Joe passed through backstage, spine held stiffly as if he was in pain. I wondered when he had injured himself.
‘Try that again and you’re out,’ he growled.
‘Only following orders, sir.’
‘Your interpretation was childish.’
‘So I’ll catch a cold, pneumonia even. Do you want a prompt coughing and sneezing on every other line? That would ruin tempers and wreck several performances.’
‘The cast won’t need prompting by the time I’ve finished with them,’ he said. ‘And you’ll be out of a job.’ He went downstairs to Costumes in the basement, his knuckles pressed into the base of his spine.
I wiped the perspiration off my lips. I needed this job like grass needs rain. A drought would mean disaster. No stand-pipes in my street.
CHAPTER THREE
I walked stiffly to the drinks machine, flexing my shoulders. I felt as if I had run that Scottish mountain marathon where they scamper up and down hills, ticking them off on a list and collecting heather. The coffee was undrinkable mud so I took a polystyrene beaker of tea that was too hot to hold. It was time I brought in a Thermos from home even if it meant getting up ten minutes earlier.
Fran wandered over, swinging a bottle of mineral water in her hand. It had to come from a toxic-free spa. Her life-style was pure everything. Everything had to be tested (but not on animals), classified, glorified and passed pure as undriven snow. She was wearing a fawn suede skirt the size of an A4 envelope and a skintight white vest top with silver logo saying I’M LEAN AND MEAN. She was right there.
‘Hi Sophie,’ she said. ‘That outfit suits you. You look really round and warm like a tea cosy. I don’t feel the cold. If you eat the right things, then your body temperature never drops.’
‘Wow, I must remember that,’ I said, sipping the tasteless brown brew. I wondered why she was talking to me since in her estimation, prompts were lower than stage mice in theatre status. She was understudy to the star, also played one of the ladies of the court. It meant loads of lovely sweeping gowns and she swept in front of Elinor whenever she had a chance. She had turned upstaging into an art form.
‘Still overworked?’
‘No, even Byron has looked at his lines and that’s something. And he is beginning to remember his entrances. I don’t have to keep signalling from the wings.’ His memory was notorious. He ought to join a mime group.
‘That’s amazing. So, you won’t be too exhausted this evening? Great. Super.’
‘Exhausted for what?’ Catch question. Had I promised to do something which I have totally forgotten? ‘Harrison might call an extra rehearsal.’
‘Mr Harrison,’ Fran corrected with prim emphasis, flicking her blonde locks like an A-level schoolgirl. ‘A brilliant director like Joe Harrison deserves every respect. It’s a privilege to be working with him. We can all benefit from his immense influence and guidance. Don’t you agree?’
Nice little speech. Fran had been practising this gushing role and was trying it out on every unwilling victim backstage. I was clearly not the right material.
I smiled insincerely. ‘Sure,’ I sang. ‘He’s the tops. He’s the Eiffel Tower. Don’t get vertigo, Fran. He’s a genius in the making.’
‘I do agree. A genius in the making, that’s a wonderful phrase. I may use it. And I think he really likes the look of me. I’ve seen him watching me onstage. He may ask me to take over a couple of performances.’
‘From Elinor?’ I only just managed to hide my incredulity. This was news. Fran had a long way to go before she was even a tenth as good. And she couldn’t project, lacked any rhythmic sense. Good prose sings. There’s a melody in every line. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘She’s making heavy weather of the part, starting to look too old, a bit jaded. You have to admit, I do have the right looks.’ She did a little twirl culled from all those expensive ballet classes she boasted about.
‘If you think Viola is a Barbie doll,’ I murmured. I was tired of this conversation.
‘Would you do me a favour, Sophie?’ Now she was getting to the point. She only called me Sophie when she wanted something. ‘It’s a big part and I’m not one hundred per cent happy with my delivery. I’m sure Mr Harrison would appreciate it if you could give me a little coaching. He likes the way you say lines even if you are not a trained actress.’
‘But being untrained, Fran, I might accidentally suggest the wrong tone, the wrong pace, promote overacting and you wouldn’t want that. It could be chancy. I don’t feel I have the right experience to help you.’
