Fourteen Theo
Fourteen
THEO
I wasn’t expecting that chat. Nor the distinct change between us for the rest of the rehearsal. It’s heartening, in an unfinished business kind of way. I should be grateful for the turnaround, especially after our rocky start.
I am grateful. Just confused.
My mum used to tell me I was too ready to ‘box and shelve’ people. I remember her saying it once in the stockroom of the pub I grew up in, when I was helping her unpack a cash-andcarry order after school.
‘This is you,’ she said, picking up a brown cardboard box without opening it and shoving it on the nearest shelf, which, of course, wasn’t the right one. ‘You’re in such a rush to label people that you don’t bother waiting to see what someone’s really like inside. There could be anything in there: money, jewels or that toy you’ve always wanted, but you miss it. The box isn’t the important bit, sweetheart. Neither is the shelf. The sooner you learn to give things time before you pass judgement, the happier you’ll be.’
Have I boxed Lucie too early?
And which box would I have put her in anyway? The more time I spend with Lucie Hart the more of a conundrum she becomes.
Why am I so bothered by that?
I’m just about to leave for the day when Ophelia beckons me from the crew room door. ‘Theo, can I trouble you for ten more minutes of your time?’
‘Sure,’ I reply, checking my watch. I’m meant to be meeting Greg and his assistant producer across town after rehearsal. It’ll mean a dash across Stratford to get there on time, but after everything that’s happened today I’m keen to keep Ophelia on side.
I follow her down the corridor and am ushered into a tiny room through a door I haven’t noticed before, where a tiny, bright-eyed, elderly woman is waiting. She has a tape measure around her neck and bead-headed pins in regimented rainbow lines down the lapel of her knitted sleeveless cardigan.
Ophelia stations me in the middle of the glorified cupboard and steps back. ‘Theo, meet Purdy Winterson. Here we are, Purdy, our handsome guest artiste! He’s all yours.’
The eager smile Purdy gives me is worrying.
More concerning still is the way she blows on the ends of her tape measure as if she’s warming them up …
‘Righty-ho, Mr Larkin,’ she twitters. ‘Whip your shirt off, please.’
‘What?’
‘Purdy is our expert seamstress.’ Ophelia beams. ‘She’s dressed everyone from Sir Ian McKellen to Dame Helen Mirren and she’s not perturbed by the sight of a chest.’ When it’s clear I’m not following, she gives a patient smile. ‘She needs to measure you , dear. For your costume?’
‘Ah, sorry.’
Reddening, I remove my shirt. But it feels weird. I’m used to discarding clothing on stage, in movies and for photoshoots, but in this small, enclosed space with two ladies considerably older than me, I feel exposed. It’s not helped when Purdy mutters ‘lovely chest’ as she approaches with the tape measure …
I’ve had countless costume fittings before, but they’ve always taken place in light, airy rooms with several other actors being fitted at once. There it’s felt like fun: the ultimate game of dressing-up, and the first time you really meet the character you’re playing when you feel what it’s like to be surrounded by their clothes. But there are no costume assistants or flattering light or fellow actors here. Just me, a startlingly cold tape measure and two very enthusiastic women of a certain age fussing around my naked flesh.
‘Of course, as the summer goes on Purdy can tweak your garments,’ Ophelia says, the twinkle in her eyes at the word tweak impossible to ignore. ‘But to begin with, for the sake of expediency, she’ll alter some of Ced’s shirts and a few pieces from her own collection to fit.’
Purdy grins up at me. ‘I have some lovely velvet doublets with your name all over them.’ Her eyes sweep eagerly south from my chest. ‘Matching codpieces too …’
I look to Ophelia for help, but my panic seems to amuse her.
‘Purdy’s home is a treasure trove of RSC costume history,’ she informs me. ‘A veritable Aladdin’s cave of pieces.’
‘True, true.’ Purdy is circling me now, muttering measurements to herself. It’s a strange incantation I only understand a few words of.
‘Doable, darling?’ Ophelia asks Purdy, something in the costumier’s mumbled monologue concerning her.
