Twenty-Two Theo
Twenty-Two
THEO
Big Greg D
Romeo and Juliet eh?
Going for the big guns.
I like it. ?
Theo Larkin
Looking forward
to the challenge.
Big Greg D
I bet you are.
Get the crowd panting.
Slip in a tongue or two ?
Theo Larkin
… typing
I delete what I really wanted to say and stare at my screen. Why did Barry tell Greg Dabrowski we were starting with Romeo and Juliet ? Like it isn’t embarrassing enough! I need to end this conversation – largely because I need to disinfect my phone after his last message – but I don’t want to appear abrupt. I have him onside and I can’t afford to lose my advantage. So I’ve decided: I don’t have to agree to Greg’s suggestion, just not outright contradict it.
My fingers hover over the screen. Shaking my head, I type:
Theo Larkin
Good advice, cheers.
Chat next week ?
I watch the message thread for a while to make sure there are no scrolling dots heralding another reply. When none appear, I throw my phone on my bed and jog downstairs. I need a drink.
We won’t do the kiss in rehearsal tomorrow, so I’m not as nervous as I might be. Two kisses, apparently. Funny, I don’t remember that from my drama school production. Turns out I haven’t remembered any of the scene I have to perform with Lucie. It isn’t the classic R&J scene – the one everyone remembers, with Juliet wherefore-art-thou -ing on her balcony and Romeo gazing up at her. It’s a curveball I didn’t expect.
I get why: trying to make it look like we’re on different levels on a small stone stage would be impossible. But also from a contact point of view – which is, I suspect, why Ophelia chose Act I, Scene 5 instead. It’s the party scene, where Romeo sees Juliet for the first time, immediately forgets he’s supposed to be in love with Rosaline who he’s been mooning over for months, and falls head over heels for his sworn enemy’s sister.
Their first meeting consists of a surprisingly short flirtation, two stolen kisses and the bombshell of Romeo discovering who Juliet’s family are. It’s cute compared with the passion and longing of the balcony scene, or the scene after their secret marriage where they’ve spent the night together. But the one, inescapable detail about the scene we have to perform is what our audience will most want to see: the kiss.
The kisses …
I pour myself a double measure of whisky and take a long sip.
The kissing aspect isn’t the problem, daunting though it is. I’ve had enough stage kisses during my career to know they’re never enjoyable. People who’ve never had to step-by-step manoeuvre around someone else’s lips in front of a room full of critics think stage and screen kisses are the most romantic, sexy things.
They are not.
Imagine kissing a relative stranger for the very first time, with all the uncertainty, all the which way do I lean and how do I do this questions you usually navigate alone before it happens. Now imagine doing it in front of a camera crew, director, runners, other actors and heaven knows who else might wander in, with every single one of them critiquing your performance. Move your head that way, don’t squish her nose, don’t block the light, try to look interested, pull one shoulder back – no, not that one, the other one … Impossible. Embarrassing. A kicking from which your ego may not easily recover.
Like I said, not sexy.
Ophelia’s Great Lovers plan is guaranteed to get the crowds flocking in. The problem is making it work.
Lucie and I are on a steadier keel than earlier in the week. The performances of Shrew and Tempest have become easier since the press conference, with both of us determined to stake our claim to the stage. We haven’t argued since that conversation in the garden. But we haven’t really spoken much either, outside of our lines. I feel we’re equal on stage, but away from it? Who knows what we are?
We’ll have Ced with us at the rehearsal, which is so much more reassuring than if we were trying to run the scene by ourselves. But that’s another problem: things are still a bit prickly between us after Ced negotiated his way around Ophelia’s plan. I haven’t really chatted much with him, either. In many ways, I’m still an outsider. How will that play out tomorrow?
I half-considered seeing if Lilia was around this evening, thinking a trip to see her Boys at The Star and Hope might help calm my nerves, but her house is still in darkness. She’s probably out on the town already, living it up.
Good for her, I say.
I take another swig of whisky and eye the open playbook on the rose-covered arm of the sofa. I can’t put it off any longer. Time to nail these lines. I can’t control what happens tomorrow, but I can arm myself with the script. Draining my glass, I flop down and get to work.
It’s early when I wake, the unfamiliar morning light taking a moment to process. It doesn’t look like it usually does. Why is that?
