Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Olly
I’m not sure who’s barmier right now: me or Tarun.
‘You’d do that?’ I ask. ‘I thought you didn’t want to play it publicly… It’s something just for you.’
He fidgets with his fingers, anxious. ‘If it’s the only way you can sing the song you’re meant to on stage, I can do it.’
Zeb looks between the two of us. ‘Not to be a party pooper but … are you good enough, Tarun? Or, like, four chords and “Wonderwall” at a push?’
Tarun reaches for a reply, but I answer decisively. ‘He’s amazing. As good as he is on stage. Like incredible.’
‘Alright then,’ Zeb says. ‘Just needed to be sure! If you’re going against the grain and everyone else has Marty accompanying them, you need the best support you can get.’
‘Wait… I need the chords though. I’m not that good,’ Tarun says, panic rising.
I take his hand and stroke his palm. ‘I can get the sheet music with chords from the email the writers sent me. And is your guitar here?’306
He nods. ‘I went back to the hotel and picked up all my stuff when I ran away…’
‘God, really committed to the bit, Tarun!’ I joke. ‘But it’s great that it’s here. We should practise, right?’
‘Yes,’ he says quickly.
‘Alright then. Meet me in the tech cupboard in five minutes with your guitar. There’s someone I need to see while you run and get it. And then we can practise, and figure out how we’d amplify you for the performance…’
‘Leave that to me,’ Zeb says, with a mischievous grin. ‘I can sort that.’
‘I love you!’ I shout to him, no idea how he’ll fix it, but confident he’ll find a way. I turn to Tarun and kiss him on the cheek. ‘See you in five!’
I dart the way I saw most of the cast go, launching through the door where they’re all congregating, nobody progressing to the dressing rooms.
‘Gabby!’ I shout when I spot her sleek black hair near the front of the crowd.
‘Olly? Everything okay?’
I crouch lower and whisper, ‘I’m changing my song. If I make the final six, I’m going to be gay. Super gay.’
Her eyes widen, excited. ‘Yes, Olly! That’s amazing!’
‘Only a few people know, and Tarun’s going to accompany me on the guitar,’ I tell her as he dashes past me up the stairs to collect his instrument. ‘But I wanted 307to give you a heads up in case you fancied joining in the good fight by doing your first-choice song?’
She rubs her temple, before shrugging. ‘Ah, fuck it! If we get through, I wanna be queer and proud too. Let’s give them something to talk about!’
‘Who’s going to accompany you?’ I ask, not sure I can offer Tarun’s services without asking him first.
‘I know where Marty keeps his rep folder, and I still have my sheet music.’ She grins. ‘If I swap out one song and put in the new one, makes it a lot harder for him to refuse to play “Changing My Major” doesn’t it?’
‘Oh my God, amazing! Pull “Lucky to be Me” out of the folder if you see it as well, will you?’
‘Absolutely! Fucking hell! Forget Les Mis and the French Revolution, we’re pulling off the Larrys Gay Revolution!’
‘It was actually the French Student Revolution in Les Mis…’ I start, but she’s already running away, blowing me a kiss, so I don’t carry on my nerd-ery. No time! I need to get moving.
If the people who saw Tarun and I making out earlier heard we’re meeting up in the tech cupboard during the interval, I wouldn’t blame them for predicting wrongly what we’re getting up to. ‘Rehearsals for a last-minute song switch’ is probably not in the top one-hundred answers.308
Tarun
My fingers are shaking as I tune up, unsure I know the brave idiot who volunteered to play the guitar for over a thousand people five minutes ago. He’s certainly not here anymore, every anxious taunt that’s ever haunted me looping around in my head:
You’re not good enough.
You’re going to ruin the whole competition for Olly.
You don’t have what it takes to perform on stage with a talent like him.
‘Hey!’ says the very real Olly, panting like the excitable dog of my dreams that I begged Mum to get me from the age of nine to … well, now. ‘You okay?’
I nod, lying, but that doesn’t work with Olly anymore. ‘Tarun … if this is too much, we can just not do it, or I can run and try to print the sheet music to sneak into Marty’s folder…’
‘No. There isn’t time. I can do it,’ I say, hoping to convince myself as much as him. ‘Have you got the chords?’
‘Yes,’ he says, sending the sheet music to me on text, which I scroll through, making sure all the turns and key changes in the score are achievable with my fingers. ‘I can never thank you enough for doing this with me…’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, lip between my teeth as I try to figure 309out how to play a particularly tricky chord, but land on something passable. ‘Shall we run through?’