Purdy dismisses this with a pincushion-sporting hand. ‘Yes, yes. New shirt, altered jackets … No problem.’
‘She works fast,’ Ophelia says, a naughty snort coming from her colleague as the tape measure is applied to my waist and hips in turn. ‘Bloody good job, too, considering how little time we have to prepare.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, not really sure if an apology is needed. I hadn’t even considered costumes when I gate-crashed the Patrons Breakfast performance. I assumed they had spare pieces lying around. But there’s barely enough space in the crew room to accommodate us three actors and the props trunk, let alone a wide selection of authentic-looking Tudor and Elizabethan garb.
‘Best bit now.’ Purdy beams, brandishing her trusty tape measure like a soon-to-be weapon of torture. ‘ Legs …’
‘Sorry?’ I stare helplessly at Ophelia.
‘Inside leg,’ she informs me with more glee than is arguably necessary.
As I stare back, Purdy taps my right thigh and drops shakily to her knees. Looking up at me like a tourist observing a particularly nervous skyscraper, she grins. ‘Spread ’em, sunshine!’
Ced and Lucie could have warned me about this. Maybe a costume fitting with Purdy is a peculiar rite of passage for The Garden Players. Or maybe they knew full well the ordeal I was about to face and just chose not to inform me. That seems more likely, given our not exactly easy introduction to working together.
I bet they’re somewhere right now, sniggering about it …
By the time the mortifying minutes of measuring are done and I’m given kind permission to dress again, I can’t wait to get out of there.
My journey across town for the meeting with Greg Dabrowski and his assistant proves surprisingly speedy. Maybe it’s relief of the distance I’m putting between the Birthplace and me. Or maybe it’s apprehension about the appointment I’m fast heading towards.
According to my agent, the meeting with Greg and his assistant is all perfectly routine, as evidenced by his relaxed absence from it today. But it’s taken me by surprise and I don’t like being underprepared. Or going in there alone …
‘It’s cool,’ Barry assured me earlier, sounding satisfied and suitably distant in his impressive London office. ‘Greg’s cool. The other guy will be cool, too. Most likely …’
Most likely? That’s not the right thing to say when someone’s stressing, but apparently my agent didn’t get that memo.
I’m just hoping there hasn’t been a last-minute change of heart about casting me because of the #NotMyGabriel thing. They haven’t made the announcement yet: they could still recast. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times before. Hell, I’ve had it happen to me – too many times during the weeks and months following The Punch scandal. Hasty recasts, discarded press releases, every association with my name wiped out or brushed under the carpet.
I love this business, but it never loves you back. It’s why every actor is beset by superstition, endlessly playing out ridiculous rituals to appease the unseen theatre gods.
I’d like to say I’m above all that, but not since The Punch.
This afternoon, for example, I have a paperclip clipped to the inner pocket of my jeans. Why? Because it proved lucky for one audition five years ago, so I’ve been too scared to change it ever since. A dry cleaner pinned my receipt there, and I was in too much of a hurry to change in the loos of the theatre where my audition was being held to take it off. I got the part – a lead in a revival of Arthur Miller’s All My Sons that won me an Olivier Award and the company an extended West End run. The lucky paperclip has survived countless machine washes and trips around the world and there’s a small outline of rust now where it touches the denim. But it’s staying.
Today, it’s definitely staying.
I’m meeting Greg and the other guy at the stunning Royal Shakespeare Theatre, which does nothing to calm my nerves.
Most of the centre of Stratford-upon-Avon appears to be cute buildings huddled together around narrow streets, giving you the sense of being pleasantly surrounded by half-timbered history. But by the main Royal Shakespeare Theatre, the space suddenly opens out. Waterside stretches from the Warwickshire Canal along a strikingly expansive paved walkway leading to formal gardens, from which wide stone steps rise towards the theatre itself. Its brick-and-glass expanse – and elegant tall tower – dominate the space.
It’s as if the buildings and streets in the town centre have stepped back in awe, crowding together at a respectful distance to marvel at the majesty of the theatre.
And in the middle of all of it is you – me – feeling like an ant approaching a monolith.
