“Seriously?” said Reggie.
Laura pulled him aside, a couple of steps away from Mrs. Hatfield, and then, after a quick glance back, a couple more steps to be sure.
“Yes, I know,” said Laura very quietly. “It’s a bit silly, but she’s a very nice woman, and she means well. Please try not to be a lawyer for a bit, and play nice, won’t you?”
Reggie gave it a moment’s thought, then nodded.
“I can mind my p’s and q’s if you can,” he said with a slight smile.
“Is there something wrong?” asked Mrs. Hatfield.
“No,” said Reggie, still smiling. “But you are preaching to the wrong congregation if your theme is to put a muzzle on Laura.”
“Reggie, don’t be silly,” said Laura quickly. Then she turned to Mrs. Hatfield. “It’s all fine. But am I to be one of those clever casting choices?”
“Only a bit,” said the woman. “You look too young for the role by a decade or so, but then so did Melanie, and that can be handled with makeup. You will be Lady—” Mrs. Hatfield stopped herself. “My, I almost said it out loud. Well, we’re not quite inside the theater yet, so it’s all right. But we are on the doorstep, so I suppose I’d better just whisper it to you.”
Mrs. Hatfield did so, quite inaudibly, from Reggie’s perspective.
“Oh,” said Laura with some surprise. “When you said a small role, I thought—”
“Oh, it is; I mean mostly—we’ve cut out most of the longer parts. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine; I know your ability to play anyone, no matter how contrary to natural character. Well. Shall we go in?”
They entered the former church. It had smooth hardwood benches on either side, with seating for perhaps two hundred.
They began to walk down the center aisle toward the stage.
“Such an intimate setting for Shakespeare,” said Laura. “I’ll bet you can hear a whisper from the farthest row!”
“No doubt,” said Reggie. “By the way, which bit of Shakespeare is it?”
“It’s the Scottish play,” said Mrs. Hatfield.
“Yes, but which one?”
“The Scottish play.”
“Oh. Must have been one of his lesser works, if no one even remembers the name.”
Mrs. Hatfield walked up close to Laura and whispered again. “Has your husband never even been to the theater?”
“I heard that,” said Reggie.
“Of course he has,” said Laura. “It’s how we met. He saw me in Chicago. He’s just been too busy to go again since. Either that or he’s already got what he wanted.”
“Ah. That explains why he doesn’t know we never say the name of this play once inside the theater.”
“Why not?” asked Reggie. “I don’t recall any Shakespeare titles that are embarrassing to say. Except Titus Andronicus, and that’s only if you mispronounce it.”
“The druid witches put a curse on this one centuries ago. If you say the word inside the theater, they have to kill you. Or other bad things can happen.”
“Now, Mrs. Hatfield, stop trying to scare my new husband.”
“Oh, the one with the witches,” said Reggie. “Now I get it. But the name of the play is the same as the name of the main character of the play, is it not?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” said Mrs. Hatfield.
“So what if someone says the name of the main character inside the theater? I’m sure that must happen in the course of the play. Is the curse smart enough to recognize the context in which the word is being used?”
Mrs. Hatfield hesitated, and Laura saw her discomfort.
“Now, Reggie…” said Laura.
“The curse does not apply if you say it as a character within the play and on the stage, in either rehearsal or performance,” said Mrs. Hatfield. “Only outside of it. I’m almost certain.”
“Ah, I suppose that’s the nature of really effective curses,” said Reggie. “Very particular and completely arbitrary at the same time. So if the name of the play cannot be spoken, what about other forms of communication? Would one be allowed to draw a picture?”
“Reggie, you promised. We’re not in the Old Bailey.”
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Hatfield. “I think probably not. I mean, not of the title character anyway.”
“Oh, that can’t be right,” said Laura. “I’m sure I’ve seen depictions of Laurence Olivier playing the role of—well, you know—and the name of it plastered right there on the poster with him!”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hatfield. “And look what happened to him!”
Laura looked puzzled at first, but now Reggie had caught on, and he nodded.
“He died,” said Reggie.
“Oh, don’t mind him,” said Laura to Mrs. Hatfield. “He’s just doing what he’s been trained to do. Reggie, stop it.”
“Sorry.”
Now they had reached the foot of the stage, and Laura stopped.
“Oh, is it not quite ready yet?”
Mrs. Hatfield admitted that it was not, and that one cannot trod the boards when not all the boards are there.
“We’re just finishing a bit of structural renovation. We had a slight delay with the archaeological preservation committee, but we’re back on track now. Don’t worry, my dear,” she said to Laura. “You won’t be putting your foot through open space on opening night. Now, let’s just go backstage, and I’ll introduce everyone.”
They avoided the stage itself, and walked around a side aisle to a single room behind it that served as the greenroom—and the makeup room, and the dressing area, and the prop storage.
Most of the actors were there, all of them in some state of undress, getting ready to go onstage for the next rehearsal.
Reggie tried to remember whether there were any Shakespearean plays that typically required female nudity, of the sort that would give the director an excuse to try to demand that the actress demonstrate her comfort in being nude onstage by first disrobing for the director in private.
