Theatrical

by Maggie Harcourt

  “I need you. It’s an emergency. Outside.”

  Without a word, he follows me down the steps and out through the foyer.

  “What is it?”

  “I need to find some of the fans who’ve been around the stage door.”

  “You what?”

  “It’s Emery. She took the necklace we’ve borrowed, and I need to get it back. Now.”

  “You what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Can’t you call her?”

  “No. She left her phone. The fans might be our best chance of reaching her in time. They like you – help me talk to them?”

  “You what…?”

  A group of girls walk past us, right up to the poster of Tommy – and pull out their phones. Bingo.

  Just for once, I need to be not invisible.

  For one night only, a strictly limited run…it’s time to step into the spotlight.

  I bounce up to them. “Hi. So, weird question – do you recognize me? Tommy’s ‘mystery girl’, right?” I wave my arms in a jazz-hands gesture.

  They all glare at me.

  Maybe the jazz-hands was too much.

  “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

  They carry on glaring.

  “You’re all fans of Tommy’s, right?” I point at the photo. “It’s fine – it’s just…we’ve got a small problem with tonight’s show.”

  The glares fade, and they start looking worried. I have their attention. Good.

  “I don’t suppose you guys have seen Emery Greenway in, say, the last five minutes? I really need to find her. As in right now. If you can help us, Tommy will definitely, definitely be happy to come out and meet you after the show. I promise.”

  After this, he’ll do it because I tell him to.

  This seems to do the trick. Two of them shake their heads…but one frowns and pokes at her phone. “She was literally just tagged on Instagram…here.”

  She holds out her phone. On the screen is a photo posted two minutes ago of the river weir just around the corner and, in front of it, a car. Sitting in the back with the window down, blurry but still clearly identifiable and talking to someone outside, is Emery Greenway. The photo before it is her smiling and waving in front of the theatre beside her giant security guard – posted a few minutes before that.

  I look at each of them in turn. “You all talk to each other online, right?”

  They nod.

  “Are lots of people checking in tonight?” I don’t really need to ask – it’s Tommy’s big night. Of course all his fans are online, watching. If they can’t be here for him, they’ll be there for each other.

  They nod again.

  “Can you do something for me? I need to find Emery for Tommy. Look, there’s a hashtag…” I hold out my hand without even thinking what I’m doing, and she passes her phone across. That was easy. Obviously my inner-Amy is starting to show. I tap #StopEmy into the search box…and sigh. There, posted under the hashtag, is a single photo of me, scowling at the camera.

  Tommy.

  He must have taken it back in the rehearsal room – I had no idea. And now he’s posted it on his Instagram.

  A moment later, another picture follows it – tagged just like mine. Luke’s.

  Except…it’s his official headshot from the programme, and it comes from another account.

  LWithakay.

  I glance up from the screen just in time to catch him sliding his own phone back into his pocket. He sees me looking and shrugs, his cheeks colouring.

  “I figure it all helps, right?” he mumbles sheepishly.

  I pass the phone back and pretend not to notice their eyes flick from the photos to me, and then to Luke. Where they stay.

  “All right. I need to get Emery’s attention – or the attention of somebody who can contact her before she leaves town – it’s life and death. Tag her in, message her, hashtag – go wild. And if anyone sees her, tell her not to leave until I’ve spoken to her!” Spinning back to Luke, I jab a finger at the street. “Someone posted a picture of her in the car.” I look at him. “And she’s being driven past the weir. If she’s gone that way, the traffic…”

  He nods. “The hotel?”

  “The hotel. I can beat her there if I run. There’s no way she’s going to get through that traffic fast.” I put a hand on his chest. “You should go – you need to get changed – get ready.”

  “Are you kidding? Absolutely not.”

  “Luke! The show…”

  “Listen to me – we’ve got time. I’m not even on for the first few scenes anyway. I’m coming with you.” He looks at me. “What are we going to do?”

  “Improvise.”

