And after reading all that, Tommy must have seen Marshal strolling up to the foyer doors. No wonder he’s vanished. I never thought I’d feel angry on Tommy Knight’s behalf. Angry at him, maybe – but for him? I didn’t expect that. But how dare someone like Marshal Arthur, someone who should know better, dismiss him before he’s seen what Tommy can do on a stage?
The little wall-mounted speaker in the corner of the room crackles and Amy’s voice rings out in the Tommy-less space. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is an intercom test, just a test. One hour until showtime. Thank you.”
Okay. An hour until the curtain goes up.
Where’s Tommy?
He can’t have left the building – someone would have seen him. That means he’s here somewhere…
Sitting on the dressing table, in the middle of all the bits and pieces, the object that I laser in on is Tommy’s phone. Of course it’s his phone – that thing and I have a relationship now.
But it’s here, right next to Emery’s.
Which surely means he can’t be far away.
That was easy.
Okay. So he came back in here. He closed the door behind him, took his phone out of his pocket, posted those photos and put it down… I rest my hand on top of his phone, just like I’m talking myself through a props table and figuring out the working order for everything on it.
He put his phone on the counter and…
Fun fact about dressing room number one: it’s the only one with an en-suite bathroom. Not that it’s a particularly glamorous one – it’s basically a cupboard with a toilet, a tiny sink and a shower cubicle jammed in there – but it still counts.
The en-suite door is closed. It’s been closed since I came in here.
It’s not just closed – it’s locked.
And because it’s a bathroom, that door only locks from the inside.
“Tommy?”
Nobody answers – but is that the sound of somebody moving around, trying to be very, very quiet?
“Tommy! Are you in there?”
A long, long silence. But it’s not an empty silence – it’s more like the silence of the auditorium. Waiting.
“Everyone’s been looking for you. We need to go through your personal props and get you ready.” I lower my voice. “I got the necklace, by the way.”
Still nothing.
“Look, you could at least say something so I know you’re not dead.”
At last, there’s a muffled groan from inside – followed by some pretty exciting swear words – and the lock on the door turns with a click.
“Tommy?”
The bathroom door swings open, and Tommy steps out. And he looks awful.
He’s so pale he’s turned a shade of ash-grey and his eyes have disappeared into dark hollows. Everything about him is sort of…slumped.
“What happened to you?”
“Not what. Who.” His voice sounds like he’s swallowed a bucket of rocks. I can barely hear him, even from a metre away. This is not good.
“Marshal’s column? He’s an asshat, trying to get more people to talk about him. He’s trolling you. Ignore him.”
“Ignore him? Ignore that?” Tommy waves a slender hand at the newspaper.
“You heard me.”
“Ignore Marshal Arthur, when he’s going to be in tonight. When I’ve already seen him out there.”
“Come on, Tommy. It’s opening night…”
“You don’t say.”
I was almost feeling sorry for him – right up until the point where he tried to drown me in sarcasm. So I decide to ditch the sympathy and try a different approach; the one that worked before.
“Enough, okay? Enough. We’ve got time…just not much.” First thing, you need to get into your starting costume. Secondly, we need to get you up to show speed, and fast.”
I know what this is. It’s stage fright – and it’s bad. More than bad. Tommy Knight with stage fright on the night he leads the world premiere of the stage adaptation of Piecekeepers means we’re pretty much all screwed.
Nobody on this show can afford to mess up.
Nobody.
Or we’re all toast.
I raid the stores in the green room. There’s nothing else for it – I don’t think Tommy’s usual almond-milk decaf coffee is going to cut it right now. It’s Rick’s melt-your-face-off special secret supply of extra-strong dark-roasted Tech Rehearsal coffee or nothing. He hides it in an anonymous-looking tin at the back of the snack cupboard, and it’s so potent it can caffeinate your eyebrows from across the room. Which means it’s exactly what Tommy needs to get him moving.
I speed-walk back to the dressing room with the biggest mug I can find full of steaming heavily-sugared coffee, trying not to spill any of it on the way (it would probably dissolve the floor anywhere it splashes) and hoping Rick is out of range. You can smell this stuff across the auditorium, so if he’s prowling the halls, there’s no way I’ll be able to avoid explaining what I’m doing. Or why.
“Is that for Rick?” someone calls after me from the other side of an open door, but I don’t stop until I’m back in dressing room number one. Tommy himself is pretty much exactly as I left him, slumped forward onto his dressing table, his head resting on his arms.
“Right. Drink this. Now.” I bang the mug down next to where I think his face is.
“I’m not drinking that.” He doesn’t even look up.
“It’s coffee.”
“I know that. It’s Rick’s coffee. It’s vile,” says the top of Tommy’s head.
“Then you’ll know what it does – and you know you need it.”
There’s a low rumble from somewhere between his elbows that might be him telling me to piss off. I ignore it.
“I’m going to go and see George, and ask him to come and do your make-up in here. Then I’m going to go out and get you some food – which you are going to eat without question – before Rick sees –” I gesture at him – “this and explodes.”
Another vague noise – but I’m sure that’s the beginning of a hand reaching for the mug.
