Midsummer Madness

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘How about we splash out on a taxi?’

  ‘Start splashing,’ I said.

  We stood on a corner at a distance from the Royale Theatre. Twelfth Night was already blazed in lights high up outside the theatre. ‘Opening soon’ flashed on and off. It looked jazzy and full of energy. Joe looked at the lights and posters of the stars and nodded. ‘No getting out of it now, Sophie. Ticket sales are going well.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Nothing worse than playing to an empty house. It’s demoralizing for the cast.’

  A taxi cruised along with its red light showing and Joe hailed it. I climbed in. We sank back in the darkness of the leather seat even if Joe was too close for comfort. At least I wouldn’t have to fight him off. Bill would have been a different matter. His hands would have been everywhere, trying to undo zips and buttons before the driver even asked ‘Where to, mister?’

  I didn’t have to talk. We were mesmerized by the petillant of shop lights and traffic lights and the ugliness of endless street furniture which the planning department thought essential to modern living. The sodium lights jaundiced the whole panorama of rotten ideas. The post-war buildings built temporarily on WWII bomb sites were still standing, decades later, monuments to austerity.

  Occasionally a genuine piece of ancient London architecture came into view, looking apologetic for being Tudor or Georgian. Not a blade of grass anywhere except on my roof. This part of London was where concrete came to die. Only it wasn’t left to rest in peace. It was dug up over and over again by the utility companies in the name of progress.

  I could tell by the uneven road surface when the taxi turned into our street. My backside knew the bumps. Joe paid for the taxi and said goodnight to the driver.

  ‘Great talking to you, Sophie,’ said Joe, putting his key into the front door lock. ‘That’s what I like about you. Such scintillating, mind-blowing, esoteric conversation. Never a dull moment in your company.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, searching for my key. ‘I didn’t want to be accused of chatting you up. No getting on the right side of the director stuff.’

  ‘No risk of that. You’re not my type.’

  ‘Narrow escape then,’ I said, accepting the milk. ‘What do I owe you for the taxi?’

  ‘How about a meal? Can you cook?’

  Sometimes I can cook, the rest of the time I can’t. Boiling an egg is a major culinary experiment. Dilemma. Did Joe mean now? This instant? Would he regard a bowl of cereal topped with walnuts as a meal? It was all I was planning at this time of night.

  ‘Sure,’ I said brightly. ‘How about tomorrow?’

  ‘Perfect. Goodnight, Sophie.’

  His flat was on the first floor, all those spacious rooms and bay windows, furnished in white and stainless steel by some posh interior decorator. Rent not a problem. Joe unlocked the door and went inside without looking back, leaving me to climb the rest of the way to my weary eyrie by myself.

  He could have seen me home like a gentleman. But then he wasn’t exactly a full-blown gentleman. A gentleman would have left me a thankyou note, even one written in pencil on an old envelope would have been nice.

  My studio flat might fit into one of his rooms, but he didn’t have the view. And at night it was magic. Joe wasn’t there to share it but I could pretend.

  Happiness is a choice. I chose to be happy so went to bed happy, wishing I had a cat that would curl up in the crook of my knees. The wind was rattling the ill-fitting windows, trying to keep me awake. But it didn’t have a chance.

  CHAPTER TEN

  If I really have to do this meal thing, then my morning was hostage to cleaning the flat and deciding what to cook. It had to be simple; after all, the shared taxi fare didn’t amount to buying sirloin steak.

  Pasta, I decided. You could buy packets of fresh tortellini stuffed with spinach and cheese, ready cooked, which seemed ideal. I could hardly go wrong heating it for three minutes, domestic goddess in apron. Add masses of grated parmesan, a tossed salad and a fancy ice cream for afters, and surely His High Lordship would have nothing to grumble about? I could toss a salad with the best of the sparing TV chefs. And without swearing.

  The cleaning was more of a problem. I rushed around with lavender spray polish, hiding things in cupboards and putting bags of stuff inside the wardrobe. The windows needed cleaning but I wasn’t going to go certifiably mad. There was nothing I could do about the carpet except move chairs to cover the worn patches.