  I grab his hand, and we’re running; him in his jeans and his white T-shirt, me in my backstage clothes. We’re running, hand in hand, through the middle of the city.

  Behind us, the crowd streams into the foyer and the rest of the cast are finishing their warm-up…and out in the street, the first drops of rain start to fall.

  We’re waiting for a van to pass when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a guy in a Piecekeepers T-shirt stop dead in his tracks, look at us and pull out his phone.

  The van moves. We move.

  Across the square, left under the arch…and with every footstep the drops are falling faster and faster, heavier and heavier.

  We take shortcut after shortcut, side street after side street. The windows of a coffee shop flash by; a group sitting on the bench in the window watch us pass.

  Our hands feel like they were always meant to fit together.

  A turn left, a turn right…and suddenly we’re crashing out onto the main road and barrelling into the middle of the rush-hour traffic jam. A bus sounds its horn, long and deafeningly loud and a bunch of kids bang on the windows from the inside, holding their phones up to the glass.

  “What are they doing?” Luke squints up at the window, but the rain’s too heavy to see. One of the kids holds up a piece of paper with something scrawled on it.

  #StopEmy.

  We dart in front of the bus.

  It’s working.

  A taxi driver winds down his window and starts yelling at us as we pass him – complete with some very specific hand gestures. I accidentally-on-purpose knock against his wing mirror on the way.

  “Sorry! Sorry!” Luke holds a hand out in apology as we weave through near-stationary traffic. The brake lights paint his soaked T-shirt Lancelot-red as we duck between the cars and vans… The wet road shines and through the raindrops, the headlights become spotlights.

  From somewhere behind us, over the hooting, it sounds like somebody’s shouting. No. Not shouting, cheering.

  I risk a look back, shaking the rain out of my eyes. They are cheering – on the pavement behind us, a knot of four or five people are waving and shouting “Stop Emy!” their phones glowing in the gloom.

  Stop Emy.

  Stop Emy.

  Stop Emy.

  They’re doing it – they’re helping us.

  Please let it work. Please let her see.

  Please. Please.

  It feels like we have half the town on our side. We have to make it. We have to.

  Up ahead, I can see the sign on the front of the hotel shining like a beacon – but my lungs are burning and my heart is beating so loud and fast that I’m sure it’s going to explode… And he never lets go of my hand, not even when we tumble into the glass revolving door of the hotel and out the other side into the lobby. There’s no sign of her car outside – only a couple of taxis and a minibus.

  “Maybe we beat her,” Luke pants, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees and dripping gently onto the lobby floor.

  “I’ll find out.” It takes every last reserve of energy I have to walk over to the desk, swiping a drop of water away from the end of my nose. Ever-friendly, the concierge watches me coming over, sighs, and raises an eyebrow. I don’t blame him – my hair is hanging down my back in wet ribbons and I’m wheezin
g and soaked to the skin from running in the rain.

  “Yes, hello. And how may I help you today, hmm?”

  “Hello, yes. You remember me? Crème de menthe, right? I’m from the theatre – I think Mr Knight may have rung ahead? We’re trying to catch Em…Miss Greenway before she leaves.”

  “Ah.” He folds his hands on the desk in front of him. “I’m very sorry – but as I already told Mr Knight when he called a few moments ago, she’s already gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Mmm. Is there anything else I can help you with?” His expression is carefully neutral as he watches the lobby over my shoulder.

  “But we ran. How can she be gone? We ran. And I have to…I have to get it. I have to. It’s all a mistake…”

  “I’m very sorry, Miss. There’s nothing I can do. Unless…” He pointedly clears his throat.

  That’s it. The necklace has gone with Emery – and sure, it’ll come back with her, but in the meantime what am I going to tell Amy? I’ll have to own up and tell her the truth. I screwed up.

  Someone taps my shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry. Yes.” I step aside, combing my hands through my hair. I feel sick, and I can’t tell if it’s panic or just running.

  “No…excuse me.”

  I know that voice. Honey, poured over silk.