Her face produced puzzled. Fran nodded as if she understood a word of what I was saying. ‘Just hear my lines then, please. In case I have to step in.’
I knew what she would do. She’d falter and dry up so that she could hear me say the line. She would probably have a tape recorder switched on in her pocket. Perhaps I could charge by the hour. Or I could say the lines with totally the wrong emphasis. Unspeakably bad thought. Now, Sophie, what would Bill Shakespeare think of that? He’d probably applaud my innovation, the degree of cunning. We might have a direct link … me and the Bard.
‘I can’t spare any time tonight,’ I said, faking a yawn. ‘I’m poleaxed. We’re all worn out. Everyone, the cast and the crew.’
Fran wouldn’t be worn out. Her day’s work had been swanning about as a lady of the court, occasionally waving a fan, swishing a skirt. The wardrobe mistress, Hilda, had put Fran in a rehearsal skirt to swish, thinking her current-sized gear a trifle too short to do more than tweak.
‘Tomorrow then? You’re a brick. We’ll fix a time.’
‘OK, but only if there is time,’ I said, brick-like.
‘Wonderful. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. I do so like him and want to do my best for him. It’s very important for my career.’
‘I’m sure your genuine admiration must make Mr Harrison feel really happy,’ I said. It was beginning to make me feel ill. Or was it a substantial lack of food? Had I had time for breakfast?
Having got what she wanted, Fran didn’t waste any more time on me. She shot off like toast out of a toaster towards Bill Naughton. She wanted an extra light fitted in her dressing room. So she could count her eyelashes.
I poured the rest of the tea away. Now I was a brick. Paint this, sew that, make a pile of sandwiches out of a tin of tuna and half a lettuce. Multitasking. Build a wall.
It was quite a quick call on my mobile that evening. I heard the news, the good, the bad and the undetermined, made a few helpful comments. Sent my love. Said good-night. Much as usual.
Time to walk home to Trinity Terrace. I wanted to walk, as I spend too much of the day sitting and that could affect my girth. Not that it was a problem yet but it might be in the future. I could become the world’s largest Prompt, mentioned in The Guinness Book of Records. They might have to design sets to accommodate me.
I knew Joe Harrison was behind me on the pavement without even looking back. It was a sort of seventh sense. He caught up and I steeled myself for another reprimand. He was looking at me intently as if I was a social outcast. I hoped it was a smudge on my nose and certainly not paint. I hadn’t been near his studio.
‘Point taken,’ he said, surprisingly. ‘I sat in the prompt corner for five minutes and three was enough. The draught is glacial. You could sue the management for frozen assets. You can wear your Mexican poncho and anything else you need while I try to get something done about the outer doors.’
‘Thank you. It’s an old theatre,’ I said, slightly confused by his concern. ‘The draughts come with the ghosts.’
‘Very commendable but not during my show. Just don’t hold up any entrances. Timing is crucial. Faulty timing can ruin a line.’
‘I know.’
‘You know quite a lot, don’t you? Not thinking of stepping into my shoes, are you? Shall I find the apron floor booby-trapped tomorrow and myself with a broken back in the pit?’
I shuddered at the thought. His back a
lready hurt.
‘My ambition is dormant,’ I said. ‘I’ve no wish to produce anything beyond a flawless performance from your cast.’ I put a slight emphasis on the word ‘your’.
He hid a grin. ‘Nice one, Prompt. Hey, it’s starting to rain. Can I give you a lift home, wherever home is? I’m getting a taxi.’
‘No, thank you. I’d rather walk. I have a strong need for fresh air after being stuck in the theatre all day.’ I implied I didn’t want his company.
‘Take your own taxi then. You’ll get soaked.’
‘On my salary? You’re joking.’
‘Then I’ll have to walk with you,’ he said. ‘Since I’m the one prudent enough to have an umbrella.’ His umbrella shot up, a huge gaudy canary-yellow canopy big enough to shelter half the cast. It had New York printed in inky black letters all round the rim.
‘Is that in case you forget where you are?’ I said.
‘Of course. But of little use in London.’
‘I don’t mind getting wet,’ I insisted.
‘Stop arguing. We don’t have to talk if you find my company objectionable,’ said Joe, taking a grip of my elbow. ‘I won’t say a word. Start walking. I haven’t got all night. There’s still work to do.’
