Midsummer Madness (12 page)

There was an old couch in Elinor’s dressing room, a small crocheted blanket and a hot water bottle in the cupboard. Elinor, bless her, believed in home comforts.

It was a hard couch but the hot water bottle, held close to my mohair chest, was as effective as
Nytol Herbal
. The warmth flooded through me.

This was a day I did not want to happen again. Speaking the lines of
Twelfth Night
were a reluctant joy but the circumstances had been a nightmare.

I slid down into the deepest sleep, only remembering in the last seconds that I had not made my usual evening call to my mother. But she would soon find out why if she saw a newspaper. If she ever bought a daily newspaper, that is.

‘So this is where you’ve been hiding. Wake up, it’s morning.’

I knew the voice without opening my eyes. I was stiff and cold and the water bottle was clammy and like a rubbery fish. I let it fall to the floor.

‘Oh, so it’s you,’ I mumbled, scrabbling at the blanket. It barely covered my knees. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I looked for you last night. I saw you get into a cab with Bill Naughton.’

‘Well, you saw wrong,’ I said, blinking against the cheerless, airless morning light. ‘Maybe you saw me get into a cab but you didn’t see me get out the other side and return to the pub, did you? Everyone had gone. It was too late to find a taxi, too late to walk
home, too late for any form of public transport. Then I remembered Elinor’s couch.’ I was so stiff, I could barely move.

‘Why didn’t you phone me? I’d have got you home.’ He sounded angry.

‘We were not exactly on speaking terms at the time.’

‘You don’t think much of me, do you? I wouldn’t leave any member of my theatre team stranded at night, especially female and alone. Whether I was speaking to them or not,’ he added.

‘I didn’t think of you,’ I said honestly. I hadn’t been thinking of him. I’d been beyond coherent thought. Getting my head down was all I wanted to do.

‘Well, I was thinking of you and talking about you.’

‘Oh?’ I was not interested.

‘With Elinor. I went to see Elinor. She said she would stay up and I was to come round any time and tell her all about. So I did.’

‘Oh, that was nice,’ I said again, pulling together a polite enquiry. ‘How is she? How’s Elinor?’

‘Getting better, but slowly. She’ll need a few more days to get her strength back. She’s still weak and coughing a lot. She was thrilled to hear how well you did. Genuinely pleased. She sent you her love and good wishes.’

I stiffened. ‘That’s nice of Elinor but I don’t want to talk about the show.’

‘Who said anything about talking about it?’ said Joe, spotting the kettle. He filled it with water and switched on. ‘I always seem to be making you tea. Get up and have a wash and I’ll take you out for breakfast. I know a little place that serves a real American style breakfast. Not a fry up in sight.’

‘I won’t be able to clean my teeth.’

‘I wasn’t going to check. Use a twig.’

Early morning London, even when it is cold, has a special feeling. A swathe of commuters were falling out of trains, huddled in scarves, barely awake. The night’s debris was being cleared away by yellow-coated refuse truckers with grim faces. Huge decrepit and grimy delivery vans coughed their way to shops and stores, unhindered yet by the day’s traffic deadlocks.

Joe walked me briskly, getting the circulation going. He held my
arm as if I was being taken into custody. He’d seen too many
late-night
thrillers.

It was a sparkling clean café in Soho with an outrageous stars and stripes American atmosphere. Even at 8 a.m in the morning, the neat waitress was smiling brightly and pouring out glasses of water the moment we sat down at a window table. I half expected a lookalike Lincoln to be sitting at the next table.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Are you ready to order?’

‘Orange juice, waffles, scrambled egg and coffee, for two,’ Joe ordered without asking me. He didn’t even look at a menu.

‘How can she be that cheerful so early in the morning?’ I groaned. I still wasn’t properly awake, despite splashing water everywhere. I’d forgotten my shorn hair. It gave me a shock to see it so short and sharp in the mirror. Was this really me? I searched my face for other changes but I could only see the same terrified gaunt face. It wasn’t a face I wanted to wear.

