Chapter 2
Two
“In silence we wait, we wait, we wait, for the gates to open and for them to let in their fate.”
—“The Horse,” The Wooden Horse, Act Two
The email came through ten minutes before curtain call. In those precious moments before the theatre turned dark and the audience
fell into an excited hush, Jonah usually found himself in the wings just offstage, readying himself for the opening number.
However, for the first time since he’d stepped foot in the stunning Persephone Theatre, he didn’t want to leave his dressing
room. Flowers were positioned in varying vases on every surface available, interspersed by cards filled with congratulations
and the odd box of chocolates. He imagined himself to be a starlet plucked from a film, a bevy of admirers lining up outside
his dressing room with gifts. Despite the breakdown of his relationship, he’d never felt so loved, so appreciated. Edward
found someone else, he turned his back on Jonah and the romance they’d found with each other, but it didn’t mean the theatre
would do the same. He’d glanced at his phone to see another message from his mum, who he eventually spoke to Monday night
once he’d successfully nursed his hangover, and three emails waiting to be read.
Jonah’s inbox more often than not became plagued with spam mail and offers from the pizza place down the road from where he lived, a place he frequented far too often but would never admit to.
Cheese caused mucus buildup, bad for the vocal cords, apparently, but remarkably good for his soul.
Now and then he opened an email from the National Theatre, or an update from one of the many petitions he put his name to when he couldn’t sleep at night.
That evening, however, at seven twenty, an email from the producer of The Wooden Horse, Colbie Paris, consumed his screen.
Colbie, with her frizzy red hair and unnatural height, was considered one of the greatest
producers currently working in the West End. Her CPTG—Colbie Paris Theatre Group—had worked on numerous productions, all of
them beautiful, her creative vision something to be admired. And it couldn’t be ignored that her money also did a lot of the
talking. She sank incomprehensible amounts of money into her shows and expected a return on her investment, which maybe explained
the bitter expression always pasted on her face. Colbie seemed to have a rain cloud looming over her at all times, and she
wore it like a cloak. Yet, despite her often-frosty demeanor and a pile of awards from her other shows, Jonah assumed her
message would contain a plethora of congratulations for the company; seven Olivier Awards were to be celebrated, but so far
she had encased herself in silence.
He opened the email and smiled to himself, awaiting the inevitable applause from within. The celebrations never came. Instead,
he faced the list of new cast members for the next year, admittedly a small one given most of the company extended their contracts
and were staying in their roles. Colbie offered Jonah a contract renewal months ago, his position safe, the rent on his home
paid for another year; but knowing auditions took place a few months ago to replace some of the others left him with a deep
sense of unease. He ran his finger down the list, pausing on the new names, knowing some of them and recalling their faces,
and made a mental note to look up the ones he didn’t recognize. Then he stopped on a name so closely associated with his own
he forced himself to read it six times to ensure his brain wasn’t malfunctioning. But no. The name displayed on his screen
in miniscule pixels was not a figment of his imagination.
Dexter Ellis.
The heartthrob of the West End. Known for being a super swing before landing his first major role as Fiyero in Wicked.
He became an overnight star, going from one massive role to the next, until his name was always listed first on show announcements.
Some marketing decision saw him named the king of the West End, a pretty big accolade, one Jonah supposed he kind of deserved; the guy seemed to be everywhere.
A vocal powerhouse. A dance veteran. He simply oozed talent, and his tireless work ethic clearly paid off with a string of high-profile shows all with his name attached to them.
He somehow managed to balance working all hours of the day with a thriving social media career, too, his ridiculous number of followers a testament to his video-editing skills and ability to always look flawless in his photos.
But, most importantly, he was the actor who originated the role of Achilles in The Wooden Horse four years ago.
He took on the role for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and on the pre–West End tour, and for years spouted
about how originating Achilles was his proudest achievement. Something tickled the back of Jonah’s throat, the same enclosed
feeling he experienced when he discovered his allergy to soy milk during his brief foray into veganism, and he swallowed down
the electric ball of anxiety working its way up his esophagus.
