by Laura Wood
Our eyes meet for a moment.
Ambition. Opportunity. Want.
The words dance around inside me.
“You know I do,” I say at last.
There’s a pause and then Miss Meriden nods. “It’s possible Mr Cantwell will ask you to step in as understudy. He seemed to like your audition. You will still have to keep on top of all your other responsibilities, of course.”
“Of – of course,” I manage.
“It’s a lot of work. Mr Cantwell will want you word perfect and it’s unlikely you’ll perform.”
“That doesn’t matter. If I could read lines with Mr Cantwell, I wouldn’t ask for anything more.”
I say it so fervently I almost believe it, but I know that it’s not true. I know that my greedy, gluttonous heart is already hoping for more. I know that my insatiable, out-of-control imagination is already picturing the lights, the applause, the accolades.
I think Miss Meriden knows it too, because the look she gives me is slightly pitying.
“Well, then,” she says, “I think we’d all better get to work. Time to find out if Alma can live up to expectations.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It turns out that Alma is good. Better than good. Better than Daphne was, even.
That night she gives a performance more than worthy of a Rhys Cantwell production. It’s strange watching her from my position in the wings. In real life she’s so quiet and self-contained, a little bit serious, but onstage she becomes a different person altogether – it’s like someone has lit a candle inside her.
I had thought that she would try and copy Daphne’s performance and mannerisms, but she doesn’t – she goes further in showing Cecily’s mix of innocence and wit. The scenes between her and Viola are especially good; they spark off each other and it lifts the whole play. She’s funny, and I realize I’ve only seen her be serious. It’s a bit of a shock. By the end of the play, I can’t imagine anyone else playing the part.
When everyone piles back to Del’s house that evening Alma is lifted on people’s shoulders. She’s toasted with champagne, and the earnest young man from the night before – still dressed all in black – throws his glass to the floor, smashing it into a million pieces, so that it may never be raised again to a lesser mortal.
Alma absorbs this quietly, graciously, but with a pucker of confusion between her brows.
“All I can think about is what I did wrong,” she whispers to me.
“You were wonderful,” I whisper back. “Let them tell you so.”
Instead of the expected pang of envy, all I feel is pride in my friend. I think about how much she was shaking before she went on, and the moment I saw her take her courage in her hands, straighten up and walk onstage, about how truly good she was. I realize – almost with surprise – that being happy for her, being impressed by her, doesn’t take anything away from my own attempts. Though it does make me want to be better, to push myself harder.
The party is the same as the night before, just as full of people and gossip and gin, only now people call me by name.
“Freya! Freya!” Dan calls, looping a casual arm around my waist. “You must hear the story Lindsey was telling me about when she was working with Dirk Hadley – it will shock you to your core!”
Lindsey, the friendly make-up girl with a cloud of dark hair, laughs. “It didn’t shock you,” she grins at Dan.
“Not a lot does, my sweet. But I do get a vicarious thrill watching Freya blush.”
It is a delicious feeling, being a part of this team. I hadn’t realized until we came to Oxford how alone I had always been. I never thought of myself as lonely – I was part of a big, noisy family, and I had my books, my costumes, my plays. Thanks to them, I spoke with kings and villains and saints, I travelled to Italy, to France, to America. It had all felt so real to me, and yet now that I am here, in the land of the living, this whirlpool of creativity and energy and laughter, I am starting to understand how insular it was. I was buried inside my own imagination, and however rich that imagination was, it didn’t, couldn’t, compare to the reality of going out into the world.
“I’ve got it.” Russ’s voice suddenly cuts through the noise. He is waving a newspaper. “Friend of mine slipped me a copy of tomorrow’s Times. And our review is in!”
Dan whips it from his hands and begins to rapidly scan the page.
All sound ceases then and people press eagerly towards Dan, surrounding him as he finds the review and begins to read aloud.
“A charming and witty production that keeps the audience laughing, and which teases out the shadow as well as the light,” he begins.
