Midsummer Madness (3 page)

‘Sophie, you are so right,’ said Elinor Dawn, clapping. Her
make-up
was streaked. It was unlike her not to repair her mascara before coming out in public. ‘He’s only a director. They’re ten a penny.’

‘And a guest director,’ someone else said. ‘He’s not going to stay forever.’

‘But West Enders are here forever,’ I said, taking another sip of the brandy made from peaches. It burned a path to my empty stomach. I wondered if I could make a batch of this stuff with overripe peaches from the market. I’d need a really big jar. ‘The Royale is our theatre and our company and we are its foundation. Joe Harrison is a passing irritant. This is a revolution. We need an escape committee.’

Everyone cheered. I was given another peach brandy with less soda water after which I did my near-famous impersonation of Glenda Jackson as Queen Elizabeth I without the eyebrow shaving. It was off with his head and no mistake. Order the straw. Oil the tumbrel.

None of the campaign plans were any good but the exercise was therapeutic. We had bonded and that gave us mutual strength. We felt dynamic. Only the openly shallow Fran was the odd one out.

‘I intend to do my best at all times,’ she said, sipping
orange-tinted
vodka, pretending that she didn’t drink. ‘He’s brilliant. He’ll soon see my potential.’

‘He’ll soon see your knickers, you mean.’

I walked home, swinging my bag. The moonless air was damp but I didn’t fancy buses at this time of night. Nor the half-empty underground trains with drunks settling down for a Circle Line party night. I preferred to walk, knew all the short cuts down side streets, knew which were safe and well lit. Bill had a much longer journey home in the other direction and had set out at a run to pick up a late train.

I had got over the hurdle of seeing Joe. He was no longer intimidating. He had not recognized me and I could handle that. I was anonymous, nameless, lost back in time. He remembered
nothing about me. It was how I wanted it.

The next morning I was almost late. It had taken time to find the final layers. I didn’t care if people stared. It was like wearing a
fat-suit
. Joe Harrison’s comments had been unfair and cruel so I had added a few extra touches. There was a stunned silence as I waddled into the theatre before the rehearsal. I heaved my new egg shape on to the stool in the prompt corner and it rocked unsteadily.

‘Is that you, Sophie, inside all of that?’ asked Bill, not knowing what to say.

‘Of course, it is,’ I said in my own voice. My brain was stifled by the heat. I would rapidly become dehydrated. My protest had lost its validity.

I took up so much room that several entrances were delayed as cast had to squeeze past my heaving bulk. Bill shook his head in despair. He thought I was heading for the big push. Joe Harrison would soon be investigating the delays and he would not be amused.

‘Late, Viola, late again.’ Joe’s voice boomed through the theatre from his vulture perch in row D. ‘Move, move. Don’t lose pace. If anyone is in the wings who shouldn’t be there, push them out of the way.’

‘Sorry, Joe,’ said Elinor. She hadn’t slept well, taken a handful of sleeping pills in the early hours and was carrying a woolly hangover. ‘Arctic mountain in the wings. It needs digging out. There’s a snow shovel somewhere out the back.’ She was attempting funny. It didn’t go down well, more like a lead balloon.

Joe was up onstage in three strides but he stopped in his tracks when he saw me. I emerged one foot at a time, wondering what kind of verbal avalanche was about to descend upon my head. He walked round me slowly, nodding, taking in the multitude of layers I had managed to get on. I was wearing more clothes than the entire cast put together.

‘So the Abominable Snowman has joined the company,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing. I wonder if we could use this in publicity. Different angle.’

‘You did say wear warmer clothes,’ I said, sweat running down every crevice and crack. I was starting to itch like I was being
attacked by theatre mites.

‘So I did and I approve of such a diligent application of my words. Back to work everyone and remember the mountainous hazard of wool, fleece and Damart underwear in the prompt corner. Give yourself extra time.’

No reprieve. I waddled back to my seat. He’d not been in the least annoyed. Instead, the wretched man had been amused. I was growing hotter by the minute. Sweat was running down my neck, inside the padded ski suit and Wonderbra.

I managed to shed a couple of layers, eased off the fur boots, scarf and woolly hat. My jeans were sticking to my skin. Somehow the joke had rebounded. I was the one melting like strawberry jelly on a Sunday School outing. The icy draught had gone walkabout to spite me.

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.

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 already 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.