Twenty Theo
Twenty
THEO
‘H ow did the Shakespeare’s Birthplace swing this coup?’ Rosalind Guy from The Sentinel asks, holding her phone towards the table at the front of the room where we are all sitting.
On my left, Ophelia leans towards her microphone, the action completely unnecessary given the power of her own voice. ‘Mr Larkin joined us suddenly for a performance last week at our Patrons Breakfast. It’s a serendipity that’s delighted us all.’ She looks across the assembled group of journalists and nods at a woman with her hand raised, a striking penguin-shaped necklace catching the light as she waves for attention. ‘Yes?’
‘Hazel Prior, HarpOn News . How long will Theo be appearing here in the garden?’
‘For six weeks. We will be offering a new programme each week for the season, so our visitors can expect Mr Larkin to perform many of Shakespeare’s greatest scenes.’
Lucie, on my right, says nothing. But I can sense her bristling.
‘Joining these incredible performers,’ I interject. ‘Lucinda Hart and Cedric Millington-Harvey. I am beyond honoured to be acting alongside such immensely talented actors.’
‘And will you be shirtless in all of the scenes?’ a male journalist barks, causing a ripple of laughter to traverse the room.
‘You’ll have to come back to find out.’ I grin.
Ophelia beams at my reply.
An older man raises his hand. He sounds bored when he asks his question. ‘So what can visitors expect from the summer programme?’
‘The great lovers!’ Jake Balfe, head of the management team, announces proudly. ‘All of William Shakespeare’s most passionate couples in their greatest scenes.’ There’s a loud cough from the end of the table and Mr Balfe flushes. ‘Oh and our esteemed player Cedric Millington-Harvey will be presenting the greatest Shakespearean anti-heroes.’
The cameras flash and we do our best to smile.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you,’ Jake says. ‘Now if you would like to congregate at the far end of the room, we have a brief tour of the exhibition centre for you followed by refreshments prior to this afternoon’s performance.’
‘One last question?’ It’s the barking bloke so obsessed with my shirt. I would put money on which national newspaper he works for.
Jake and Ophelia share nervous smiles.
‘Of course, if it’s brief.’
‘Cheers. I was just wondering, considering the rumours that Amy Jo Everly has been spotted in Stratford-upon-Avon this week, is there a chance Theo can persuade her to join The Garden Players here to be his Juliet?’
My blood freezes.
Jake and Ophelia appear stunned by the question.
I daren’t look at Lucie and Ced.
Amy Jo? Here? Why? And how come I’ve only just heard about it?
‘Lucie is my Juliet,’ I shoot back, remembering my smile at the last moment as I rush to rephrase. ‘I will be performing Romeo alongside the wonderful Lucinda Hart as Juliet.’
‘Oh?’ The tabloid journalist gives a sleazy half-smile. ‘Something you two want to tell us? I mean that performance yesterday was more than just acting, wasn’t it?’
I ran right into that, didn’t I?
‘Thank you so much for all your questions,’ Jake squeaks. ‘Make your way to the far end of the room, please …’
At the top table we stand, Ophelia placing a firm hand against my shoulder blade as she ushers us off stage. Sleazy Journo gives me a thumbs-up as I leave.
What the hell happened there?
I follow my fellow players back to the safety of the crew room. The door slams behind us like a prison gate.
In the middle of the room, we form a circle, nobody quite making eye contact, nobody speaking.
The press conference had been going like a dream. After Lucie and I talked in the garden I sensed things had settled a little between us. But that question about Amy Jo just did exactly what she accused me of doing yesterday in the Tempest scene. Upstaged by a shadow from my past I didn’t know was lurking.
‘Well, that was a bloody bolt from the blue,’ Ced observes.
‘I didn’t know,’ I begin.
‘No need to explain,’ Ophelia cuts across me. ‘That son of a bitch was counting on it.’
We’re all so surprised by our director’s chosen phrase that we just stare at her.
She dismisses our shock with a wave of her hand. ‘Well. That’s what he is. I could go further but it would be a waste of both breath and vocabulary.’
‘That’s going to be the headline, isn’t it?’ Ced flops down on the props trunk. ‘All of that palaver today and we’re going to be reduced to a bloody rumour.’
‘No. No ,’ Ophelia counters. ‘There are plenty of representatives of decent news outlets here today. And we have the social media team whipping up a frenzy. Whatever that idiot thinks he has on us, he doesn’t. The fact remains that Theo’s army of fans are already booking tickets. The news of our summer programme is only going to boost that.’
‘Who’s Amy Jo anyway?’ Ced asks.
Who’s Amy Jo Everly? Only the woman I was supposedly defending when I punched Xavier Michel at Cannes, the sleazeball director who tried to grope her during a press junket for our film. Amy Jo is only the woman I was in love with for three years, who dropped me like a hot rock the moment she thought her career might go down the tubes alongside mine.
‘She’s an actress I dated for a while,’ I reply, hoping they don’t ask for more. ‘We made a film together.’
Ced nods. ‘And she’s in Stratford now?’
‘It’s news to me if she is,’ I say, looking at Lucie. I don’t know why I want her to know it most, but I do. ‘And I wouldn’t act with her in anything again, let alone Romeo and Juliet .’
Lucie stares pointedly at me.