  The concierge’s eyebrows are now perfectly balanced on the top of his head as he beams at the person standing behind me.

  Emery Greenway.

  She’s looking me up and down, holding a phone in one hand…and a necklace box in the other. She is gorgeous and glowing and…Emery.

  And I am…not.

  I am, in fact, soaking wet.

  “You know, the funniest thing just happened. We were in the car and my PR gets a call from my assistant back home, telling her that my social media is blowing up. So she lends me her phone – and what do I see?” She smiles and slides her thumb across the screen to unlock it. “The girl from all those photos with Tommy. She’s racing across town to find me – and she’s got her boyfriend in tow.” She hands over the phone – and on it, there’s a stream of pictures. Me and Luke outside the theatre. One of the three fans must have posted it. It’s got a caption:

  These guys are from the Earl’s Theatre: @EmyGreenway – they need you! Please help them! #StopEmy

  The username is TommyKFangirl.

  Of course it is.

  There’s a column of hashtags and comments and reposts…

  More photos.

  More captions.

  A blurred shot of us passing through a pool of yellow light, his hand in mine and mine in his and looking like art as we run into the dark.

  The two of us running hand in hand, dodging traffic. A video, looping, of us plunging across the road and slipping in between the cars.

  Me, turning my head in the rain to look behind me.

  Luke’s shirt, dazzling white in the headlights.

  The notifications keep coming.

  @EmyGreenway: have you seen this?

  @EmyGreenway has THE most devoted fans!

  @EmyGreenway: Don’t get in the car! These guys need your help!

  @EmyGreenway: I <3 U!

  @EmyGreenway: if you can find them, help them out! Save Tommy’s show!

  #StopEmy #StopEmy #StopEmy #StopEmy…

  It goes on and on – and of course this is when I remember I’m meant to be giving her own phone back to her. The one I forgot, because I was so busy freaking out and yelling at Tommy. That phone. Whoops.

  “You get the picture,” Emery says with a smile, holding her hand out for her PR’s phone. I give it back, and she lightly passes me the necklace box, placing my hands around it, one above and one below. “I don’t think this is meant for me. It’s nice to finally meet you, Hope. Tommy’s told me all about you. You’ve been a good friend to him, looking out for him. Thank you – he’s not as tough as he likes everyone to think.” She lowers her voice, and if anything it sounds even more gorgeous. “A piece of advice, sweetie. Never use real jewellery onstage – it’s bad luck.”

  And just like that, she turns and sweeps majestically out of the hotel lobby, the doormen leaping over themselves to open the side door for her, while I stand there, dripping and fumbling open the box. There it is, shining innocently green against its white suede cushion.

  I look over my shoulder at Luke. “We got it.”

  His eyes are a little too wide to be normal. He’s as dazed as I am. “I think we got more than that. I think we just got famous.”

  “Infamous.” And busted, on every possible level. There’s no way Amy won’t find out about this.

  But that’s all going to have to wait because the show comes first. I try to swallow a laugh, but it keeps threatening to bubble back up. Luke steps into the revolving door (no doormen for us) and gives it a shove, taking my hand as I follow him out. We stop on the pavement as Emery, in a haze of flashbulbs, climbs back into her car – pausing to blow us a kiss before she slides into her seat. As one, the photographers swivel, their lenses searching for whoever it was Emery Greenway might acknowledge – but all they see are an actor and an intern, both soaking wet, their fingers entwined.

  Nothing to see there. Nothing at all.

  We make it back to the Earl’s with just over an hour before curtain-up, and as soon as we’re through the stage door, I’m practically shoving Luke towards wardrobe.

  “Go! Go!” I shout after him as he jogs down the corridor, passing Amy coming the other way.

  “Hope?” I hide the necklace case behind my back and try to look as casual and together as possible. Amy’s eyes slide from my feet all the way up to my soaking wet hair, and back down again. “I won’t ask,” she says. Because of course, here I am looking casual and together and completely professional, and all the while I’m dripping onto the floor, just like the first time we met. “You’d better go to wardrobe and ask George to find you some dry blacks, then if you could pop your head into Tommy’s dressing room and make sure he’s getting ready? Nobody’s seen him since Emery left, and I want to make sure he’s prepared.”

