A Christmas Gift

by Sue Moorcroft

  Fern giggled. ‘Dear Georgine. She does get invested.’

  ‘I’m beginning to realise.’ It took only ten minutes for Joe to complete his task, feeding the copier while it sighed bzzzzzzzzzzclunk, freeing his mind to reflect on the scalding wave of lust that had surged through him when Georgine said I’m going to eat you up. Ohhhhhh mannnnnn, if she only knew what boyhood fantasies she’d awoken. He really hoped she hadn’t seen him look at her mouth. Then when she’d likened herself to a tiger it had swept him back to a long-ago drama lesson.

  He’d had to stop himself from blurting, ‘Do you remember when we were all given a character and location prompt? I got “tiger” and “party” and stalked around the room tripping drunkenly over my “paws”. When I roared at the same time as getting the hiccups you laughed so hard you had to lie down.’

  But he hadn’t said it.

  Because he couldn’t bring himself to remind her of the shitty way he’d let that long ago friendship end.

  Not knowing whether to be glad or sorry that she showed no signs of recognising him, he sighed as he closed the photocopier lid on the last card and the machine thanked him with another bzzzzzzzzzzclunk. Maybe he should get it over with and tell her who he was. But what if, despite them being all grown up now, he saw dislike in her eyes before she was able to put on a let’s-keep-it-professional face? What if his betrayal, even stemming from teenage clumsiness and desperation as it had, had stuck with her? It was only day two but he was enjoying his escape to Acting Instrumental, seeing Oggie again. And working with Georgine … The weeks before he came here had been so shitty that—

  From behind him, Fern queried, ‘Everything all right, dear?’

  He jumped, realising that he was standing still and gazing at his completed copying. ‘Yes, thanks for letting me use the machine.’ He gave her another smile.

  ‘Joe?’ Oggie’s voice floated out of his room. ‘Just hang on and I’ll walk along with you to the production meeting.’

  ‘So will I,’ confided Fern. ‘I’m the performance prompter, you know,’ she added importantly.

  ‘OK.’ Joe settled down to wait politely. Perhaps he could use the time to coach himself into not turning into a buffoon every time Georgine France smiled. Or said things like eat you up.

  Instead, he spent the time wondering who Georgine had been talking to on the phone yesterday lunchtime as he’d paused on the steps in the freezing air. He’d heard enough to learn that the conversation had been about money. Or lack of – and that so wasn’t the Georgine France he remembered.

  Chapter Six

  Georgine so loved everything about putting on a show that even production meetings felt like fun.

  Errol, head of music, arrived first, checking out the refreshments. ‘What, no biccies? No milk?’

  Errol wasn’t Georgine’s favourite amongst the staff. When she thought of him the word ‘weasel’ often popped into her head, not just because of his sharp features but because he was the world’s best at weaselling out of work. Being head of music automatically made him Assistant Director (Music) in the show but he frequently forgot or dodged his tasks.

  ‘There’s whitener,’ Georgine pointed out. ‘Sorry about the biscuits but you’re like a plague of biscuit locusts and can munch through a packet on your own.’ Also, she hadn’t got to Aldi in Bettsbrough where she could get three packs for the price she’d pay for one at the village shop.

  Errol grinned and let it go.

  People arrived in a constant stream after that.

  She waited patiently for the queue for the hot water dispenser to disperse and shuffling to subside. Her ears pricked up as she heard a familiar, good-humoured voice in the corridor and Oggie strolled in, filling the doorway with his bulk for a moment as he exhibited the coffee mug he held. ‘Hope nobody minds me bringing my own.’ He glanced behind him then stepped aside. ‘And here’s Joe Blackthorn, our new staff member. Some of you have met him already.’

  Georgine was surprised when her stomach gave a little hop as Joe stepped into the room and, with a flourish, placed her storyboards in front of her. She pushed the puzzling reaction aside. ‘Are there enough seats?’

  She knew there were. She was good at detail. It was part of her armoury if anyone – like Errol – tried to pretend they hadn’t agreed to something, because she could usually produce the relevant note and the date on which it was made. She lifted her voice. ‘Shall we begin?’

  ‘But I can smell Oggie’s proper coffee and it’s giving me coffee-envy,’ Errol complained, gazing with dissatisfaction at his cup of instant.

