Midsummer Madness

by Stella Whitelaw

  The strolling players were in full swing. I vaguely recognized a few tunes but they were doing their own thing. The beat was not medieval. It was rock and roll. ‘I don’t need an invitation,’ said Fran, sweeping by. She was in a tight silver lamé dress, obviously nothing on underneath. It had tiny shoulder straps twinkling with fake jewels. She’d be frozen going home. ‘I’m in the cast. I’m understudy to the lead, Elinor Dawn.’

  ‘I know that, Fran,’ I said. ‘I’m checking the Press, not the cast.’

  She looked at me, then gasped. I suppose it was a shock. Then her eyes narrowed. She was wearing her dead doll Barbie face so the gasp nearly split it.

  ‘Sophie? What are you doing dressed up like that? You look a fright.’

  ‘Mr Harrison wanted a fright on the door so that the Press didn’t run the wrong way. Once past me, they’ll never come out. Good for publicity.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know where you got that dress. It’s seen better days.’ She smoothed her lamé. ‘Mine is Jens Laugesen. Very avante-garde.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Mine is vintage 1920, I believe. One of those precious costumes only lent out to special people. Before avante-garde was invented.’

  She flounced by with a huff and a puff, sashayed into the auditorium, her buttocks clearly defined. She didn’t look back, already searching the freeloading critics for one who might be persuaded to write at length about her blossoming career.

  There were quite a few journalists who turned up without an invitation, lost in the post etcetera. I let them in. They had a job to do. There was something for everyone to write about. I recognized several television executives. It would be good if Joe got a few sofa interviews before the opening of the show. That deep English-American accent would wow anyone at breakfast time. And he’d have plenty to say.

  Elinor arrived, swathed in black chiffon. ‘I wore that red in The Boy-Friend when I played Dulcie,’ she said, nodding. ‘It suits you perfectly.’

  ‘Fabulous,’ said Byron with a wink, escorting Elinor in. ‘You clean up good, girl. Carbolic soap?’

  ‘How about taking some time off,’ said Joe from the doorway. ‘Nearly everyone’s here now. I want you to network, circulate, talk.’

  I froze. ‘I don’t do network,’ I stumbled. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

  ‘Talk about the play. You know more about it than anyone else here.’

  He started to lead me into the theatre. It was a swinging crowd. They were knocking back the ale and the food and the noise level was decibels high.

  ‘I could tell them that the first performance of Twelfth Night was in the courtyard of Wilton House for the Earl of Pembroke.’

  ‘I thought it was As You Like It,’ he said, his eyes narrowing, ‘2 February 1602, first performance.’

  ‘The house is still owned by the descendents of the man who built it,’ I went on. ‘A performance of Twelfth Night at a feast was mentioned in an Elizabethan Diary written by John Manningham, a barrister. But your date is right.’

  ‘It all makes copy,’ said Joe, pushing me towards the drinks area. ‘Have a drink, Sophie. Try the elderberry. It’ll loosen you up.’

  ‘Shakespeare died after a drinking spree with his mates. I think Ben Johnson was one of them. He got a fever and died,’ I said with determination. I was a mass of nerves now, poise fast shredding despite the gorgeous dress.

  ‘I don’t want to know about his death,’ said Joe. ‘He died on his birthday and that’s bad enough. We want to know about his life. Go circulate and talk.’

  Call the wine unusual. It tasted like water with a dash of some fragrant wildflower from a hedge. And that something was potent. It logged straight to my head. Brother, it was strong. Maybe I should eat. But the food was disappearing as if a flock of vultures had descended from the roof of Canary Wharf. I found half a strawberry and some flakes of pastry. Any minute now I’d be eating the church foliage.

  It was like being on stage, all these people milling round me and talking. The female journalists wore uniform black mini dresses or black trouser suits with white silk blouses. Most of the men wore suits but had discarded the tie. Open-neck shirts were the order. Some of the older men had grey ponytails.

  Fran was draped suffocatingly round a young reporter who was making notes of everything she said. Elinor had her own circle of admirers, mostly aging stage-door Johnnies but she was loving it. There was a silver-haired television mogul who seemed to be spellbound.

