Thirteen Lucie
Thirteen
LUCIE
T heo is different this morning. I can’t work out why.
He arrived looking a little worse for wear and I overheard him telling Ophelia that he was ‘drinking with some actor buddies’ last night. But it hasn’t affected his performance. Or his levels of self-confidence. He was nervous yesterday but there are no signs of that now.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
Today, Theo Larkin is cocky as hell.
Ced keeps shooting concerned glances at me as I round the crew room with Theo, my lines now well and truly learned and the knowledge of #NotMyGabriel tucked away in my mind. Yesterday, Theo got the better of me and was happy to let Ophelia make Ced and me look unimportant beside him. Today, I’m giving as good as I get, determined not to let him steal one more second of my spotlight.
On the other side of the room, Ophelia alternates between sighing and wincing. I can’t tell if that’s good or not.
‘ Come, come, you wasp; i’faith you are too angry ,’ Theo snarls, his eyes locked with mine.
‘ If I be waspish, best beware my sting ,’ I spit back.
‘No, no, no !’ Ophelia pushes between us; her hands wide to hold us back. ‘What are you doing? This is meant to be flirty, not a declaration of war.’
‘But he’s insulting her,’ I protest. ‘Trying to belittle her because she’s daring to stand up to him.’
Theo snorts. ‘He is not.’
I dig my heels in on the stone-flagged floor. ‘He tells her she’s too angry just because she refuses to be flattered by his frankly creepy advances. It’s the Shakespearean equivalent of calm down, love .’
He sniggers and holds up a hand. ‘Sorry.’
I glare back. ‘And the fact you think it’s funny tells me everything.’
‘Hang on …’
‘Lucie, Theo, please ,’ Ophelia entreats us. ‘Can we focus on the piece, not the assumed rhetoric?’
‘But she’s wrong.’
Ced groans behind us.
‘Theo …’
‘No, I’m sorry, Ophelia, Lucie’s wrong. He’s being cocky because there’s an attraction. And he isn’t used to women who answer back. He’s making a fool of himself because he’s swept up in the moment. Because he wants her. He wants her so badly. So reason goes out of the window. He’s obsessed already. And the harder she fights back, the more he desires her …’
The room falls deathly silent.
My face flushes.
Ophelia is looking at Theo like all her Christmases have converged.
Ced is staring at all three of us.
‘Well …’ Ophelia breathes. ‘Someone has been deep-diving into their character.’
That smug smile of his is back; despite the way his gaze doesn’t quite make contact with any of us. ‘I just think Petruchio is misunderstood.’
‘Says a man,’ I reply, buoyed by Ced’s chuckle even if my voice doesn’t have the power I think it should.
Now he looks at me. ‘Not everyone’s a docile Ferdinand, Lucie.’
‘Maybe it would be better if they were.’
‘Then maybe we need more Mirandas who know what they want and less Kates who fight it.’
‘Right. Stop !’
Ced has left the trunk where he’s been watching us rehearse and is now standing beside us. ‘You have to agree to disagree.’
‘What? Ced!’
‘No, Lu, forgive me, but we have an hour left to run not just both your pieces but mine, too, which – in case anyone’s missed it – I haven’t had chance to get to, yet.’
His words sting. I should have noticed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘This isn’t about twenty-first-century Lucie and Theo; this is about imaginary late-1500s Kate and Petruchio, who, like it or not, are horny as heck for each other.’ He bows his head to Ophelia. ‘Forgive me, Pheels.’
‘No need.’ She pinks a little and stares at the floor.
‘How you two did this scene for the Patrons Breakfast was perfect,’ Ced continues, eyeing us both. ‘Just the right side of combative, with the right level of surprised passion. Make this a war, an ideological argument, or a bun fight at the Birthplace Gardens and you will lose . You’ll lose your audience. You’ll lose the beauty of the language. And, I’m sorry to say, you’ll lose any claim to being an actor.’
We’re both staring at him now.
What’s worse than anything is that I know how much Ced loathes confrontation. It makes him uncomfortable and he’ll stew over his words for days afterwards. He wouldn’t challenge us if he didn’t passionately believe it.
‘Let’s try again,’ I say, daring to glance at Theo.
‘Yeah,’ he agrees, looking away.
‘No, I think you need to go outside,’ Ophelia says, crossly. ‘Cedric, darling, we’ll remain here and give your pieces some proper attention.’ She glares at us. ‘Out. Now. Be back here in thirty minutes.’
And with that, we are unceremoniously bundled out of the door.
The garden is drenched in sunlight, the heat of the day already making itself felt. Visitors mill around, guidebooks clutched in hand and jackets they didn’t need to bring draped over arms. The benches are all occupied, snacks and sandwiches being covertly procured from knee-rested carrier bags and rucksacks, and every spot of shade has been jealously claimed.
I love it here. But right now I wish I could be anywhere else.
Beside me, Theo is still, staring out across the garden towards the Birthplace building itself. From the corner of my eye I can see the pronounced rise and fall of his chest. Is he waiting for me to speak?
We’re just a few steps from the raised stone performance area and the main path through the garden, sharing one small patch of shade. I wonder if the other visitors even notice us here.
I gaze at our soon-to-be stage, edged with indigo planters filled with swathes of sweet English lavender. It’s tranquil and beautiful now. But tomorrow I will have to stand there, facing the man beside me, and pretend to be hopelessly in love with him.
That’s never going to happen unless one of us decides to be the grown-up.
I wait, but Theo says nothing. It’s going to have to be me, isn’t it?
‘Tomorrow,’ I begin.
