Sixteen Theo
Sixteen
THEO
T hey walk out like they own the stage. Both of them, heads held high, proud smiles greeting the appreciative crowd. As they do I see other visitors hurrying over, summoned by the applause and the spectacle.
Behind them, I feel exposed; a newbie taking his first faltering steps in their wake. And even though this won’t be the first time I stand on this raised stone dais, it’s the first time it matters. Before was a bit of a laugh, a dare to myself to do it. I didn’t care what the man and woman already standing there thought.
I’m ashamed to think of that now.
Ophelia is beaming on the stage, the knowledge of the bombshell she’ll soon drop illuminating her features.
At the edge of the stage, I pause, as she suggested. Awaiting my cue.
‘… and, in a world exclusive for Shakespeare’s Birthplace this summer, it is my privilege and joy to introduce our Special Guest Artist – star of stage and screen, Mr Theo Larkin!’
The gasp is loud as every head turns.
This is it.
Make it a shock, Theo. Make it big.
Greg Dabrowski’s words return at the very moment I don’t want them. This is mine, not his. He has no right to claim ownership of it – or me. Pushing the memory away, I stride onto the stage to delighted applause and a wave of rising camera phones.
I double air-kiss Ophelia, clasp hands with a grinning Ced and turn to Lucie. I can see the determination in her smile, the distinct rise of her chest as I sweep her hand to my lips and let them linger on her skin. A squeal from the crowd is my reward.
We turn to Ophelia and bow, Ced taking his mark as Lucie and I jog to the side of the stage, standing just behind a rose-covered trellis scenery flat used for garden performances. It’s only when we’re hidden from the view of the crowd that I dare to look at her.
‘Shit!’ I whisper.
‘Big, big shit!’ she whispers back, flapping a hand in front of her delighted smile.
As we peer around the trellis to watch Ced, I catch my breath. It isn’t a big audience by anyone’s measure – much smaller than the Patrons’ event – but their reaction is as expansive as a crowd twice the size. I can see some of the visitors already busy on their phones. Messages are being sent. Photos being shared. With any luck, the news will be out before Lucie and I even begin.
‘… Let what is meet be said it must be meet,
And throw their power i’the dust!’
Ced’s last lines echo in the garden for a breath before warm applause breaks out.
I dare to let my hand brush Lucie’s as we wait to be announced.
‘Go get them, Kate.’
She’s breathing hard against the nerves, but she blesses me with a smile.
‘Bloody marvellous they are!’ Ced beams as we swap places. Out on the stage, Ophelia is announcing our piece. Lucie gives Ced a brief hug and then strides past me to take her place.
The applause goes on far longer than usual, meaning that she has to hold her ground, waiting for the audience to settle. But there’s an undercurrent of expectation rumbling along the rows. I feel it like a sub-bass note, deep in my core.
Slowly, she turns her head away from the direction I will enter the stage. Waiting for the first line.
I will every ounce of moxie into myself. I am no longer Theo Larkin, out of his depth, realising he is being thrown to the wolves here for the sake of publicity. I am Petruchio, cock-sure, used to doing whatever he likes and getting his own way, about to be thoroughly out-classed and arrested by Kate.
‘ Good morrow, Kate, for that’s your name, I hear …’
The phones of the crowd follow me onto the stage, the garden falling silent save for a few excited gasps.
I let Petruchio’s awe and adrenaline take centre-stage, the lines Lucie and I fought so much over in the crew room now currency for this shocking, vital attraction our characters will share.
Make love to her. On the stage. For the crowds. Definitely for the cameras …
Get stuffed, Greg Dabrowski. You don’t own me yet.
I feed my irritation into passion, rounding with my Kate as our heated exchanges intensify.
She looks stunning today. I nearly fell over when she emerged from the changing room. And this time, she doesn’t hate me. At least, I don’t think she does …
We reach the big moment – Kate raises her hand to strike Petruchio – and this time I almost let Lucie’s palm make contact with my skin. Panic flashes in her eyes, an audible gasp escaping her lips when I catch her hand.
It’s like dynamite.
The audience reacts loudly, squeals and nervous giggles rippling out as we continue. More phones appear, the gaze of our audience so intense now the hairs on my forearms rise beneath my shirt. When Ced strides on as Kate’s father, Baptista, all three of us are enveloped by the incredible energy in the garden. I see it register with him and risk a wink as I turn.
This is better than I could have dreamed.
By the time our scene ends, the audience are on their feet. The remaining visitors have joined the throng, jostling with the rest for the best view. Ophelia blinks back tears as I join hands with Ced on my left and Lucie on my right, their hands gripping mine with the same force. And then, as we rehearsed, we turn together and sprint off stage.
Behind the trellis we hug and mime-scream, barely remembering to hush in time as the thunderous applause finally begins to ebb. There’s just Ced’s Falstaff from Act III, Scene 5 of The Merry Wives of Windsor and then Lucie and I have our Tempest scene. Now we’re in the middle of the performance I wish we’d performed Ferdinand and Miranda before Petruchio and Kate. I don’t feel as sure of this scene, the dynamic between the young island lovers far more subtle. It feels more of a risk than a give-as-good-as-you-get flirty row. There’s a level of honesty I hadn’t expected to be asked for. I can’t hide between clever one-liners or the pace of an escalating war of words. Ferdinand is so in love with the young daughter of Prospero that even though he’s a prince, he will work as the lowest servant doing the hardest tasks to win the right to marry her.
