A Star in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  As for me, I had a death grip on Millie's clipboard, imagining the company's founder and longtime director sitting in the front row dressed in her best outlandish costume, waiting to see her pet project take flight from someone else's hands. Lady Amanda would be sitting beside her, hoping that her recent devotion to the theater resulted in something good onstage besides new curtains.

  And, of course, a lot of tonight's audience was waiting to see Cornwall's newly-minted 'star' who had been the buzz of local villages ever since Neville's article. Not a single one of them knew he was already a star in the film world, although tonight's public performance might very well change that.

  I drew a deep breath. I felt a hand on my shoulder, a gentle, comforting touch I recognized instantly. I wrapped my fingers around Matt's, tightly.

  "You're not supposed to be back here," I whispered, pretending to sound snooty and official. "Do you have a pass, sir?"

  "I'm personal friends with the director," he answered. He kissed my cheek; my free hand felt the woody green stem and silk surface of a single budded red rose slide between my fingers.

  "It's customary to wait until after the show, but I thought you needed one beforehand," he said.

  "Thank you," I whispered. It felt good to have someone wish me luck; to share the one moment before either success or disaster for the players under my influence. I felt Matt tuck the flower gently into my hair, above my right ear.

  "I'll be in the front row," he said. With one last kiss, he was gone. I closed my eyes and waited for the final minute. I heard Gerard's voice as he introduced the play. I heard the squeak of the pulleys and ropes — we had forgotten to oil the old gears — as the curtains lifted for the play. I heard applause from the darkened auditorium as house lights dropped, and stage lights burned bright like stars above the simple patio set.

  Showtime.

  The first act was dominated by nervous players, slipping American accents, and nearly-missed lines; by the second act, as everyone grew more comfortable, the lines they delivered seemed more natural. The set for Gerard's balcony — or third-floor apartment — stayed together without a mishap, even with Loreena almost crawling out on its ledge as Andy wooed her from the sidewalk below. No curtains dropped from the skies, no lights shattered, and the plywood car held together with both Romeo and Mercutio sitting on its 'boot' and 'bonnet' at various points in the scene.

  Mercutio was winning over the audience with his dry manners and, wry, occasionally corny, humor. Even though he was only half-trying in order to match his cast mates' limits and not outshine them, Ridley was still delivering a compelling performance. He was at his best by the third act, when everyone else was catching up with the passion of their characters; by the time we reached his death scene, even I could sense the audience's tension for those final minutes onstage for his character.

  Andy caught him as Ridley stumbled under his arm, beneath the swift, stabbing motion of Martin, armed with an antique dagger from his father's weapons collection. Martin then fled with his friends after seeing what he had done, leaving Romeo's entourage alone onstage.

  "Relax," said Andy, trying badly to reassure Mercutio, or maybe himself. "Is it bad? It's not, is it? It'll be fine."

  "Sure," said Ridley, weakly. "It's just a scratch. Just needs a little disinfectant. Some painkillers. Strong ones. Just don't bother coming by my place tomorrow, 'cause by then I'll be dead to the world." His features twisted a little more after this joke. "Damn him ... both of you ... it feels like a hot poker in my ribs. He couldn't have aimed a little more to the left and gotten you instead, huh?" This time, Ridley released a sharp, shuddering groan. "Why did you get in the way?" he asked, catching his breath. "I could've handled him. I could've ..."

  "I thought it was best," said Andy, weakly. "I thought — I thought I could stop all this."

  "Thanks. Remember that for my eulogy. Maybe I'll find it comforting from the other side," said Ridley, whose joke was still more bitter this time, his humor fading fast. Another cry of pain. "Somebody help me up — get me out of here before I lose more blood." They half-dragged, half carried him off stage, but Ridley let his body slump completely as if dead before they reached the wings.

  "My friend," said Andy. His voice trembled. "My friend — and by somebody who became part of my family an hour ago." He slumped to his knees. "Juliet, what have you done to me? What have you made me into?"

  "He's dead." Nick — or Benvolio — appeared from the wings with staggering steps. Nellie had applied stage blood to his hands, which glistened in the lights. "He's dead."