And then I’m aware of a dull ache in the muscles of my neck, which confirms the worst: I’m not in bed because I’ve slept on the sofa all night.
My playbook is on the carpet, its spine raised up in a triangular peak and its pages creased. Groaning against my stiff muscles I reach down to retrieve it, blinking away the sleep from my eyes to look at my watch.
One hour before my alarm is due to go off.
It could be worse, but there’s no point going back to bed now. I need coffee and I need a shower and then I’ll use what time I have left to panic-cram my lines. Praying that my brain is more awake than the rest of me, I limp into action.
It works, to a fashion. The first coffee I drink gives me a kick, my shower pummels life into my bones and the second coffee I have when I emerge is the final shove to get me functioning. I speak the lines out, over and over, as I gather my things for the day, confident that nobody can hear me. Where I hear nerves fringe the edge of my lines I repeat them louder, my confidence building with each emboldened repetition.
By the time I have to leave, my mind feels packed with Romeo’s words. It’s a feeling I work towards in every part I play and with it comes a rush of relief. If it’s in my head I can trust the words to be there when I need them. Then all I have to do is marry them up with the movements we’ll put in place today.
Has Lucie learned her lines yet?
I wonder this as I sprint through the muted Monday streets. I remember how upset she was when Ophelia dropped Miranda on her in the first rehearsal because she liked to be word-perfect before marking out the scene. Does she have the same last-minute process as me, or will she have been prepared long before now?
I duck down a side alley past a craft jewellery shop and emerge on the wide-paved Henley Street.
Nearing the gate, I slow a little, half-expecting to hear Lucie’s bike behind me. I’m so much earlier today than I have been before and I know she’ll be coming to the Birthplace straight from her first job of the day.
What job requires her to start so early?
Is she a milk deliverer? A postie?
The problem is, I don’t really know anything about her, other than she’s been here for four years, is thick as thieves with Ced, and auditioned for Greg’s concurrent run of The Tempest about the time I got the role of Hamlet. Beyond that, she’s a mystery.
Maybe that’s the problem. I should know my colleagues: all of them, but especially Lucie, considering I’m about to perform a parade of lovers alongside her.
I need to get to know her. As soon as I can.
Seeing no sign of my co-star on Henley Street, I go through the gate and head for the crew room. There’s no bike locked on the drainpipe outside. Good. I’m here before her. I don’t know why that’s important to me this morning, but it is. I just want to get in the room, grab another coffee and settle my mind before everything begins.
It’s just a scene. We’re just actors doing our jobs. It’s not a big deal.
So why does it feel like one?
‘Morning.’ Ced raises his hand as I walk into the crew room. There’s no sign of Lucie or Ophelia. The room is calm, quiet, almost as if it’s waiting for something to happen.
‘Morning. Fancy a coffee?’
Ced slaps a hand to his heart. ‘My dear Theo, you speak the words.’
I’ll take that as a yes, then.
I drop my bag beside the props trunk and draw back the concertina screen that hides the kitchen area. Ophelia must have been in already because there’s a new bottle of fresh milk in the tiny electric countertop fridge and a pack of the Family Circle biscuit selection my gran used to think was posh to have at Christmas. Is Ophelia as nervous about the new programme as we are?
‘How are you feeling about this?’ I ask, as the kettle fires into life.
‘About as enthusiastic as you, I imagine.’
I hold up the unopened biscuit selection pack. ‘Ophelia left us these.’
‘Bloody hell, she’s panicking.’ A broad smile follows Ced’s doom-laden words. ‘Don’t look so nervous, love, it’s what she does on the first day of rehearsals for a new programme. Bit of budget-price buttering up. I’m happy to report that it does the trick, especially the jam and cream sandwich biccies and the pink wafers.’
‘Those are off-limits, I take it?’
Ced chuckles. ‘You’re learning well, Mr Larkin. I hear bourbons are perfectly lovely alternatives.’
‘Duly noted.’
‘Good boy.’
Billowing steam swirls into the small cupboard and the click of the kettle is my cue to make the coffee. It’s instant but doesn’t smell too obnoxious. I’ll take any comfort I can find today. ‘So, Lucie isn’t in yet?’
‘One of the kids came off his bike, suspected fracture. So she had to stay behind while Dev went off in the ambulance until one of the aunties could come to take over the shop.’