‘It’s an American trait. Because she likes her job, because she likes serving people and enjoys wishing people a nice day.’

‘Are all Americans like this?’

‘Would you like to come over and see?’

Was this Joe’s strange idea of small talk first thing in the morning? Maybe I had a hangover. I didn’t remember how many glasses of champagne I had drunk at The Stage Door party or perhaps there had been more bubbles than alcohol.

‘Sorry, don’t have a free weekend,’ I said, sipping the juice which arrived in an instant. Service in most cafés is long and lugubrious, waiting time stretched into mind-numbing lethargy while waitresses gossip, do their nails, make phone calls. Thought: don’t have a valid passport, don’t have the money, don’t want to go anywhere with you. Especially you, Joe Harrison.

‘The States are worth a visit,’ he was saying. ‘It’s a different world.’ I was barely listening to what he was saying. Joe was relaxed and darkly good-looking, at home in the little café. Those glinting eyes, that fine hair, the jutting chin. I searched his skin for spots, wanting to find some imperfection, some pulsating flaw. But there was only that eyetooth that was a little out of line and that tiny scar. He had resisted going to an orthodontist to have the tooth
straightened out.

‘Everyone in the States wears braces, don’t they?’ I said. ‘Like that baddie in a Bond film. Goldfinger?’

‘Do they?’ he said, amused. ‘I hadn’t noticed but obviously you are more observant than me. Yes, perhaps they do. Straight teeth are a prerequisite.’

‘How did you get that little scar?’ I asked.

‘A chisel flew out of my hand. I was making some scenery. I’ve forgotten the show. A fluke. Any more questions? Is this a medical questionnaire?’

‘Why does your back hurt so much?’

‘You’ve noticed? A late-night car accident, swerving to avoid drunks in another car. Whiplash injury. Very late at night. I couldn’t move for weeks.’

‘Were you badly hurt?’

‘A tree got hurt.’

The waffles arrived, hot and golden, with butter and syrup to spread on. They were fantastically delicious. My starved stomach went into raptures at the unexpectedly sweet offering. In an instant I was addicted to waffles.

‘Enjoy!’ the waitress trilled. Was she auditioning? Maybe she had recognized Joe.

‘These are wonderful.’ I spoke through a honeyed mouthful, unladylike but spontaneous. ‘This is a terrific place. I love it here.’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Joe. ‘Leave some room for the eggs. It may be the only meal you’ll get today.’

I wished he hadn’t said that. He’d immediately reminded me of the coming battle tonight. A battle that I was determined to win. He wasn’t going to get me on that stage again. I’d cut my wrists rather than go on again. There was no way out but death.

No, that wasn’t true. It was an exaggeration. I wouldn’t cut my wrists. A better form of guerrilla resistance came to me in a flash. I would run away. Take a train to Bournemouth, get on the
open-topped
bus to Swanage, walk the high miles to my mother’s remote country cottage. I would spend the days in isolation, trudging the clifftops, wind blowing through my short hair, a small sticky hand clasped in mine. No one would find me.

It was a long time since I had done that and I needed to do it again, soon. I needed to search the beach for fossils, exclaiming over each small imprint of a million years ago. I needed to paddle in the baby waves of the bay, splash and shout, swing him around in my arms. He was growing so fast and he would soon be taller than me. Maybe he was already too tall for swinging. I hadn’t been there when he grew.

‘Hey, come back, Sophie. You’re miles away.’

There was a plate of lightly scrambled eggs in front of me, a mountain of creamy protein, glistening under the bright lights. Real food might ease the pain.

‘It’ll be getting cold,’ Joe added. ‘Dig in.’

‘Have you ever hunted for fossils?’ I asked.

‘No, but I noticed that you have one in your flat. It’s on the windowsill. Looks like the print of a snail, all curled up.’

‘We found it in the Fossil Forest east of Lulworth Cove. We were out fossil hunting. It’s millions of years old.’

‘Amazing. It puts us into perspective as a race. Who’s we?’

‘I mean, I. That’s what I always think. We’re nothing. A speck of dust in time. A grain of sand on the beach. We don’t matter.’

