Midsummer Madness (2 page)

‘Perhaps they were looking for an actor, not someone with ideas.’

‘The theatre lives on ideas.’

‘Mostly other people’s,’ I said flippantly. I didn’t know what I meant.

He was looking at my plate of tangled spaghetti topped with tomato sauce and grated Parmesan cheese. I was an early-stage vegetarian. The cheese was melting and glistening like a gold-spun volcano. It was an ‘eat all you can for two pounds’ meal. A special offer which no one could resist. So here I was, eating all I could, stacking it within for imminent Stalingrad siege.

He said nothing but his eyes were hungry.

‘Would you like some lunch?’ I said.

‘So why are you in this mad, mad world?’ Joe asked, not really looking at me, eyes still blanked with recent rejection. He was focused on my spaghetti.

‘I’ve been stage-struck since the age of six, dressing up in my mother’s dresses and hats, tottering about in her shoes, you know,’ I said, sipping my coffee. At least he wasn’t invading my caffeine. I knew I was rambling. I rambled when I was nervous. ‘I made up plays and copied television, acted them all out. Adverts were the best. Cate Blanchett, Meryl Streep, Glenn Close, Goldie Hawn, Emma Thompson … I can do them all.’

‘Like Minnie Mouse, wearing your mother’s shoes,’ he said vaguely, sucking up pasta like he hadn’t eaten for a week. It seemed he hadn’t.

‘That’s right. I learned Shakespeare by the yard, spouting Ophelia in the bath, Juliet from the roof of the garden shed.’

‘So why aren’t you out there acting? I saw you rushing round the stage with props and moving bits of scenery.’

‘Sheer terror. Stage fright finished off my acting ambition,’ I said, reliving the nightmare. ‘I am physically sick when I go on stage. I can’t control my legs or my voice. Everything shakes. Imagine a maid coming on with a tray of drinks that rattle. My voice disappears down my throat. I’m a walking disaster. So I changed direction eventually and went backstage. It’s my natural home and I’m happy enough there. My acting career was over before it even started but I still love everything about the theatre. What about you? You’re an actor?’

‘I think I’m an actor but management doesn’t seem to agree,’ he said bitterly.

‘But you keep trying. That’s good. You’ll get a job somewhere.’

‘I’m consumed by what I don’t know. Sometimes I want to act and then I want to produce, direct. Then I want to design sets. It’s like some monster eating into my flesh, making me something different every day. I don’t know what direction to take or if I’m doing the right thing.’

He obviously knew the direction to my plate, chasing the last of the sauce. I moved my coffee out of his reach.

‘Tell me about your monsters,’ I said with a Goldie Hawn smile. It seemed a safer subject. I had monsters too.

We talked until the owner of the café turned us out for not buying anything. His coffee was lukewarm now anyway. My hair was pulled back into a severe knot in those ASM days and tucked under a floppy black beret. No frivolity in the wings, please. He couldn’t see what a mess I’d made of it, trying to dye it ebony with a home-kit supermarket dye. I was into the white make-up Gothic look.

Joe pulled up his jacket collar and heaved a shabby rucksack off the floor. ‘All my worldly goods.’

Snow was beginning to drift from the leaden skies. I didn’t know what to do. I could hardly leave him to trudge through the snow to goodness knows where. He’d be found frozen in a doorway and carted off to a mortuary with a toe-tag.

‘I’ve nowhere to go and barely enough fare money.’ It was a statement not a hint. He looked right over my head, he was that tall.

‘There’s only a sofa,’ I said. ‘And the springs are broken.’

‘Sounds like the Hilton to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be gone before you’re even awake. St Peter is watching, you know, the Pearly Gates doorman. He’ll put you down in his Good Book.’

I fancied being in someone’s good books. Joe was really down and out. It was nothing really, only the loan of a sofa with broken springs and a spare blanket. It was a clean blanket.

‘Sophie? I thought I’d find you hiding among the scenery.’ It was Elinor, hovering like a black widow spider ready to pounce and eat
Joe Harrison. ‘I’m absolutely terrified of this horrible man. It’s a nightmare. Any moment he’s going to start counting my wrinkles.’

‘We all have wrinkles,’ I said, coming out from behind the scenery. ‘I’ve at least fourteen, sixteen after a good night out. Ignore him.’

‘I freeze in my boots every time he opens his mouth. But at least you’ll be in your corner, giving me confidence. That’s such a comfort.’

‘You’ll be all right, Elinor. You’re a wonderful actress and your name was in lights when he was wearing Pampers.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ she said with a stifled laugh.

