Ten Theo
Ten
THEO
H ow hard can taking my hand be?
I know she didn’t get the memo about doing these lines, but it’s hardly the most complex stage direction to follow. Ferdi and his love interest hold hands to show they’re going to get married. I mean, even a Shakespeare novice like me can work that out.
‘… And mine …’
She isn’t looking at me when she says her line, just holds out her hand like a damp rag and I grab it before she changes her mind. Her fingers don’t engage but her palm is surprisingly warm.
‘… with my heart in’t …’
Her heart is nowhere near this gesture.
She completes her line and we walk awkwardly hand-in-hand off our makeshift stage, reaching the curtained changing area before she pulls her hand away.
When we turn back, Ophelia is glaring at us.
‘Two days,’ she states. ‘We have precisely two days to turn – that – into a heart-stopping scene.’
‘It’s only their first run, Pheels,’ Ced cuts in. ‘Give the loves a break.’
‘A break? You think we have the luxury of a break? This will be the first time Theo and Lucie will be seen in public. First impressions mean everything . I told the management team that we have an A-list star working with us. How is it going to look if that is what they’re forced to endure?’
A-list? It’s flattering, but since The Punch, that glittering category has fast deserted me. Barry said as much before he swanned back to London. And, given the hilarity currently ensuing in my name thanks to #NotMyGabriel, I’d probably be lucky to scrape into the C-list at best.
‘We’re just finding our feet,’ I suggest, ignoring the pointed look from my co-star. ‘Next time will be so much better.’
Ms Henry doesn’t reply and for a horrible moment I wonder if she’s going to call the whole thing off. But a smile appears as she holds her hand out to me.
‘Of course you’re right, Theo. Forgive me. I only want the best.’
‘And that’s what you have,’ I say back smoothly, quickly adding, ‘… with us’ – in case Lucie thinks I’m currying favour for my sake.
‘So, again, please. And this time, Lucie, try to look like you’re happy …’
We rehearse, over and over, for the next hour. To begin with I find it amusing – the tables totally turned on my fellow actors who I’d thought would lord it over me. But very quickly the novelty wears off: and as we repeat the lines again and again, I start to see things from Lucie and Ced’s point of view. They didn’t ask for this. They have their pieces already learned, their programme already set. They didn’t need another member of The Garden Players, and certainly not one that would disrupt their carefully crafted programme.
As we get used to moving around one another, it becomes gradually easier to work with my colleagues. Lucie is the consummate professional, as I figured she would be, but I don’t think we’re likely to become best buds any time soon. Not like she and Ced clearly are.
There’s this thing they do, where one of them makes a reference to something – an in-joke, a memory, a turn of phrase – and they both launch into enthusiastic chatter about it. Then they turn to me and … tumbleweed . Because, of course, all of those things are pre-Me. So they drop the topic like a hot rock and this awful, stilted silence ensues. If I was feeling uncharitable I might suggest they’re doing it on purpose, reminding me that they were here before me and they’ll be here when I leave. But in truth, I don’t think Lucie or Ced realise what’s happening.
They may not like me, but they seem pretty decent. That makes a nice change from the usual on-set rivalries I have to navigate. They’re tight, a team. I like that.
It still makes me feel on the periphery of everything, though, which I loathe.
But I won’t let them see it. The fact is, I’m here because Ophelia invited me. Headhunted , you might say. Lucie and Ced can think what they like of me, but I’m here for the next six weeks and I’m determined not to let them get to me.
‘Enough,’ Ophelia announces at last, her single handclap a surprisingly sharp sound. Everything she does is loud and demanding of notice – from her perfect-time click-clack heels when she walks across the crew room, to her naturally commanding voice that can silence any dissent. ‘Ced, dear, take a rest and perhaps pop the kettle on? Theo and Lucie, we’ll see your Shrew piece now.’
Ced slouches over to the kitchen (which appears to be a cupboard with a sink and a kettle inside). I risk a smile at Lucie.
‘Ready to do battle again, good Kate?’
Her reply is as stony as her face. ‘I was born ready.’
Well, this is going to be fun …
We square up and wait for Ophelia’s direction, and then the scene begins. Neither of us needs a script this time. Finally, we are equals on the makeshift stage and the battle is on .
I feel the difference the moment we begin. Where before Lucie’s shock played into my performance, this time she’s prepared. I barely finish my lines before she replies, a crack shot with her comebacks. Gone is her uncertainty with the lines: now she doesn’t just know Kate, she is Kate. Furious, splendid, defiant and, let’s face it, capable of burying old misogynist Petruchio six feet under with her inspired retaliation and wit.
Watching us, Ophelia is rapt.
‘More movement,’ she urges, the bark of her voice gone, replaced by a raspy breathlessness. ‘Dance around one another now. Lucie, lean as close as you dare. Theo, mirror her.’
Lucie’s eyes lock with mine as we circle each other. In the cramped space there’s precious little room to do it, but we navigate the available floor as if we’ve studied every inch.
I never get this in the TV and film jobs, not even when I’ve had to tackle onscreen rows or deep passion. There’s real electricity here: pulsing, transforming and exciting, highlighting the smallest detail in the text and the story.
Does Lucie feel it, too?
I wondered this during our first pass at the Patrons Breakfast and I ask myself the question again now. Her gaze holds mine, the closeness so tangible I can almost feel the heat between us. Am I imagining it? Or could it be real?
And then comes the slap.
She raises her hand and moves to strike my cheek. My hand catches the heel of hers and instantly her fingers grip it. No halfhearted hand-holding like we did for Ferdinand and Miranda. Her pulse pads beneath my fingertips, the warmth of her skin immediate.
It’s intense and intimate.
Hot and frustrating.
Electric …
… And I completely forget my lines.
‘I …’
Lucie’s stare widens.
‘Your line, Theo,’ Ophelia rushes, a definite quiver in her voice.
‘Sorry. Yes. Er … I swear I’ll cuff you if you strike again …’
It’s too late. The moment is gone, the energy dissolved into the stuffy air of the crew room.
Lucie turns away, her hands on her hips. Ced raises an eyebrow and goes back to making tea. And I feel like an idiot who just chucked away an easy win.
Ophelia visibly deflates.
‘Not acceptable. Not. At. All. Let’s go again …’