“Okay. Okay. You…drink the coffee.” I head for the door – then stop. “And you’d better hope Rick doesn’t find out, or he’ll kill us both.”
Nothing.
Okay.
The door to wardrobe is shut.
“George. George? George! Are you in?”
I can hear voices from the other side, and the door opens just enough for George to stick his head out and peer at me.
“What?”
“Are you busy?”
“Do I look busy?”
“Well, right now you look like a floating head, so…”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m busy – what d’you want? Now’s not a good time.”
“It’s Tommy.”
“What is it?” The door opens a fraction more and a couple of the cast, getting their latex special-effect make-up applied, wave at me from the other side. I wave back.
“Tommy needs you,” I hiss at George, hoping nobody else can hear me over the nervous laughter and chatting in the room. “Can you go over to DR One in a minute and sort him out?”
“Sure.” George tilts his head to one side. “I’ll just check with Nathalie…”
“No!”
“What?”
“No…need. It’ll only take two seconds.”
“All right…” He eyes me curiously. “I’ll go right over.”
“Great. Good. Okay. Cool.”
“You all right?”
“Me?” It comes out a little higher-pitched and a lot louder than I meant it to. “No, I’m fine. Completely fine.”
His eyes narrow down so far I can barely even see them. “Mmm-hmm.”
But all I give him is a smile and a hurried: “Got to run, see you later, bye!” as I make a break for it.
Just like fire, nerves spread – and both are just as dangerous in a theatre, rippling outwards in ever-increasing circles. If a theatre is the still, calm
surface of a lake, then a really bad case of stage fright in the company is like dropping the Empire State Building into the middle of it.
I’m not having that, so I walk as calmly-but-quickly as I can to the stage door – where Amy is leaning against the desk, checking the sign-in sheet.
No. Nonononono.
“Hope?” She looks up, startled to see me. “All set? How’s Tommy doing?”
“Oh, fine. Fine fine fine. He’s in his dressing room, freshening up. He…uhhhh… I’m just running out, actually, to…ummm…fetch a couple of things for him. While he gets into character?”
Maybe she’s too distracted to notice my massive internal wince there. Maybe.
There’s the longest of all possible pauses…and finally she nods. “Great. Thanks. When you get back, can you let him know we’re ready whenever he is?”
“Yep. Sure thing. Suresuresure.”
I walk so fast down the steps to the street that I almost fly.
Stage fright.
Stage fright…
A memory of sitting on the stairs in my pyjamas, listening to the voices drifting up from the dinner party in the kitchen. The door’s half-open and I’ve been straining to catch snippets of what they’re saying, these impossibly glamorous people Mum works with. Both my sisters are asleep, their bedroom doors closed tightly against the laughter and noise. So it’s only me, pressing my face against the banisters, who hears the producer Mum’s invited tonight clear her throat and say, over everyone else: “Stage fright? The best cure for that I ever heard of was…”
It takes me ten minutes to round up everything I remember – but I’m sure I’m missing something. There’s something else, isn’t there? One item I’ve forgotten.
I stand there, juggling the burger box, the net bag full of lemons and the bottle of sauce, and wedge my phone under my chin. There is only one person I can trust right now – the person I should have trusted from the start.
“Mum? No, listen. I need your help. Yes. No, it’s serious – what do I give an actor who’s bottled it? I’ve got the burger, I’ve got the lemons and the hot sauce… What else?”
Ginger ale. Obviously.
I look at my watch.
I don’t have time to go back to the shop – not if I’m going to deliver this lot to Tommy before he’s called to the stage. So where on earth am I going to get a bottle of ginger ale from?
And then, of course, it hits me.
I run back to the theatre with my phone still wedged between my shoulder and my jaw, balancing everything else as I dart through the crowds filtering into the theatre – not even caring who sees me or what they think. This matters more.
My phone call connects. “Luke! I know you’re getting ready, but can you do something for me? It’s an emergency. Another one. Can you borrow a couple of mixer bottles of ginger ale from Sarwat in the bar, and meet me in the green room in two minutes? It’s…”
No.
Luke is Tommy’s understudy. If there’s anyone I need to not tell about this, it’s Luke.
Which sucks.
“…it’s a prop thing. Thank you thank you thank you!”
I hurtle through the stage door, straight on down to the green room – and there he is, two small bottles of ginger ale from the bar in his hands. And in full Lancelot costume. My heart lurches, because he looks like he was made for it. The shirt, the coat… And he’s already been through make-up too – his eyes are even bluer than usual, ringed with dark eyeliner to make them stand out under the bleaching stage lighting. It’s a good look.
Not. Now. Parker.
He waves at my arms full of junk food and lemons, and at my general demeanour. “Do I even want to know?”
“Thank you so much – can you empty those into a jug and stick it in the microwave?”
“The microwave?”
“And stir it so it goes flat?” I yank open the cupboards, looking for a glass.
“What scene’s this for? You said it was a prop…”
Oh god, I want to tell him. I want to tell him and ask his advice…but if he thinks Tommy’s a mess…
No.
I can’t tell him.
