Six Theo
Six
THEO
T he digs Barry has booked me into appear to have been decorated by a crazed psychopath with a chintz addiction.
There are printed roses everywhere . Wallpaper. Curtains. Four hundred million cushions crammed onto the faded rose-print armchairs and sofa. Even a knitted toilet roll holder in the shape of a rose bowl. They’re in every room, too: the living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom and downstairs loo. That’s not healthy, surely?
‘It’s the only place I could get for the whole summer at short notice.’ My agent shrugs beside me, stifling a grin at my unbridled horror. ‘And the host is lovely.’
Host? As in some grotesquely grinning, definitely possessed entity no locked doors will keep out?
‘Great,’ I reply, despite nothing about this pastel-flowered abomination being anywhere close. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Lilia Hetherington-Lynes. She’s a retired actress, you know.’
Like that’s going to make this any less horrific. ‘Is she?’
‘Played Juliet at the RSC in the late 1940s when she was only sixteen. Beguiled Laurence Olivier with her performance, went on to win countless awards. So she might be able to give you some pointers. She said she can pop in whenever you fancy it. She keeps a key.’ Barry beams, clearly seeing this as a plus.
I, on the other hand, can only see the makings of a serial killer movie unfolding around me.
‘Anyway, I’d better be off. If you need me I’ll be at the Royal Hotel,’ he says, making for the door.
‘Hang on, the Royal? It’s three hundred quid a night with a private spa …’
He turns back at the doorway. ‘That’s right. See you Monday.’
And with that, he leaves.
And I’m left here, alone, surrounded by sinister-looking florals. And, to add to the horror, a fluffy grey doorstop in the shape of a cat that looks like it might once have been very much alive …
I have to get out of here.
Partly, to give my besieged retinas a break.
But also, because I need food.
I have to hand it to this town: it’s pretty cool. As I walk from my surprisingly central – if worryingly floral – summer digs, I pass crowds of relaxed-looking people wandering around the streets, shops, cafés and restaurants. You can count on the fingers of one hand the times you see that in London – the contentment, the easy conversation, the welcome smiles of people who pass by. It helps that the sun is shining today, making every building I pass glow.
It’s wonderful, actually.
No doubt after a few months of this I’ll be desperate to get back to the blessed indifference of the capital. But for now, I like it.
I find a café selling the most insane pancakes and ice cream and, where in London I would have run as fast as my carefully Keto-controlled body would have taken me, today I don’t even fight the temptation. I can’t do this every day, of course, but this is a celebration. Also, I can head out on a run later. Which is appealing for two reasons: first, that I can work off the pancakes; and second, that it provides me with an excellent reason to be out of my summer digs in case ancient Mrs Lilia Hetherington-Lynes decides to ‘pop over’ on my first evening. Not sure I’m ready for that treat just yet …
My order arrives and I’m just about to dive headlong into the first of three maple-syrup pancakes in the stack when a nervous cough sounds by my ear.
Reluctantly, I put down my fork and look up, coming face to face with two very smiley ladies. It’s impossible to guess their ages due to the generous amount of fillers bestowed on their faces and the suspiciously plumped lips they both sport. I smile back, not really knowing why my beloved pancakes and I have been temporarily interrupted.
‘Hi,’ I say, jumping a little when they giggle in unison. ‘Can I help?’
‘You’re him , aren’t you?’ rushes one of them.
‘Off the telly,’ gushes the other.
I wasn’t expecting that. I figured nobody in this town would be bothered to notice me. With all the famous actors they have gracing the RSC’s stages it must be pretty unremarkable to find a mildly well-known one in town.
Pleasantly surprised, I grin back, lowering my voice (and maybe adding just a hint of husk). ‘Guilty as charged.’
Another burst of giggles bruises my eardrum. People at the other tables are looking over now. Time was when this would have been my cue to leave, concerned that more people would start approaching. I once had to be led out through a hotel kitchen after being recognised by a gaggle of ardent admirers who blocked my escape in the bar. I used to have panic attacks about just going out of my apartment in case I was recognised.
Those days seem far behind me now.
And, surprisingly, they’re what I miss most.
‘Could we get a picture?’ the taller of the two asks, wiggling a rose-gold-plated phone at me.
‘Sure.’
I’m posing for the selfie between the two women before I realise the danger. What if they sell it to the press? Nobody knows I’m here yet: the announcement for Hamlet won’t be made until next week and nobody is supposed to know I’m here for the summer – well, not until The Garden Players reveal me as their latest attraction.
My smile has dropped so I force it back on like a producer pushing a nervous actor back onto the stage. I can worry about that later. The worst that will happen is I might get some tags on Instagram.
You can handle this , I tell myself, hearing Barry’s voice as I do. Now pose like your paycheque depends on it …
The selfies go on for what feels like far longer than necessary, but eventually they end and my two admirers step back from the table.
‘Thank you so much,’ says the shorter one – Suze, I think I heard her say.
‘My pleasure. Lovely to meet you.’
The tall one – Kat, Kit, Katie? – hugs her phone. ‘My friends are going to lose their minds when they see this.’
I grin back, wider this time. I’ve been kicked to the kerb for too long, feeling forgotten and irrelevant. This feels good. Maybe that’s what this summer is going to be about – getting me back where I belong, rebuilding my confidence, undoing the damage. A summer in The Garden Players, then a career-restoring turn in Hamlet .
My fans are heading for the door, still waving and giggling. Bless them. I look down at my pancake stack, now a glittering promise of what might await me in Stratford-upon-Avon. I’m going to enjoy this.
Suze taps her phone in the doorway, turning back one last time to wave as she balances the phone on her palm.
‘You’ll never guess who we just met,’ she says, loud enough for the whole café to hear. She hugs Kat/Kit/Katie and they both scream into the phone, ‘Gabriel Marley!’
The bite of pancake I’ve just taken hits the bottom of my stomach like a cold, heavy rock.
Bloody Gabriel Marley!
Heads are turning now, phones being not-so-subtly trained on me. I drop my head, my pancake stack that was a reward moments before now a calorie-laden plate of pity to wallow in.
Who am I kidding? My once-glittering career is on the skids, I’m stuck in a chintz hellhole and I’m basically busking for pennies all summer in the company of actors that already hate me.
This isn’t the triumphant reinvention of Theo Larkin. It’s the pathetic crawl for survival for some-bloke-who-looks-like-Gabriel-Marley.
This is going to be the longest summer of my life …