  “Really?” I try not to sound worried, even though this sets an alarm bell ringing in my head. Because I have definitely seen Tommy since Emery left…so why hasn’t anyone else?

  Tommy’s dressing room is empty when I stick my head around the door. Everything is exactly as I left it…but there’s no sign of Tommy. Maybe he’s just lying low until he knows we’ve got the necklace safely back in the building?

  “Tommy?”

  No answer. And nobody’s here. It’s just the standard dressing-room furniture: the well-used blue sofa, and the little mini-fridge chugging away in a corner, which looks like it’s mostly being used as a table for cards and gifts right now. There’s the costume rail with hangers for Tommy’s jacket and clothes, and his first Jamie costume, as well as the opening outfit for the second half, ready to change into during the interval. His personal props – including that bag he lost at the costume parade – are all hanging from the rail in labelled plastic covers, just like they were earlier. In the corner, there’s the enormous potted plant that someone’s given him, draped in tiny white fairy lights, and last but not least there’s the dressing table: a big white plastic counter bolted to the wall underneath a brightly lit mirror. I sigh, and stare at my reflection standing in the middle of an alternate universe dressing room. I wonder if her night’s going better than mine? Taped to the edge of the mirror are a couple of photos: one, slightly battered around the edges and creased in a couple of places from being unevenly folded, looks old. Two boys standing on what looks like a pebble beach – and it doesn’t take a genius to see a young Rick and Tommy looking back out at you. The other photo is even more instantly recognizable: it’s Emery Greenway. But she looks different to how I’ve seen her before – this isn’t a shot from a premiere or an interview, or even a paparazzi picture from the gossip columns (although god knows I’ll never read another one of those after
all this). It’s just her, on a balcony overlooking a city; she’s not wearing a designer outfit or a glittering gown, but a T-shirt and jeans. She has bare feet, and she’s smiling straight at the camera. It’s the kind of photo someone might take of their girlfriend – you know, if they were people like Tommy Knight and Emery Greenway.

  Even after meeting her, I feel like I’ve intruded. I’ve looked behind a door that wasn’t meant for me; seen something that was always meant to be private.

  The counter itself is scattered with gifts, stage make-up, headphones, a hotel key, dry-cleaning tickets (oh joy), receipts…and newspaper clippings.

  Newspaper clippings all about Tommy.

  Even the thought of it’s enough to make me roll my eyes – but looking closer, they’re all about the Earl’s, about the show…about whether people think he’s going to be any good. The one on the top makes it pretty clear that they don’t.

  “They” – specifically – being Marshal Arthur, whose most recent opinion column sits neatly on the top of the pile of clippings. I skim the first couple of lines and my stomach drops. Who the hell let Tommy see this, especially on opening night?

  “This is just what I need. As if I don’t have enough to think about already with him here…”

  That’s what he said, wasn’t it? I was so freaked out about the necklace that I didn’t even think to ask who “he” was – but reading the absolute hatchet job Marshal Arthur’s done on Tommy in this article, it all makes perfect, horrible sense. The more of it I read, the angrier I get. It starts tamely enough: do Hollywood stars belong on the stage? Apparently not, according to this – and especially not the Hollywood star whose dressing room I happen to be standing in right now. Why not? Because, says the column, he’s self-centred, narcissistic and – frankly, as far as Marshal’s concerned – has no right to even call himself a “proper actor”.

  It’s this bit, this last sting in the tail, that makes my blood boil – because yes, Tommy’s self-centred and yes, he’s absolutely the biggest narcissist I’ve ever met…but I’ve also seen him act. Really act. I’ve watched him stand on the stage and fade into the character he’s meant to be. I’ve held my breath just like everyone else in the room, waiting for him to finish a line or make the move we all knew was coming but which looks so natural and so real when he does it…