The Dramatic Life of Jonah Penrose

Chapter 1

One

“And then our bodies, woven as one, shall lie together in golden fields. The bounds of Troy, the destructions of war and wrath

of the Gods, lover, we can forget it all. Come with me, across the sea, come with me, come with me.”

—“Come with Me,” The Wooden Horse, Act Two

The glittering champagne kisses of New Year’s Eve slowly turned into cotton candy blossoms and buttercream tulips. London

thrived in the spring; the buildings blushed at the rays of sun, which allowed the greenery of its parks to flourish once

again. Sugarcoated pecans and mulled wine gradually morphed into cherry sweet cocktails and chocolate eggs. Jonah lived for

the spring; the long dark days and even longer nights faded away, and duller skies held a promise of sunshine behind dusky

clouds. Everything became far less serious as soon as April hit. An infectious sense of childhood seemed to grasp the population

and transformed down-turned lips into coy smiles. The flirtation of the sun with its rays of warmth bubbled behind seductive

glances and lingering touches. Even the throbbing pain at the front of Jonah’s head caused by a copious amount of alcohol

from the previous evening seemed somewhat less devastating now blossoms lined the trees.

God, how much drink passed his lips the night before? The evening came to him in fragments, a puzzle with far too many pieces,

and he didn’t have the energy to find the edges, let alone complete it.

An award show.

No, not just any award show, the fucking Oliviers, the thing he’d watched on TV year after year back home nestled between his parents. He remembered observing the glitz and

glamour of it, the stars of British theatre coming together for a night celebrating the arts all under one roof. And, like

some divine miracle, he’d been allowed to stand with the pinnacle of talent in the industry at the Royal Albert Hall and it

wasn’t a dream, he wasn’t sitting at home imagining himself on the screen; he’d finally made it. For the first time in his

life, he didn’t feel like a spectator. He, Jonah Penrose, had been invited.

He rubbed his hand across his forehead and groaned as he turned toward his window, bedsheets tangling between his limbs as

he tried to gauge the time. The movement churned his stomach, and he balked, bile singeing the back of his throat, which he

swallowed down with a grimace. The unmistakable taste of tequila burned his gums, and he swore at himself for drinking the

vile stuff yet again. Tequila, with its seductive voice and voluptuous curves, told him he could do anything; it provided

an outrageous sense of confidence and said he should absolutely buy more shots.

Salt. Tequila. Lime. And repeat.

He should have stuck to the champagne. The flutes didn’t allow him to drink to excess; they made him stand tall and sip politely,

not throw the drink back then suck on a lime for dear life. If only he hadn’t spent his late teens drinking shots the color

of drain cleaner and not caring about refining his palate, then maybe champagne might have been more seductive. Golden bubbles.

Long slim stem to wrap his hand around. No, he needed to stop sexualizing drinks to excuse his hangover. He didn’t even need

an excuse last night because he knew, as soon as his name echoed throughout the theatre, champagne simply wouldn’t cut it.

He’d won.

The moment still didn’t register in his mind.

His name sounding out, followed by a deafening round of applause and hands grasping him, launching him to his feet as he gawped in complete bewilderment.

Despite the thumping haze of pain echoing inside his skull, he could still see the inside of the hall as clear as day.

Shining black stage, walls of gold and plush red velvet chairs.

Jonah always knew his soul belonged in the theatre; it flourished from a tiny seed nestled between the floorboards and grew into something brimming with decadent petals and vibrant colors.

But last night, in the Royal Albert Hall, he saw he belonged to an entire garden full of outstanding flora.

For a few seconds, the world slowed down; the noise dulled, and he fully took in the scene surrounding him.

Bodies, hundreds of them, stretched out and circled up, up, up into the balconies.

The people glittered, they shone in freshly pressed suits and silk dresses dipped in moondust with smiling faces kissed by glimmering stage lights. The same lights shone on him.

He’d allowed himself to dream of it happening, winning an award, of course he had. He even wrote out an acceptance speech

in the notes app on his phone while steaming rice the week before. But the reality he found himself in didn’t seem to compute

with real life. The sheer talent surrounding him—actors, directors, costume designers, musicians, technicians, choreographers—took

his breath away. The love of theatre drummed through them, it created an electric wave of joy Jonah could honestly say he’d

never experienced before. Gratitude, respect, and passion. And every single person in the vast auditorium looked directly

at him.