I stare back, not understanding a word. ‘Lucie has kids? And her partner’s called Dev?’ Wow. I really don’t know my co-star at all. Is she married?
‘What on earth are you –? Oh …’ Ced’s frown gives way to laughter. ‘Oh no. No, not at all. Forgive me. Lucie’s first job of the day is helping prepare newspaper deliveries for a newsagent – WhatNews? In Clopton Road? Dev, who is a wonderful fella but absolutely not Lucie’s partner, owns it. And the kid with the injury is one of the paperboys.’
‘Oh, right,’ I reply, the fog clearing and the air in the room decidedly less oppressive now. ‘I can’t see Lucie working in a newsagents.’
Coffee made, I carry a mug across to Ced, who accepts it like a first drink of water after a long desert trek.
‘That girl works wherever she can. Miracle she’s managed to keep going all these years.’
Nursing my own mug, I perch on a broken-backed prop chair. ‘What other jobs does she have?’ When Ced hesitates, I press in. ‘I don’t know anything about her outside of this place. I feel like I should.’
Ced takes a considered sip of coffee, observing me as he drinks. ‘I think you should know more about her, too. Maybe then you’d see why this place matters so much to her.’
‘Help me out, Ced? I doubt she’ll tell me anything easily.’
Ced sniffs. ‘Yes, well, when you two are constantly being flint on flint, rational conversation tends to take a backseat.’ He sits on the props trunk next to my chair. ‘She works at WhatNews?, then here, followed by evening shifts at Gonzalo’s restaurant in Sheep Street – do you know it?’
I squirm a little inside. Gonzalo’s is the restaurant where I first met Greg to discuss Hamlet . I saw how rude he was to the servers there – making vociferous complaints, clicking his fingers at them and generally being a loudmouthed, entitled dick. Is that what Lucie has to deal with after working here?
‘I’ve had some Hamlet meetings there. Not in the evenings, though.’
‘I imagine it’s very much Greg Dabrowski’s sort of place,’ Ced returns – and it isn’t clear what his opinion of this is. ‘Then, during the summer holidays, Lucie works Sundays on a stop-me-and-buy-one ice cream bike.’
I laugh before my common sense has caught up with the urge. Clamping a hand to my mouth, I offer an apology. ‘Sorry. I can’t picture Lucie on one of those.’
‘Says the man with the luxury of not having to juggle countless jobs to remain in the biz.’
It’s cutting. But it’s true.
‘I’ve worked other jobs between acting gigs,’ I insist. ‘I’ve hustled.’
Ced’s raised eyebrow is the gentlest challenge. ‘How long ago?’
Busted. ‘A while …’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘I’ve been lucky,’ I admit.
‘Yes, you have.’
I think of Lucie, working so many hours in so many different occupations. It’s my worst nightmare: the fear of returning to that jobbing actor thing in the face of dwindling jobs, after years of not having to do it. I know how perilously close I am to returning to that – if Hamlet doesn’t work out, if I make another mistake. It terrifies me. But to have had to do it for years just to keep going – I can’t imagine how hard that is for Lucie. ‘How does she ever have any time for herself?’
There’s something in Ced’s expression that I can’t work out. Why is he looking at me like that? ‘The answer to that is simple: she doesn’t.’
‘But auditions? And other jobs? And time to rest?’
‘You ask a lot of questions.’
‘I want to know.’
‘Why?’
We’re on our own and this is the most we’ve talked since I joined The Garden Players. I reckon a little honesty is allowed. ‘Because I think she’s probably incredible, for doing all that. I think I’ve underestimated her. And I want to put that right.’
‘Put what right?’
I almost spill my coffee at Lucie’s question. How long has she been standing in the doorway?
‘My frankly embarrassing coffee-making record,’ I rush, wishing my improvisation skills were sharper. ‘Can I make you one?’
She eyes me with suspicion. ‘Milk, no sugar, thanks.’
I offer her a smile and hurry to the kitchen. If she exchanges looks with Ced it happens behind my back while I switch the kettle back on. Under the circumstances, it’s best I don’t see it. I’ve made enough of a prat of myself already.
‘How’s the lad?’ Ced asks.
‘It’s definitely a break,’ she replies. I hear the scuff of her rucksack hitting the stone floor. ‘Poor kid’s going to be out of action for weeks.’
‘Horrific. How’s Dev?’