  I looked around for Bill but he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably off down the pub for a proper pint and some chips. Receptions were not his style.

  Joe made his few words dynamic and brief, plenty of sound bites. He said what was necessary and not an extra word. The Press appreciated not having to listen to loads of ethnic waffle.

  I was a mass of quivering nerves by now. Stage fright, yet I wasn’t on stage. Yet, I felt people were looking at me, waiting for me to say something and I didn’t know my lines. I felt my muscles becoming rigid. It was an old nightmare.

  The Royale Theatre began to expand, growing in size until it became huge. It was blowing me away. I was dwindling in stature, shrinking, but my blood was pumping like mad. My head was spinning. It was that red mist clouding my eyes again.

  ‘Joe,’ I said but he didn’t hear me. He was talking to some blonde, svelte female journalist from one of the Sundays. She was gazing at him with calculated interest. If he relaxed too much, she’d bite his arm off.

  ‘Did you say Wilton House?’ someone asked me.

  I nodded. ‘In the courtyard.’ It came out as a croak. I wanted to disappear but I was chained to the stage by the fringe of my dress.

  ‘The Earl of where?’

  I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t even remember my own name or why I was there. Not a star, not cast, nothing. Everyone was laughing and having a wonderful time. My body was folding up. Any minute I’d be a parcel.

  Some place to hide. That’s what I needed. I fled past my corner and down the stairs, holding on to the plastered wall. There was a sense of toppling as I lost touch with the surface.

  I fell on to the last step, and sat, crying with a dazzling intensity. They were not only tears for the night, but for the years past. A time not forgotten. The memories were as clear and sharp as today.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Joe was leaning over me. My face was wet with tears that dripped in all directions. He gave me a handkerchief, a real linen one, not a tissue.

  ‘Blow,’ he said.

  ‘I c-can’t,’ I whispered in a storm of sobbing.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why are you behaving like this? The reception is a great success. Everything is buzzing. It couldn’t be better. Stop acting like a silly juvenile lead.’

  I didn’t want Joe around, seeing me like this. He was part of the ghostly torment. But I couldn’t tell him that. It was buried under a frost of pain. I was happier on my own.

  ‘Go away,’ I sniffed. ‘Go back to your adoring audience. Make another speech. Leave me alone.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense, Sophie. Do I care about the Press? Yes, they are a necessary force. Feed them, fill them full of drink, then send them home. That’s all. They know little about real life. But we need them and they need us. I care a lot more about my theatre company.’

  It was a river of misunderstanding. We were talking about different things. I dragged myself back to now.

  ‘Twelfth Night isn’t real life,’ I said, blowing my nose. ‘It’s all fiction and fantasy.’

  ‘But we are real people bringing the story to life for our audiences. We’re making the story seem real for them. Don’t you see that, Sophie? It’s nothing to cry about.’

  ‘You can tell me when to prompt and not to prompt, and you can make me wear a red dress when in my right senses, I would never wear red with my hair. But you cannot tell me when to cry and when not to cry.’

  I wiped mascara and black liner on to his pristine handkerchief. Try getting
that out without using Vanish. It was cold down in the basement, enough to freeze-dry tears. Roman ladies used to collect their tears in little glass phials. They found some phials at Pompeii, only those ladies didn’t have time to fill them. I wondered where exactly had I left my own clothes.

  My skin was obviously turning blue because Joe got up and put his black jacket round my shoulders. It was still warm from his body and did extraordinary things to my thinking. He was wearing a black long-sleeved polo-necked jersey so was protected from the cold. Perhaps this basement ran alongside some Victorian sewer pouring effluent into the Thames. It even smelt cold.

  ‘Collect your gear,’ he said abruptly, ‘and put it in a carrier bag. We’re going to celebrate with some supper. I want to see you still wearing that red dress.’

  It was an order. I nodded, not having the wits left to argue. A quick bite to eat, then I could go home and climb into a warm duvet. Then I remembered that Joe lived in the same house now. Anyway, I had run out of coffee so I didn’t have to offer him a late, late cup.

  If I had been expecting a cosy little supper for two, then I was mistaken. Nearly all the cast were putting on wraps and coats and gathering in the foyer. It was going to be feeding the five thousand, not a simple thank-you for your wonderful hard work, Sophie.