Joe put his hand across the table and covered my hand with his. He was looking at me with an intensity that made my nerves tingle.

‘But we do matter,’ he said. ‘However small our contribution. It all lingers on in the great universe of time. Shakespeare didn’t write those words for instant consumption and disposal. Look how they have lasted. They’ll linger on for centuries whatever happens to this world, this civilization, this planet. Words continue to exist in the air. Radio waves absorb them and they vibrate forever.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘Of course. The way you played Viola last night is still in the air, your voice, your emotion, your special feelings, vibrating on the ether, travelling out to other hemispheres, other planets.’

‘Hope I’m going down well on Mars,’ I said, trembling. His hand was still on mine, warm and firm. I wanted it to stay there forever, keeping me safe and comforted. But it was all too late. Like buses that come in threes and you see the back end of the last one pulling away from the bus stop.

‘Please play Viola this evening,’ he said, his voice low and deep. He was pleading with me. ‘For me.’

‘No,’ I said in a flash. ‘You’re trying to seduce me again with that voice.’

‘Again, Sophie?’ He looked blank, pleating his forehead and took his hand away. ‘What do you mean? When have I ever…? I don’t understand.’

‘Wrong word,’ I said, hurriedly. ‘I meant persuade, coax, sway, make someone do something that they don’t want to do.’

‘The critics loved you. You’ve got rave reviews. Have you seen this morning’s papers? I stayed up to see the first editions. It’s unanimous. They all thought you were wonderful.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘I thought you were spectacular. Doesn’t that mean anything?’

I shook my head. ‘No, it doesn’t matter what you think. This is my life and I can’t go through that ordeal again. And you can’t make me. I’ve decided. As much as I care for the play, the theatre, all the other people in the cast, it’s beyond me. OK, I’ve done it once. The show has opened, got rave reviews. That’s all that matters. Elinor will be back on Monday, won’t she?’

‘What about all the people who have bought tickets for tonight?’

‘Do I know them? Will it ruin their lives if for once they don’t go out? They can stay at home, no late travelling, watch a bit of telly, drink a bottle of wine or two, go to bed early, make love.’

‘Put like that, I’ll be doing them a favour if I cancel tonight’s show,’ he said drily.

‘You’ve got an understudy who’s dying to go on. Use her. She’ll love the limelight. The drama, saving the show, instant fame. The previews of
Phantom
were cancelled twice. It’s still a great hit.’

Joe was drinking coffee, black, the pungent aroma from the forests of Columbia. His granite eyes were unfathomable. His thoughts were hidden from my gaze. He was having to make decisions. That’s what directors were paid to do.

‘She can’t act,’ he said bluntly. ‘I didn’t cast her as understudy. She was already in place when I came over. Casting was not in my contract. I was given a cast and my job was to direct it.’

‘Which you have, brilliantly,’ I said, warmly. ‘And your set
designs are out of this world, and the amazing costumes. Sheer magic. They are all yours. The show is a success because of you, not because of some little nobody who said Viola’s lines with a degree of emotion.’

‘You mean the show will still be a success even without you?’ he said slowly.

‘Yes, of course. I’m only a small, unimportant part of the whole. Let it go ahead. A gorilla could read Viola and the show would still be wonderful.’

‘I’ll phone the zoo and get a gorilla,’ he said, draining his coffee. ‘But I’m scared. I’m really scared.’ Then he added, his glance searching my face. ‘I once said you read like a monkey. It was unforgivable. I apologize for my rudeness. I don’t know why I said it.’

‘Perhaps I’d said something that was out of place. I often say things I don’t mean.’

‘Never, Sophie. Not you. Never.’

It was a show of a sort, the night after the opening. William Shakespeare would have called it
Eleventh Night
, or
Not Quite There
. The audience were on a high, fuelled with complimentary gin and tonics at the bar. One of Joe’s last minute panic-driven ideas. The newspapers said the opening had been wonderful so the audience were prepared to be agreeable. They were also getting a degree of identity confusion. I could see them checking the programme.