  ‘Oggie brought his own. Nothing to stop you doing the same in the future.’ Georgine glanced at her agenda. ‘Oggie’s already introduced new recruit Joe, who’s agreed to head up the tech work and help look after props.’ She paused to allow for an exchange of greetings. ‘Are we off book with any scenes yet, Keeley?’

  Keeley, pushing back her mousey hair, looked apologetic. ‘They’re still using scripts. It’s a bit early to be off book.’

  Georgine turned to Errol before he could begin checking his watch or heaving sighs. ‘So, Errol. How’s the music going?’

  Errol folded his arms and made a sorrowful face. ‘Just not enough hours in the working day to keep up with your schedule, Georgine. I’ve got teaching hours, planning, marking—’

  ‘Can you give me some idea of where you’re at?’ Georgine interrupted sweetly. Errol loved to paint himself as put upon. She made an effort not to let her irritation come through in her voice as she typed Errol behind schedule on her meeting notes. Then Errol got down to his report and actually wasn’t behind schedule at all so she overwrote her last note with Errol is an attention-seeking drama queen instead.

  The meeting progressed. Georgine’s list of tasks grew. With one eye on the clock, remembering she had to change for the run home, she dealt briskly with the remaining items on the agenda.

  ‘Any other business?’ she asked at length, glancing round. A couple of people began to lever themselves from their chairs, evidently keen to get away.

  Oggie raised his hand. He sent her one of his most cherubic smiles, as if divining her disappointment that she couldn’t wrap things up yet. ‘A little more on Joe’s role.’

  Georgine glanced at Joe, who looked bemused to find himself popped into the meeting spotlight.

  ‘As Georgine said, Joe’s already taken responsibility for tech and props,’ Oggie continued. ‘So – and sorry I haven’t had a moment to speak to you about this first, Georgine – I propose to give him the title of assistant events director. For those of you who don’t know, Joe’s been a road manager and drum tech with commercial bands so has the experience to make himself useful.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Georgine, surprised that ultra-courteous and professional Oggie would spring it on her that Joe’s role was to concern her quite that comprehensively. ‘I mean yes, of course. Great.’

  She switched her gaze to Joe, meaning to send him a welcoming smile, but was brought up short by the astonished look Joe was sending Oggie, who merely smiled gently and cocked a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Erm …’ she added, discomfited. ‘So long as Joe’s happy with it.’

  Joe’s expression switched to neutral. ‘Delighted.’

  Georgine wouldn’t have minded knowing why he actually looked shocked rather than ‘delighted’.

  Chapter Seven

  A debt-collector-free doorstep for eight days! Yay! Blair’s boxes and bags lying everywhere in the house apart from Georgine’s bedroom? Not so yay.

  Georgine made a big effort to focus on the relief of having no looming silhouettes at her front door this week and kept her thoughts on Blair’s encroaching possessions to herself. Blair, after all, was making the best of having barely enough space to stand up in.

  ‘If I get the loft ladder down this evening we could put some of your stuff up there.’ Georgine tried to make it more of a statement than a question.

  Blair grimaced from in front of the bathroom m
irror, where she was applying her third coat of mascara. ‘Not if there are spiders.’

  ‘I had it de-spidered only last week,’ Georgine coaxed.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Blair laughed. ‘Gotta get to work. Sales executives have to look willing.’ Blair spent her days selling products to the hospitality industry. She threw her mascara down beside her make-up bag and whirled from the mirror, performing a little shuffle to pass Georgine in the bathroom doorway. ‘Laters, sis! Mwah!’

  ‘Laters,’ Georgine echoed, watching Blair trot downstairs, step elegantly into the navy metallic kitten-heeled shoes she’d left beside the front door and breeze from the house. In her wake, silence reigned.

  Before doing her own eyeliner and mascara, Georgine moved the make-up Blair had left balanced behind the taps to one side of the shelf above. Her own stuff had already been shunted to the right to make room. I’m not a neat freak, she assured an imaginary Blair in her head. She grinned at her reflection. Much. Her eyes took about two minutes to Blair’s ten, then she hurried to grab her backpack, glad there was nothing to prevent her from jumping into her trusty old Ford Fiesta to drive to work.