  Before the lights went dark for the scene, the applause was thunderous. In the dark, I tried to spot Ridley in the opposite wing of the theater, to see if he was hearing the response to his performance, but he was invisible in its shadows. And the scramble to set the street scene outside Tybalt's house had now begun, with us hectically pushing the second plywood car into place.

  The rest of the play was nearly perfect. The scene with Juliet's coffin in the stark chapel didn't lead to another broken set, only to a sob or two from the riveted audience. When the lights dimmed for the last time, and the curtains lowered, we heard the crowd's enthusiasm on the other side.

  "We did it!" Rosie squealed, gripping my shoulder. "Listen to them!"

  "By George, we pulled it off," said Andy. "Did you notice I forgot all about my accent in the second act?"

  "Who cares?" said Louis. "At least we're not being pelted by rotten produce, are we?"

  "It's due to you, " said Rosie, who had found Ridley and seized his arm, kissing his cheek. "They loved you, my pet. They're eating out of your hand like little budgies."

  Ridley actually blushed. "I think they're just glad we all got through it," he answered.

  "Nonsense," said Gerard. "Hats off to our latest player's show of 'beginner's luck.'" He, too, clapped a hand on Ridley's shoulder as he ushered him forward to the edge of the wings. "We'll be toasting Mercutio tonight, second only to our leading lady and lad."

  Ridley was receiving compliments from the rest of the cast — all except for Katie, who hung back during this part. Nobody noticed, however, since the call for cast bows had begun.

  The minor players were the first ones onstage to bow, followed by the supporting roles. Cheers for Ridley were loud as the actor stepped forward with the rest of Romeo's friends, his shirt — not a borrowed silk one — still stained with theatrical blood underneath his suit jacket. His smile was a humble one, almost shy, as he received the audience's applause.

  Next came Andy and Loreena, who were held the longest as Gerard presented the leading lady with flowers. My own bouquet came from Matthew — not flowers arranged by a local nursery, but ones he had chosen and arranged himself. It made me think of one from a moment which seemed long ago now, when I presented Matt with one of my own, given in thanks for him saving the first wedding I planned in Cornwall. The same sweet-smelling blossoms were tucked in this one, along with blushing pink and white roses and delicate sprays of baby's breath.

  "Wonderful, darlings!" declared Millie. She wouldn't wait for the customary post-performance party at the pub to deliver her congratulations, hobbling backstage on her crutches as soon as the house lights were lifted. "I couldn't have been more pleased. I can already envision the words in Neville's Truro column — all about Ceffylgwyn sweeping away modern Shakespeare's critics with their fiery performance."

  "I'm so glad you were pleased," I said, as Millie clasped my hand. Over her shoulder, I glimpsed Lady Amanda, who had helped the theater director backstage. Her smile beamed at me, one of relief that we had pulled this off.

  "Let's be going, m'dears," said Rosie. "All this mess can be cleaned up tomorrow by Nellie and Nora, aye?" she teased the theater's two most elderly crew members.

  Tradition dictated that the cast toast the play in costume, I knew, although a few alterations were always allowed. I saw Katie swap her heels for loafers, and noticed Andy had removed his borrowed suit for an old one f
rom the costume rack.

  "Fetch Mercutio to receive my thanks," said Millie to me. "I simply have to congratulate him before the noise of the pub drowns me out." She couldn't manage the dressing room's path on her wobbly crutches, I knew, so I made my way past the props and sets to the curtained-off zone backstage.

  Mercutio's bloodstained shirt was draped across his dressing table chair, his borrowed suit hanging on the costume rack. The scattered bits of a makeup kit and blotting tissues were on the table, but Ridley's wristwatch was gone. And so were his clothes — his real ones.

  Ridley had gone without saying goodbye.

  ***

  After talking with Millie, I arranged for Ridley's understudy to take the role of Mercutio for the second night. Ridley had completely vanished from the village. His backpack was gone from the barn, and it was revealed later he had stashed it in the cloak room at the theater before the show. Inside it, all the camping gear and personal possessions that had been in Ted Russert's barn — everything except the crumpled newspaper on his cot.