Fran did her well-known shooting star impersonation. She also did some pathetic little limps in various scenes to remind the cast of her cruel disability but the audience thought it was part of the performance. Maybe Viola had knocked her knee on a rock during the shipwreck scene or something.

I sat in the prompt corner, trying to will her to put some feeling into the lines. But Fran thought she was in a
Carry On
film, flaunting boobs, buttocks, flashing lashes. A gorilla would have made a better job of it. Better facial expression.

Joe was standing beside me, dark face frozen. His body was taut. He mouthed one word at me. He was beyond speaking to me.

‘Satisfied?’

I cringed, said nothing, concentrating on the lines in the script. The cast were pulling together, trying to strengthen the Viola scenes so that her weakness was less noticeable. I could have hugged them all. Bless their outrageously wrinkled orange and yellow tights. Sir Andrew Aguecheek was outstandingly foppish. Everyone loved
him, especially in the fight scene. He didn’t have the courage to fight a fly.

The curtain calls were rapturous but more than several decibels less enthusiastic than the opening night. My night. The audience were leaving, discussing Viola in low, puzzled voices. Newspapers do exaggerate so, they agreed. Still, the sets had been gorgeous. Loved the amazing costumes. And the shipwreck scene … that was fantastic, raining real rain. How did they do it?

‘Where’s my flowers? Where’s my bouquet?’ said Fran furiously, sweeping off stage, pushing everyone out of the way. ‘Don’t I get flowers? I’m tonight’s star, for God’s sake. Look what I’ve put into this show.’

‘I’d call it nil, zero, darling,’ said Bill, taking off his earphones. ‘I couldn’t hear a word. Learn to project, Fran. It might help if you want to get on.’

She pushed past him, past me, then swung back, her crimson mouth clamped in a tight line. ‘I want a word with you, young woman.’

‘Yes?’ I was taken aback.

‘You didn’t help,’ she snarled. ‘I couldn’t hear your prompts. What were you doing, chewing gum?’

‘No, I never, but sorry,’ I said.

‘Don’t think I don’t know what you were up to. It was deliberate on your part. It was a nasty little trick, my girl, and you won’t get away with it. You were set to ruin my performance.’

‘I wasn’t up to anything. Your lines were not secure,’ I said, unwavering, clenching my nails into the palm of my hands. ‘You need to look at them, Fran. I couldn’t help it if you were all over the place. Sometimes you weren’t even on the right page.’

‘Wrong page, indeed! What a nerve, you po-faced bitch. Several times you gave me the wrong prompt, throwing me completely off track. I’ve a good mind to report you to the management for incompetence. Yes, I’m going to complain. You should lose your job. You’ll be serving burgers at McDonalds this time next week.’

‘At least they have a nicer class of customer,’ I said.

This was knife throwing time. She looked as if she could kill me.
Murder in the Prompt Corner? It didn’t pass as a title. No alliteration.

‘How dare you!’ She flounced off, eyes flashing with fury, on the verge of smouldering hysteria. ‘I won’t forget this. You’ll be sorry you ever stepped foot in this theatre. I’ll make sure you don’t get a job anywhere in London.’

I retreated into my corner. I knew I had let everyone down by not going on again. That was my fault. I couldn’t run with the wolves. Fran was useless. But what could I do? It wasn’t as if I could take a few pills and everything would be all right. They hadn’t invented stage fright pills strong enough for me. Beta-blockers stop your heart from going so fast but the fear was still there, stuck in your throat like a samurai sword.

‘Cheer up, Sophie. Still in one piece?’ said Bill in passing. ‘Has she knifed you yet?’

‘If there were stocks outside the theatre, I’d be in them by now, dodging tomatoes and rotten eggs. Fran was furious, spitting blood. She thought I had been unhelpful on purpose.’

‘She needs to look at the script. She mangled the words. It was unbelievable and unreliable. I check the lines, too, you know. I have to know where we are. She shouldn’t go on again. No, she’s not up to it.’

‘Someone has to do it. Elinor won’t be fit enough until next week.’