  My disappointment vanished in seconds. Sometimes I was an instant party girl. The poncho didn’t look bad over the red dress and it was worth seeing Fran’s raised eyebrows when I gave Joe back his jacket. We piled into taxis, talking non-stop, gathering warmth from close proximity. Bill managed to squeeze himself into a twelve-inch space next to me. I could feel his thigh against mine. It was the nearest he was ever going to get, but he never quite got the message.

  We went to a Greek taverna with lots of vines and bottles hanging from the ceiling and faked Roman wall paintings. Joe had booked a long table. It was already set with Greek wine and masses of dips and raw veggies and other Greek bits and pieces. Illyria was somewhere Greece, wasn’t it? Clever Joe. I’d forgotten I’d been drinking elderflower wine at the party, only soaked up with four flakes of pastry. I hadn’t taken seriously the warning that it was potent.

  Jessica, our dedicated Olivia, was sitting next to me. She looked somewhat disconcerted by the venue. Perhaps she thought we were going to be served goat.

  ‘I’m definitely not drinking ouzo,’ she said. ‘That stuff is lethal. We’ve got to work tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ve got to work,’ said Claud, still in character as the conceited Malvolio. ‘I get all the laughs without even trying. But those wrinkled yellow stockings are ghastly. Talk about Norah Batty. I ought to be paid danger money. I could be arrested.’

  ‘The wine looks like straight Greek table wine. Nothing to worry about,’ I said, reassuring Jessica. A nice-looking Greek waiter was pouring it out all along the table. I gave him a smile. ‘It’ll taste lovely.’

  More waiters were bring out grilled lamb dishes and kebabs, artichokes and asparagus salad and stuffed aubergines. A cheesy sort of tart arrived topped with anchovies that looked mouth-watering.

  ‘Not a goat in sight,’ I said, prattling on to no one in particular. ‘Did you know that Shakespeare invented the word anchovy? He invented loads of words, zany, vast, useless, grovel. If he couldn’t find the word he wanted, he made up one.’

  ‘So how do you know that the word anchovy didn’t exist before him?’ Bryan asked. He was in a good humour because he’d had his photo taken with Elinor for The Sun. He thought that meant he was still appealing to younger readers. They were, in fact, going to take the mickey out of his velvet smoking jacket and Garrick Club tie. It was one of those ‘worst dressed men’ stunts, I’d heard.

  ‘There wasn’t an English word for little salty fish, only the Spanish anchova. It’s in Henry IV, something to do with Falstaff’s pocket—’ My voice trailed off. I felt like Renee Zellweger in a Bridget Jones extremely sozzled flap.

  ‘What a brainbox,’ said Fran, sucking on a carrot stick. ‘No wonder Sophie never gives prompts on time. Her nose is always in some book, reading useless facts.’

  ‘But I don’t think that’s useless,’ said Elinor, calming waters. ‘I think it’s fascinating. Thank you, Sophie, for telling us. Now who wants some of this delicious salad?’

  Elinor was looking like a cat who’d found the double cream opened. I think she had met someone new.

  Joe was watching me. I could sense his eyes aimed in my direction. I kept my head down when it was not in a wine glass. The good-looking young waiter had my measure and kept filling it. I began to like him very much.

  At some point in the supper, Joe stood up, glass in hand, tapping it with a spoon. It rang clearly like a bell.

  ‘I know you don’t want another speech from me, one is quite enough. But I can’t let the occasion pass without thanking the young woman who made our press reception such an outstanding success. The food might have been a little strange and the music not entirely original medieval but it all worked, and that’s what matters. Please stand and raise your glasses to Sophie, our hard-working prompt.’ Joe grinned in my direction. I suddenly realized that he meant me.

  Everyone stood up including me. Bill tugged at my arm. ‘Not you, you daft twit. Sit down. We’re toasting you.’

  ‘To Sophie, our hard-working prompt,’ said the cast, slurping more drink. ‘Our g-gorgeous prompt.’

  ‘Sometimes our prompt,’ Fran added with her usual brand of acid. ‘When she’s awake.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, nodding generally. ‘You are all very kind. My dear friends. Well, most of them, anyway.’

