Chapter 4
FOUR
Olly
Tarun wakes with a start. His face screws up when he sees me perched on my bed fully dressed, wearing a Side Show t-shirt from my collection of Broadway-flop-musical souvenir apparel. I’m scrolling through theatre message boards and ready to begin the day.
‘Have I slept in late?’ he asks, his groggy eyes adjusting to the daylight sneaking past the curtains.
‘Oh no, I’m up early – there’s fifteen minutes until breakfast,’ I assure him, choosing not to mention I set an early alarm so I could shower and dress before he woke up.
I think I’ve proven to him I’m not as up my own arse as he first thought I was, but avoiding awkward dances around who showers first, and seeing each other in a state of undress, seemed for the best.
He breathes a sigh of relief, his dimples drawn in higher resolution as he smiles to himself. ‘That’s grand.’
‘I’ll head down while you’re in the shower,’ I say, starting to gather my hotel key card and wallet.
‘I’m guessing there’ll be as much dance as there was yesterday?’ he asks as I pocket my phone.64
‘Well, we’ll be running the group numbers a few times, and we should be blocking the medleys and sometimes there’s dance in them, depending on the songs.’
He fidgets with the hem of his pyjama top. ‘Ah, okay. I didn’t think about dancing when I packed, seeing as we didn’t dance in Les Mis, so I only have jeans with me…’
His open drawer does have enough denim for him to costume the entire ensemble of a Dolly Parton bio-musical. ‘I’d say you could borrow a pair of my shorts, but they’d probably end up round your ankles.’
He laughs – a massive breakthrough compared to his stony face whenever I spoke yesterday morning. ‘You’re probably right. I’ll just deal with the risk of my jeans ripping.’
But I shake my head. ‘Get in the shower and I’ll see what I can do.’
He opens his mouth to probe me with questions, but I pick myself up off the bed and head into the corridor before he can ask what I have planned. After what he shared with me last night, if I can do something to reduce his worry and make him feel like he belongs here, I’ll do it.
Heading three doors along, I knock on Zeb’s door, through which I can hear what sounds like a heated argument.
‘I don’t know where you left them!’ Hugo Mansfield 65shouts over his shoulder as he opens the door. ‘Morning, Olly! Here for Zeb?’ he asks, wearing only a towel.
At the sound of his name, Zeb pokes his head out from the bathroom, dripping from the shower. ‘I can’t leave yet, Ol. Hugo has decided to misplace my underwear.’
‘I haven’t done anything with your bloody briefs!’
I meet Nate’s eyes. He’s scrolling his phone on his bed fully dressed in a baggy hoodie. He looks exhausted after an evening bunking with the warring marriage that Zeb and Hugo have developed in just one night. They make Tarun and me look like stability itself.
‘I need a favour,’ I say, hoping to distract them from their squabble with a change in topic.
‘I’m not sure I’m in the mood to do favours for people who abandoned me for most of the film last night…’ Zeb says, folding his arms.
‘I told you when I came back; Dad kept me on the phone longer than expected,’ I lie, keeping my promise to Tarun that his panic attack would stay between us. ‘I think it’s Hugo who can probably help me anyway…’
‘I see how it is!’ Zeb scolds, with a playful twinkle in his eye. ‘But Hugo helpful? Guess there’s a first time for everything.’
‘Shut it! I haven’t got your knickers,’ Hugo protests.
‘They’re under his pillow…’ Nate says wearily, not looking up from his phone screen.66
Hugo grins, pulling a pair of lilac briefs from his bed and flinging them at Zeb, whose face is a picture of celebration for having been proven correct. ‘You’re a snake, Nate! What can I help you with, Olly?’
‘I’m looking for a pair of shorts for Tarun, and I wondered if your famous chivalry might extend beyond carrying Jas’ luggage? Because much like the three bears, I’m too big, Zeb’s too small, and I thought you might be…’
‘…Just right,’ Hugo and Zeb say in unison.
Hugo’s more than happy to oblige, and I dash back with his designer shorts and put them on Tarun’s bed before he’s out of the shower.
Heading down to breakfast, I can sense eyes on me from the group Oisín is sitting with. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling – when you take up as much space as me, you get used to people looking. But something about the looks: thin smiles and cautious nods convinces me that these are looks of pity.
‘Anyone able to enlighten me on why I’m being gawked at like Anne Hathaway on the set of Les Mis after the eleventh take of sobbing her way through “I Dreamed a Dream” while having her hair lopped off?’ I ask Zeb and Gabby when I join their table.
