Theatrical

by Maggie Harcourt

  Did he look back, or was it a trick of the light; just another theatre illusion?

  Roly watches me watching him go and purses her lips. “Tommy’s looking for you.”

  “What for?”

  “If I knew, love, I’d have said.”

  I didn’t even know he was here. Uh-oh.

  Roly fluffs her hair up with a hand. “What do you make of him then?”

  “Who?” Although there’s only one person she could possibly be talking about, my fingers automatically touch the sandwich wrapper on the table – because in my mind “he” means flashing blue eyes and an enigmatically-scarred eyebrow (I’ve decided he got it while rescuing a puppy – I’m not sure how yet, but it was definitely something heroic). But that isn’t who Roly means.

  “Tommy, obviously.”

  “Oh. Right. He’s…umm…”

  He’s what? A demanding, stroppy, self-centred, rude pain in the arse – Hollywood star or not? Because if that’s what she’s asking, I definitely, definitely agree.

  But I don’t think that’s what she’s asking. Not if the half-smile when she says his name is anything to go by.

  She finishes fluffing her hair. “Who’d have thought we’d have someone like Tommy Knight somewhere like this? Not one of the big London theatres – not even one of the little ones – but all this way out west?”

  I can’t decide whether she’s prouder of the fact an A-lister has chosen to make his stage debut at the Earl’s, or whether she’s as crazy about said A-lister as all the fans who turn out for his premieres. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

  “He’s okay.” I shrug. “I didn’t really get to spend much time with him in the rehearsal room.” Because I was running his errands or making his tea… “And I’ve not seen him here yet.”

  Roly’s face softens. “Well, I think he’s lovely.” She stares past me at a spot in the middle of the bar, and her eyes mist over.

  “Where is he?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Tommy. Where is he?”

  “Well, he was over at my desk – but I doubt he’s there now. If he’s trying to find you, maybe he’s gone to the production office.”

  “When did you speak to him?”

  “Ooh. Maybe ten minutes ago?”

  “Ten minutes?” In Tommy-world, ten minutes is almost a month. He’s not exactly the patient type – as far as I can tell, if he has to wait for things, he gets bored…and that’s when the trouble starts. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I was on my break, petal.”

  I leave the papers and Roly in the bar and hurry back through the theatre to the production office – which is deserted. I stick my head back out into the corridor. Nope. No sign of him there either. Maybe he’s in his dressing room? Trying not to break into a run, I pass wardrobe. The door is ajar; warm white light and a cloud of hairspray seep out, along with the sound of George and Nathalie talking seriously about skin primers.

  The door to dressing room number one is firmly shut, its gold foil star glittering away to itself, and when I knock there’s no answer. I try knocking again.

  Still no answer.

  Maybe he changed his mind about needing me and he’s busy now anyway?

  I wait as long as I possibly can…and heave a sigh of relief. He’s not there.

  My relief evaporates as I turn away from the door – and there, striding towards me with a scowl, is Tommy.

  He greets me more or less exactly as I’d expect. “There you are. I’ve been all over the building looking for you.”

  Nice to see you too.

  “Here I am. Roly said you were looking for me?”

  He runs a hand back through his hair, which overnight has gone from being long and dark to shockingly short and blond. “Is it too much to ask that you’re there when I need you?”

  Which I would clearly know because I’m psychic.

  I bite my tongue and give him a friendly smile.

  Well. Friendly-ish.

  I’m not sure he even notices, because he carries on in exactly the same weary tone as before, pulling a carrier bag out from behind his back. “I need this taken care of.”

  And because I can hear Amy’s voice in my head, telling me I need to keep Tommy happy, I hold out my hands and let him hand me the bag. I don’t even argue. Maybe it’s fan mail he needs sorting, or replies he needs me to post, or…

  I peer into the bag and what looks like a sweaty T-shirt and the cuff of a shirt sleeve peer back out at me.

  He’s given me his laundry.