The review is glowing, praising everything from the staging to the individual performances. It’s hailed as a “triumphant return” by both Mr Cantwell and Eileen Turner, dwelling at length on Eileen’s “sublime, definitive” performance. It mentions Russ and Dan – and pays special tribute to the muffin scene that I had so enjoyed.
“Stepping in from her role as understudy, Miss Alma Blair is a fresh new talent and one to watch,” Dan reads, and I gasp, gripping Alma’s arm. She turns to me, dazed, as people reach out to pat her on the shoulder. I imagine briefly what it must feel like to have your first review, to step in as an understudy and to wow people like that.
“Anything else?” Viola asks. Her voice is calm, but there is a nervous energy to her.
“Yes, yes,” Dan says, scanning the piece of paper. “Here you are, darling: Miss Viola Edwards is a star, drawing every eye with her grace and exotic beauty.”
“My exotic beauty?” Something flickers across Viola’s face. “I see.”
“It says you’re a star,” Dan laughs, tapping the paper with the back of his hand. “Right here in black and white.”
Viola’s mouth twists. “An exotic one, no less.” She turns away slightly. The others push forward, urging Dan to read the piece again, and I think that only I see the flash of hurt and anger in her eyes.
Exotic. It’s the same word Del used to describe Viola, And I realize, suddenly, that it’s not the compliment I thought it was. It’s a way of saying other, foreign, different. No one would use the word exotic to describe me or Alma. It puts Viola in a box that has nothing to do with her talent but with something else entirely.
I wonder how many reviews Viola has read where she is described like this, how many times she’s heard that word exotic to describe a performance she has worked hard at. And for the first time I wonder whether this is the reason why an actor as talented as Viola is touring with a small company rather than stepping out on to a West End stage. Maybe it’s all she’s been allowed to do. I want to say something to her, though I’m not sure what. I take half a step towards her, but she has pushed her way through the crowd before I reach her side.
Eventually, the excitement over the review calms down and I get swept back in to the party. Alma and I chat and laugh, and when the record player wheezes to life, we dance. Russ appears then, and sweeps me into his arms. My heart clatters appreciatively. He looks down at me with those ink-dark eyes, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
He smells delicious, and he doesn’t say very much. I look at his mouth and wonder what it would be like to kiss him. The thought makes my cheeks warm, and the way Russ looks at me makes me think he knows what’s going through my mind. At the end of the song he lets me go with a winning display of reluctance, and another man takes his place.
When I leave the makeshift dance floor to go in search of a glass of water, I run into Kit, leaning one shoulder against the door frame, talking with a pretty girl who assists with the props. He catches my eye and excuses himself.
“There you are,” he says. “Alma did a great job, didn’t she?”
“She did,” I agree. There’s an awkward silence between us then. There has never been anything awkward between Kit and I before. I keep thinking of Viola laying her hand on his coat, the way her voice dropped as she spoke to him. It was intimate.
�
�About earlier…” Kit begins.
“It’s none of my business,” I say quickly. “I just didn’t realize that you and Viola were – well…”
He shakes his head. “We’re not. Not any more.”
“Like I said, it isn’t any of my business,” I say. It really isn’t. But the thought of the two of them being together still makes me feel strange.
The look Kit gives me then is hard to read. Thanks to the press of the crowd, we’re standing close together, almost as close as Russ and I were when we danced.
“It’s complicated,” he says finally, running his hand through his hair.
“Isn’t it always?” I say brightly, because I’m not sure I want to talk about this. “Anyway, I’m going to turn in soon.” I lower my voice a bit. “Mr Cantwell has asked to see me tomorrow.”
Kit’s eyes widen. “That’s wonderful!” he says.
“I hope so.” I pause, and then add a little sheepishly, “I kept telling Alma not to be nervous, and now – just at the possibility of it – my heart is in my mouth.”
“That doesn’t sound too good, medically speaking.” Kit’s dimples flash. “I prescribe raiding the larder for cake, followed by a good dance.”
