by Celia Imrie
Suzy took a deep breath.
‘I’m going to use the barbershop boys. They’re going to do a kind of sliding-scale wah-wah-wah thing, after you deliver the line.’
Blinking, Suzy scrutinised the director’s face to make sure he wasn’t joking.
He wasn’t.
‘They’re going to pop out from the wings, fluttering their boaters, and sing!’ He turned to face Jason. ‘Great idea, don’t you think?’
‘Ummmm,’ said Jason, his voice only a tad above a whisper. ‘Yeah?’
Suzy didn’t want to be difficult, but … well … It was all right for these directors. They made these horrible errors of taste, and then, after the first night, they buggered off, never to be seen again. Meanwhile you were the one up there nightly onstage suffering the embarrassment, and the audiences’ reactions. Not only that but the newspaper reviewers always plonked the director’s awful ideas at the actor’s door, making you look like a complete fool all over the press, and also, in these days of social media, all over Twitter and Facebook too.
She tapped her stick twice on the floor and said, ‘Right ho! Let’s get on with it then!’
However, by the end of the afternoon’s rehearsal, Suzy could hold herself back no more and there was a heated stand-off. Jason took Suzy’s side, but at that point Reg simply threw down the book and stormed out of the rehearsal room.
‘Go home, both of you! Amateurs!’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘I spent the whole of our precious half-hour lunchtime on the phone with the Swiss money man, so I’ve had quite enough of poncy prima donnas for one day, thank you. I’d like to work through the tea-party and the Chasuble/Prism scenes in fifteen minutes, if that’s acceptable to the rest of the cast.’
Suzy and Jason rolled eyes at one another and silently gathered their things.
‘We’ll dodge round it,’ Jason murmured, holding the door for her. ‘Don’t forget that, once we open, Reg will be back off to London. Then we can get together, change things and make it all work, our way.’
He winked. Suzy smiled back, feeling like a dangerous conspirator.
On the Tube home they decided to spend the rest of the afternoon going through their scenes in Suzy’s flat.
Next morning, when they both arrived in the rehearsal room, Reg ignored them.
He was directing the opening scene of Act Two. This time Reg was picking on Emily. Stan Arbuthnot had had an idea about how he wanted to say a particular line, but this entailed Emily having to change the way she said her preceding line. Emily politely pointed out to Stan that acting was about listening to the other actor and replying, not planning gags on your own, which, to make them work, necessitated everyone else changing what they were doing.
‘Just do it,’ hissed Stan, spraying Emily with crummy spit.
‘No,’ replied Emily firmly, turning her back on him.
Stan sat down on the central banquette, folded his arms and squealed like a stuck pig. ‘No! No! I will not give in!’ He pattered his feet, as he sat, still shrieking in a high-pitched wail.
Suzy and Jason, sitting at the end of the rehearsal room, exchanged a look.
‘Good lord, what a hellish noise,’ whispered Suzy. ‘It goes right through your bones.’
‘It’s like watching a four-year-old having a tantrum over broccoli,’ Jason murmured. ‘He really is the end.’
‘I will not move or shut up until I am satisfied.’ Stan’s piercing scream was enough to shatter glass.
Reg moved on to the floor and addressed Emily. ‘Just deliver the line the way Stan wants you to,’ he said.
‘Seriously?’ Emily’s lips tightened and her eyes flared. ‘Fine. Whatever you like, Reg.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘You’re the director.’ Emily implied a slight query at the end of that sentence, as it was clear who was really in charge of the situation.
Reg nodded at Stan and he unfolded his arms and stood up, a grin spreading across his fat, glistening face.
Emily said the line. It sounded bizarre, and made her seem like an amateur actress. But Stan then made his well-practised reply, complete with eye-roll and tongue in cheek.
Suzy sighed, appalled to see something so cheap and end-of-the-pier in a play by Oscar Wilde, but then she remembered the use of the barbershop boys and realised that the whole show stank.
After the rehearsal for her scene ended Emily came across and sat next to Suzy.