However much I hate the idea, right now my first loyalty has to be to Tommy. Even if I resent that so much it makes me feel a little bit queasy.
Luke studies me, waiting to see if I break into a smile – waiting to see if I’m pranking him somehow, or trying to make him laugh. Eventually, I guess he realizes I’m not messing around because he shrugs.
“Sure – whatever you need.”
“You’re a star.”
“One day.” He grins, and suddenly he’s the Luke I’m falling for, costume or not, and I could stay here for ever, just breathing him in.
I’m supposed to be doing something, aren’t I?
I snatch the jug out of the microwave. “Got to go – break a leg! I’ll be watching in the wings!” I shout over my shoulder as I run for the dressing rooms, leaving him smiling and shaking his head in my wake.
He’s the Luke I’m falling for.
Falling for.
Falling. For.
I can feel my heart glowing that little bit brighter than it did, and suddenly I’m smiling, and as I turn the corner to dressing room number one it’s the thought of him that lights my way through the dark.
When I put it in front of him, Tommy looks at the hot-sauce-smothered burger like I’m trying to feed him a severed foot on toast. Still, he is at least upright, made-up and half in costume – so that’s progress.
“What…is that?” He slowly extends one of his super-manicured fingers and jabs it for extra drama.
“Your dinner.”
“No.” He purses his lips and shakes his head as he says it. Again: extra drama.
“Yes.” And because I can be dramatic too, I put the glass of hot (freshly flattened) ginger ale mixed with the juice of two (freshly squeezed) lemons in front of him. And yes, there’s a couple of pips floating around in there too, and sure, it looks a bit murky and weird, but we’re on a schedule. “And this goes with it.”
“No.” He pushes both the plate – because I did actually go to the trouble of putting it on a plate, at least – and the glass away.
“Yes.” I push them back.
Reluctantly, he lifts the top of the burger bun and peers under it. “What in god’s name is this? Are you trying to poison me so your boyfriend can take over?”
“Hardly. And if I was going to do that, I can think of much more inventive ways of doing it than feeding you a dodgy burger.” I knock his hand away from the bun. “This is Miriam Parker’s fail-safe actor stage-fright fixer.”
At the mention of my mother, he raises an eyebrow.
I nod. “Yes. Miriam Parker is my mother. And if anyone knows about theatre, it’s her. So I called my mother. For you. And of all the people in this building, you know what that means. So you’re going to eat the stupid burger and you’re going to drink the disgusting drink and you’re going to be grateful. And then you’re going to pull yourself together and go do your job, and let me get on with doing mine, because there’s a whole load of people down the hall right now who are counting on both of us.”
Tommy looks remarkably smug (still slightly grey under his make-up, but smug) when I mention Mum. So he did know when he gave me that little speech about names. Interesting. And something I’ll think about later, because the speaker hisses again – and there’s Amy. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your half-hour call. Half an hour, please. Thank you.” I have no time.
Without another word of complaint, he picks up the glass and takes a sip, wincing as he swallows – then catching my eye over the top of the glass, he takes another mouthful.
Better.
After a few gulps of that (and I can’t exactly say I envy him – but Mother knows best), he decides to brave the burger. Two bites in, he looks at me piteously.
I shake my head. “Sorry.”
“You could at least try to sound like you
mean it,” he says around a scorching mouthful of food.
“I do mean it, but as you might have noticed, we’re on the clock here. You told me there was no point trying to outrun my name, and you were right. I can’t pretend I’m somebody I’m not and I can’t hide who I am. I shouldn’t have to, either. You told me to show everyone that I’d earned it, and you were right about that too. This is me, earning it.” I look over his shoulder into the dressing-room mirror and meet his gaze and hold it. “Now it’s your turn.”
Amy’s already at the prompt desk in the wings, her notes and folders neatly stacked either on it or underneath it. She’s ticking something off in her notebook and glances up as I settle into my seat beside her.
“It’s nearly time – everything okay? You okay?”
“Yep. All good. We are all good.” My voice shakes even as I try to keep it steady. Seeing the front-of-house staff giving the auditorium one final check through the prompt-desk monitors doesn’t help my nerves (which are already pretty knackered after this evening’s drama – and just think, we’ve not even got to the actual show yet).
“Great. I thought you could write tonight’s show report for Rick.” She magics a sheet of paper out from beneath her folder and hands it to me with a flourish. “It’s the usual sort of thing – here’s my template.”
I look at the page she’s handed me. Start time, end time, approximate size of audience, notes and comments – all the things that make a theatre tick. And nowhere does it say I have to tell them about the lead actor’s catastrophic wobble beforehand. Good.
Amy clears her throat quietly, and when I look up she’s holding out a headset and pointing to a switch on the desk.
“I’ve called the half, so how about you get us ready to open the house.”
And she may try to hide it, but I can see she’s smiling as I press the button to switch on the backstage PA and pull the mic closer to my mouth.
“Preparing to open the house, please. Iron out.”
In my mind’s eye, I see everyone in the dressing rooms and the labyrinth of backstage corridors look up at the speakers. Up on the fly-floor, Chris and Rav the flymen are adjusting their gloves.
Theatrical Page 28
