Chapter 38
Hunter
I mustn’t get too excited. I don’t have the role yet. But I’m going to be acting on stage at the Globe. Treading the boards, as they say. This is a moment I have dreamed about for as long as I can remember.
In this profession it’s easy to feel that people like you more when you’re failing.
I know Zosia and Thiago are happy for me about my callback, but I’m worried they won’t be able to avoid comparing it to what’s going on in their own careers.
This is not the kind of news it would be worth bothering my mom with.
I thought about telling Ms Nelson, my high school English teacher, but she probably barely remembers me at this point.
There’s only one person I can truly share this experience with, and ironically, it’s the person who has the most to lose if I get the job.
I still struggle to believe that Max is being completely sincere when he says how much he wants this for me.
But when I think back to the way he helped me with that first audition, I can’t doubt him.
He’s not Rafferty. He’s not built like that.
He cares for me, and he wants me to succeed. It’s no more complicated than that.
Any other time I’ve had a callback, I’ve gone into a hole to prepare.
But I couldn’t ask for anyone better to help me than Max.
For starters, he’s very perceptive. He sees details in the text that hadn’t occurred to me.
But he also keeps it light. He helps me find some surprising moments of levity in my performance.
I’m doubtful at first, as I don’t want to look as though I’ve misunderstood the text.
Let’s not forget that I applied for this role with a song from a Disney musical.
But when I see Max’s reaction after I perform Hamlet’s big soliloquy, I’m convinced that I’ve found the right balance.
Who knows if this is the Hamlet they’re looking for, but it’s the Hamlet I’m born to be.
The night before the audition, I barely sleep.
As soon as I get up, I’m frantic. I walk into the kitchen to find that Max has made me coffee and toast and placed a bunch of fresh flowers beside them.
As I get dressed, Max gives me space, but I know he’s there for me if I need him.
Once I’m ready, he offers to walk me to the audition, and I can’t think of anything I’d like more.
We stroll north, taking the scenic route through a garden square filled with crooked mulberry trees to the River Thames and the bustle of the South Bank.
We pass teenage skaters zipping along the brutalist concrete underpasses, stalls selling secondhand books, and children chasing each other around the statue of Sir Laurence Olivier outside the National Theatre.
Eventually, we arrive at the Globe. I’ve been here many times before, but something about its tall exterior wall, more like a castle than a theater, feels more imposing than ever.
‘Fuck,’ I say.
‘Listen,’ says Max, ‘you’ve done everything you possibly can.’
‘I just . . . this is kind of a big deal.’
‘I know,’ says Max, resting his hand on my arm. ‘But you’ve got this.’
A tide of tenderness surges through me. ‘You really want this for me, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Max says. At first, he doesn’t understand my surprise, but then it hits him. ‘I’m not your ex. I want you to aim high. Hell, I find it attractive.’
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘The funny thing is, me starring on Broadway would only have benefitted him. It would have helped our reviews, his earnings, his career. And he still couldn’t support me. Whereas you—’
I stop myself. We both know the part I’m not saying. That Max is helping me even though if I’m successful, it will place our lives on separate paths. I can see that it pains him as much as it pains me.
‘Come on,’ says Max. ‘You mustn’t be late.’
He starts to leave, then turns back. ‘Just promise me one thing. Enjoy this.’
Inside, the foyer hums with the activity of a working theater.
A group of schoolchildren in hi-vis jackets cluster by the entrance, their guide declaiming lines from King Lear as if he’s mid-performance.
A workman on a stepladder changes a light while humming a show tune.
A harried stage manager with a clipboard and a headset shows me into the auditorium.
As I enter, I feel like I’ve stepped back in time. The theater stretches out before me like a living model: the polished wooden stage, the wooden beams and thatched roof, sunlight spilling through the open windows.
I’m auditioning for three people today, seated in a line in the front row: a casting director who smiles far too easily, a stony-faced producer who won’t stop taking notes, and the theater’s artistic director, a woman who radiates quiet authority.
‘Gender-flipped Grease, huh?’ the artistic director says. ‘How did that work?’
‘Mixed,’ I say. ‘Some people felt the Pink Gentlemen were too queer-coded. But the all-female “Greased Lightning’” was awesome.’
They chuckle, and I look at them earnestly. ‘I get where this industry’s at. But I’m so excited to do some classical theater for once.’
‘You’ve come to the right place,’ says the director. ‘That’s what we do here at the Globe.’ She gestures up to the stage. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’
My stomach plunges. This is it.
I step up onto the stage and hear the creak of the floorboards under my feet.
I focus on a point in the middle distance.
I’ve pictured this moment so many times, but it’s hard to believe I’m actually here.
All the way from my small town in Rhode Island to the boards that Shakespeare’s actors trod, give or take a restoration or two.
And now I have two minutes to show that I’m worthy.
My throat has gone dry. I’m struggling to remember my lines. Not the famous one. A toddler could remember that. But what comes before it? My mind is blank.
