Seventeen Lucie
Seventeen
LUCIE
‘A nd then what?’
Lyle and Cass are so far on the edge of their seats that one of them will likely topple at any moment. It makes a surprising change for me to be the one regaling them with tales of my day, but I’m not altogether enjoying the scrutiny.
‘You dragged Theo Larkin into the crew room and went wildly out of character with him!’ Cass yells, clapping her hands.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘You refused to give him back his shirt and now you’re married!’ Cass squeals. She was exhausted from work until five minutes ago but this has revived her faster than an electric shock.
I love her faith in my abilities, but that kind of spontaneity is beyond me.
Over in his favourite raggedy armchair, with Horatio the cat curled up and snoring on his lap, Lyle chuckles. ‘Nah. I reckon she freaked, made some lame excuse about a shift at the restaurant and legged it straight back here …’
I wince, but don’t reply.
‘… buying a stash of Bard biscuits on the way,’ he finishes with a wide grin.
I could deny it, but once again Lyle Robinson has got me.
My friends start to drum their hands on their laps. ‘Show us, show us, show us!’
Sheepishly, I pull a white paper bag out of my rucksack and present the damning, Shakespeare-head-shaped gingerbread evidence.
‘Aw, Luce!’
Cass tumbles off the sofa and wraps me in an overenthusiastic hug.
‘Am I that predictable?’ I groan.
‘Always.’ Lyle laughs.
‘Poor Lu.’ Cass strokes my hair in her odd, Mother Hen way she’s always done since we met. In our friendship group our roles are well-established: me the fixer and sympathy giver; Cass the mum and organiser; and Lyle the philosopher, chief coffee provider and all-round everyday knight-in-shining-armour. ‘What did Theo say?’
That’s the bit I still can’t explain.
We came back into the crew room and yes, I felt awkward because the experience on stage had been so intense. Ced was thrilled it had gone down so well. Tips poured into Ced’s hat, delighting all of us. The crowd were clamouring for Theo so he’d remained in the garden, one of the Birthplace stewards eventually escorting him safely back to us.
But then Theo acted like nothing had happened on the stage. He couldn’t quite make eye contact with me, but his chat and laughter and cheeky jokes with Ced and Ophelia betrayed none of his response to the performance.
‘He didn’t say anything about it,’ I tell Cass and Lyle now, their bewilderment mirroring my own. ‘Ced tried to lead him by saying how electric things were with us but Theo just changed the subject.’
Lyle frowns. ‘Could he have been embarrassed?’
‘I don’t think so. He was happy to talk about everything else. It was like he didn’t want to acknowledge anything had happened with us.’
‘So do you think it was all an act?’ Cass is far from convinced.
‘I have no idea. It didn’t feel like it was to me.’
‘You must have felt awful,’ Cass sympathises. ‘Poor Lu.’
Scratch awful . I felt dismissed, glossed over, irrelevant. All the fears I’d harboured before of being less than him, of our vastly different professional standings – that I thought Theo had proved unfounded on our stage – came flooding back. It was horrible. I couldn’t stay there.
‘So I just—’ I grimace at Lyle for his annoying insight ‘—made a lame excuse about my restaurant shift, legged it to the gift shop, cleared them out of Bard biscuits with my staff discount and here I am.’
‘Right.’ Lyle jumps up, sending a very disgruntled Horatio flying out of the living room. ‘Hold that thought. We need tea all round and then you can crack open those babies and spill about Theo.’
Tea first is the answer to everything in our house and it’s comforting after the huge emotion of today. And while I suspect my friends love me as much for my addiction to the iced gingerbread Shakespeare head-shaped cookies I buy in a crisis as they do for who I am, somehow the sharing of my sorrow stash (as Lyle calls it) feels like an act of solidarity.
So Lyle makes tea while Cass fetches plates (our lounge carpet may be threadbare but crumbs are still a no-no, according to Lyle ‘because we should have some standards’). And, in the middle of it all, I feel bruised and bewildered but so, so loved.
This is how it’s always been with us. Today, after so much new , I need the comforting familiarity of the old.
What I can’t fathom is why Theo’s after-show response has irritated me as much as it has. We’re just actors. We were just doing our jobs. He never expected anything else from me and I certainly didn’t expect it from him.