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘We have to make it work.’
‘I was trying to …’
So he thinks this is my fault?
‘So was I.’
He doesn’t reply.
I rein in my irritation. I am above this. I am a professional. And when recent A-lister Theo Larkin becomes the toast of British theatre in Hamlet this autumn, I’ll still be here. It matters to me to protect this – for me and for Ced.
‘You’re trying too hard,’ I state.
‘What?’
I offer him a smile. ‘That isn’t a criticism.’
‘Sounds like one to me.’
Okay, I can see that. I try a different approach. ‘Ced’s right: when we did the Shrew scene before, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. We acted on impulse. And that’s why the crowd responded the way they did. But now, we’re trying to manufacture it. And we’re pushing way too hard. Both of us are.’
He looks at me beneath lowered brows, as if suspecting a trick. ‘Did you just admit you made a mistake? Because if you did I want to know who the hell you are and what you’ve done with Lucie Hart …’
‘Hilarious.’
The right corner of his mouth twitches just a little. As smiles go it isn’t the most convincing, but it’s better than the frown he’s aimed at me all morning.
‘We have to make this work, okay?’ I say, daring to meet his eye. ‘It has to be amazing, right from the first performance. If it isn’t, we won’t make any money, and if audiences aren’t impressed it’s another reason not to have The Garden Players here next season.’
‘No pressure, then …’
‘Mate, I am really trying here …’
‘I get that. Sorry.’ He picks a sprig of lavender, twirling it between his index finger and thumb. ‘But seeing as we’re doing the honesty thing, I think you should trust me more.’
What is that supposed to mean?
‘Trust you?’
‘Trust me. To do the garden performance without embarrassing you and Ced, or making the visitors run for the hills.’
Stung, I stare back. ‘I – I don’t think …’
‘Yes, you do. You don’t want me here. You certainly don’t want me taking a cut of the tips. You think I’m this arrogant, entitled git who crashed your stage and wants to play at Shakespeare for the summer.’
I want to argue back, but he’s right, isn’t he? That’s all I’ve been thinking since the rehearsal yesterday. And then all the #NotMyGabriel stuff … What else am I supposed to think?
‘I just – I don’t know why it matters to you. You could have any job you wanted, so why choose this?’
‘You think I have my pick of jobs?’ He gives a hollow laugh. ‘Shows what you know.’
‘I know you’re about to star in Hamlet in September, where you’ll be the toast of the RSC. We’re just a small company doing Shakespeare scenes for tourists, and while I’m proud of what we do we’re hardly in your league.’
He watches the lavender sprig twisting between his fingers. I find that I’m watching, too … ‘Maybe it appeals to me.’
‘Why? What possible career benefit is there to you for joining us? You don’t need to work here. You’re – a star .’ I remember his ridiculous selfie pose with those two women currently plastered across the internet and my irritation rises again.
‘Not right now I’m not.’
‘Are you kidding? Everyone’s talking about you. You’re all over the papers …’ A second too late, I realise what I’ve admitted to.
His face becomes flint. ‘They don’t know me. Clearly, neither do you.’ He starts to walk away.
I should let him flounce off like the smug, entitled star he is. But I can’t leave the conversation there, so I scurry after him.
‘That’s not what I meant …’
‘I need a break, okay?’
‘No,’ I insist, hastily pinning on a smile when a couple on a nearby bench stare at me. ‘Hang on. Theo …’
His shoulders lift and drop in an overblown sigh, but at least he stops walking. I hurry around to face him.
‘Why does it matter to you?’
‘What business is it of yours? I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘But why?’
‘Every job matters.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
He shakes his head. ‘I would just like to do something that somebody hasn’t already decided I’ll suck at.’
His words hit home.
I took the job with The Garden Players because of how Duncan Harrow made me feel, stymieing every audition I did just to have his little power trip over me. I still battle the ugly self-doubt that rears its head whenever I’m scared or tired. Duncan’s sneering judgement in my head, telling me I’m not good enough and never will be, over and over again.
I have no idea how it must feel when national newspapers are the ones laughing at you, suggesting you’re a waste of space and your dreams don’t matter.
‘I haven’t decided that,’ I say, quietly. It’s the truth. Theo Larkin may be the most infuriating person I’ve ever shared a stage with, but he’s good . That’s the most irritating thing.
‘Haven’t you?’ That look again, like he’s preparing to dodge a right hook.
‘You’re great at this,’ I admit. ‘When we do it right, it fizzes. I can feel it. I don’t want to, but I do. You could change everything for us here, Theo. Bring the crowds in. Amaze the lot of them.’
‘For real?’
‘Yes. If you wind your neck in and stop assuming we’re at war …’
‘There it is.’ He slaps a hand against his heart. ‘The Lucie Hart tail-sting.’
‘… And if you stop being a dick when I’m trying to give you a compliment.’
His laughter breaks out, shaking his chest. When it subsides, he sneaks a glance at me. ‘It fizzes ?’
‘Don’t mock me, I’m trying to be sincere.’
‘It’s terrifying. Please stop.’
He’s impossible. And even though I know this is probably some weird male defence mechanism at work, he gets a smile out of me. ‘I mean it.’
‘Oh. Um, thanks.’
‘But tell anyone I said it and you’re dead.’
He holds up his palms in surrender. ‘Understood.’
When we return to the crew room and pick up where we left off, it’s different. I’m not saying it’s better: just different. Calmer. Less like the world will end if one of us stumbles. More like we know where we are.
Tomorrow, everything has to come together.
I’m no closer to the certainty that it will.
But the smallest part of me hopes it might.