  “I…umm…?” I look from Tommy to his laundry and back again.

  “The gym kit can be washed normally, but I’ll need the shirt and the suit back for an event tomorrow night.”

  There’s a suit under that lot too? What kind of state is that going to be in? I picture my mother’s face if she heard about this. “I could probably use the washing machine down in wardrobe if…”

  One eyebrow slowly, so slowly creeps up to an arch. “You don’t put Givenchy tailoring in the washing machine.” Every syllable is sharp and has spikes all over it.

  “Sure. Okay. Right.” Pretty sure you shouldn’t scrunch it into a ball underneath your workout gear either, but there you go.

  And without another word – not a hello, not a please and most definitely not a thank you – he stalks off, leaving me clutching the bag of Hollywood-worn dirty dry-cleaning to add to the timesheets waiting in the bar.

  Welcome to the theatre. Like I said: how hard can it be?

  Not wanting to risk leaving Tommy’s laundry (god help me) with the dry-cleaner, I take it with me when I head off at the end of the day – ducking out earlier than I really should to make sure I’m in time for the last express service slot. Amy will understand, especially after I waded through the timesheets and a stack of other admin and paperwork that needed to be done before we get into the full company rehearsals on the stage. Like any show, time spent rehearsing in the actual theatre is short and precious. We can’t afford to waste any of it, which means everything from now on has to run like clockwork. Super-efficient, accurate clockwork. With one week till we open, every second counts.

  I sit on the uncomfortable metal bench in the dry-cleaner’s shop while they perform their super-expensive magic on Tommy’s Givenchy. And his gym kit. With nothing better to do, and my brain still spinning from the day, I flick through my phone. Someone in the Earl’s marketing department has set up a rehearsal blog and a Piecekeepers “countdown”, posting a couple of carefully chosen pictures from the rehearsals every day. If Priya somehow hasn’t figured out what I’m doing by now, this should fix it, and all without me having to say a word. Maybe that’s part of the reason for the NDAs too: it’s about protecting the show’s image, not sharing too much and blowing the mystery. There’s Tommy and Juliet studying the script; Rick looking thoughtful…and there he is. Luke, the photo obviously taken that first day I met him. I can tell from the T-shirt, from the way he’s leaning over his book, but with his face turned up towards the camera as though someone’s just called his name. They probably did. His eyes blaze through the screen at me, and I hold their gaze until my phone decides that’s quite enough of that, and switches off.

  Waking it up, I flick some more – and find an entire fan account on Instagram dedicated to pictures of What Tommy Might Look Like As Jamie In Piecekeepers. There’s some amazing fan art and some slightly less-amazing Photoshop…as well as a series of pictures reposted from an account called TommyKFanGirl. She seems to be a local – or has at least followed Tommy around a lot during rehearsals – because as well as snaps of the outside of the theatre, there’s pictures of him leaving his hotel, posing for a photo with another fan and smiling, and one of him parking his bike outside the rehearsal room, pulling off his helmet and combing down his longer hair.

  “Parker?” The receptionist comes to the counter holding a ticket and a large stiff carrier bag with plaited paper handles and crisp white tissue paper peeking out of t
he top.

  “Not for your mum then?” she asks as I take the bag.

  “No, this one’s…” I’m about to say “work”, but Mum comes in here all the time and I can’t risk it. “…something else.”

  “That’s a lovely suit in there. Tailored.”

  “Shame its owner’s a little less than lovely,” I mutter, waving goodbye.

  Tommy’s hotel is just around the corner from here. If I drop his stuff off with the concierge (who will doubtless be overjoyed to see me again) then maybe he’ll actually thank me tomorrow for getting it done so quickly.

  Or not.

  I mean – Tommy, thank me? Not likely.

  I pretend not to notice the concierge’s eye-roll as I stroll up to the desk.

  “Yes?” He folds his hands in front of him.

  “It’s okay. I’m dropping off today, not collecting.”

  Nothing. Not even a flicker of warmth or humanity.