  He needn't have left it behind. By the next morning, everyone knew who he really was, even without it. Word spread like wildfire through the village and into the neighboring ones, with social media pictures appearing despite the spotty satellite coverage, and a last-minute splashy article from the nearest paper about a 'celebrity sighting' by locals at a village community theater.

  "Fancy," said Rosie, in awe. "All this time, he was a proper star. From Hollywood — and he was reading lines with the likes of us for sport." She took a large swallow from her half pint.

  "Of course, the house was packed for tonight's show," said Andy. "Everyone and their brother thought they'd be witnessing a celebrity onstage." He sounded a little gloomy.

  "Pity for them, but lovely for our cash box," said Gerard. "Fancy it, though. I can scarcely believe he got away with it."

  "I wish I'd seen that movie when it was in Truro," sighed Lorrie. "I had the influenza that weekend. Positively galloping through the primary halls before the holiday, it was."

  "He didn't want anybody to know, I guess," I said. "He probably just wanted to enjoy the experience as a regular person would. One actor lost in a company of them."

  "A face in the crowd," snorted Rosie. "He was hardly that, was he? We should've seen it from the start. I read those celebrity mags, you know. Why on earth didn't I recognize him? It's as plain as cream in a cup of tea after that Truro column."

  "Maybe he was just really good at his part," said Katie. Her voice was a little above a mumble — this was the first time she'd spoken of Ridley with semi-intelligible words since his disappearance.

  "I can't believe you didn't see it," said Andy. "The two 'Yanks,' as it were, always together," he teased. "The way the two of you were hanging about, probably snogging along the shore, likely —" I saw Katie's cheeks blaze red, " — where he never slipped up and said anything about the truth?"

  "Lucky girl, you," said Rosie. "I think he had a bit of a thing for you — the hero of a proper action film with a Beverly Hills mansion. I've never had so much as a postman after me."

  "He was having a bit of a fling. I think that's what you mean," answered Katie. "Nothing serious about his little stop here, was there?" She rose from the table, her smile tight and not at all real. "I think I'll just get some air."

  The rest of the table was quiet as she walked away. "Blimey," said Andy, quietly. "I didn't realize she was serious about that bloke."

  "Took it hard, did she?" said Rosie. "Poor lass. I guess she would feel a bit more fooled than the rest of us do. After all, he was only having some fun, it's true."

  It was more than that, I thought. All of it. But since I didn't have any proof, and I didn't have Ridley's permission to betray his confidence, I stayed silent.

  As Ridley had feared, the whole incident came off as a publicity stunt. Neville Brewster's article on the play was accompanied by a feature gushing about the anonymous appearance by a Hollywood star in a local play. Despite Ridley's concerns, no one treated this like an insult, or even seemed offended that he had done it. In fact, he was something of a hero in the eyes of Ceffylgwyn's most starstruck citizens — Gemma and her friends talked about nothing else for weeks, and Pippa called me the day after the story's release to demand if it was true that a real actor had come to the village.

  "And he was so dishy in that action flick," she moaned. "I wish I had been there. Honestly, nothing this exciting ever happened in the village when I was there."

  Having heard this line more than once from Pippa, I knew better than to be concerned that the pain would last. "Take comfort," I said. "He was actually very ordinary to talk to. And he didn't once save the village from morphing monsters of metal while he was here, either."

  "I see your friend the actor has found a more permanent establishment of sorts," said Geoff to me one morning, when I was having a quick breakfast before meeting Lady A in her office.

  "Where?" For a panicky moment, I pictured Ridley in jail — a vision I had experienced more than once, since it was highly possible he fell back on his vagabond lifestyle.

  "London," said Geoff. "He's quite cozy in the theater's quarter, it would seem. There's a bit of early praise for his work." He laid a paper in front of me. Not a celebrity gossip mag like before, but a copy of a theater magazine that I knew the estate's manager was fond of reading.