And yes, I know I’m exaggerating. But can you blame me?
This morning I was crammed into a tiny room with my summer colleagues.
Now, I’m being led through an elegantly curved central atrium out to a balcony overlooking the river, where a world-renowned director is awaiting my arrival.
Alongside another guy, whose smile I immediately distrust.
‘Theo,’ Greg barks, not bothering to get up as I approach. ‘Take a seat.’
‘Just checking – it is Theo Larkin, right?’ the other guy says. His smile is like an oil slick traversing his face. ‘I mean, hashtag Not Gabriel Marley and all.’
Oh crap …
‘Ha-ha, yes, it’s me,’ I breeze back, wishing I could remove every one of Oil Slick Guy’s dreadful veneers with a well-swung fist.
I make a point of blanking him to look directly at Greg.
But Greg Dabrowski isn’t smiling.
‘Useful bit of publicity you got yourself there,’ he says, his tone as flat as the balcony that holds us.
‘It wasn’t planned,’ I rush. ‘The ladies taking the selfie made the mistake.’
The director says nothing for a terrifying moment. I resist the temptation to look at Oil Slick Guy just to pass the time. Then, Greg leans over the table and clamps a hand on my shoulder. It’s such a shock – and his grip is so strong – that I end up with one shoulder down towards the linen tablecloth and my head almost touching the water glass at my place setting.
‘Happens to the best of us. I got mistaken for Lin-Manuel Miranda on Broadway, right about the time Hamilton was winning the world.’ He nods happily as he remembers it. ‘Crazy, but I dined out on that for months.’
‘Oh. Wow. I can imagine.’ I sympathy-grimace, secretly wondering how on earth anyone could ever make that mistake. I mean, Lin-Manuel is a good-looking, younger guy. Greg Dabrowski looks like a sun-weathered, fifty-something balding cowboy who mislaid his Stetson.
‘So don’t worry, okay? We got you.’
I don’t know what that means, but Greg’s smiling and that’s something I want to keep. ‘Thanks. So, why did you … ?’
‘I wanted you to meet my assistant director for the run.’ He nods at Oil Slick Guy – and is it my imagination, or does Greg look a bit disgusted when he does that?
‘Duncan Harrow,’ the AD smarms. ‘Delighted to be on board.’
Even his handshake is greasy.
‘Dunc’s going to be assisting in the rehearsal stage with the twin productions, mainly, but he may well cover during the run if I’m called elsewhere. Following my specific instructions,’ he adds sharply, and I watch Oily Dunc’s beam dim just a little.
It helps to see it. Production politics aren’t constructive or useful generally, but sometimes it’s comforting to see them at play when you’re not involved.
‘ Always your instructions, Greg …’
‘I’m just going to run you through some of the ideas I’m working on,’ Greg continues, ignoring Duncan. ‘I want you in the loop from the beginning.’
As he launches into a list of character notes, snippets of set design and lighting briefs, I remember what Lucie said earlier, in the garden at Shakespeare’s Birthplace.
You could have any job you wanted … You’re – a star.
What would Lucie think if she was at this table? Would her assumptions about me be confirmed? To anyone in this place looking in, I am in a rarefied position – meeting with my director to hear his work in progress, blessed with privileged information the rest of the cast won’t get. They’ll show up on the first day of rehearsals and have to learn on the job. Not me. Not this time.
But how much of this is real? How much can I trust? Greg appears to believe in me, but is it just a show for Oily Dunc? Is this one of his many power plays to keep the AD in his place?
I wish I could accept it at face value. But I’m still smarting from the kicking this industry dealt me after The Punch.
Gabriel Marley should be here.
I bet he’d trust everything Greg says.
I bet he wouldn’t give it a second thought.
‘What do you say, Theo?’
With a jolt, I snap back to the conversation. ‘I – um – yeah, that all sounds great.’
To my relief, Greg is pleased.
I thank the gods of spontaneous improvisation and the lucky dry cleaners’ paperclip in my pocket. Today they have smiled on me.