He remembered the comments beneath the West End cast-announcement posts for The Wooden Horse on social media, the ones announcing him as the lead a little over a year ago, and he recalled the rampant assumptions of
him tearing the role of Achilles from Dexter’s perfectly formed hands written in screeching capital letters and unhappy emojis.
Jonah never stole the role from anyone. If only people knew the string of intense auditions followed by months of silence
before finally getting the news he’d been cast, they might understand Dexter bloody Ellis never planned to see the role into
the West End.
Perhaps he was still drunk from the ceremony on Sunday, and his eyes were playing tricks on him.
He spent most of Monday fumbling around his house in tears made worse by the tequila still lingering in his bloodstream, then ate an entire loaf of bread after Edward made a swift visit and collected the small amount of stuff he’d left there.
His key still sat on the kitchen table. Jonah didn’t want to touch it; if he did then it would make the breakup real.
For as long as the key sat undisturbed by the fruit bowl, he could pretend Edward just forgot it.
He’d return and slip it back into his pocket, then they’d find their way to bed and Jonah wouldn’t have to wake alone.
Several hours were consumed on Monday with cycles of vomiting and self-depreciation until he forced himself to his evening yoga class, looking just short of death as he shuffled into the studio.
He then returned home and cried over the phone to Sherrie while he consumed a bunch of bananas.
Yet there Dexter’s name sat now, perfect pixels on a screen, a ghost of Achilles past come to haunt him. Was Dexter going
to come in and steal the show?
Jonah tried to think of the departing cast members and the roles they were leaving to be picked up by others. Priam, no, way
too old for Dexter. Odysseus, maybe, but the role seemed too small, no major solos, not something the great Dexter Ellis would
deem worthy of his time. Which left Hector. But why would he want to play Hector after playing Achilles? Oh God, what if he
was coming in to be Jonah’s alternate? The comparisons between them would not be able to be ignored. Jonah would never be
able to take a holiday again or be ill and risk Dexter going on his place, he would have to be onstage forever until the day
he died, he would—
Fuck. The final stage call sounded from the speakers in the dressing room and a hurried knock reverberated from Jonah’s door
throughout the room. He turned to see Evie, the stage manager, standing there, headset on, clipboard in hand, face the color
of beetroot. She took her role seriously, overseeing every aspect of the production with a permanent flush to the face and
endless sighs that echoed throughout the dressing rooms. Jonah sometimes wondered why she didn’t delegate more, but the woman
seemed intent on giving herself a stress-induced heart attack.
“Jonah fucking Penrose what are you still doing in here?” she seethed, dark brown eyes burrowing into Jonah’s core. “Are you
a diva now that you’ve won an Olivier? Lounging in your dressing room full of flowers?” Despite the apparent anger in her
words and tone Jonah could sense a warmth there too.
“Just one sec.” He smiled at her as Evie rolled her eyes and stormed away.
Jonah placed his phone back onto the table in front of his illuminated mirror.
He studied his reflection; his body glistened beneath deep-blue cotton and soft folds of material the color of seaweed.
His skin, pale as always, contrasted with his brown curls, and he thought of Dexter Ellis standing in front of a mirror preparing himself to take down the city of Troy.
He’d done it first, after all. He’d recorded the mixtape and he’d sung Achilles’s sweeping melodies to audiences long before Jonah ever did.
Dexter introduced the world of theatre to the tragic hero and his heartbreaking romance with Patroclus.
Jonah may have won the award, but Dexter paved the way for him, and now he was returning to the show, a return which would no doubt shine even more scrutiny on Jonah and the role he still believed was never meant for him.
No. Dexter wouldn’t be coming to be an understudy; he was too big for that, his name far too important.
He was going to take the stage and Jonah would have to stand idly by and watch him steal The Wooden Horse right from under his feet.
An electricity ran through the audience. They held their gaze on the company, on Jonah, and every move he made. He could feel
the tears they struggled to hold back as he held Bastien, his Patroclus, in his arms, his death the most pivotal moment in