  She was soon absorbed in her day at Acting Instrumental. Joe didn’t make an appearance in her room so she worked through her inbox before tucking her laptop beneath her arm and rushing off to watch Errol’s music students rehearse for the Christmas show in one of the smaller practice rooms.

  The second and third scenes in act one included one song each, rehearsed together because they were both sung by female lead Samantha, who played Kerry Christmas, with Band One backing her. ‘That Baddy is My Uncle!’ covered Kerry learning her beloved uncle had a Godfather-like role in local organised crime. In ‘Dilemma/Don’t Put it All on Me’ she agonised over the consequences of doing the ‘right’ thing. About disillusionment and the death of childhood dreams, it was a haunting song and Kerry would wring the hearts of the audience.

  When she joined the rehearsal, the band and Kerry Christmas were in full swing. Georgine’s heart flipped the way it did whenever she saw the kids perform. Laptop deposited on a chair, she tiptoed to the back of the room to watch and listen.

  The band was made up of two guitars, bass, piano, drums and saxophone. The student on saxophone was Isla, whose mum, Sian, had been at school with Georgine. Sian was already down as a volunteer to sell programmes or tear tickets on performance nights, along with several other parents.

  Sections of Isla’s black hair were gathered into knobs, one either side of her head, the rest falling down around her shoulders. Her eyeliner was so lavish that her eyes almost disappeared when she grinned at Georgine. The rhythm guitarist/vocalist was also female, her hands looking far too small to span the strings. The rest of the band was male, all with hair in fairly uniform trendy cuts on heads that nodded to the beat – apart from Tomasz, on lead guitar, whose hair was scraped back in a man bun.

  ‘Dilemma’ drew to its end on a long, perfect C, and Georgine bounced to her feet to clap enthusiastically. The band members and Samantha smiled in acknowledgement then looked expectantly at Errol. He stood at the side of the rehearsal room, one elbow propped on his other arm so he could finger his chin, on which had lately sprouted a thin black beard. He gazed thoughtfully at the leading lady. ‘OK, Sam. Has Hannalee talked to you about posture at all?’

  Samantha, face falling, coloured violently. She was a pretty but fey girl, given to hiding behind her hair. Until she sang. Then she shook back her dark auburn locks and straightened her spine, joy and talent shining out of her. In Georgine’s view she was a star student. To question a singer of her calibre about something so fundamental as posture was a typical undermining tactic on Errol’s part. Samantha came under the singing tutelage of Hannalee rather than being directly his student and, evidently, he didn’t want her to twinkle too brightly.

  Restraining herself from asking when demoralising outstanding students had ever been an effective teaching technique, Georgine cut in: ‘That number’s really coming on! Samantha, you’ll have half the audience in tears. Band One: playing really tightly – well done.’ Her voice full of warmth and enthusiasm, she flicked a look Errol’s way.

  Errol gave a wintry smile. ‘Oh, yes, it was very good.’ He made it sound as if he’d had a but to add, then thought better of it.

  ‘It was awesome,’ Tomasz muttered, slapping Samantha on her shoulder and sending Errol a black look.

  Abandoning her laptop, Georgine tried to move swiftly on from Errol’s lukewarm reaction, striding further into the room to beam round. ‘You’re doing so well! I’m working on the transitions between scenes and we’re well on schedule to include them in rehearsals.’

  Errol broke in. ‘Just to let you know, we’ve only got Sam for another couple of minutes. Hannalee’s expecting her back.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Georgine without looking his way. Errol was full of stupid power plays like interrupting because she’d made a small announcement with no accounting for the accepted hierarchy of first apprising him. Whoever had coined the term ‘passive-aggressive’ must have been thinking of Errol.

  ‘Georgine could sing with us if Sam’s got to go,’ Tomasz broke in, resting his arms on the top of the guitar around his neck.

  ‘Thanks Tomasz, but not this time.’ Georgine scotched the idea before Errol had a chance to object. He wasn’t a fan of Georgine joining in with the students.