I could hardly fight him off in the street. It was chucking it down, spattering black London rain, and I was glad of the umbrella. But I didn’t want to be anywhere near him, and hip-bashing under an umbrella was almost too close. The sulphur lighting was eerily yellow, gutters starting to fast-flow fast-food debris, puddles swelling underfoot on the cracked pavement. I had to do the odd skip to keep up with his long strides. Not quite dancing. It was called exercise.
True to his word, Joe didn’t speak. Just the occasional muttered: ‘Mind the kerb.’ ‘Now, which way?’ ‘Left or right?’
I began to regret that I had sounded so ungrateful. Somehow he would have to get back to wherever he was going. He could take a taxi if he could find one, so I needn’t feel too guilty. They all disappeared when it rained.
We were turning into my street, Trinity Terrace, a forgotten crescent of tall narrow Edwardian houses, each still elegant with the faded glory of stone steps leading up to columned porches and bay windows on the first and second floors.
‘You live here?’ He sounded interested.
‘Lots of the houses are turned into flats these days. No one can afford a whole house. A couple have been converted into small hotels. I have a studio flat in the roof. The views of London are quite spectacular but the stairs are killing. You need oxygen halfway.’
‘I envy you,’ he said. ‘The view from my very expensive hotel room is the back wall of an air conditioning vent.’
‘You should complain. You’re good at complaining.’
I was sorry I’d said it the moment I spoke. Joe had been nothing but kind the last ten minutes and despite the big umbrella there were drips on his shoulders. I turned to him at the foot of the steps. He didn’t look angry, more amused.
‘I say these things without thinking,’ I said in a hurry. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a sort of defence. I’ve built a wall.’
‘So has life been that hard?’ It was a casual comment, a suggestion, nothing remotely sympathetic. But then I didn’t expect sympathy from Joe. He had scaled the heights. I was barely on the first rung. I didn’t even know where the first rung was.
‘I make very good coffee,’ I offered by way of amends.
‘I’m sure you do. You’re very good at everything you do. It’s too late now. But you can do me a favour.’
Here we go again. Sophie, do this. Sophie, do that. What was it going to be this time? Tar the shipwreck? Shampoo the red velvet curtains, the house tabs?
‘People ask favours of me all the time. I’m the flavour favour of the month. One more won’t make my crowded life any different.’ I hid a sigh.
‘I want you to run my press reception next week. We’ll hold it in the theatre, invite all the newspapers, reporters and critics, get the best food and wine.’ He rattled it off as if it could be put together in five minutes, give or take the odd email.
‘No way. Of course, I can’t do it,’ I said indignantly. ‘I haven’t got the time. Get your secretary to do it.’
‘I haven’t got a secretary or anyone remotely capable. You’ve plenty of time. Prompting doesn’t take all day.’
‘Employ a professional PR man. Ask management to fund it.’
‘Dammit, I want you to do it. You’re sensible and efficient and for some reason that I can’t fathom, you really like the theatre and the play.’
‘I like the theatre and the play. That doesn’t mean I have to like you.’ Now this was pure Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Even she couldn’t have said it better.
‘Personalities don’t come into it,’ he said coolly. ‘I want the best person available to make a good job of this press reception. Someone who is around every day. There’ll be a budget for the event which you can spend how you please. And I’ll make sure you get a one-off fee which will be added to your salary. It’ll pay for a few taxis or whatever.’
I went for the whatever. I was always short of money. It melted in my purse like a café pat of butter. But I didn’t want Joe Harrison paying me. It would add insult to insult. I didn’t want to be sensible and efficient or available. I wanted to be desirable and erotic, wild enough to send a man mad and very unavailable. I was tired of my blameless existence. I wanted to be someone who wore a red feather boa and a crimson satin teddy.
CHAPTER FOUR
Joe had landed me with the job and I hardly put up a fight. It was a dirty trick and I felt licensed to kill.
I could sabotage the whole event, give a false image. It would not take much imagination, hire male strippers, serve hot dogs and lukewarm beer, give the press handouts with a sliding scale of accuracy. I could forgetfully call it a performance of Twelfth Knight and imply jousting at the court of Henry VIII.