  My dining table was pretty small and stood in an alcove. Candles might disguise the utterly dismal fawn flocked wallpaper that was left over from utility days. Masses of flowers were the answer. I’d buy flowers for the table and put a plant in the fireplace in the sitting room. There was only an ancient electric bar fire and it smelt of burning dust when switched on.

  I could hardly turn my studio flat into a penthouse suite in one morning. Joe would have to accept my modest lifestyle. Or get the West Enders to pay me more. A couple of thousand extra would be like winning the lottery.

  If I won the lottery, I could buy the West Enders. The company and the theatre. Hire and fire. It would be brilliant. I would be brilliant.

  The nearest supermarket had everything, even azaleas in a pot for £2.99. I bought two packets of pasta and read the instructions. I could manage that with a bit of forward thinking, like opening the packets with scissors instead of tearing at them with my teeth.

  A tossed salad only needs more tossing. I had a bottle of extra virgin olive oil to drizzle on top. But what exactly did extra mean? Extra olives? Should I add anchovies? Anchovies for the Bard. Was he watching with approval? Sometimes I felt he was peering over my shoulder, stroking his beard.

  The ice cream was Cornish Cream Vanilla with streaks of White and Dark Chocolate. I could put some grated chocolate on top when I served it. The carton went in the freezer compartment of my tiny fridge. It needed a good push to get the carton past the crushed half-opened packet of frozen peas.

  By the time I got to the theatre, I was brain damaged with domesticity. Joe need not think this was going to be a permanent event. It was back to a bowl of cereal real fast.

  But all thoughts of tonights meal vanished once I was inside the theatre. A row of monumental proportion was in progress. Mr Joe Harrison v Miss Elinor Dawn. It was drawn swords at dawn in Hyde Park.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she was shouting. ‘I refuse. I absolutely refuse. Absolutely and adamantly refuse. And you can’t make me, Joe. It’s not in my contract.’

  ‘Elinor, you are playing a boy. You can’t have mountain-high hair while playing a boy. The Beatles were not around then.’

  ‘I can stuff my hair under a cap, a beret, any kind of hat. She’s a girl playing a boy. Who says she has to cut off her hair?’

  ‘I do.’ Joe was adamant.

  ‘This is barbaric and I won’t do it. You can’t insist. There’s nothing in my contract that says I have to cut my hair. I’m going to phone my agent.’

  ‘I don’t care who you phone. Phone Brown. Phone Obama. Your hair is going to be cut. It’s essential to the part.’

  ‘What about the last scene, Act V? The Duke says let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds. I would show my hair then.’

  ‘It doesn’t say so in the script. She doesn’t change her costume. It’s one line right near the end. There isn’t time for you to change. You’re still onstage.’

  ‘But I can’t cut off my hair,’ Elinor was clearly very upset. ‘And you can’t make me. My next part is the Greek’s wife in The Comedy of Errors. She has to have her own long hair.’

  ‘Wear a wig,’ said Joe, tiring of the argument.

  ‘Not when I’ve got hair of my own,’ said Elinor, hotly. ‘I’m wearing my own hair for Comedy. I don’t care what you say.’

  Fran stepped forward from the wings, low-cut jeans, bare belly, skinny top. ‘I’ll cut off my hair, Joe,’ she said. ‘Anything you say. You’re the boss.’

  As she already had short blonde hair this was
not a sacrifice deserving special mention. A couple of snips and she would be only a few obvious physical differences away from looking like a young man. Would she go along with surgical procedures?

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Joe, holding his temper. ‘Elinor is playing Viola. A lady in waiting can do what the hell she likes with her hair.’

  ‘And I will,’ said Fran, totally unbothered by his disinterest. ‘I’ll make Olivia look like the unmarried old hag she is.’

  ‘Bitch,’ said Jessica, with a cool smile.

  ‘The hairdresser is coming here tomorrow at ten,’ said Joe. ‘It’ll be a brilliant cut. You’ll love it, Elinor. I promise it’ll take years off you.’

  Wrong remark, brother, I groaned. Elinor flew into a tantrum. She stamped across the stage, black trousers and shirt-tails flying, her rage reaching a new proportion. I knew why.