‘Poor you,’ whispered Suzy.
Emily shrugged. ‘I’ve worked with Stan before. When he doesn’t get what he wants he turns into a real Violet Elizabeth Bott – you remember that temperamental girl in the Just William books. He throws a tantrum, complete with stamping feet, yelling in that really unpleasant tone until the other party gives in. It’s very tiresome.’
‘Why would Reg support behaviour like that?’ asked Suzy.
‘It’s easier to give in to him!’ She laughed. ‘He will go on making that row until you agree to his whim of the moment. Honestly, it’s just simpler to get it over and done with, give him what he wants and shut him up.’
‘How pathetic. He must have been a very spoiled child.’
‘He still is,’ said Emily. ‘But for us life goes on.’
Suzy was in awe of Emily’s fortitude. ‘I think it’s really sad that such horrible conduct gets rewarded.’
By the end of the second week, when the company hit run-throughs, Suzy was crossing her fingers and toes, but ostensibly going along with everything Reg said. All the while Jason kept giving her surreptitious winks. Suzy winked back, gritted her teeth and smiled in Reg’s direction.
She was not happy with herself, however. She was still grasping about for her lines. It didn’t help to question matters in a production when you weren’t confidently off the book. It was hard stuff to learn too. The major problem with Wilde is that the text simply couldn’t take a paraphrase. One word out of place and the whole thing collapsed. The learning had to be precise. The words weren’t going in and she knew part of that was because she was uncomfortable playing the role the way it had been directed.
On the last evening’s rehearsal before their departure for Switzerland, Suzy was in an utter panic.
After taking a short tea-break, Reg announced that the final run-through was to have a small audience – not only the usual technical people like the lighting designer and stage management team, but also the backer and some of the director’s friends. The Swiss backer, Reg told them, was new to theatre. He’d admitted to Reg that he’d never seen a play before. But he was rich, and had money to burn. Luckily the man had no idea how it all worked, Reg added, which in the long run he said could only be good for the company.
During the first act Suzy dried about four times and, at one point, even had the embarrassing moment of asking Barbara if she could look at the book before they continued.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jason in the interval break as he swigged from a sports water bottle. ‘You’ll be marvellous, Suze. Honestly, just stop worrying. It’s a rubbish concept, but you’re better than it.’
She felt tears prickle in her eye.
Jason put his arm around her shoulder.
‘I’m not kidding,’ he whispered. ‘Head up, darling. You’ll be great.’
‘Jason! Suzy!’ Reg shouted. ‘Come here please.’ He summoned them away in the direction of the gaggle of people at the other end of the room who were standing around whispering and sipping wine from plastic cups. ‘Our principal backer wants to meet you.’
As she got closer she saw the man make a face and gesture which caused Reg to hold up his hand and say, ‘Sorry, Suzy. Only Jason required.’
For a moment, Suzy felt really upset that the backer had appeared rather keen not to meet her. She got back to the row of chairs at the acting end of the room and dived into her script.
‘Don’t worry about that lot.’ Emily patted her on the back. ‘I’ve been in these European things before. That lot know nothing. They may have money but they’re all “Am
-Dram” experts, and feel quite free to shower you with reminiscences of how wonderful they were when they played the part with Scunthorpe Amateur Operatic Society in the eighties.’
Suzy laughed.
‘I gather you’ve done these shows before.’
Emily nodded.
‘What are the audiences like over there?’
‘Much the same as the backers. They clap and cheer, then, at the mingle afterwards, zoom in on you to tell you how much better they were when they did it.’ Emily stooped to retie her lace-up boot. ‘And they’re as old as we are. I remember you in Dahlias, darling. That was a very good show, and you were wonderful in it.’ She leaned against the wall while she adjusted her petticoats. ‘Chin up! Don’t forget that the money people, especially small-scale ones like these, rarely have good taste in the arts. I’ll bet you Mr Moneybags has only asked to see Jason because he fancies him.’