The memory was enough to make his stomach turn. He recalled he seemed to forget how to walk properly. His feet lifting and

landing at an unnatural pace, knees bending too much, an impression of a drunk person stumbling out of a taxi in the middle

of the night. Bambi on ice. He worried his suit didn’t fit right, too big, too small, and oh shit, what if he tripped, what

if his mouth stopped working and no words came to him when he stepped onto the stage and in front of the microphone? His suit,

picked out by Sherrie, the most fashion-forward person he knew, fit him like a glove, and he needed to just bloody relax,

but in the moment, his mind looped the sound of internal screaming and, inexplicably, the song from the Coco Pops advert he

hadn’t thought about since he was five.

A blur of color swarmed around Jonah as he neared the stage—hands clapping, clothing fluttering, someone from the back of the hall hollering his name, Sherrie, no doubt—and he forced himself to think about walking more so he could actually get on the stage.

Out of the corner of his eye, just to his left, he saw a flash of blond hair and a face he recognized, but it quickly faded into the rest of the noise only to leave a foot jutting out into the aisle.

Were they trying to trip him? He shook his head, no, no one would trip him, not while on his way to get his award, not on purpose, and he glanced at the body the foot belonged to just in time to see them shift in their seat, taking their wayward foot with them.

When he finally made it up the six stairs to the presenters and background of cheers, a bronze statue of Laurence Olivier

found its way to his hands, the bust more weighty than he expected, and there he stood, looking out at a sea of faces, all

smiling, some more than others, and he fought back the urge to cry. He’d been chosen, out of all the amazing people in his

category, people he’d admired for so long whose careers were stunning and filled with success, and he’d been chosen as the

winner.

He remembered, for the briefest of moments, he tried to find his father’s face in the crowd. Broad nose, wispy gray hair,

and soft blue eyes reminiscent of the sea back home. He could picture his smile, warm, the smile he looked for constantly

as a child, consistent and safe, but it couldn’t be found; his father wasn’t there. Silly, really, for him to even try to

look for him, but he became a boy again, searching for his dad in a crowd, the familiar comfort of knowing he wasn’t far.

Words caught in his throat, the tears that had threatened to fall seconds before inching closer and closer until he shook

his head and took a deep breath and spoke, the obligatory thank-yous spilling from his lips at such a pace he couldn’t keep

up. He didn’t know if he’d thanked everyone. He tried, he waved his hand to the company sitting in the stalls and the others

sitting higher in the balcony, trying to encompass them all, probably failing miserably, but his brain and body were no longer

his. He was just a puppet in an expensive suit who didn’t know how to walk without looking like he’d just shit himself. The

minutes he spent on the stage didn’t lodge themselves in his memory; they didn’t happen, not really, not to him, his body

moved him without thought, a dance created by invisible strings. However, his lack of memory of those important moments didn’t

take away from the fact he had won an Olivier Award. Jonah Penrose. Best actor in a musical.

Holy shit.

Jonah moved from his bed, feet skimming along the wooden floor, one sock still on, the other somewhere in the crumpled suit

beside the bed, and he lurched toward the bathroom. His knees smacked against the tiles as his hands gripped the rim of the

toilet seat and he vomited. Tequila. Tequila. Tequila. A terrible idea, such a stupid idea, though ingenious at the time.

He remembered the bar, The Roundhouse, the place the cast and crew often congregated after a show, and the chosen after-party

spot once the photos and niceties wore off at the award ceremony. The air clung to his skin, the night unnaturally warm, though

the heat may have come from the permanent flush on his cheeks after clutching his award and beaming at cameras for over an

hour. Bodies pressed against him, the cast, front of house, strangers, and he didn’t care, they all showered each other with

words of eternal love spurred on by the tequila shots floating across the bar. He thought of Bastien, Sherrie and Omari, their

arms wrapped around him, lips pressed to his cheeks as they danced happily at the bar. The evening a celebration for them

all.

The Wooden Horse won seven awards. The nominations were overwhelming in themselves, but winning? They could now add those accolades to the