and Rula Lenska, to my dad, who has been there for me through every page of this book, to my mum for being unlike Emily’s, and to all my loving family for their unwavering support and encouragement in everything I do.

  If you enjoyed The Start of Something Wonderful, then why not try another uplifting story from

  HQ Digital?