Suzy glanced across the rehearsal room and realised that Emily had hit it. The backer, a sleek-looking man in a very expensive suit, looked as though he had lewd designs on poor Jason.
‘To be frank, when they offered me the job I was dreading it,’ added Emily, ‘but when I heard I’d be working with you I was rather excited! They told me the local people in Zurich went wild when they heard you were coming out to join the cast. Didn’t Reg tell you that?’
Barbara, the stage manager, called the company to stand by and the second half started.
Suzy was puzzled. Reg had certainly not told her that. In fact, from the audition onwards, Reg really hadn’t had a nice word to say to her.
But it was good to know that she had fans over in Switzerland.
For the second half of the play, Suzy was fine with her lines, and really enjoyed the rest of the run-through.
Afterwards, the actors gathered in the pub down the road from the rehearsal room to grab one last drink before leaving to pack for their flights the next day. As they compared notes they realised that, presumably in another ploy to save money, the producer had booked them on different flights with multiple airlines, all departing at different times.
‘I don’t think I’ve been given a ticket,’ said Emily, panicked.
‘Didn’t you open your emails?’ India, the young girl playing Gwendolen, held up a plane ticket. ‘You had to click on the link, Emily. That takes you to the ticket. I printed mine out right away. Even though it’s all here on my phone. Look!’ India held up her mobile, displaying the flight ticket, with its QR-code square box. ‘Give me your phone, Emily.’
Emily handed it over and let India click away.
‘I printed mine out last night.’ Suzy rooted about in her handbag and pulled out her ticket. ‘We leave Heathrow at noon.’
‘Not me,’ said India. ‘I go from City Airport at 2 p.m. What’s going on?’
‘This is no fun,’ said the boy playing Algernon. ‘I go from Luton at eleven fifty. What time is your flight, Jason?’
Jason shrugged and pulled out a slip of paper. ‘And I’ve already checked in for my 10 a.m. flight from Gatwick.’
‘Why have they done this?’ asked Suzy. ‘Whenever I’ve toured before the whole company always flew together.’
‘Someone needed to keep us apart!’ Jason laughed. ‘We obviously have way too much fun when we’re together.’
‘Googled the last available seats, I should think,’ said India. ‘You can always get ridiculously cheap last-minute offers.’ She handed Emily back the phone, displaying her ticket. ‘There you are, Emily. You’re also from City Airport. And I’ve checked you in.’
Suzy wondered what would have happened if there had been a massive rush for tickets to Zurich tomorrow – for a football match or something – and some of the cast couldn’t get there. What would the company have done then? Would they have opened the show a day later, or simply missed out the dress rehearsal and expected the actors to get on with it?
‘Wait a minute,’ said India, displaying her ticket again. ‘Are your tickets like mine? Exchangeable and refundable? I thought they cost more!’
Everyone took their tickets out and inspected them.
‘Mine is too,’ said Emily. ‘Well, I suppose they think we’re worth it.’
‘Or they’re hoping to extend the run?’ suggested India. ‘In case we’re a wild success.’
‘To us! And a bloody good show!’ Jason stood up and raised his glass.
‘Will we have supper together when we get there, on our last free evening?’ asked Emily.
‘I think I’d better bow out of that,’ said Suzy. ‘I’m still feeling a little shaky on my lines.’
‘You’re fine on your lines, Suzy,’ said Jason. ‘Not to mention “I hate people who are not serious about mealtimes …” ’
Everyone at the table finished the line: ‘ “It is so shallow of them!” ’
‘That’s decided then.’ Jason finished his drink. ‘We’ll all meet at the Café Odeon down by the lake in Zurich, tomorrow night at 6 p.m. Deal?’ He burst into one of his radiant grins. ‘Come on, folks. Whatever happens, let’s have fun out there.’
Suzy drained her glass and realised that she felt more excited and energised than she had for years.
‘Viva tomorrow!’ she cried. ‘Viva us!’
2
After a night of heavy rain, the Clapham street was all puddles. Amanda Herbert’s shoes were sodden and her clothes wet through from the steady drizzle which had continued throughout the whole time she and the men packed up the removal van.