I didn’t expect the glistening, naked chest, either, that’s for certain. I’m pretty sure William Shakespeare would have had something to say about that little liberty. Or is that the point? We needed a spectacle. We needed our first performance to cause a splash. Was Theo just fulfilling the brief?
‘Briefs,’ Lyle sniggers when I float the theory. ‘One look at his chest and you’re already thinking of his pants!’
‘You’re so helpful, did I ever tell you?’
He spreads his hands wide, like he does when he’s blasting out the final big notes of an aria. ‘You’re welcome.’
He brings the teapot and Cass brings the plates and our Sorrow Stash Feast is laid out on the reclaimed tea chest coffee table in the middle of the room. We pull cushions and beanbags around it and even Lyle is persuaded to relinquish his shabby throne in the name of solidarity.
‘Bet you were amazing, though,’ Cass offers, pouring very pink tea from the rainbow-coloured teapot that another of our friends, Dion, painted at evening class last month and gave us, along with the pink passionfruit tea it’s now filled with. ‘I mean, you always are. But acting when you’re angry? That’s where the magic lies.’
‘I love you,’ I reply, sending a pointed look to Lyle, who just laughs.
‘Passion,’ he says. ‘It’s the difference between a solid performance and a stellar one. I see it all the time. Especially at tech rehearsals. They’re the driest, most uninspiring environments for performance, but the actors with natural passion shine in them.’
I love that he knows this. Lyle is a lighting technician for the RSC, working mainly at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, but sometimes at The Swan and The Other Place. He is the textbook definition of fearless: as happy scaling gantries high above the stage to position lights as he is working his magic from the lighting box. Plus, he is a complete ninja when it comes to production gossip. In this industry, anyone with the inside track is a great ally to have.
‘I wasn’t angry,’ I confess. ‘I was … buzzing. Yesterday I wasn’t convinced we could even share a stage civilly but as soon as we started today it was amazing. We were so good together. We instinctively knew where we were heading, as if there was this otherworldly connection between us. We were totally in sync. I’ve never experienced that before.’
Cass is studying me intently now. ‘On stage or in real life?’
‘Either,’ I reply, instantly regretting it.
My friends say nothing. They don’t have to: I know what’s coming.
‘Have you considered that maybe what you felt wasn’t just the performance?’ Lyle begins slowly. ‘And that maybe the reason you’re upset now is that he didn’t reciprocate?’
‘I’m not upset.’
Lyle eyes the pile of wrappers and paper bag on the coffee table. ‘A dozen Bard biscuits beg to differ.’
‘I don’t want Theo Larkin to reciprocate anything with me. I just want him to not be weird when something goes well.’
‘Noble,’ Lyle comments. ‘It’s a lie, but it’s noble.’
‘Okay, I wish I hadn’t said anything now.’ I drop my head as a chorus of no’s sounds from them both. This is why I don’t share stuff, precisely because of this. But I was so flustered when I walked in that I couldn’t avoid explaining why.
‘Lu, it’s okay,’ Cass says, gently. ‘You just had a huge high together and then he was a dick about it. It’s his issue.’ She reaches out to pat my arm. ‘Maybe he was embarrassed about losing his shirt.’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Have you seen the photoshoot he did for Esquire ?’
We both turn to Lyle, who flattens his phone protectively against his chest.
‘I mean, not that I was looking or anything. It just popped up on Google …’
‘You’re Googling Theo Larkin?’ Cass smirks.
‘To see if anything’s been said about the show,’ Lyle tuts, returning to his search. ‘Especially about Lucie.’ The blue reflection of his phone screen in his dark-rimmed glasses flickers as he scrolls.
I nurse my teacup and inhale the passionfruit scent. It’s our friend Dion’s favourite blend, bought from a regular stall at the monthly farmers’ market from three sisters we all swear are sorcerers: Taste that. Just taste it. There’s magic at work there … They have blends for every situation – wellbeing, winter colds, heartbreak, energy, inspiration, dreams – each one delicious and brightly coloured.
I wonder if they have a blend for Dealing with a Guest Star Who’s Acting Like a Knob …
I’ll have tea and Bard biscuits with Cass and Lyle and then I might just head to bed. I lied to The Garden Players when I said I had to work later – the boiler in the kitchen is being overhauled tonight so Gonzalo’s is closed. I’m exhausted from the nerves and the performance and everything that happened afterwards and I’ve been promising myself a long bath, a good book and an early night for months. Tonight might be my last proper evening off during the summer so I should make the most of it.