  I give him my brightest smile.

  Still nothing.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr Knight asked me to get this back to him. Could it go up to his room this evening?”

  He peers at the bag and there goes the eyebrow. “Laundry.”

  “It’s clean, in case you’re worried…?” Why would he be worried? Stop talking, Parker.

  “Mr Knight does know that we are happy to take care of anything he needs, at his request?”

  “I guess he…” Would prefer to dump it all on me? “…didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Mmm.” He scowls at the bag and leans around the desk to hold out a hand.

  And then I stand there like an idiot, waiting to be dismissed.

  The concierge barely glances up from the luggage tag he’s attaching to the bag’s handle. “You can go now.”

  “Hello?” I close the front door a little harder than I need to when I get home. “It’s me! I’m home!”

  Obviously. I mean, of course it’s me. I might as well go full info-dump and stand in the hall shouting that, goodness, I’ve had such a hard day at my office internship, dealing with the summer season brochures from the community theatre (all the while winking at an imaginary audience).

  Nothing.

  So I follow the sounds coming from the kitchen – and to my surprise find Dad stirring a cup of tea. Which reminds me – I haven’t actually made a cup of tea for anyone today. I must be moving up in the world. He drops the spoon into the sink and takes a sip. “You’re back late.”

  “And you’re early – how come you’re home?”

  “We finished the finance project, so I thought I’d slip out. Good day?”

  “Oh, you know. Did more paperwork.” Which isn’t even a lie.

  “But you’re enjoying it?”

  I open my mouth – and close it again. Discretion. “I’m learning a lot – does that count?”

  Suddenly, Mum appears from behind the fridge, holding the calendar. “Well, I still don’t know why you’re doing marketing. I didn’t think that was what you wanted.”

  “I don’t know what I want.” Okay, that is a lie.

  “Honestly, Hope…”

  “Muuuuum…”

  “I’m only saying. The last thing I knew, you wanted to work in theatre, not for one.”

  Only my mother would make that distinction. But then, why wouldn’t she? She’s about as theatre as it gets – just take all those statues and plaques she’s won, the list of people who want her to dress them because anything touched by Miriam Parker brings that touch of stardust and glamour…

  Except me, of course.

  All Miriam Parker’s glittering theatre fairy dust has brought me is doubt.

  Nobody wearing one of her costumes onstage at the National or the Royal Opera House or in the Royal Exchange, or any of the other places she’s designed for, has ever been told they’d be nothing without the outfit she made them. None of the journalists stopping the stars who wear her dresses on the red carpet has ever opened their interview with: “And of course, you know the only reason you’re here is because of Miriam Parker?”

  It’s only me who has to listen to that kind of whispering.

  “It’s fine – it’ll be…” What was it Luke said? “Good preparation. It’ll be useful to know how that side of the business works.”

  Mum screws up her mouth the way she does when she’s threading a needle. “I’ve told you before I’m more than happy to—”

  “No! Thanks. But no. I’m good. Really.” I nod at the calendar, wanting very much to be talking about something else. “What’s that down for?”

  “Your sisters. They’re coming home!”

  “Fantastic.” I drop my rucksack on the nearest chair. I should be grateful really – between work and my wonderful perfect sisters being home from their wonderful perfect lives and their wonderful perfect jobs, Mum will definitely be too busy to take much of an interest in me. “When?”

  Dad peers over the top of his mug. “Next weekend. Your mother’s asked them back for a family dinner.”

  From the wall by the kitchen window, Faith and Grace stare out of their picture frames. Even their photos are perfect. Mine, by contrast, are always blurry because I was trying to avoid having my photo taken – or I’ve got my eyes shut because I blinked. Sometimes both.

  Mum makes a dismissive sound. “We. We’ve asked them back for a family dinner – honestly, you make it sound like you don’t want to see your children. You love having the girls home, all of us together. Besides, this is the best season the business has had since I went freelance, and I think we should celebrate that. And this is how I want to do it. They’ll be here for the whole weekend.”