‘It’s Oisín,’ Gabby says. ‘He was telling people that he’s awkward around you because you had a crush on him last year and he turned you down. Did that actually happen? If it did, I was completely oblivious.’67
Zeb tightens his jaw at this injustice, being the only other person who knows how things truly unfolded last year.
‘That doesn’t sound like a wholly accurate description of events, no,’ I say.
‘I’m going to kill him,’ Zeb says, rising from his chair. He’s ready to fight – or at least snap his fingers in the hope it starts a West Side Story-style rumble of balletic fight choreography.
‘Zeb, stop!’ I call out, putting my hand on his shoulder to hold him back. ‘We’re not retaliating. As long as we know the truth, that’s all that matters. It’s the chief mission objective! While he stirs shit, let’s just focus on doing our best in the competition, okay?’
He slowly sits back down. ‘I guess a moral victory is still a victory. But if he says anything in front of me that I know to be untrue, I can’t be held responsible for my actions. Understood?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, feeling blessed to have as staunch a defender as my nerdy, tiny friend Zeb.
Tarun
There’s a breeze on my legs on our way to the rehearsal studios after breakfast, having found a neatly folded pair 68of shorts at the end of my bed when I got out of the shower.
A nametag sewn into the hem reads, ‘H. Mansfield’.
Olly must have stolen – or asked for them from Hugo.
He didn’t have to go to the trouble, but I’m grateful.
They’re a good fit and I’ll be less scared of ripping my pants when we get to rehearsal.
‘What songs do we think we’re getting then?’ asks Ella. What Elaine and Marty will have chosen for us to sing as our nominated characters is the only topic people are discussing this morning.
‘You were Little Red Riding Hood?’ Philippa asks Ella, who nods.
‘I’m probably going to get “I Know Things Now”, but maybe they’ll make me do the title song?’
‘What were you nominated for, Tarun?’ asks Andrew, whose been nominated for Heathers which I know a few songs from but was shocked to hear the plot from him. It’s about murder? And croquet?
‘Marius in Les Mis, so Oisín and I will probably both do “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” …’
‘Wait. Oisín is a Marius nominee as well?’
‘Yeah. I was his understudy and filled in for opening night.’
‘Oooooh! Maybe they’ll make you have a Marius-off?’
‘A battle of the Mariuses!’
The idea of me rivalling Oisín as a romantic lead is 69stupid. ‘He can have whatever section he wants. This is an important week for him.’
I look his way, and my heart beats faster, like it always does whenever I see him. Back home, I only see him two times a week at rehearsals. This week he’s constantly around, his perfect face ready to frazzle me at any moment.
‘God, here we go,’ Ella says when we arrive at the studio, her delight overflowing as Elaine greets each of us at the door and points us over to one of the main studio’s four corners. Whispers start spreading that these must be the groups we’ll perform our medleys in.
Oisín is in the same corner as me and Philippa, leaning confidently against the mirror behind him.
Olly is hugging Zeb in the corner opposite my group, and when he spots me looking at him, I don’t look away.
I point down to my shorts and mouth, ‘Thank you,’ across the room.
He bats away my thanks, smiling as he mouths, ‘No problem!’
‘Let’s deal with our two Mariuses first. Tarun and Oisín, come and join me,’ Elaine beckons, indicating for us to head to her table where Nate is also sitting, sternly taking notes.
‘How can we help you, Elaine?’ Oisín asks, taking full control of the meeting.
‘We’ve been umming and ahhing about what to do with you two.
We don’t often have multiple people nominated 70for the same role, and definitely not from the same production,’ she says, biting the end of her pencil with an intimidating focus.
‘I’ve been scouring the score to find a suitable section to perform as a separate solo, but it does seem you’ll both have to perform “Empty Chairs”… ’
I think Elaine’s right. There’s rarely a minute of him singing where Marius isn’t interrupted by Cosette or Eponine banging on about how much they fancy him.
‘I hear you, Elaine, but do you not think we’ll both be at a disadvantage with the judges if we’re effectively sharing a solo?
’ Oisín asks in his politest voice. ‘I’m happy to, but this is the last year I can be nominated for the Larrys, and I need to stand out to any drama schools attending. What do you think, Tarun?’
He flashes me his beaming white smile, and I’m lost for words. Speaking with him this week is so much pressure.
‘I … I’m happy with whatever. Oisín should get a better bit than me – this is an important performance for him. I don’t need a full minute, so just give me a few lines from anywhere in the show.’
‘Tarun?’ Elaine asks, eyes narrowed. ‘Why would you not want to share your talent to the best of your ability?’
I flick my eyes away from her to Oisín, who I know needs to have his own moment in the spotlight. ‘I just … I want Oisín to get the showcase he deserves.’71