Chapter 7 Press Night
PRESS NIGHT
LOURDES
Victoria the Great soaked up all of London’s oxygen the night it opened to press and celebrities.
The play was set, as was the stage. People were either sold on Leah being the best Queen Victoria yet or waiting for her to fail.
And regardless of how someone fell on that spectrum, tickets were sold out for weeks.
It was the hardest ticket in town to land, which came with its own set of concerns.
I let my fears of them putting a relative unknown in the driver’s seat wash away and tried to ignore my mother’s list of editorial notes from previews as I soaked up the beauty of my splashiest production yet.
Oh, and did I mention that Her Majesty was also present?
Despite this, our leading lady didn’t look the least bit nervous.
Ice ran in her veins as she warmed up. She giggled and played rock paper scissors with Brian just before the curtain call.
In contrast, I shook like a leaf in the wings.
I did not appear until the end of the first act, but I wanted to watch everything happen live.
Pacing backstage, I told myself that Leah could handle it.
Her star power would prevail, and we would drink from a firehose by the second act.
“Five minutes!” Marissa chirped, passing.
She remained steady outwardly. I wondered if when I was as much of a veteran as her I’d feel differently.
The house lights flashed, everyone sat, and the tension heightened.
The familiar silence with the audience took hold—a slow, dull roll, then hushed whispers.
I pictured everyone settling down and buckling in for a wild ride.
We’d done this bit two dozen times before in full, but there was something about knowing it was set—final, finished, polished—that added an extra layer of mental fuckery.
“Here we go,” Brian passed, rubbing his hands.
He stood on one side, prepared to play Prince Albert.
To my other side, Leah appeared, about to take her mark.
I sensed her but didn’t say a word. She looped her hand in mine and gave me an encouraging squeeze.
I returned the favor, grateful. For a minute and without a word, she rested her head on my shoulder.
The lights faded, and the show began with a town crier entering to announce the King’s death.
We watched the short monologue, soaked in intoxicating opening night vibes.
“It’s going to be great,” Leah whispered.
I nodded, meeting her gaze. She smiled, looking halfway ridiculous in her nightgown, tight chestnut ringlets falling around her face.
Even with a silly wig, she was beautiful.
As the chorus began its first number, I longed to kiss her, but there wasn’t time.
Besides, the makeup team would strangle me.
Before I could, Leah was thrown onto a bed and swept away, as the light faded.
When it returned, it opened onto a well-appointed bedroom.
There lay Leah. Three men approached—the PM, Lord Chamberlain, and Archbishop.
As the crowd recognized Leah as their heroine, the cheering overran anyone’s ability to speak.
Like the seasoned performer I knew she could be, Leah waited, ignoring them.
Deep down, she ran on a high only live performance brought.
“They love her,” Brian sighed. “Knew it.”
I did, too, as Leah popped up and launched into her first song.
It was slightly jarring how much Leah sounded like her Aunt Natalie.
She could have been a shorter, younger version of the monarch at that moment.
Mesmerized, the crowd listened to her every word, enthralled.
They weren’t alone. This star quality that drew them to her also enraptured me.
The way she turned up her button nose or playfully flipped hair over her shoulder gave her a girlish charm, but her voice was pure power.
She sold every step and every note as well as any actor I knew
“She’s spot-on,” I whispered.
“And yet, you worried she’d flop.” Brian shook his head.