“I didn’t know you were a doctor,” I laugh. “But I do love cake.”
“I know.”
I feel some of the tension leaving my shoulders. Whatever the link is between Kit and I, the invisible gossamer thread, it’s still there, still easy. He’s still my friend, whoever his girlfriend might be.
We head to the kitchen in search of sustenance, and find Nora holding court. She’s perched on the counter top, a cigarette in her hand as a crowd of men and women gaze up at her in open admiration. Nora wears her confidence, her whole attitude, with the same style as she wears her incredible clothes. Tonight it’s tapered black trousers and a crisp white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and unbuttoned so low that it shows the top of a black silk slip underneath and a generous amount of her cleavage. Around her neck is an elaborate green and gold necklace that on anyone else would look ridiculous, but on Nora – well, it’s the perfect finishing touch. She’s got something about her, something that makes people look at her the way they do.
“Hello, children,” she says upon spotting us. “Kit, Viola was in here looking for you.”
“Was she?” Kit says, and I think I catch a flicker of concern in his voice. “I’ll go and find her.”
“I think you should,” Nora agrees. Then she jumps down from the counter and moves to put an arm around my waist, dispersing the crowd with a flick of her wrist. “I’ll keep Freya company.”
“Let me know how it goes tomorrow,” Kit says to me.
I nod, my stomach lurching at the thought of what the next day might bring. “Of course.”
“The big meeting with Rhys, is it?” Nora takes a drag on her cigarette as Kit goes off.
“Yes.” I swallow. “How badly do you think he’ll take it if I cast up my breakfast onstage?”
“Not terribly well,” Nora chuckles. “But you won’t. You’ll see. It will be the start of something wonderful. Which is a shame for me, because I’ve finally found a decent assistant who doesn’t spend all her time mooning over Russell Whitmore,” she finishes on a grumble.
“He is very handsome,” I say fairly.
“And he knows it.”
“There is that,” I concede, then after a slight pause, “When I first saw him and Viola together I thought they were a couple. But actually, it was Viola and Kit.”
Nora snorts. “Russ and Viola, god, what a nightmare that would be. They don’t believe there’s room for two stars in one show, let alone a relationship, you know.”
“That’s pretty much what Russ said.”
Nora flicks her cigarette into a nearby saucer. “Yes, he can be disarming like that sometimes. Why on earth did you put them together?”
“Well,” I say, struggling to articulate it. “They’re both so beautiful. They go together more than her and Kit.”
“But Kit’s so attractive. All the girls go mad for him,” Nora says, shrugging.
“Kit?” I exclaim, stunned.
“Haven’t you noticed?” Nora says. “It drives Russ wild, which is great entertainment. Kit doesn’t even have to try; they all want him. Viola set her sights on him instantly, of course. The two of them were inseparable for a while.”
“You’re talking about Kit?” I ask. “My Kit?”
Amusement creeps into Nora’s gaze. “Your Kit?”
“I don’t mean it like that!” I put in hastily. “I meant my friend Kit, obviously.”
She watches me through a cloud of smoke. “You don’t find Kit attractive?”
“I’ve never thought about him like that.” I flounder. “I mean, he’s not handsome like Russ, is he? Not that he’s not good-looking. I just…”
“I didn’t say he was handsome, I said he was attractive.” Nora gestures with her cigarette. “Those are not always the same things. Kit has a … quality. I mean, it’s the height and the strong arms and the dimples … but it’s something else too, his personality, the way he carries himself. He has an ease about him that draws people in.”
I realize that what Nora is describing is exactly what I was thinking about her. It’s too strange to think of Kit that way. “If you say so,” I say, sounding doubtful to my own ears.
“I suppose Russ is rather the obvious choice,” Nora muses, as if I haven’t spoken. “Dull, perhaps, but one can see the appeal.”
“I don’t think he’s dull.”
“No?” Nora’s look is enigmatic. “But then you’re so young.”