Joe would be livid. But how could he blame me? I was only the prompt. Born to rectify other people’s lapses of memory, not my own.
It was a satisfying daydream for a short while. We were rehearsing Act 2, scene 4. The Duke was making heavy weather of his speech, in fact he was floundering on the shore, knee deep in mud. He needed rescuing.
‘If ever thou shalt love, in the sweet pangs of it remember me,’ I said, loud enough for Byron to hear. He managed most of the rest of the lines, hesitantly, sweating profusely and overemphasising his stance and gestures.
‘You’re not supposed to be staggering, faltering,’ Joe said.
‘I’m a faltering lover,’ said Byron defiantly. ‘She’s going to turn me down.’
‘It gives a very echo to the seat where love is enthroned,’ said Elinor with Viola’s words.
‘There you are,’ said Byron. ‘She turns me down.’ He could argue anything to tea time, and carry on till supper. He looked up into the tangle of ropes and wires.
‘That’s not turning you down,’ said Elinor. ‘It’s very positive. But she is assuming the role of a boy, remember? Dicey, even in those days.’
‘Can we have this ethical discussion some other time?’ said Joe returning to his laptop and desk lamp in the fourth row.’ Back to “If ever thou shalt love”.’
Byron groaned. ‘I hate that speech.’
‘Learn to like it,’ said Joe. ‘Learn to say it with feeling. Say it over and over again. Make it part of your life. That’s your remit for today.’
The Press Reception was a week away. I had sent out the invitations. I wrote them by hand in copper-plate Shakespearean handwriting, sloping and twirling, on fake manuscript paper I found going cheap in a card shop. Some of the edges were curled which gave them an air of antiquity.
Joe never asked to see what I had written or whether the arrangements were in place. So far there was no food, no drink and no entertainment. It was going to be a very short party. Say, fifteen minutes at the most.
The fact was I was too tired to be bothere
d. Not the right attitude. I should be bubbling with enthusiasm, ‘brisk and giddy-paced’ as Shakespeare wrote so eloquently for the same scene. Giddy-paced was not my style or size. Far too energetic. I needed folic acid and calcium.
Bill Naughton strolled over. He had a breathing space, liked breathing down my neck. Lighting were trying to fix something in the flies above.
‘How’s my favourite prompt?’ he asked, peering at the page. My neck warmed up. ‘Found your place?’
‘Want my job?’ I said, vaguely Bette Davis. I’d only caught her on afternoon movies, long before my time. ‘Any nearer and you can have it.’
‘Just making sure you are not asleep,’ he chuckled.
‘Quiet in the wings.’
Joe’s voice whipped over. He must have hearing sharper than a dolphin.
They can hear things miles away. And he was just as slippery. But could he do backflips?
It was a long scene. Twice I had to stretch my legs during moments of theatrical harassment. Prompt was not supposed to move. It was embarrassing but I could get stuck in one position. Then I waddled, like a duckling out of Honk!
‘Are you leaving us, Prompt?’ Joe asked, swinging his voice round towards my corner. ‘I don’t blame you. They are making a pig’s dinner of this play. Maybe we could turn it into a musical and get a band to come in. Let the noise drown the words. Elinor, go and get a good night’s sleep. You need it. Fran, stop flaunting the boobs. You’re a lady in waiting, not a lap dancer. Byron, for the last time, learn those words. And Mr Naughton, a word about those bloody slow changes. A tortoise on the run would have moved faster.’
I shrank back into my poncho. I’d lost my brittle shell, felt soft and exposed. My script fell open at a different page. One of the mischievous theatre ghosts on the prowl. Act 2, scene 3: ‘Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?’
Cakes and ale! Bingo. Hundreds and hundreds of deliciously scrummy cakes (keep Elinor away from them). Casks of ale? Where do I get authentic casks? What else did they eat in those days? Venison and stuffed swans? I drew a line at stuffed swans, poor things with such long necks. Did M&S sell venison? Venison sausages? Sweetmeats. What are sweetmeats? Sweets or meat? This was suddenly getting interesting. The press reception had potential.
Midsummer Madness Page 3