Bill looked at me, put his hands on my shoulders, eyes deep with meaning. Oh no, not another one. ‘I know someone who is perfect in every way. She brought tears to my eyes last night,’ he said. ‘She was wonderful. I could have cried.’

‘Was she? And I thought it was rain. By the way, the rain was spectacular. I got drenched.’

‘You stood in the wrong place, sweetheart. It falls in a straight line from five overhead sprays. You should stand in front of them. Then it just looks as if you are getting wet.’

‘I was method acting,’ I said, guessing what was coming next. He had that predatory, glazed groping look again. Oh God, men with wandering hands down the waist of your pants. ‘You know, feel for real.’

‘I’d like to feel for real. Want a lift home? I’ll order a taxi.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I can be ready to leave in ten minutes. We could snatch a bite to eat first. Would you like that?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘How about a pizza with lashings of cheese on top? Or sausages and mash?’

‘What is there about the word “no” that you don’t understand, Bill? No, thank you. I’m going home to hot chocolate and late-night telly.’

‘I’d love a hot chocolate and late-night telly,’ he grinned. He never gave up. ‘Just my cup of tea.’

The only way to escape him was a quick visit to the backstage ladies cloakroom. It was a dingy, bleak place left over from the last century. It had lavatories with rusty pull chains and seats that looked as if they had been gnawed by werewolves. Every tile in the place was cracked and the mirrors were yellowed with age.

Sometimes I wondered how many thousands of actresses had used these lavatories. How many tears had been shed. Lost dreams flushed down the loo.

Millie had tried to cheer the place up with coloured toilet tissue and a bunch of artificial flowers bought at a local market. I chose a cubicle with pink paper. I blew my nose on a double sheet of it. I’d had enough of today’s surprises.

I came out, keeping my head down, not wanting to bump into a lurking, predatory Bill. Instead I bumped into Joe.

‘Sorry,’ I said, head down, trying to move past.

Joe wasn’t listening to me. He was talking to himself. It was the director in the throes of making a decision. He was pacing the floor, hands thrust deep in pockets, biting his lower lip.

‘Fran’s going to report me to the management. She says I gave her the wrong prompts,’ I said but I wasn’t sure if he even heard.

‘Rubbish. I’ll take care of that,’ he said without interest, glancing over me. ‘Don’t worry about it. That was not a good show, was it? Tell me.’

This was not my moment to leap in and save the day again. This was my moment to go straight home, despite uncertain navigation,
say hello to my wilting plants and watch some late-night telly, some predictably mind-blowingly boring reality TV. I could dig out those old copies of
Cosmopolitan
and read uplifting articles on ‘How to Captivate the Man of your Dreams in Ten Sexy Moves’. Easy when you know how.

‘It had its moments,’ I said, trying to console.

Back in the wings, I turned out my light, tidied the corner of today’s debris, tiptoed away in the direction to collect my lilac mohair and scarf.

‘Not so fast.’

‘Oh dear, not another reprimand?’ I asked. ‘I’ve had today’s quota, thank you.’

‘No, not a reprimand,’ said Joe. ‘You’ve had quite enough problems for one show. I understand that. Do you want a lift? I’ve ordered a taxi. No hanky-panky in the back seat.’

‘What a pity. I fancied a bit of hanky-panky.’

‘Then you’d better get a lift with Bill.’

‘He goes the opposite way.’

‘Then you’re left with my offer. Take it or leave it but make up your mind fast.’

I swallowed hard. The lump in my throat felt like a foreign object, something the size of a whale. ‘I’ll come with you,’ I muttered.

‘Speak up. Learn to project. Perhaps Fran has a point.’ This was below the belt stuff.

I faced up to him. ‘Has she been complaining to you now?’

But he was frowning down at me, all tousled hair and tired eyes. ‘And how. I got an earful. Apparently her poor performance was entirely your fault. You gave her the wrong prompts so she didn’t know where she was. They completely threw her. She only managed to carry on through being in peak mental condition and her sheer personal devotion to me.’