I can’t help feeling a bit miffed by that, and Nora obviously sees it in my face because she laughs. “I’m sorry, darling, there’s nothing worse than being told you’re too young to understand something, is there? I didn’t mean to be patronizing; you seem like a girl with her head screwed on right, and you work your socks off. You’ve got an eye for design too,” she adds. “Not many do. There might be a future in dressing for you, if you ever wanted to look outside of acting.”
I am torn between pride at her hard-won praise, and horror at the idea of giving up acting.
“Oh, no,” I say quickly. “It’s always been acting for me. It’s what I’ve wanted my whole life.”
“Then I’m sure it’s what you’ll end up doing.” Nora’s red lips part in a smile. “Perhaps starting tomorrow.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It is frighteningly early the next morning, and I am perched on the edge of the stage while Rhys Cantwell sits in the front row, all of his intense energy concentrated on me like a sunbeam through a magnifying glass. It feels as though he might burn me up without a hint of remorse, like a small boy torturing an ant.
“What I need from you, Miss Trevelyan, is a proper audition,” he says crisply. “Can you do a scene from the play?”
“Yes, sir,” I say quickly. “I know every part off by heart.”
“Every part will not be necessary,” he growls. I wish his face were not so unfriendly – it’s very off-putting. He’s not even wearing the silly spectacles which took the edge off last time. “We will do the scene where Algernon and Cecily meet in Act Two. You,” he pauses here, “in case it is not obvious, will play Cecily. I will read in Algernon’s lines.”
“Of course.” I get to my feet and move upstage.
“You may take it from, ‘I have never met any really wicked person…’”
So this is it, I think. I’m really going to read lines for Rhys Cantwell. I feel sick, dizzy, feverish, shaken. I try to empty my mind, to feel nothing, see nothing, hear nothing – nothing but the words coming to me, like a voice whispering them in my ear. I close my eyes for a moment, and then I begin.
“I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like everyone else.”
Rhys Cantwell fires Algernon’s lines back at me with speed and precision and I matc
h them without pause. It’s exhilarating and strange, more like a game of tennis than any acting I’ve done before.
It goes all right, I think. I remember the lines, and I fill them with as much wit and meaning as I can, remembering how Alma played the part. When we finish the scene I stand in front of Rhys, my hands clasped. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking somewhere past me, into the middle distance, his expression thoughtful. He picks up a pen and twirls it in his fingers.
“Please, sit down.”
I do so, my legs swinging over the front of the stage. It leaves me feeling vulnerable, a bit like a child, my feet too far off the ground on this big stage, but Mr Cantwell doesn’t seem to notice.
“Tell me what you think of the play,” he says finally, surprising me.
“Of this play?”
“Yes,” he snaps, an impatient hand flapping. “Of course this play.”
I gulp. Not exactly dazzling so far, Freya. “Well, I think it’s wonderful,” I manage, and then, mortified by the trite words and gathering my scattered wits together as best I can, “It’s funny, and it makes people laugh, but it’s funny in a way that’s not quite warm. It’s witty and clever. It’s cutting. It can be cruel. It’s saying things, about the way people behave, about the way people want to be seen and the way they really are…” I trail off, embarrassed by my miserable little schoolgirl’s analysis of a speech.
“Tell me about Cecily,” he says.
“She has this romantic fantasy about her cousin Ernest, but I don’t think she’s as innocent or naive as people think. She holds her own against Gwendolyn, she asks Miss Prism difficult questions. She has to be knowing and – and unknowing at the same time.” I’m floundering now. Did I just say unknowing? Is that even a word?
Mr Cantwell fires more questions at me. He asks me questions about the different parts, he asks me questions about the individual performers and what I’ve learned from them so far. He asks me about the costumes and the decisions Nora made and why I think she made them. He asks me about the sets and the props and even the lighting. I like these questions, I like the way they’re making me think about the play differently. I feel alight with enthusiasm, as though I’m somehow producing my own electricity. And though Rhys Cantwell never goes so far as to smile, or nod, or actually soften in any perceivable way at all, I begin to feel that I am not doing so badly.