  Errol sent her a flinty, unsmiling look as he resumed control. He was one of the members of the teaching staff who saw interaction with support staff as an opportunity to establish who was more important. ‘Thank you, Band One,’ he called. ‘Samantha, thank you. You’d better go and rejoin your own group. Band Two, you’re up.’ Three girls and four lads, all significantly grungier than the members of Band One, rose with alacrity, grabbing instruments and heading for the performance space. Trent, the singing student who played the male lead, Uncle Jones, ran in, throwing his bag under a chair and taking position at a mic for a song from act two, scene four: ‘Uninvited guests’.

  Down the line, Maddie’s Troupe One would be performing a street dance front and centre, which Troupe Two would join in the guise of police officers and gangsters. It was the one scene costume decisions had already been made on because both dancers and band would dress in combinations of black and white to allow for the gradual infiltration of police uniforms and detectives in suits into the party.

  Georgine planned to get hold of plenty of sports whitener for shoes. Many of the dance students wore Converse or Vans for street dance, taking pride in their grubbiness.

  She backed up to lean on a wall while Band Two finished setting up. A murmured conversation took her attention and she glanced around to see Joe Blackthorn crouching beside the chair of the bass player from Band One. A little shock darted through her. It shouldn’t have, because she’d sent him a copy of the rehearsal schedules spreadsheet marked with those she intended to attend and the comment that he might like to sit in on a few as time and his DBS status allowed.

  The bass player – Nolan, she thought he was called – was poring over whatever Joe was showing him on his phone.

  She hovered casually closer.

  ‘Don’t just keep your metronome for when your music teacher’s listening,’ Joe was suggesting. ‘Download a free metronome app for your phone. The bassist and the drummer are the backbone of the band. Practise with a click track at home and it’ll pay off in spades. Tell your drummer, too.’

  Georgine was fascinated. She’d heard it said that ‘techs’ had to be as competent as the players they supported but Joe hadn’t until now displayed his experience. Professional skill was gold dust to students.

  Her attention was drawn to Band Two, who made a couple of false starts because lead guitarist Sammy was clearly flustered, probably by the presence of Georgine and Joe. Band One didn’t help the situation by catcalling gleefully.

  Errol, to give him his due, made time for his own students. ‘Freestyle for a bit, Sammy,’ he su
ggested. Sammy nodded and, head down over his instrument in embarrassment, began to improvise. The drummer and bassist soon picked up his tempo and the rhythm guitarist positioned himself where he could see Sammy’s fingers and select the right chords to back him.

  After a couple of minutes Errol said casually, ‘OK, let’s go again.’ Sammy proved to have settled. The band kept it tight for the whole number. Errol gave them a wide smile and raised his hands above his head to applaud. ‘Great stuff!’

  ‘Really great! Thanks,’ Georgine called, moving back towards the door and swooping up her laptop en route. Out in the corridor she made a note to make sure that Sammy was kept calm and comfortable, especially for live shows. Hopefully Errol would be on top of it. But, if not, Georgine would be.

  The rest of the morning went by on wings. First she telephoned Ian, box office manager at the Raised Curtain. He gave her the news that they’d already sold more than a hundred seats over the six performances. She pulled a face because they had over a thousand to sell, but said, ‘That’s a great start!’ Declaring it a so-so start wasn’t going to do anything for her business relationship with the box office.

  ‘And I was about to ring you,’ Ian continued, with the air of pulling a rabbit from a hat, ‘because I’ve just heard from Girlguiding Cambridgeshire West. They want to select the Saturday matinee for their Christmas outing and I’ve been asked to hold a provisional hundred and thirty seats.’

  This time Georgine didn’t have to struggle to sound happy. ‘Wow! That’s brilliant!’

  They spent a few minutes discussing the discount, Georgine refusing to be drawn into being overgenerous. The more each show made, the more Acting Instrumental could pour into other productions or resources. They were a comparatively rich college, thanks to Oggie being a whizz at securing funding from all the relevant bodies, but couldn’t run at a loss.

  Girl Guides dealt with, she turned to a fresh subject. ‘By the way, a new member of staff, Joe’ – she had to grope for Joe’s surname – ‘Blackthorn will be handling the tech crew so he’ll probably want to check out your space. Will that be OK? Great, thanks very much.’ She ended the call, glad Joe hadn’t been here to witness her almost forgetting his name, but just for an instant something had got in the way of her memory function. Joe just didn’t seem like a Blackthorn somehow.