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘I know.’ Her smile is barely there but it’s better than nothing. ‘Thanks for what you said, anyway.’
‘… Lucie is my Juliet …’ Ophelia smirks. ‘Now there’s a headline.’
‘Oh don’t,’ Lucie groans, walking to the kitchen. ‘I need tea. Anyone else?’
A mumble of approval passes between us.
‘I’ve some brandy in my hipflask if anyone needs a snifter,’ Ced offers. ‘Might bloody need it after today.’
‘We have to stay positive,’ Ophelia says. ‘And we have a performance in thirty minutes. So perhaps delay hitting the liquor until we’ve delivered that? Let’s give those bastards from the press something to really write about, yes?’
When tea has been handed out, Ophelia and Ced move to the garden to go over his lines, leaving Lucie and me alone to practise ours.
We watch the door slowly close, both nursing our mugs. When silence rushes into the room, I dare to look at her. She doesn’t deserve any more unwanted surprises.
‘I didn’t know about Amy Jo.’
‘I never said you did. Let’s start the scene …’
‘It was a leading question from that journo. He wanted to throw me off.’
‘So I gathered. It’s not important, Theo, let’s just rehearse.’
‘It is important to me that I tell you. I dated Amy Jo for three years. We got together while we were making All of Me .’ When she doesn’t respond, I press on, kicking myself for assuming Lucie Hart knows any of my film work. ‘It was a romantic thriller. It won the Palme d’Or. Not that it’s important. Amy and I got together on set. I thought we were happy, but …’
‘Look—’ Lucie puts her mug down suddenly on the props trunk, the sound reverberating as tea sloshes over the edge ‘—lovely though this is to hear about your love life, we need to rehearse.’
‘Yes we do and we will. But I want you to understand …’
‘I understand enough. Your ex is in town. The media got wind of it. It’s probably a Brangelina thing they want to resurrect. I get it. I don’t need to know any more.’ She lets out a long sigh. ‘I want today’s show to be like yesterday. Because yesterday was great – it was amazing. But if we get sidelined now we could miss it. And the press will be watching. If we fail, they’ve won and all of this will have been for nothing. So, can we get started?’
I want to tell her everything, so that she understands why they asked that question. But she’s right: we have to make this performance count.
So we rehearse. And it’s good, even if every time our eyes meet I feel bruised.
When The Garden Players emerge into the garden thirty minutes later, a large crowd greets us with enthusiastic applause. The front row of Mona’s precious event chairs have been reserved for members of the press, but a few determined ladies have ousted some of the journalists to claim prime viewing spots. Sleazy Journo is one of the displaced, snarling and sneering from the second row. Good. Let him stew there. He’ll have written his dirty little piece anyway: our performance now won’t change that.
There’s the lady from the garden earlier, too, the one who was talking to Lucie before I interrupted them. I notice her giving a little wave to Lucie as she is introduced on the stage and my co-star smiling as she sends a brief curtsey back.
She’s beautiful when she smiles.
She’s never smiled at me that way.
Hang on, what?
Jolted by the sudden thought, I quickly pack it away, forcing my attention back to the stage.
‘… And we are delighted to introduce, as our special Summer Guest Star, Mr Theo Larkin!’
The applause is louder than yesterday, screams and whistles joining the cheering as I jog on the stage and repeat my ‘greeting my fellow players’ routine – air-kiss Ophelia, raised-hand-clasp Ced – but when I take Lucie’s hand to kiss it, I add an extra squeeze of her palm. Briefly, she squeezes back.
That’s all I need to know.
So we run the programme as yesterday, all of us visibly more determined to give the best show we can. Only today it isn’t driven by nerves but defiance, all of us making a point. We’re here, we’re awesome and we’re going to blow any stupid, sidelining headlines clean out of the water.
‘Sleaze-bucket bloke is seething,’ Ced says as Lucie and I return behind the rose-covered trellis flat after our Shrew scene. ‘Couldn’t take his piggy little eyes off the two of you. Knock him dead with Tempest , loves.’
As we listen to Ced’s final monologue, I strip off my shirt, offering Lucie a rueful smile as she ties her shawl. She mimes blowing on her palms and rubbing them together then pats my chest, both of us grinning before Ced’s applause begins.
And then we’re on the stage. And though our nerves leak a little through our opening lines, the squeals and murmurs of the audience embolden us. Our carefully staged almost-touches begin, each rewarded by gasps and giggles. And the magic returns.
It’s greater this time. Maybe because, as Lucie said, we’re all in on the plan. Together. United. Even Ced’s lines, spoken behind us as Prospero spies on his daughter and his prisoner, add power to our scene. When I take Lucie’s hand just before our exit, we pause. It’s instinctive, shared, a sucker-punch of emotion as I hold her gaze. I let my thumb move slowly, deliberately over the top of her hand as the audience falls silent. And then we exit to our respective sides of the stage, the crowd rising to their feet as their applause thunders into the garden.
When we return for our final bow, I look over at Sleazy Journo. But his seat is empty, abandoned amid the throng of applauding, delighted people.
Let him write what he likes. Amy Jo means nothing to me any more.
This summer will be about the three of us: me, Ced and Lucie. Storming the stage, proving our worth, making our mark.
Now all we have to do is make Ophelia’s risky programme work …