All’s Fair in Love and Theatre
Chapter 1
Dafne
It’s my time.
I have waited for this moment for so long. Well, not waited, exactly. Worked so hard there was no time for anything else, spent endless nights wide awake running lines with my best friends and a crew of unaware stuffed animals as an audience, and anticipated it with every fiber of my being.
I’m looking at the cast list, and my name is at the top . I press my hands to my cheeks to keep myself from squealing in the middle of the hall.
Dafne Wright - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Juliet Capulet
I immediately search for my phone in my tote bag, not taking my eyes away from my name.
I frantically send a full-of-typos text and my screen lights up with an incoming call in the span of a few seconds.
“ You did that you actually did that I told you you’d smashed that audition oh my gosh Juliet bloody Capulet Daf this is –” my roommate Phoebe yells into the phone, and I need to cover the receiver with one hand to keep my right eardrum from bursting. “Hold up. Wait, wait, wait,” she continues, never taking a breath, and I still haven’t had the time to say anything back. Her voice drops low on the other end of the phone, as if not to be heard by potential eavesdroppers.
“Dafne … who is playing Romeo?” she asks, and as if on cue, someone clears their throat somewhere on my left.
“Call you back in a minute,” I mumble to Phoebe. I hang up the phone and brace myself for the worst.
“Well … that’s a surprise,” a honeyed, unfortunately well-known voice sighs next to me, and I have never wished for teleportation more. “Not me, I was clearly going to get Romeo, but I guess you don’t strike me as a Juliet,” he adds, ever the gentleman. Not.
Theodore Price. Six feet-something of entitled, self-centered prick. His preferred activity whenever we find ourselves in the same room seems to be disagreeing with my every opinion and just overall annoying me until I want to crawl out of my skin just to escape him but, alas, I can’t.
He’s handsome, too, although not in an obvious way–which makes everything that much worse. It’d be easier to ignore his jabs if his whole appearance wasn’t so … striking. It pains me to admit it, but that’s the most appropriate word to describe him .
He’s always impeccably dressed, which you’d think is weird for a twenty-one-year-old. I’m quite sure he owns the same exact cotton sweater in every colour available.
His nose is on the bigger side, but so straight and regal, that really, it looks perfect on him. His hair is all chestnut waves, and there’s a tiny scar on his chin that most probably wouldn’t notice, but I like to pay attention when I talk to people.
Or argue, in our case.
He’s definitely not brawny, but I know for a fact he works out regularly because the afore-mentioned sweaters never fail to highlight his muscular arms. Also, my best friend Ollie always sees him at the gym.
Logic says he’s hiding even more, great, lean muscles under the layers of clothes. How unnecessary of him.
If you ask anyone here at APDAS, The Actor’s Path Dramatic Arts School, they’ll tell you how Theodore is so polite or oh so charming; it’s all show, of course. Unless, by polite and charming, they mean cocky and unpleasant. I haven’t even looked at him yet, but I just know he’s sporting his signature smug expression, and I’m extremely tempted by the idea of smacking it off with a rolled-up script. I subtly stand straighter and turn around in the most confident motion I can work with.
I plaster on a smile I’ve tailored to look genuine; I don’t want my annoyance to be as blatant as it usually is, because if I show myself unaffected, then I win.
“Price, congratulations,” I say, and the thing is, some twisted part of me means that. Despite the fact that he’s basically just told me I shouldn’t have gotten the part. He’s a good actor–great, actually, and I can’t deny that, or rather, I will deny it until my dying day if anyone asks, but I was never good at lying to myself. Most people assume a good actor equals a proficient liar, and I clearly lack in the latter department. He narrows his eyes, his expression falling imperceptibly for a second, then the corners of his mouth curve back to the usual self-satisfied smile.
“Why, thank you, Wright,” he says, sarcasm so thick in his voice my eyes automatically roll into my sockets, my good resolutions to be stoic quickly slipping away. I start in the opposite direction without another word. You know how the saying goes, if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all–Theodore clearly never got the memo. Before I can make my well-deserved dramatic exit, he reaches me in a few long strides thanks to his ridiculously long legs and plants himself in front of me, hands coming to a prayer position and pointing at me. “Not so fast, love,” he says, which makes the urge to smack him resurface with a vengeance. “We have several things to discuss. After tomorrow’s table read, we will need to plan a strict extra rehearsals schedule, because if you think whatever amount of hours Ms. Patterson puts together will be enough, I can guarantee you–”
Propelled by some mysterious force, I place a finger a scarce inch from his lips to shut him up, and much to my surprise, it works. Nobel Peace prizes should be awarded to whoever can make Theodore Price close his mouth for over five seconds; I’ll expect a letter from Oslo’s town hall. His lips are parted, and he looks somewhere between offended and dumbfounded, as if nobody had ever dared to interrupt him before.