“Will this be a fully clothed version of the Scottish play?” he asked.
“What?” said the director.
“Oh, don’t mind Reggie,” said Laura to the director. “He’s just worried that you’ll try to insist on the leads doing a bit of pagan nudity, like they did with the witches a while back in Central Park.”
The director looked crestfallen, and he said to Laura with apparent sincerity, “You would … find that objectionable?”
“I certainly would, in this weather.”
“As would I on her behalf,” said Reggie. “In any weather.”
Laura nudged the director.
“We’re still on honeymoon,” she said. “And you test my husband at your peril.”
The director, a smallish, balding man in his late fifties, nodded and changed the subject. He began talking about how once he had almost been cast as the understudy to a fellow who had almost been cast as Richard III some ten years earlier, when Laura had been on the London stage for the very first time, playing the character of the young Elizabeth.
What karma, the man kept saying, that fate had brought them together for Shakespeare again—and with him as her director!
Of course, said the man, with a rather wry smile, their careers had gone rather differently since that time.
“So,” said Reggie, trying to be conversational, “what do you do in real life now?”
Laura and Mrs. Hatfield both gasped. Everyone else backstage went immediately silent. Some people turned to look, others were afraid to, and Reggie sensed fairly quickly that he had committed yet another faux pas.
The former candidate to almost be the understudy for Richard in Richard III, stared at Reggie with a look of deep offense and distress.
“The theater,” he said, “is my life!”
And then he rushed out of the room.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Hatfield. “I’d better try to calm him down. Laura, perhaps if you come along, too—”
“Certainly,” said Laura.
She whispered to Reggie that he should try not to break anything, and then she hurried after Mrs. Hatfield to help salvage the director.
Reggie found himself on his own now backstage. He looked around for safe harbor.
There was a gray-haired prop mistress, who was busy spraying silver paint on some sort of fake sword; the leading man, Reggie’s age or perhaps a few years older, sitting in front of the makeup mirror; and a young woman wearing a putty nose, a plastic wart, dark eye shadow, and not very much else, who seemed to be helping the leading man get his hair right in some way.
Reggie wondered whom he might safely talk to. The prop woman seemed the best choice, even though Laura had specifically told him not to break anything. But perhaps if he just spoke clearly and remained very still—”
“Making a fake sword, then?” said Reggie.
Immediately it occurred to him that if the prop mistress was anywhere near as sensitive as the director, he probably shouldn’t have used the word fake.
But, fortunately, she did not seem to take offense.
“Nothing fake about it,” said the woman, now ready to inspect her work. She raised the sword up at a ninety-degree angle with both hands and gave a slight smile. “Just spraying over the rust.”
“Ah,” said Reggie. He took a step back. “Good to know.”
Now the young woman wearing witch’s makeup, who to this point had seen Reggie only in the mirror’s reflection, stepped back from doing the leading man’s hair and gave Reggie a look in person. A very long look.
“Hullo,” she said.
“Hello,” said Reggie.
“You’re very tall,” she said. “Much more suited for this play than some of the other men in the cast.”
She stepped up closer to him.
It must be the wedding ring, thought Reggie. He took a half step back, putting himself right up against the wall.
“And you have a wonderful speaking voice. What role do you play?”
“Husband,” said Reggie.
The young woman’s eyes glimmered, and she retreated not an inch.
Then Laura returned.
“Careful, dear,” said Laura, with just the slightest glance, as she sat down to do her own makeup. “My husband doesn’t fully understand about theater dressing rooms, and all sexes in their knickers or less, pretending that they don’t notice. You’ll make him blush, or something.”
“Oh, you’re married to each other? I see. How wonderful for you!”
“Yes. So he’s not accustomed to strange women’s breasts in his face anymore. If you keep doing what you’re doing, he’ll harken back to the day and think he’s supposed to throw money on the bar for you.”
The young woman’s smile froze, and she turned away to puzzle over whether Laura had said something catty.
“Speaking of which,” said Reggie quickly, “do you suppose the pub is open now?”
“Excellent idea,” said Laura. “Why don’t you just go on ahead? I’ll catch up with you.”
“Yes, and it won’t be too long,” said Mrs. Hatfield. “We’ll just do a quick run-through.”
“Brilliant,” said Reggie, happily turning to go. “I’d be glad to stay and watch you all rehearse, of course, if I hadn’t already seen Macbeth.”
Everyone gasped. Someone’s hairbrush clunked to the floor. The taste of superstitious terror was palpable.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Hatfield.
“What?” said Reggie.
“He said it!” cried one of the other three young witches, still struggling to pull her costume on over her panty hose. “He said Mac—well, you know!”
“Please,” said Reggie. “Surely, all of you don’t really believe such—”
“Oh, the curse is real enough all right,” said the leading man as he scrutinized the black-and-white strands in his beard. “Melanie said it, and look what happened to her!”
“Something happened?” said Reggie. “The woman in the role before Laura didn’t simply quit?”
“Oh, we don’t need to go there right now, do we?” said Mrs. Hatfield.
“Now everyone just keep calm,” said Laura. “No need to panic. Reggie will just go outside and do the routine, and then everything will be fine. Won’t you, Reggie?”