I took her hand. It was thin and veined with too much dieting. She never ate real food. Half a stick of celery for lunch. The acting profession is merciless even if stage lighting can be kind.

‘Now listen to me, Elinor. Go back to your dressing room and take a few minutes to really relax. Be indifferent to him and confident in yourself. Don’t let him wear you out. It’s only words, after all. You know that you know them all and you’ll be perfect on the night.’

‘He might replace me. Fran is working on it. She’s so young.’

‘But she can’t act. She’s a talking clothes hanger, a wire one, the kind the cleaners give you. She’d do absolutely anything for a moment of fame.’

‘Oh Sophie, I’m scared.’

‘You have a gift. Say it to yourself.’

I drifted back from the scenery dock to the side studio where it looked as if Joe Harrison had wasted no time in making his mark. Drawings and samples of material were thrown over the long trestle table by the window, heaps of iridescent colour.

I had no right to be there but I was past caring. His designs interested me. There were several paintings of medieval costumes, some like stained glass. I loved one in particular, a velvet cloak in all shades of gold. I’d like to hang it on my sitting room wall. My current studio flat was several upgrades from that single room of long ago, but still rooftop. I was destined to live with the birds.

I also collected pictures, mostly from charity shops or market stalls. I wondered if this odious man would donate one of his
paintings to a humble prompt?

There was a hard cough behind me and a shadow fell over the table. I froze.

‘Do you mind,’ said Joe, removing the painting from my hands. ‘It isn’t even dry yet. And stop following me about. I’m not auditioning you today or any day.’

‘I wasn’t following you and I didn’t know where you were. The studio seemed empty. You weren’t shouting so how could I possibly know you were around?’ Nice one, Sophie. ‘Are these your paintings? They’re really very good.’

He held one at a distance as if he’d never seen it before. He’d seemed unaware of me. He went to the window and held the painting to the sky.

‘Well, I suppose it’s mine. They are the work of another person, someone I used to know. A young man who wanted to paint day and night and bring his paintings to life on the stage. Then he discovered there was more money and fame in directing shows. So he left having fun behind. This was a disaster for him.’

‘Why was it a disaster?’

‘The painter went to the wall.’

What I was hearing was different from the aggressive man, demolishing everyone on stage. There was a small scar on his top lip. That was new. Maybe some irate leading lady had knifed him?

The light from the window was playing on his face, throwing his craggy features into relief like a Florentine statue. For some reason the mask had dropped. He was vulnerable and tired. No sofa on offer this time. He was probably staying at Claridges with
twenty-four
hour room service and a mini-bar.

‘This painting is beautiful,’ I said, finding my own voice. ‘Not a wall painting. You should be proud of it.’

‘Thank you for nothing. I don’t need sympathy or flattery. I’m in charge here and we’ll be using my designs. Anyway, who are you? Oh yes, the so-called prompt, when you are awake. You read from the book like a monkey.’

It was if he had struck me. I took a gasp of breath, hollowed with shock. What had made him become so thoughtlessly cruel?

‘Monkeys can’t read,’ I said.

‘This one can.’

He was showing me out of the studio with cold courtesy. I wrapped myself in the poncho like a registered parcel, determined not to let him know how he had shattered my composure. I could walk out but I wasn’t going to. That salary was ear-marked for the Jurassic coast of Dorset. I needed every penny.

‘That’s all for today. Ten a.m tomorrow sharp. Look at your words. Any prompted line tomorrow and the actor at fault is selling programmes front of house or looking for work with
The Big Issue
. We’ve a lot of hard work to do before we have a show. At present it’s a shambles.’

Joe’s biting tongue had lashed at the cast till their nerves were shredded string. I’d suffered along with them, trying to find ways to help that didn’t involve putting the script in front of their faces. Television newsreaders had it easy with their prompt boards. And to sell
The Big Issue
you needed a dog.

Joe was also drained. Once again he looked like the out-of-work actor who had nowhere to sleep and no money. He fed an energy into the roles which was not always matched by the cast.

‘If he keeps on like this, in a week’s time none of us will have the strength to crawl onstage,’ said Bill, as he re-set the stage for Act I the following day. ‘Who does he think he is? Did you hear the way he shouted at Elinor? It wasn’t her fault. That damned fool, Byron, was in the wrong place. As usual.’

‘Mr Harrison is a perfectionist,’ I said. ‘That makes him less than human. The most important thing to him is the play, not the players.’