“Listen, Theodore,” I start as I remove my finger from its hovering place, already over his soon-to-be condescending speech, “allow me to clear a few things up. Number one, I don’t remember giving you permission to give me nicknames, and better yet, you could save precious breath and not refer to me at all.
Two, the fact that you think I don’t deserve this role doesn’t change the fact it is mine . I’ve earned it. I promise you, even if I shatter several bones before opening night, I will be on that stage. And three …” I pause for the suspense because apparently, I’m an actor first and a person second, and step closer to him, smoothing the slightly crumpled collar of the shirt he’s wearing under his brown sweater.
“...Did you get dressed in the dark today?” I whisper.
His eyes grow wide with horror, and yep, I’ve got him. It’s so easy when you know your enemy’s weaknesses, among which his fragile ego. I step around him and quickly make my way out of the hallway as I push on the cold glass door, a winning smile tugging at my lips, feet taking me to the dorm room for my half-hour break .
“I would’ve gladly skipped lunch to witness such a historical moment,” Phoebe says, a stray blonde curl bouncing on her forehead, my favorite mug–the one with the Shakespeare loved a good Hamlet for breakfast pun that she got me last Christmas–warming her hands.
APDAS’ dormitories, which are located in West London, can get quite chilly when it rains, which means they reach unbearably low temperatures every other day. But as Ms. Patterson, our Classical Acting teacher and Assistant Director for our play loves to belt, “Actors thrive in adversities!” which is a small consolation when no amount of fuzzy socks can warm your feet at night.
“I guess it was quite epic,” I say, drowning a digestive biscuit in my tea. “I can’t believe he had the audacity to practically tell me I’m unqualified to play Juliet,” I say as my dismembered biscuit floats around the cup, sinking to the bottom of it, much like my respect for Theodore.
When I auditioned for APDAS after graduating college, I was granted a full scholarship. It sounds commendable, in theory, but some people tend to think there has to be some obscure reason behind it and judge you for it. Luckily, I’ve never cared much about what people who don’t even know me think of me. As for Theodore, when I first met him, he didn’t seem like the warmest person on earth, and I’d first attributed it to the nerves of auditioning. When classes started and we had our first one together, he resorted to downright hostility, loathing even, and now –
“Hello?” Phoebe singsongs in her beautiful soprano voice, wiggling her fingers in my face as if she were casting a spell.
“I’m here,” I say, my eyebrows shooting to my hairline in affectionate annoyance.
“I know working with Price is going to be a bloody feat babes,” she ponders, “just don’t let him get to you, alright? You’ve worked too hard for this to let anyone, let alone Mr. green backdrops make my eyes pop ruin this for you,” she raises one shoulder, and although Phoebe’s never met Theodore face to face, I’ve perfected his impression in her presence so many times, the resemblance in the simple gesture is uncanny. I snort and place my mug on the small oak nightstand between our beds so that I don’t accidentally spill its contents and drench the floor.
Phoebe Nilsen is the funniest person I’ve ever met. Not only she’s sunshine in human form with her cascade of light-blonde curls, but she’s the kind of person that makes you believe there’s still hope for humanity. She’s a Musical Theatre student at APDAS, so we don’t share any classes, but we’re each other’s fans through and through. Bless the day her parents decided to move from Norway to Oxford – even though she was barely five then, and I know she misses it a lot.
“He did say that once, didn’t you tell me so?” Phoebe adds as I shake my head in silent laughter, while her own laugh makes her nearly topple off the bed .
“He did, and you’re right. I can’t afford to let him mess with my head and ruin the one thing I’ve craved since coming here. In fact, I won’t.” I vow, and Phoebe nods enthusiastically before letting herself drop on the bed like a dead weight, her hair bouncing on the pillow as she hits it with her head.
“Let’s get this bread, Juliet,” she sighs happily, and I catch my heart making a happy little leap at the reminder of what I’ve accomplished.