  Ice creams, sorbets and fresh figs were arriving now but I couldn’t eat a single mouthful more. It had been a lovely supper and a mile of taste buds away from my pedestrian beans on toast and chopped cheese and apple in front of late-night telly. I wanted to tell Joe how much I had enjoyed it, but Fran was superglued to him and ready to pounce if I so much as looked.

  ‘That was a lovely meal, wasn’t it?’ I said to Jessica. She had relaxed and was telling me about her early days in rep. But she had no sense of humour and her stories were relentlessly banal. Maybe one day she would make a joke and her porcelain skin would crack.

  Claud, on the other hand, had launched into his repertoire of jokes. He’d once been a standup comic when he could stand up. He’d worked all the clubs.

  Everyone was leaving, a little unsteadily. I didn’t think I could stand up, let alone walk. Perhaps I would wait until everyone had gone and then I could crawl out.

  ‘Come on, Sophie, we may as well share a taxi,’ said Joe. ‘Stir yourself.’

  Fran sidled up to him, flashing her smoky eyes. ‘How about coming back to my place for a brandy?’ she said. ‘A nice way to round off the evening.’

  Round off the evening? Was that what horizontal wrestling was called these days? Joe was shaking his head. He was always so polite.

  ‘Sorry, Fran. Early start tomorrow. I’ve the technical in the morning.’

  Bill groaned and clutched his chest. ‘The technical. I’d forgotten all about it. Jesus, it’ll be a bloody disaster.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ I said comfortingly. I had no idea what I was talking about. ‘Not a disaster. Perhaps a bit of a shambles. You mark my words, mister.’

  Joe was pushing my head through the poncho and pulling me to my feet. ‘Where’s your bag, lady?’

  ‘What bag lady?’

  ‘Your clothes. Remember them?’

  Elinor put the carrier bag into my hand. ‘Are you looking for this, my dear?’ She was amused at my disarray.

  Taxis appeared like magic on the street or had Joe ordered them? We all piled in, dropping people off at different places. This time I was squashed between Joe and Elinor. They kept me more or less upright. I very much wanted to go to sleep, a real sleep, like a ten-day coma with a handsome TV doctor hovering at my bedside.

  Street lights flashed by like it was Christmas, only it wasn’t Christmas. Not yet. I wonde
red where I was being taken. Perhaps back to the theatre. Did I have to do the clearing up? Yes, was that it? Do this, Sophie. Do that. Find a j-cloth.

  The taxi stopped in a street that I vaguely recognized and Joe hauled me out on to the pavement, paying off the driver. ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’

  ‘I’ll go and clear up now,’ I said, wavering, happy to go and sweep.

  ‘Clear up what?’

  ‘The theatre,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to clear up the stage after the party before the … before the….’ Now this was worrying. I was not sure of what it was before.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, you can clear up the theatre tomorrow, Sophie, but first let’s get you into bed.’ He was unlocking the front door and propelling me into the hallway, both at the same time.

  I sort of remembered the place, which was nice. And Joe smelt nice. He smelt very nice, after-shave and shower gel, and plain macho masculine. I sniffed the aromas and wallowed in the sensual pleasure.

  ‘Up we go,’ he said, pushing me towards the stairs.

  ‘Up we go,’ I said, leaning on him. He was one tall guy. I had forgotten how tall he was. ‘Up we go.’

  Except that I wasn’t going up. I was more like sitting down. The word up didn’t have a recognizable meaning. I looked at him for clues.

  ‘Ye Gods, I can’t carry you up three flights of stairs, Sophie,’ he said. ‘I’m not Superman. How much do you weigh? You’ve got to help.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ I said happily, holding on to him. ‘Up we go.’

  I’m not sure how we got there but Superman must have been giving me a hand. Then Joe was looking in the carrier bag for my keys and unlocking the door to my flat. He seemed to know what he was doing even if I didn’t. It was always thus. He was always the one who knew what he was doing.

  ‘Home,’ said Joe. ‘Into bed now.’

  ‘Up we go,’ I said.

  ‘No more up we go, it’s down we go now, into bed. Where is your bed?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know where my bed is. It’s probably been taken away,’ I smiled knowingly. ‘Yes, it’s been taken away.’