‘Upset. He feels responsible, even though Reuben had the accident on his way in to the shop.’
‘And how are you?’ I ask, not looking over to see her reaction.
‘I – um – bit shaken up, actually. Thanks for asking.’
I finish making her coffee and take it over, scooping up the biscuit selection packet as a last-minute thought. ‘Drink this. And you should be the one to open Ophelia’s biscuits, too.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘Thanks.’
‘Any biscuit you like,’ I add, sending Ced a pointed stare. ‘Right, Ced?’
‘Of course. They’re for everyone.’ He shifts uncomfortably on the props trunk. ‘I hear chocolate digestives are particularly restorative …’
Lucie laughs. ‘Your jam-and-creams and pink wafers are safe, don’t worry.’
‘Cheers, love. I don’t ask for much.’
She looks back at me. ‘So, are you ready for this scene?’
‘As I’ll ever be. You?’
‘Same.’
‘Finish your coffee, darlings, and we’ll get cracking,’ Ced says, hopping off the trunk and starting to clear a rehearsal space in the cramped room. ‘Rip off the plaster quickly, eh?’
That was not the analogy to choose this morning. Lucie and I fall silent as we drink, the scene ahead of us suddenly looming large.
Considering the dramatic start to her day, Lucie looks remarkably refreshed. Her auburn hair is swept up into a high ponytail, a length of braided hair wrapped around the band holding it in place. It makes me notice her neck and the small cluster of curls that nestle at its nape. Her green eyes are bright despite her early start, a gentle flush of rose blooming on her cheekbones. Is she blushing? I know I am. My face has been burning since she arrived.
I drain my mug and head over to the kitchen, using the time I spend washing it up to calm myself. I summon Romeo’s opening lines to the forefront of my mind, chasing away any other thoughts that might trip me up.
What lady’s that, which doth enrich the hand of yonder knight?
I turn from the sink to see Ced bowing to Lucie, taking her hand to twirl her around the cleared rehearsal space.
… O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
She pats Ced’s chest and offers a low curtsey before returning to her rucksack to pull out her playbook. Remembering mine in my back pocket I retrieve it, too. I know the lines already – I suspect she does as well – but for our first attempt at this scene I reckon we both need a comfort blanket.
Okay, I’ve delayed it for as long as I can. It’s time to start.
‘Shall we?’ I ask, holding up my curled playbook.
Lucie looks ready to throw up. Ced stares at my book, horrified.
‘The things you do to playbooks are the stuff of nightmares, Theo. You do know we use books now and not scrolls?’
My Juliet tries and fails to mask her giggle behind a cough. I don’t care: at least she isn’t scowling at me now.
‘Right, loves, places.’ Ced throws his arms open wide and Lucie and I move slowly to our opening positions. Both of us hold our playbooks like shields – mine admittedly a pretty crap curly one – eyes firmly fixed on the lines and not on the person we’re supposed to be saying them to.
Romeo approaches Juliet to strike up a conversation. She is instantly in the game, clearly loving it – playful, batting back his chat-up lines with ease. It isn’t like the flirting Petruchio and Kate do in Shrew : this is equal from the beginning. Not a power struggle but a delicious game of mutual attraction. It feels different already and not only because of the nerves. Although this first stab at the scene is never going to replicate the magic of our previous stage pairings, I feel the promise of it pulsing away, just beyond our reach.
Pretty quickly, they’re talking about lips. Romeo and Juliet do not hang about with the kiss-talk, that’s for sure. I guess when you know, you know. Problem is, every mention of lips sends a shot of nerves straight through me.
‘ Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? ’ I dare to look up from the lines at Lucie. She’s staring at her book but reddens as if our eyes had just met.
‘ Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. ’
I’m staring at her lips as they form the words. I don’t want to but I can’t stop myself. The fact is, I have to. Tomorrow I have to convince two different audiences that the thing Romeo wants more than anything in this moment is to kiss Juliet. I have to summon that emotion, make myself experience it with the intensity Romeo does. If I don’t believe it as I speak his lines, how can I expect anyone in the audience to believe me?
We aren’t doing the kiss this time. Of course we aren’t – we both know that. All we’re doing is marking out our moves.
So it shouldn’t matter yet.
But as we near that moment , another issue presents itself.
The problem is that wanting to kiss those lips is suddenly not a problem …