  He makes a harrumphing sound from behind his tea, but she’s right. She should celebrate. There hasn’t been a single red carpet in London for months without her work on it – and last month she got her first call from New York about a dress for the Tony awards.

  But next weekend? Of all weekends, it has to be that weekend.

  This time in a week, we’ll be running though our dress rehearsal – and the day after that, it’s opening night. How can they be home then?

  The most important weekend of my entire life?

  “So, Hope, can you make sure you’re home early on Friday, please?” Mum suddenly locks onto me as I’m about to go up to my room. “And don’t try and fob me off with any excuses – marketing can wait. I want you here and being nice.” She raises an eyebrow at me pointedly. There’s three silver sequins stuck in her fringe, and they sparkle as she opens the fridge door…and takes out a box full of beading. “Ah. I wondered where that had gone. Now, never mind Friday. What can we have for dinner tonight?” She puts the box on the worktop and peers back into the fridge, poking at bowls of leftovers.

  “I’m always nice. It’s not me you need to tell.” Which is true.

  “Yes, I know, darling – but you do let your sisters provoke you sometimes…” Which is also true.

  “Then maybe you should tell them to be nice?”

  “Are you really going to make my dinner about the three of you again?” She takes a box of eggs from the fridge and balances a handful of tomatoes on top of it, blinking at me…and the sequins blink in time with her. I can’t take anyone seriously with sequins in their hair.

  “Fine. I’ll be a joy, I promise. But these have got to go.” I gently pick the sequins out of her fringe and hand them to her.

  “Too young for me, do you think?” she asks, smiling.

  “Mmm?” I make the best vague, non-committal sound I can, and grab my bag before I get roped into helping with whatever she’s got in mind for the bead box. “Got stuff to do, got to go now, bye…”

  “Hope…?” Her voice follows me out of the kitchen and into the hall, chasing me up the stairs and into my room – but I don’t let it catch me.

  It may only be Monday morning, but Tommy’s fans have already formed a tight knot right outside the stage door, huddled down into their coats against the chilly drizzle; m
ost of them holding postcards or autograph books, their phones always out in case he dashes past. Watching them from the corner of the Earl’s, at the end of the alley, I wonder if TommyKFanGirl is among them – whether she’s one of the excited ones chatting in the middle of the group, or one of the outliers, leaning against the theatre wall and reading.

  Footsteps stop behind me. “There’s a lot of them, isn’t there?” Luke steps up beside me, eyeing the crowd and pushing his grey beanie hat back with one finger.

  “I guess something about Tommy makes people crazy,” I mutter. I didn’t really mean for him to hear me, but to my embarrassment, he laughs.

  “Don’t like him much, do you?”

  “I’m not sure. I love watching him onstage – who doesn’t?”

  “You just don’t love him so much in person?”

  “You could say that. Nice hat, by the way.”

  Luke laughs and pulls it off, running his hand through his hair. He jerks his head towards the front of the Earl’s, to the main entrance and box office.

  “I’m going in the front today – the foyer doors are unlocked. You coming?”

  “But…” I look towards the stage door, and the group who have now noticed us and are trying to be subtle about watching us watching them. One of them holds up a phone – probably taking a picture. One way or another, Tommy’s just as much of a pain even when he’s not around.

  “Excuse me…?” It’s one of the fans – the one who was standing furthest from the door. She’s maybe a year or two younger than me, holding what looks like a headshot of Tommy from his last film – and she’s frozen. Her fingers are a deathly white colour and her fingernails have gone pale blue. Easter holidays or not, it’s still not the weather to be standing around outside waiting for hours. “Do you work here?” She nods at the stage door.

  “We do,” I say – before it dawns on me that there is no “we”. Luke’s already disappeared off to the main entrance. “I do, I mean.”

  “Do you know if Tommy’s around?”

  How long has she been standing here? The tip of her nose has also gone white.