I admit that, when I first read it, I thought Prince Ferdi was a bit of a sap. One of the few survivors of a shipwreck, marooned on a strange and far-flung island, with his father feared dead, and all he can think about is getting his leg over? First pretty girl he sees and – boom! – he’s gone.
But we aren’t playing them like this.
Their love is pure, sudden, the kind of love that draws a line in the sand of your life, so that everything becomes divided between Before It Arrived and After It Happened. I’ve never felt love like that. Has Lucie?
We have to play it straight, with full belief, as if that kind of world-shaking, life-changing love is a real thing. The problem is, even after our truce yesterday, I’m not convinced we’ve managed it yet.
And now the crowd are waiting for us, their expectations sky-high.
I feel a nudge in my ribs. ‘Stop worrying,’ Lucie whispers.
‘Who’s worrying?’ I grin back.
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling.
And then the garden fills with applause as Ced takes a bow.
‘Jacket!’ Lucie hisses.
Looking down, I realise I’m still wearing Petruchio’s red velvet padded doublet. Panic rising, I struggle out of it as beside me Lucie fixes the knot of her shawl at the back of her dress. As she greets a returned and rather sweaty Ced, a sudden moment of inspiration grabs me. I pull the muslin shirt over my head and discard it with the doublet, walking past Lucie and onto the stage before she notices.
Yes, it’s a massive cliché. And any Shakespeare traditionalists in the garden will likely be horrified by the liberty I’ve just taken. But the screams and wolf-whistles that greet my newly naked chest suggest my audience today are less bothered with my costume than with what lies beneath it.
In for a penny …
Ophelia’s pink-painted lips drop open as I approach, and she only just remembers to pass me the pile of fake logs at the side of the stage that will be my props for this scene. I nod my thanks and jog into position.
This time, it’s me stranded centre-stage while the crowd settles. There are a lot of cameras raised and a great deal of excited giggling. I busy myself with slowly picking up the pretend logs, their imagined weight registering in the tension in my body. Judging by the swell of crowd reaction, this might not have been the wisest action to choose, but I’m here now. If it means they keep watching, the better for all of us, right?
When the audience has calmed a little more, I straighten up, rub my hands at the small of my back and begin.
‘… There be some sports are painful, and their labour
Delight in them sets off … ’
There’s a squeak from the audience and a wave of shushes.
I have to focus hard to stop myself laughing. I can’t believe how great this is. How at home I am.
You look great. You’re going to be amazing. Stop worrying .
Did Lucie mean what she said? I should have listened to her. There’s a lot I should have done, I realise now, as I tell the crowd how much Ferdinand adores Miranda.
‘… The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead,
And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabb’d;
And he’s composed of harshness …’
Lucie knows this place, this crowd, better than I ever will. This is her stage – hers and Ced’s – and yet she’s sharing it with me. I should have appreciated that.
On cue, Lucie hurries on stage, begging Ferdinand to take a rest.
I feel the crowd’s anticipation soar.
We’d planned lots of moments of almost touching yesterday – as if they can’t keep their hands off each other but know they’re not supposed to touch. I should have thought this through: it was different yesterday when Lucie’s fingers were brushing the front of my T-shirt and jacket sleeve. Now her fingers spring back from my bare chest and arms the moment our skin makes contact. Which is awkward for Lucie and Theo but for our fictional counterparts adds a new level of sensuality.
They are discovering one another, one stolen touch at a time.
The audience, of course, works this out long before we do.
As each touch registers with them, an audible swell of excitement lapping the edge of our stage, I see Lucie’s brief out-of-character glance in their direction.
And then something completely unexpected happens.
For every brushed contact, every light touch, she makes a tiny, deliberate pause. Following her lead, I do the same. The effect is that Miranda and Ferdinand mark each inhale caused by their brave micro-contacts. The audience sees the physical effect registering on Ferdi and Miranda and it makes them will more to happen.
I feel it, too. My chest contracts with every contact, as if each touch has the potential to stop my heart.
I make myself believe it.
Lucie does the same …
… so that, as our lines pass slowly and the lovers declare their love, the line between us and the characters we’re playing seems to blur.
‘… Do you love me? …’
Lucie moves closer.
My heart thunders in my ears as Ferdinand calls the heavens as his witness. My body leans towards her in reply …
‘… I, beyond all limit of what else i’ th’ world,
Do, love, prize, honour you …’
At the back of the stage, Ced interjects as Prospero, who is spying on his daughter and overhears the conversation. He’s brilliant at the lines, but I don’t hear him speak a single one as I gaze at my Miranda …
Electricity is fizzing from the audience, every breath in the garden held; and when I offer Lucie my hand, the touch of our fingers feels like fire.
I’m deep in character , I tell myself. And I am. Deeper than I’ve experienced before. But I can’t take my eyes off our fingers as they dance and slide and intertwine. We’ve stopped speaking, our breath held, but it works. This works …
Lucie’s gaze flickers, her moss-green eyes widening imperceptibly.
And then she’s pulling her hand back, her final lines spoken as she hurries away from me …
‘… and now farewell,
Till half an hour hence …’
I watch her leave, stunned for a moment, then make my hasty exit off the opposite side of the stage.
Ced moves to the audience to complete the scene as Prospero.
I can’t see Lucie from where I stand.
Sweat beads my palms and down my spine. I’m giddy with the rush.
I’ve never felt like that before on stage – on my own or with someone else.
What just happened?