  The part of the Greek’s wife in The Comedy of Errors was a desperate attempt to hold on to her career. Elinor knew that time was running out for her. She wasn’t ready to play Miss Marples yet.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she stormed on automatic replay. ‘I won’t do it. I won’t be there tomorrow. You can stuff your top hairdresser.’

  ‘Then you can stuff your part,’ said Joe, going plain stubborn. ‘It’s the part or your hair. It’s your choice. You have to look right.’

  Elinor looked as if she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I wondered what I could do to break the tension. Falling off my stool was not on the agenda. Elinor needed saving both from herself and from Joe. As for Joe, I was planning arsenic in the tossed salad dressing.

  ‘Phone call for Miss Dawn,’ I snapped out, very loudly, very Helen Mirren running the entire Metropolitan Police Force. I’m brilliant at improvisation. ‘In your dressing room. Please take it at once, Miss Dawn. Urgent call.’

  Elinor paused midstride, as if wondering where on earth her dressing room was. Then she recovered herself and remembered its location, going off stage without a further glance at Joe.

  He was looking at me, hard faced and disbelieving. His mouth framed the word “liar”. I shrugged my shoulders. Maybe it was a centre in India cold-calling with financial advice, as they do, frequently.

  I declined to comment but went to my prompt corner, script at the ready. I refused to be drawn into an argument. In most circumstances Joe had the final word on hair, beards, make-up, costumes etcetera but Elinor’s next role meant a lot to her. Maybe she could wear a wig, her own hair coiled and flattened under a stocking cap. She did have a lot of hair. We didn’t need a Wig Mistress, but had plenty in store.

  The scenery was almost all in place and the sets were looking good. The lighting effects for the storm at sea that opened the play were fantastic. It was so realistic that without thinking I shrank back in case I got splashed by the waves.

  ‘I think we are going to have to move you, Sophie,’ said Joe, narrowing his eyes. ‘You’re in the way now that we have all the scenery and the props.’

  ‘You can’t move me,’ I said aghast. ‘I’m always here. Offstage by the footlights. I have to be close enough to see what’s happening and must have full view of the stage and the players. I can sense in a second from the slightest frozen expression or stiffening of movement—’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Joe, gathering his notes. ‘I know how a good prompt works. I know it requires considerable skill and concentration. It’s extrasensory perception. There’s a thread between you and the actors and you are alert to any change in vibration. But that thread can be broken in a flash if someone gets in your way or barges passed with a bit of hedge.’

  I glowered at him. I didn’t like surprises. It would take me weeks to get used to a new place, and where would that be, I wanted to ask? Front row of the dress circle, the lighting box, dangling from the chandelier in a basket?

  ‘You could put me in tights, gild the lily with paint and I’ll be on stage as a living statue. I could stand down front on a pedestal with my back to the audience so they don’t see me turning the pages.’

  ‘Very ingenious and very stupid,’ said Joe, not looking at me. ‘Talk to me about it after the rehearsal. Right everyone, let’s get started.’

  It was a brilliant rehearsal. Everyone was on their mettle, their wits sharpened by the confrontation earlier. Elinor was almost word perfect. She was putting on a great performance, showing this upstart director what she could do, hair or no hair. I could have sat out front and painted my nails.

  Even the stage crew worked well. Only a few, minor mistakes. Stool left on in wrong scene, hedge falling down, a small spotlight misplaced. Nothing that couldn’t be rectified before the first night.

  ‘Well done,’ said Joe, as the last notes of the jester’s song died away. ‘That was good. It had pace, it had feeling. You are at last beginning to work as a team. Early night, everyone. Go home and put your feet up. No pubbing. I’ll see you tomorrow for the pre-dress rehearsal.’

  First night. My stomach suddenly lurched with nerves. It was almost upon us. One more rehearsal and then it would be the opening night. Another opening, another show. The crowds, the critics, the celebrities. I couldn’t believe it. I loved it when we got into a run, a show night after night, when I knew all the weak spots and the pauses were second nature. But the opening night was something else. It could be magic or it could be disaster.

  ‘Want a lift home?’ Joe asked. He was dialling a nearby taxi rank on his mobile. ‘It’s probably raining.’

  ‘I was going to walk,’ I said stiffly to show I was upset about being moved.