  Macbeth Boasts a New Image, read the headline. It was a lengthy piece talking about the youthful face and fiery ambition that Ridley Cooper was bringing to Shakespeare's iconic tragedy. A brief interview with the actor himself skirted all mention of his upcoming sequel blockbuster, talking mostly about his desire to branch out as a performer.

  "He made it," I said, softly. So Ridley had decided to stand up to his agent after all. No more aimless wandering, no more running. I glanced at the accompanying photo, a rehearsal shot of Macbeth dying which put me in mind of Ridley's first onstage death scene. And he had definitely decided to own his role, no matter what his critics had suggested about this casting choice.

  "You might share it with Miss Marsh," suggested Geoff, as he poured himself a cup of tea. "She might also like to know that her friend is doing quite well."

  "Thanks," I said. "I think I will." I lifted the magazine from the table and carried it with me to my office.

  Katie had seemed more like herself the last couple of weeks, so long as no mention was being made of Ridley Cooper. On that count, she was still visibly uncomfortable, and I wasn't sure if it was a feeling of betrayal or of inferiority that was clinging to her so strongly.

  It was youthful disappointment, a frost on the early bud of romance, I told myself — we all experienced them, and we all get over them in time. But I hated to see Katie's last month as a guest on our shores overshadowed by another American's careless life choices.

  She was sitting at her desk — one I still thought of as Kitty's, in the back of my mind — scrolling through an online catalog for the stationery service that issued our place cards and other paper goods.

  "Guess what," I said. "Looks like our old friend isn't running around England anymore with his backpack." I laid the magazine in front of her. Katie stopped scrolling, as if she was very interested in the cream-colored invitations onscreen.

  "Really?" she said. "Guess that's good news for him." She didn't look down.

  "He's in another play," I said. "This one's in London. It's Shakespeare, believe it or not."

  "You know, I never figured out what the big deal is about Shakespeare," said Katie. "I mean, Marlowe was just as big of a genius, wasn't he? Maybe it's because I'm in the hospitality industry that I don't understand. I'm getting a Bachelor of Sciences, you know."

  For the first time, I saw a marked resemblance between my new assistant and my old one when it came to avoiding uncomfortable subjects. "I just thought you should know," I said. "He mentions us in the article, actually."

  For the first time, Katie looked less interested in the cream
-colored invitations.

  "He says he had the privilege of being part of an amateur theatrical society this summer. He says the company helped him hone his skills in Shakespeare." I rose from the corner of her desk, where I had been leaning during this conversation. "I thought it was nice of him, anyway."

  After I was situated behind my own, I saw Katie's hand reach slowly for the issue. As she inched it off her laptop's keyboard, I could see her eyes were following its words, glancing up at the picture of Ridley on the London stage.

  I pretended to be very busy with my seating plan for the next hired banquet.

  Classical music played from Matt's MP3 player in our kitchen when I entered our back door at the end of the day. I found him chopping vegetables at our table, the beginning of Matt's famous stew: one of only three home-cooked meals that had a regular spot on our menu.

  "Mmm, smells delicious," I said, slipping off my high heels. He laughed.

  "I haven't even begun to cook anything," he said.

  "Then let me help," I said, pulling an apron from the hook beside the cupboard.

  "You can brown the beef, if you like. It's in the icebox, next to the chopped onions," he said. "But before you do that, I have something for you."

  "Not lima beans, I hope," I said, sticking out my tongue. They were the one ingredient Matt sometimes added to his stew that I heartily wished would be banished forevermore from our kitchen. With a smile, Matt reached beneath today's mail for a long, flat envelope.

  "It just came," he said. "I thought about taking you someplace nice to give it to you, but I thought we might save that experience for your return."

  "My return?" I said. I opened it up and found two tickets inside. Tickets to a London production of Macbeth, with two third-row orchestra seats.

  I gasped. "Matt," I said. "You didn't — these must have cost a fortune!"

  "Hardly a fortune," he chuckled, "but far from a bargain price, yes. But after your brief and exhausting brush with the theater, I thought you would enjoy them — even if you did swear you intended not to go near one for at least a year, this was certain to change your opinion on the matter."