Eight Theo
Eight
THEO
‘C ome on, you have to find it funny,’ Barry says, wiping ketchup from his mouth with his thumb. I follow its downward journey and watch in horror as he wipes the sauce-covered digit on the pristine white tablecloth.
Gross .
By the next table in the swish hotel dining room I see a stony-faced waiter stare pointedly at the offending smear. I wonder if he is an actor, too, as many are in this town, counting the injustices that cross his path for however long he’s doomed to work here.
I offer a helpless smile. His slow blink is all the recognition needed.
‘It isn’t funny,’ I reply, meaning this and a whole lot more that my agent will never clock.
‘All publicity and that.’ He smirks, loading his fork with too much premium sausage, crispy bacon and wildly drippy fried egg before stuffing the whole lot in his mouth. Most of it makes it inside – the rest, I fear, will face a similar fate to the excess ketchup. I hope the Royal’s laundry department has a good stain remover …
‘Yeah, publicity for Gabriel Marley,’ I return, watching the social media storm rage on after the DailyCallOnline’s incorrect report of the sighting, which has since been lambasted by pretty much everyone. The hashtag #NotMyGabriel is trending and a photo of my stupidly grinning face is repeated in post after post.
‘Oh, relax, will you? It’ll blow over, Theo. It always does.’
Except it doesn’t, does it? Not when it always links back to my ill-advised, very public punch and the sudden demise of my once-promising career.
‘You still have your fans. I mean, look …’ Barry taps the screen of his tablet and opens one conversation.
AliK3: Theo Larkin can come into my café any day ? ?
‘Cheers, AliK3,’ I say, wishing their comment made me feel better. It doesn’t help when I see the next reply.
GrievousH: @AliK3 Really? Too handy with his fists tho.
Barry quickly exits the screen.
I look down at my plate and feel a little better. The reason I’m here in the luxury of a hotel I can’t afford to stay in – the only reason – is that Barry is shouting me breakfast. He’s off back to London later, so this is a last-minute summer-season pep talk before he catches his train.
And what a breakfast to be shouted!
It’s not so much a cooked breakfast as a petit-déjeuner extravaganza. There’s a whole buffet to choose from and you can just keep going back when your plate is empty. You don’t even have to take your plate with you: the waiting staff whisk it out of your hands and provide a clean one without a word. I’ve seen some guests insist the waiters accompany them along the breakfast buffet and carry their plates back to their tables for them. No way I’m doing that.
But the food is something else.
That’s what you get for a ￡35-per-head breakfast.
Thank goodness Barry’s paying.
‘So, I heard from Ophelia Henry at Shakespeare’s Birthplace,’ my agent says, refilling our cups from an elegant silver coffee pot. ‘You’re to join her and the other actors on Monday at two p.m. for a first rehearsal.’
My satisfied stomach tightens. ‘What are we rehearsing?’
‘Good old Petruchio from The Taming of the Shrew initially, seeing as it worked so well before. Then she’s asked for you to do Ferdinand from The Tempest , Act Three, Scene One.’
‘But I don’t know the Ferdinand one.’
‘Thought you’d say that.’ My agent beams a bacon-studded grin, reaching under the table and producing a bulging black canvas bag. ‘I took the liberty of raiding the Billy Shakes shelves in Stratford-upon-Avon Waterstones.’ He hefts it across the table and I just about manage to stop it plummeting like a stone into my excellent breakfast. ‘Bit of light reading for you. If I were you, I’d start learning it now.’
I smile weakly back and drop the bag like a ball and chain at my feet.
Since the Gabriel Marley incident I’ve thought a lot about my summer job. I keep remembering the evils my fellow cast members shot me when we parted. I get the feeling they would be as miffed about anyone joining their company: that it has nothing to do with me being, well, me . But it still feels personal.
What am I supposed to do?
I’m not ready to stand up and Shakespeare my way through the summer season, not with co-stars who could act me off the stage and audiences who’ll likely know the pieces better than all of us. With what’s happened already here and my impending Hamlet gig at the end of the summer I could be setting myself up for a colossal failure.
‘Maybe this was a bad idea,’ I begin, my mouth shutting immediately when Barry snaps his fingers at me.
‘No. Absolutely not . You are not going there, do you hear me?’ All traces of his happy expression have vanished, the sudden transformation rooting me to the spot.
When I try to reply it comes out as a squeak.
‘This is your last chance, mate ,’ Barry continues, snarling over the remains of his breakfast. ‘I’ve stuck my neck on the line for this, to get you back where you were. Let me remind you who’s covering your bed and board this summer. I don’t do that for everyone.’
Securing the rose-chintz hellhole for me is hardly something to be proud of, I think-retort, but I don’t dare say it. Instead, I drop my gaze respectfully. ‘I appreciate it, thanks.’
‘You don’t. I don’t think you appreciate anything, Theo, not least the highly perilous state of your career. All of that A-list stuff you were getting used to? Gone, the moment you chose to do a Rocky Balboa with the most connected director in Hollywood. So you will do this job and you’ll bloody well make the most of it, or we are done. Over. Finito . Understand?’
There’s no danger of me not understanding that, is there?
So, I spend the rest of the weekend learning Ferdinand’s piece from The Tempest , where he first talks to Miranda and is instantly in love. The only thing I’m grateful for is that I’ll be doing this scene as a monologue. If I had to do it with Lucie glaring at me on the stage it would scare the words right out of my brain.
There’s still my Petruchio, though.
Last time it was fun: this time Lucie will be ready for me.
I’m just going to have to keep my head down, get on with what I’m asked to do and push through this, one painfully awkward day at a time. And who knows? Maybe I’ll get the hang of it and discover my niche.
I stare back at the words I’m trying unsuccessfully to cram into my head as my first day with The Garden Players looms perilously close.
Or maybe I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my career …