  ‘Don’t you need the time? Surely lots of chopping, stirring and whisking to do? Supper’s still on, I hope, isn’t it? I’ve been looking forward to it all day.’

  I’d forgotten all about the meal. Chopping, stirring and whisking barely came into it but I accepted the lift. It would take me half an hour to lay the table in a civilized manner. No tray in front of the telly. I’d only got one chipped tray.

  Once back at the house, I raced upstairs to get started. I suddenly had an awful lot to do and I didn’t know where to start. A case of panic.

  ‘Half an hour?’ Joe called up to me.

  ‘Half an hour,’ I shouted back. It didn’t seem nearly long enough. Lay table, find candle sticks, arrange flowers, grate cheese, grate chocolate but not both at the same time. I flew around. I couldn’t find the place mats as it was so long since I’d used them. None of the cutlery seemed to match. I wanted to shower and change and put on something interestingly casual.

  I cut up some Christmas wrapping paper as place mats. I tipped out my supply of Vitamin C tablets into an envelope and stood the candle in the jar. The salad got a brisk tossing into an old-fashioned soup bowl. Drizzle later. Grated parmesan cheese fluffed into a heap on to a bone china saucer.

  It was the quickest shower I’d ever had, thirty-three seconds flat, hair as well. I was towelling it dry when the doorbell rang. I opened the door a fraction, wrapped in a bath towel.

  ‘Ah,’ said Joe, standing there, staring at the towel. ‘I didn’t know it was going to be that casual.’ He’d changed into jeans and a navy T-shirt. His wet hair was untidy and spiky and he was carrying a bottle of wine.

  ‘I haven’t got a bottle opener,’ I said.

  He dived into his pocket and produced one. ‘I thought of that, too. Shall I go through and open it while you dry off?’

  He was going to see the pasta packets and pathetic bits and pieces of amateur cooking in my tiny kitchen area but it was too late to head him off. He was already on his way in.

  My studio flat was a large sitting room and had wonderful views of London rooftops and the spiritual elevation of Wren spires. But the sleeping, cooking and bathroom areas were the size of deep-freeze container boxes. If I turned over in bed, I bumped my head on both walls. He was hardly going to have trouble finding the kitchen.

  ‘Love pasta,’ he called back, politely. ‘And stuffed with spinach, my favourite. Wow. Roc
ket salad. The parmesan smells good.’

  His eagle eyes missed nothing. He’d probably checked the cupboards.

  I pulled on clean jeans and a loose blue check shirt, rolled up the sleeves. It needed ironing but too late now to worry about anything. I pulled my damp hair back with a velvet crunchie. Touch of glitz.

  ‘I found some glasses,’ he said. They didn’t match but nothing does and they were cut glass. He was pouring out red wine. ‘It’s got to breath for a few minutes.’

  ‘I can’t wait for it to breath,’ I said, taking a gulp. My courage returned. ‘Would you like to find some music while I cook supper?’ My three minutes of expert, cordon bleu heating up pre-cooked pasta in boiling water were about to start. I could do it. I was all geared up. No apron.

  ‘Sure. Is this your entire CD collection? I guess you don’t have much time to listen to music.’

  ‘I’ve only started collecting but there are plenty of long-playing records around. The player is under the bookcase.’ I remembered, too late, what else I had stuffed under the bookcase. A load of newspapers and magazines, mostly The Stage, waiting to be read, when I had time.

  I gave the tortellini four minutes, just in case, served it quickly. It smelt good. Joe nodded with approval, sprinkled a mountain of cheese on top, helped himself to salad. He was hungry.

  ‘This is very good, Sophie. It’s just what I like, very simple food, thrown together in minutes. Why waste time standing around cooking? I thought afterwards that it wasn’t fair to ask you to cook supper after a heavy day at the theatre.’

  ‘I don’t eat late at night and am usually too tired to cook.’

  Joe raised his glass towards mine. His hair was drying and beginning to flop around. ‘To our first meal together, Sophie.’

  I tried not to cough on a mouthful of pasta. It was not our first meal together. But he didn’t remember that other first meal, long ago. One day I would remind him.

  I wanted to find out where he was going to park the prompt. I could also try to talk him out of cutting Elinor’s hair. But I did neither. I am a cowardly lion at heart. Shoot me for desertion.