‘Yes please,’ he says, shaking out his own nerves from his hands. ‘I’m not making a massive mistake, am I?’
I look up, certain of one thing. ‘You’re not. This song inspired me to come out and showed me I could be brave. It’s that good. This is the way you show them all every single facet of you. How brilliant you are.’
‘Okay,’ he says, calmed. ‘Let’s do it.’
I start to play, exploring round the chords as I make my way through the introduction. Olly sings along, not at full voice, but enough that I can tell that we seem to gel musically. It’s going to be alright on that front, if my nerves hold together.
We make it to the final line of the song, my fingers having grown more confident to dance up and down the strings for the last chords, when ‘All company members to the stage please!’ comes over the Tannoy.
‘Fuck, okay,’ Olly says. ‘That was beautiful, Tarun. If we get to do it on stage, people are going to be blown away with how great you are on the guitar.’
I shake my head. ‘They’ll all be completely focused on you telling that story. Your story.’
‘Come on,’ he says, pulling me up from the flight case I’ve been perched on. ‘Or we’ll miss the announcements from playing compliment tennis.’310
Heading into the wings, nervous energy radiates from everyone. They all still have lingering hope they could be one of the chosen few to sing again. In theory, so do I, but I’ll refuse if they’re stupid enough to choose me as one of the top six. I haven’t even done a run through on stage!
I put my guitar on a wall mount as a musical flourish sounds. Rob Harrison walks out on stage ahead of us, greeted by applause.
‘Did you all have a good interval? I know my husband did: two G&Ts, according to his texts. But shall we get on with it and welcome back this year’s finalists?’
With a cheer from the crowd, the stage managers indicate that we should head on stage, and Ella pushes her way next to me.
‘Where did you disappear for the interval? Thought you’d done another runner!’
‘Long story,’ I say. ‘Tell you once I know how crazy this second half is about to be for me?’
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push any further.
We walk out on stage as a mass, holding hands and whispering well wishes to each other.
Around me there are finalists I would consider some of my favourite people now, as well as others who are still basically strangers to me.
However well I know them, they’re all way too talented.
‘Aren’t they all brilliant?’ Rob asks the audience. ‘Now, let’s get our judges on stage! Please show some love for 311Olivier winners Ché Fisher and Lucie Cassidy, and my old principal, Head of the Ashford School of Drama, Marie Benton!’
The three judges walk onto stage, the youngest of them probably over fifty, and the oldest woman well into her seventies. It’s the older lady who steps up to the microphone and speaks in a clear, brassy voice.
‘Well, the contestants haven’t made our jobs easy, but we have come to some decisions.’
Tension spreads around the entire auditorium, amplifying the level of anticipation on stage beyond the already overwhelming levels.
‘Before we announce the six finalists, we’ve been allowed to award two commendations for younger contestants who show great promise. Could … Ella Parsons and Andrew Hartley come forward please?’
‘AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!’ Ella screams right next to my ear, jumping up and down. ‘I’m promising, Tarun! I’m promising!’
As if she didn’t already know? She’s so dynamic on stage that I couldn’t even knock it out of her when I barged her to the floor on Monday.
I hug her tight before she rushes forward to collect her certificate with Andrew.
I’m smiling, but my stomach is tumbling with worry.
In the next few moments, I’m going to find out if Olly’s dreams are coming true, and whether 312I have to show everyone the thing that has been just mine for so many years now.
I cross my fingers behind my back. For Olly, let me have to do it.
Olly
‘And now, let’s announce our six finalists who will perform a full solo. Lucie? Would you announce the first three?’ Marie Benton, the woman whose stern face greets me every time I go on Ashford’s website, says.
Lucie, the youngest of the judges who won a record three Oliviers in the space of four years in the 2000s, steps up to the microphone.
‘What an evening! What a show! Our first three, in no particular order, are … Ewan Crossley, Gabrielle Jiang and Jasmine Peters.’
‘Oh my God,’ Jas screams, wrapping her arms around me.
Yes! She nailed her performance, making herself a stand-out when the odds were against her. And Gabby! If I’m not chosen, at least one of us will be taking a stand for queer people.
They go to the front with Ewan, waiting for their competition to be announced.313
‘And Ché, would you do the honours?’
The final judge, a slender man who has directed some of the best revivals of the past twenty years, takes his place at the podium.
‘The final three chosen for our top six are…’
I bounce with anticipation. I mustn’t get my hopes too high. It’s a long shot. It’s a very long shot. It’s the longest of shots…
‘…Beth Hampton, Zebediah Kasule and Oliver Redmond.’