Joe was trying not to laugh, starting to relax. His eyes were glinting and he was making a poor job of hiding his amusement.

‘Is that what she said? Perhaps her peak devotion to you and sheer personal strength will motivate her to check the lines in time for tomorrow’s performance,’ I said, the words getting mixed up.

‘I doubt it.’

I said goodnight to Hilda and Millie, both of whom were exhausted and were having a last cuppa together. The diva had led them a merry dance all evening. They’d been running round in circles to her demands.

‘I think I’m going to cook you a meal,’ Joe said, flinging his coat over one shoulder and hitching his laptop case under the other arm. ‘It’s my turn.’

‘But what about tomorrow’s show? Shouldn’t you be giving Fran some private coaching?’ Saying this was an awesome sacrifice on my part. I might hate the answer.

‘Forget tomorrow. The only moment you can truly enjoy is now. Something will turn up. It usually does.’

I had no idea what he meant. I was not turning up. What or who could possibly show up to play Viola tomorrow? Of course, the theatre might burn down like Sheridan’s Drury Lane theatre had burned down. Dear man, he’d come straight from the House of Commons and watched his theatre aflame from a nearby coffee house. ‘Cannot a man take a glass of wine at his own fireside?’ he’d said to his astonished friends.

Aliens might land in the West End and all the streets be cordoned off. Bird flu could sweep through the entire cast although, as yet, no serious signs of sniff or sneeze, apart from our Elinor.

I wondered if the foundations of the theatre were entirely trustworthy. The building might be perched on some perilously deep-dug and forgotten underground excavations and tunnels, buried and forgotten rivers, Neo-Gothic sewers. If it rained hard, those foundations might lose their grip and slide the lot into Victorian oblivion. But it wasn’t raining that hard.

The fragile Fran might have something up her sleeve at this very moment. She might be planning to deactivate the sound system with some little pocket screwdriver, or fuse the entire theatre lighting. That would certainly be a major disaster.

‘Do you think we ought to leave the theatre alone?’ I hesitated in the street by the stage door. The street seemed very dark, eerily Victorian, teeming with cut throats and muggers. ‘Is it safe?’

‘I should imagine that after nearly a century, the theatre is used
to being on its own at night. Apart from the ghosts. They are probably pretty lively, gliding around, reliving old shows and successes. What’s going on in that fertile mind of yours?’

‘I’m worried in case someone does something really stupid.’ I didn’t know what I thought.

‘Such as spray paint graffiti on the walls? I hate Shakespeare. Something like that?’

‘Like setting fire to the place—’

‘All the more reason for you and me to get out quick. Here’s the taxi. Hop in.’ He held open the door for me, giving the driver our address as if we lived together and were not separated by a couple of floors. I hadn’t been home for two days. I needed a shower and a change of clothes. Preferably into a warm bathrobe.

Joe slumped into a corner seat, closing his eyes in the darkness. He was going to doze the entire journey.

‘Wake me up when we get there,’ he said.

Catnapping was a gift. He was obviously worn out. I’d take a rain check on the meal. It was far too late to eat anyway. Heartburn was not my favourite dessert. My flat was cold and neglected. I turned on the heating and sat warming my hands in front of the mock heat. It was wonderful to be home and on my own, the politics of the theatre left far behind me. For a time, at least.

Joe had forgotten all about the offer of cooking me a meal. He said goodnight at his door, gave me a brief kiss on the cheek. But it missed and landed somewhere on my ear. A mouthful of short hair made him choke silently.

‘Goodnight, Joe,’ I said, patting his arm maternally. ‘Sleep well.’

I made myself the promised hot chocolate, only forty calories a mug. I chose my mug with care. Each mug had its own character. The bone-china poppy mug was perfect for tonight. I sucked the froth off the spoon and switched on the telly, hoping for a decent film.

I was watching a B-movie thriller set in classic New York gangland with no clear idea of the plot or who was the baddie, when my phone rang. Someone was calling very late indeed.

‘Hello,’ I said, leaning on the phone. ‘Who’s that?’