‘Are you sticking up for him, Sophie? Not smitten by those smouldering good looks, surely? I thought you of all people would have more sense.’

‘No, not sticking up for him, just trying to be fair to the man. It’s his reputation at stake. So of course he wants a brilliant show.’

‘Let’s forget about being fair,’ said Bill, flippantly. ‘How about a drink? We’re all meeting at The Stage Door pub to drown our sorrows.’

‘OK, but I have something to do first. Sorry, but I have to call my
mother. I’ll catch up with you.’

‘Not again? You are the world’s most dutiful daughter. You are always calling her. Why don’t you go and see her instead?’

‘It’s too far away and when is there ever time?’

My mother had dug herself into some far-flung country hole so that no one could visit. It’s something to do with my father dying at forty and her bringing me up alone. He shouldn’t have died. Not my father, on a wintry night, skidding on an icy road. I hadn’t asked for a widowed mother, struggling on her own. It was a wonder I had managed to get away. Never mind, she had another tender soul to care for now. I got out my mobile and made my evening call. ‘Hi, it’s me, Sophie. How’s things?’

Joe Harrison was collecting a stack of notes and flinging them into a briefcase. He shrugged a leather jacket over his shoulders and turned for the exit. Then he looked back at me, calculating my resistance.

‘Wear some warmer clothes tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Thermals if you must but I don’t want to see that monstrous blanket thing. The court of Illyria is set in warmth and sunlight. We must generate that climate even in the wings.’

‘If you say so, sir,’ I murmured, very Gwyneth Paltrow, even the eyes. If heat was what he wanted, then I would generate some heat. I wanted to go home. My studio flat was a high haven with wonderful Wren church-spire views of London. It had a small flat roof where I could sunbathe among the chimneys and the pigeons, feed stale croissants to the sparrows. He couldn’t touch me there. I was safe with my dreams, out of his reach.

But first came sorrow-drowning at The Stage Door. It was a crowded pub. Here, tourists, locals and traders mingled with the actors. The pub had once been an old wine cellar under a firm of exporters and the original stone arches gave groups all the privacy they sought. There were no windows, only thick basement glass where once traders had loaded wine casks from the pavement.

I was not happy with the thick fog of cigarette smoke, smokers drawing on the remains of their lives, but at least it was warm. The cast and crew of West Enders had taken over a couple of tables at the far end, coming back from the bar with trays laden with drinks,
beer slopping over tankard rims.

‘Come along, Sophie, help yourself,’ said Bill. ‘What would you like? Take your pick. You deserve a drink, sweetheart. Your throat must be out to dry.’

‘Parched, p-parched,’ I croaked. ‘Water … water.’ It was overacting. I was somewhere in the Sahara, crawling over the sand dunes, the sun beating down on my empty water flask, my mouth caked with sand. They gave me a slow hand-clap. I took off my hat and shook out my fiery hair. It flew in all directions like flames.

‘Not auditioning again, Prompt,’ said Byron, taking off Joe Harrison’s voice so well that I had to look over my shoulder. He wasn’t there. No doubt escaped to the Ritz Bar, or wherever he was living in the luxury style to which he had become accustomed. Piloting a hired jet … what a phoney show-off thing to say.

Bill moved a tall glass of peach-tinted liquid towards me. It was sparkling with ice, rimmed with sugar, scented with peaches ripe and ready to fall. It reminded me of the Mediterranean, sunlight and sunsets although I had never been abroad. I’d never been further than the ferry at Newhaven.

‘This is peach brandy topped with soda water and ice,’ Bill told me, confidentially. ‘A concoction of my own invention especially for you. And guaranteed to put the sparkle back into a stressed-out prompt.’

Bill had a soft spot for me. Too squashy soft for my liking. He was trying so hard that sometimes it hurt even to listen to him. ‘Lovely,’ I said, my thoughts marooned on the warmer, safer shores of
Twelfth Night
. I didn’t want to think about him. It was easy for me to vanish into my own thoughts.

I am always pursued by younger, shorter, fatter men. Why do short men like tall women? And why did younger men fancy me? Did I remind Bill of his mother? Did he want me to bath him, cover him in talc, read him a bedtime story?

‘Sophie? Are you still with us or has that bastard Harrison destroyed your mind? Is this terminal withdrawal? I’ve heard of cast needing counselling, but never the prompt.’ This was Claud.

I laughed, dragging myself back from sunlit shores. ‘I feel fine, thanks. We need a plan to deal with Hercules Harrison, the jerk in
a jersey. A campaign. That man needs teaching a lesson. He can’t treat us this way.’