Amanda helped the young man slam down the back door of the lorry, and then he ran to join his companion in the cab. All her things were safely stowed inside.
‘See you tomorrow, Mrs Herbert,’ the driver called, turning the steering wheel, ready to pull out. Shielding her brow from the rain, Amanda glanced over her shoulder to check for oncoming traffic, and signalled the driver the OK.
As her belongings sped away to spend a night in the lorry before being delivered to her new flat the following day, Amanda ran back along the street to her old home.
She felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She had no intention of answering it now. She was too cold, too wet and too exhausted, having spent the last four hours helping the two removal men pack up her life’s possessions and stack them inside the now departed lorry. She had to lock up and drop the key off with her solicitor, which meant she had only a few minutes left for one last walk through the empty building in which she and her family had lived for forty years.
It was in this house that she had brought up her two children and sent them off into their own married lives. Here she had played with her grandchildren, and stayed up late into the night talking and laughing with friends.
Now she hoped to give both children a little surprise, some of the money she was getting from the sale.
She started to hum ‘So Long, Farewell’ from The Sound of Music. The empty rooms now had a clanging resonance to them. Her voice rang out like a 1950s pop singer in an echo chamber. As she walked into the kitchen to take advantage of the acoustic she changed musicals. Snow White this time, ‘I’m Wishing’. She sang the echo’s little reply too.
She felt so happy that she was moving out, and was very excited, really looking forward to the new flat, and all the new beginnings it would bring.
She leaned against the kitchen counter and looked around her, remembering the birthday parties and dinners that had filled this room with laughter.
She walked over to the glass doors to the garden and turned the key one final time.
Normally Amanda wasn’t of a nostalgic bent, but somehow today was different. She was allowed to have a little look back.
She and her late husband, Nigel, had moved into this house as newly-weds, straight after their return from their miserable honeymoon in soggy Devon. She had been twenty-two, her husband a few years older.
Not for the first time, Amanda wondered what on earth had persuaded her parents to give her, their only child, a wedding gift of a fortnight�
�s bed and board in a creaky old hotel on windswept Dartmoor in the middle of November. Maybe it was because they disapproved of the marriage and had been trying to send her a warning? Perhaps they were having a last attempt at shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted. Maybe they hoped a grim honeymoon might put her off dashing young Nigel. If so their ploy had failed, for the wretched place and the bleak weather had, if anything, drawn them closer.
As Amanda walked up the stairs and along the corridor, peering into the echoing empty rooms, she laughed to think that her parents might have intended their honeymoon gift with malice. They were kind people. They had probably just read too much Daphne du Maurier.
But they had been right in their concern, of course. Nigel had not turned out to be the perfect husband she had hoped for. In fact he had turned out to be a total rotter. But then so had the husbands of so many of her friends … especially once the children were safely away at college. She only had one friend who was still apparently happily married, and, coincidence or not, they had no children. Amanda and her other friends frequently debated whether that devoted husband was in fact secretly gay.
As Amanda closed her bedroom door, she thought about nights there with Nigel. He certainly wasn’t gay – quite the opposite. The trouble wasn’t the sex Nigel had with her. It was the sex he had with everyone else.
Unknown to her, during their marriage Nigel had shagged his way through quite a few women, some of them right under her nose. Looking back, Amanda couldn’t see how she hadn’t spotted it at the time. But the truth was she only found out that he was, well – unfaithful would be a polite way of putting it – when they were more than twenty years in. Only a week before the revelation he had even given her a bone-china tea set as a twentieth wedding-anniversary gift.
The fatal disclosure happened while Amanda was struggling with empty-nest syndrome, having first celebrated her daughter Patricia’s graduation from teacher-training college and then seen her son Mark off to university.
It was during that autumn, when she was alone with him, that Nigel admitted he was in love with someone else. And within days of the confession he did the unthinkable and ran off to marry a girl more than half his age and younger than both of their children.