“Certainly. What’s the routine?” asked Reggie.
Laura looked to Mrs. Hatfield.
“I don’t think we can say that out loud inside the theater, either,” said Mrs. Hatfield. “Especially the words he has to say to make the curse go away.”
“Well, you can whisper it to me first, and then I’ll whisper in Reggie’s ear. He’ll like that anyway.”
“All right, then,” said Mrs. Hatfield. “Here is what he must do.”
Mrs. Hatfield whispered into Laura’s ear.
“Oh,” said Laura, listening intently. “Oh. Yes, I see. Oh my. You know, I think I made Reggie do something very like that early this morning.”
“I heard that,” said Reggie.
“Well, remember it, then, and next time I won’t need to do so much prompting.”
“Now, the words he must say are these,” said Mrs. Hatfield, continuing, and she whispered some more.
“Ah,” said Laura. “Yes, yes, not a problem. I’ve heard him say those very words occasionally, though not in that order, and under quite different circumstances.”
Now Laura turned and whispered it all to Reggie.
“If you insist,” said Reggie when she was done, “although I’d find it much easier to do after I’ve had my pints than before.”
“Off you go. I’ll catch up with you, just as soon as we’re all done learning our places here.”
Reggie pulled his mac close and nearly ran from the room.
Laura turned her attention to getting ready to go onstage. She glanced in the mirror.
The leading actor, seated in the prestige position at the makeup table, did not look over at her directly, but he did look at her in the mirror.
“You know,” he said, “with you stepping in on such short notice, we’ll hardly have enough rehearsal time to get to know each other before opening—so perhaps you’d like to step down to the pub with me later tonight? I mean, so that we can establish the proper chemistry for our stage interaction, as it were?”
Laura thought that she had been flashing her new diamond ring sufficiently that everyone in the little room should have noticed. Perhaps the gentleman had been so absorbed with himself in the mirror that he didn’t see it. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care.
“No,” said Laura in a tone that made the rejection very clear. “I do acting. I don’t do chemistry.”
The leading man seemed unfazed.
“Your predecessor and I got to know each other quite well,” he said. “We do play husband and wife, you know.”
Laura had now had quite enough, but she refrained from slapping the man; partly because he might have enjoyed it, but mainly because she was distracted—she wasn’t sure why—by the way he had said “predecessor.”
8
In the pub a few hours later, Charlie, the bartender, poured Reggie’s third pint and said, “You’re staying at Mrs. Hatfield’s holiday rental, aren’t you?”
Reggie gave the bartender a questioning look. The man was in his mid-thirties, and gregarious in a chip-on-the-shoulder sort of way that Reggie associated with former school athletes trying to recapture their glory days.
“Saw you drive in,” the bartender continued. “I was just then locking up. I looked down the street, and I saw Mrs. Hatfield with you and your lovely lady companion.”
“That would be my wife,” said Reggie.
“So you and the missus, then? On holiday, are you? We don’t get many of those around here, you know.”
“Holidays?”
“Tooo-rists,” said the man, rather emphatically wiping down the bar in front of Reggie with a white cloth.
Reggie said nothing in response to that. Acknowledging their honeymoon in the pub would attract too much
attention, and next thing, the paparazzi would be circling.
So Reggie just shrugged.
The bartender gave him a glare to indicate the insufficiency of that response, and then went away.
The pub was not crowded at the moment. There were two men discussing something vigorously at the other end of the bar, and some people occupying the two back booths. Reggie contentedly drank his beer alone. When his glass was nearly empty, he began to look around, and didn’t see the bartender.
But after a moment, the barmaid came over.
“Foster’s?” said Reggie.
She picked up his empty glass but didn’t go to refill it yet.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, leaning in earnestly.
“Yes.”
“Is it true what they say about community theater?”
“I’m not sure,” said Reggie. “What do they say?”
“I mean, about the leading men and the leading ladies?”
“Again, I’m still not quite sure—”
“That they only do it so that they can meet and flirt and then—well, do it?”
“Say again?”
“I mean, there’s no money in it at all, and no one’s going to get noticed and make a career from a little village like this, so that means he’s only in it for the shag, right?”
“And you are referring to—”
“The leading man, of course. My boyfriend. Opposite your lady. In the bedchamber scenes.”
The barmaid gave Reggie a nudging, knowing look.
“Ah … well, fortunately this play is not exactly a romance.”
“What’s romance got to do with it?”
Reggie pondered that, and the barmaid continued.
“Don’t pretend you aren’t worried, too. I know how women are about my Joey. She’ll make a move on him, she will. I mean, let’s be honest—you’re a decent-enough fellow in your own right, I’m sure, but he’s—well, he’s Joey, and other girls just can’t help themselves. And don’t get me wrong; he’s true to me—in his own way, I keep him happy, I do—but he’s got his weaknesses, just like any other man. All that emotional pretending and dressing and undressing going on backstage—she’s not as pretty as me, true, but she’s nearer at hand for the next few nights, so there’s good reason for concern. So, what do you think?”
A Baker Street Wedding Page 5