Enjoying my tea, I listen to my friends chat, letting the warmth and familiarity of their conversation swirl around me. They’re on my side and always will be: that’s all that matters. I need to switch off, take care of me for a change and …
‘Hold. The. Bus !’ Lyle exclaims, the power of his voice enough to silence the room. Being an opera singer in his spare time, this is his everyday superpower: if Lyle Robinson wants you to hear him, you’ll hear him.
‘What is it?’
My housemate’s eyes are sparkling when he turns the phone to face us. ‘You wanted to make an impression? Well, you’ve damn well done that, Lu!’
Cass and I scramble up from our cushions and beanbags and surround Lyle’s chair.
I can’t believe it.
There are page upon page of search results on everything from social media platforms to local and even national news agency websites, most of them bearing the same photos and a one-minute shaky video filmed by someone who was in the crowd.
Theo grabbing my hand as Petruchio and me glaring back as Kate.
A shirtless Theo posing with a fake log.
A close-up of Theo’s chest (of course).
And a photo of my hand lightly skimming his pecks, cropped in such a way that you can’t tell it’s on the stage. It looks like one of those sleazy stolen beach photos of celebrities that the tabloids adore.
Suddenly, we’re all on our phones, searching the same thing. And the results are enlightening, to say the least:
COVER THINE EYES! THEO LARKIN
SIZZLES IN SURPRISE SHAKEY STRIP!
SHAKESPEARE, BORING?
NOT WHEN THEO’S THERE!
FORGET MARLEY: IT’S ALL ABOUT LARKIN NOW
STAR BARES ALL IN SHOCK APPEARANCE
WOULD YOU SLAP THIS?
THIS LUCKY LADY TRIED TO!
O-THEO, O-THEO, HERE-FORE
ART THOU, O-THEO!
In the few hours since Theo’s inaugural appearance, he’s apparently taken over the internet – again. Only this time nobody’s laughing. Quite a lot of people are creepily lusting, though, judging by the lurid headlines, icky photo captions and questionable comments under every online post.
Lyle pulls a grim face. ‘Ugh. I’ll need to sanitise my eyes after reading this.’ He scrolls on, regardless.
‘But Lu looks great,’ Cass states, glaring at him. ‘Doesn’t she?’
‘Yeah, yeah, sorry, Lu. You look amazing.’
‘Is Lucie named anywhere?’ Cass asks.
‘Um … Hang on … Maybe if I check the next page …’
‘I won’t be, Lyle.’
‘No – wait – you might …’
Of course I’m not. It wasn’t announced, so there’s no press release available with cast details for any journalists who could be bothered to research facts. Nobody in the Garden would have noted my name, not once Theo was introduced. But I am in a lot of the photos and the video being spread across the web. It’ll be the biggest online audience I’ve ever had, even if the vast majority of them are definitely not looking at me.
Shakespeare’s Birthplace has yet to confirm that Theo is part of The Garden Players, so the reports can only rely on statements from those in the audience today. Not that anyone’s bothered how it happened: only that an actor everyone openly mocked a few days ago got his chest out for a crowd in a garden and won the internet.
Cass rests a hand on my shoulder. ‘Is this what you were hoping for? Because that’s all that matters.’
‘It’s a start,’ I reply, my stomach in knots. ‘It has to translate to more visitors this summer or else it’s just a slightly pervy news story that will be old in twenty-four hours.’
‘You look amazing there.’
‘Cheers, Cass.’
‘I mean it. Sure Theo got everyone’s attention with his oops, my shirt fell off stunt, but it was the two of you sizzling together that made the crowd swoon. You made that happen with him. Don’t forget that.’
‘Except that Theo already has.’
I don’t want to say it out loud, but if I don’t it’ll fester inside and I need to rest now. I hate that Theo didn’t acknowledge what happened on stage with us. But I know it happened: I didn’t imagine it. Watching the snippet of video brings it all back: we were electric together.
I’m angry, but I’m not going to let him steal this moment from me. He can’t pretend this was all him if he wants to ride the wave of it right through the summer. Theo can try to ignore my contribution as much as he likes: the fact is, he needs me.
Because tomorrow, we have to do this all over again.