‘Are you OK?’ the director asks.
The fact that she has to ask is clear evidence that I’m not. There’s too much riding on this. How do I pull myself out of it?
Then I notice a movement out of the corner of my eye. I glance upwards and my heart lurches. There he is. Max. How did he get in here? As soon as he sees that I’ve spotted him, he raises his hands and forms them into a heart.
It hits me like a physical blow. This isn’t just a cute gesture. He believes in me. He wants me to succeed, not for show or out of obligation but because my happiness means that much to him. He’s not Rafferty, scoffing at my ambitions. He’s Max, my secret anchor, my silent cheerleader.
A rush of love floods through me and I’m unsteady on my feet. All my doubts vanish, replaced by the unshakeable certainty that I can do this. Not for myself, but for Max, for us. His belief has become my belief.
I look at the director and give her a thumbs-up. Then I close my eyes and find my way into the character. I take a deep breath, imagining the salty air and dusty tapestries of Elsinore. I hear the footsteps of castle guards. I think of my father, the king, with a pang of grief.
When I open my eyes, I’m no longer Hunter auditioning for the role of my life. I’m Hamlet. The people in the front row might as well not be there.
I allow the lines to emerge from within.
When you’ve done this much work to prepare, the key is to switch off.
If you’re consciously reproducing each gesture and inflection, you’re bound to come across as mannered.
By now that I’ve gathered myself, my Hamlet shimmers to life.
I’m not trying to control him, and I couldn’t tell you if this constitutes a good or bad performance. I’m simply letting him exist.
It’s only after I finish that I look down at the front row. A spell has fallen over them. They’re rapt. After a moment, they snap to attention.
‘Thank you,’ says the director. ‘That was really something.’
As I walk off the stage, they confer in low tones.
‘Actually, Hunter,’ says the director, ‘before you go . . .’
She looks slightly bashful. ‘This is a bit cheeky, but we’ve got a long day ahead of us. Would you mind giving us a spin of “I Just Can’t Wait To Be King”?’
Max and I walk home in silence. We both know how well that went and what that might mean for our future. Neither of us can bring ourselves to say anything. When we arrive home, there in the driveway is a Skoda. Max notices it the same time as I do.
‘Is that your dad’s—’
‘Yeah.’
We head inside without another word. The hallway is filled with the scent of garlic and herbs.
We make our way to the kitchen, where Doily is standing over the Aga, Mr Peanut seated beside her and clearly assuming that this is his dinner she’s cooking.
Max’s dad is at the kitchen table sorting random bolts and screws into about twelve different categories.
He looks up as we enter, then immediately turns back to his screws.
‘I’m making your father a cassoulet,’ Doily announces. ‘You hear that, Master Peanuts? It’s not for you.’
Max looks at his dad. ‘I thought you said you’d let me know next time you were coming.’
Max’s dad shrugs. ‘I’m not here for you.’
Max is about to take offence when he sees the way his dad is looking at Doily. She sees it too and blushes, then turns to Max.
‘Your father apologised for his reaction. Well, perhaps not apologised, but he acknowledged it. More to the point, he changed his mind. The Geralds are going to have their own folder.’
Max’s dad’s shoulders tense. ‘It’s not how I’d do it. But this is Doily’s business. And she has assured me we can do everything else my way.’
Max and I share a look.
‘Everything else?’ Max asks in surprise.
Max’s dad scratches his chin and glances away. ‘As with all my projects, I’m committed to seeing it through to delivery. Doily has kindly agreed to accommodate me for that period. Starting tonight.’
Oh my god. They’re going to fuck. If they haven’t already. They’re going to digitise records all day and fuck all night.
Doily turns to me. ‘The thing is, I’m not doing this for the tax man. I’m doing it because it’s time to retire.’
I feel a jolt of shock. Doily, retiring? It’s unimaginable. She’s woven into the fabric of the London arts scene, and without a doubt its biggest vault of gossip.
‘You’re retiring?’
‘Yes. I’ll be sad to give up some of my clients, none more than you. But I wasn’t lying when I said I’d received an offer I couldn’t refuse on the house.’
I stare at her in shock. ‘What? I thought you were loaded.’
‘Asset rich, dear. I haven’t been great at paying my bills over the years. Let’s be honest – I’ve never been great at the business side of things.’
I’m still too surprised to really take this in, but Doily is philosophical. ‘I knew this day would come. I’ve thought about it for years.’
She gazes lovingly at Max’s dad. ‘I was just waiting for a sign, I suppose. A reason to pack it in.’
I glance at Max. I wonder what he’s thinking.
Personally, I’m having that bittersweet feeling when someone you know finds love before you.
I’m happy for them, more happy than I can say.
If anyone deserves it, it’s these two. But seeing their happiness reminds me of the position I’m in.
And the selfish part of me can’t help wondering – will that ever be me?