We lose Oily Dunc in the foyer on our way out of the theatre – another win – and I walk with Greg down the smaller side steps to the road that leads to The Swan Theatre. Beside the curved brick beauty is a top-of-the-range Bentley, a patient driver standing beside it.
‘Listen, kid. I might have been tough on you at our first meeting. My plane was delayed and I was pissed.’
‘No, it was fine,’ I lie, surprised by the admission. ‘First meets are always awkward.’
‘Sure, sure. You’re new. You haven’t done this before – at this level. But that’s exactly what I need.’
I go to speak, but he isn’t finished.
‘And the Gabriel Marley thing: it’s gonna play in our favour.’
‘It is?’
‘Sure.’ His eyes slide to me. ‘Like tomorrow.’
The browsing plate I enjoyed during our meeting hits the bottom of my stomach. ‘Tomorrow?’
Greg gives a slow, satisfactory smile. ‘Your little summer gig. I hear tomorrow is the Big Reveal.’
Has Barry told him? What happened to keeping it under wraps until the Hamlet cast announcement? Does Greg disapprove?
My mouth flaps uselessly.
‘Relax, would you? It’s cute. And it’ll serve us well. Ride the wave of the mistaken identity thing straight into the announcement.’
‘I don’t follow?’
Greg nods at his driver who opens the rear door of the Bentley. ‘We make it like a secret gig. Like Prince did, yeah? The worst-kept secret in Stratford.’
‘But people will see me …’
‘Precisely! Make it a shock, Theo. Make it big. We’ll hang back on the Hamlet news until you’re a summer sensation.’ He pauses by the car door, sweeping one hand out as if painting a headline in the air. ‘“ FILM STAR PERFORMS INTIMATE GIG FOR DELIGHTED PUBLIC” – can you see it? – “ THOUSANDS FLOCK TO SHAKESPEARE HOME FOR A PIECE OF THEO ” …’
‘How?’ I manage.
‘Details.’ Greg swings into his seat. ‘You wow the crowds, we’ll tip off the press. Then when we announce you as Hamlet it’ll be us listening to what the public want. Cast by vast public demand. A sure-fire hit!’
Put like that, it’s pretty brilliant.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I rush, breathless with adrenaline and relief. I reach in to shake Greg’s hand and the warmth of his handshake thrills me.
‘Good. I believe in you.’
My breath catches. It’s more than I could have hoped for. Lilia and her Boys are never going to believe this.
‘Thank you.’
‘Knock ’em dead tomorrow.’ He settles back with satisfaction in the leather seat that looks as if it’s been sculpted from glossy cream. ‘Oh and the girl?’
The girl? Does he mean … ? ‘Lucie Hart?’
Greg shrugs. ‘Sure. Make the most of that, yeah?’
Hang on, what?
‘She’s a star of the company. She’s brilliant …’ Do I sound defensive? I shouldn’t, but Greg’s sudden mention of her sets my nerves on alert.
‘I’m sure she is. Pretty too, I heard. So, you know what to do.’
The driver moves to close the door.
Panic grips me. I edge between the chauffeur and my director. ‘Wait – I don’t understand …’
‘Make love to her. On the stage. For the crowds. Definitely for the cameras. Chemistry. Sizzle. Make every woman watching wish it was her. Make them believe it’s happening off-stage as well as on. People love a real-life love story. Leave them guessing, and begging for more. We’ll do the rest.’
The door slams. The driver gets in. The Bentley drives away.
And I can’t speak.
I told Lucie to trust me more. I promised her I was worthy of it. But to do what my director wants would mean betraying any scrap of trust she could ever place in me. Reduce her to my love interest, my are-they-in-real-life scandal? Hope that she believes it, too?
Lucie doesn’t deserve that. It’s her stage I’m sharing, not the other way around …
What do I do?
I can’t refuse, or challenge Greg, or insist that Lucie is not some prop for their publicity stunt. I can’t do any of the things I should because as far as he’s concerned it’s over, done, agreed without my consent. Without Lucie’s.
Sickened, I watch Greg Dabrowski leave.
What the hell happens now?