Thirty-Two Theo
Thirty-Two
THEO
S he’s different today. It’s both a relief and a puzzle.
What’s changed?
I have to admit, I was dreading our rehearsal after the strange vibe between us last week. I came in fully expecting another battle, but she isn’t fighting me. Her head is high, her points made in discussing the scene reasoned and inclusive. She doesn’t jump on my suggestions, or heave a sigh when I crack a joke.
I like it. But it’s weird .
Just before our first performance of the day, Ophelia rushes into the crew room, brandishing her phone.
‘Look, darlings!’ she insists, pointing a violet fingernail at the screen.
‘New phone, Pheels?’ Ced asks, giving a little doff of an imaginary cap when Ophelia sends him a look.
‘Better than that: it’s Lucie’s interview! That wonderful Tiffany Truscott has written the most darling article – and the photos! You must see this, Lucie. You look like a Hollywood star in our little garden!’
We gather around the screen.
‘Oh wow …’ Lucie breathes.
‘Lu, those photos are phenomenal.’ Ced hugs Lucie excitedly. ‘You look wonderful.’
I crane my neck over Lucie’s shoulder for a better view. My breath catches. ‘You’re stunning.’ Realising my mistake, I rush, ‘… in the photos. You look stunning in the photos.’
Ced and Ophelia stare at me, as Lucie reads aloud.
‘… Lucinda Hart doesn’t just look beautiful on stage: she illuminates it. More than the equal of her famous co-star, she owns every moment, bringing to mind a young Eileen Atkins or Helen Mirren. She is a true undiscovered gem, but not for long. Expect to see this star rise and rise … ’ Lucie clamps a hand to her chest. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
Ced beams with pride. ‘It’s exactly what you deserve, my love. Years of hard work, finally recognised.’
‘I love you,’ Lucie replies, hugging him.
Ophelia wipes a tear from her cheek and peers at her watch. ‘Fifteen minutes, everyone! As if we haven’t had enough excitement already!’
Lucie isn’t just brilliant on stage today, she’s luminous.
Maybe the article has given her a much needed boost, or made her realise what the rest of The Garden Players already know. As we perform our pieces I’m fascinated to see her at work. It’s as if she draws on the energy from the crowd and channels it straight into her performance. I hadn’t noticed that before.
Judging by the response to the article, neither had anyone else.
By the end of today’s second show, Lucie’s interview and photos are all over social media. People who’ve seen her perform here share the images and link, adding their own observations to the mix. People who were undecided about buying tickets to see us now proudly post photos of their booking confirmations. The bookings for the coming weeks pick up pace, much to Ophelia’s delight. And as players, all we can do is watch it happen.
As we’re packing up to leave, I wait until Ced nips out to chat to Ophelia, before I dare to approach her.
‘Great shows today,’ I offer, instantly hating my opening line.
Lucie stuffs her playbook in her rucksack. ‘Cheers. You too.’
‘And that article …’ She glances at me and I feel the world tilt. ‘Really lovely.’
Her gaze narrows. ‘Stunning.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said my photos were stunning.’
I did, didn’t I? Not realising my brain had commissioned its own loud speaker to broadcast my thoughts to the world.
‘Well, they are.’
She stops packing her rucksack and observes me, like she isn’t sure of my species yet. ‘You don’t have to say that. But thanks for the compliment.’
‘I’m not just saying it …’ I stop, regroup. ‘Look, I think you’ve got the wrong impression of me. I don’t know why. I can’t tell whether you trust what I say or if you think I’m just an arrogant dick who only cares about himself.’
‘That’s because you don’t give anything away,’ she returns, so fast a reply that it winds me. ‘When we’re on stage, I can trust you. I know your movements and I can match mine to yours. I know who you’re playing and why you’re characterising them the way you do. When we’re on off-stage, it isn’t like that. I don’t know you, Theo: not good enough to know when you’re joking or being genuine.’
It’s a harsh judgement to hear, but haven’t I thought the same about her? That she has an agenda, that she thinks me a waste of space?
But how am I meant to show her who I really am if she’s already made up her mind about me? Would she even listen if I tried to explain? It’s a risk, and the sudden realisation that I want her to know me beyond our work together is scary.
Am I ready to let her in?
Taking my silence as her answer, she looks away. ‘Forget I said anything,’ she says, resuming her packing.
‘No – wait …’ I gently touch her shoulder, causing her to stare at me. ‘You can trust me. I want you to know that, both on and off-stage. I’ve got your back, Lucie. We’re a team out there and it’s working. It could be the same in here, with us … I want you to know who I am.’
She observes me for a moment. ‘Then show me.’
‘I will.’
Lucie nods and hefts her rucksack onto her shoulder. ‘I’ve got to go. But thanks.’
With one final look at me, she hurries out of the crew room. And I’m left, in her wake, feeling like the ground just shifted between us …
*
It’s still on my mind later that day, when I’m in Greg’s office for yet another meeting. I received his summons as I was leaving the Birthplace and headed straight to the theatre instead of going home.
I want to tell him about the shift in atmosphere between Lucie and me, in the hope that he might ease off the onslaught of offensive text message advice.
But Greg Dabrowski is not in a chatting mood today.
Eric, the producer, hunkers down in his chair beside mine, ducking as Greg’s rant passes by. Greg’s been pacing his office for half an hour now, and by the looks of it Eric and I are in for the extended edition.
The cause? Lucie’s interview and the resulting rush of interest in her.
‘ You’re the star!’ he rails. ‘Where’s your exclusive interview? Did this woman even ask to speak to you?’
I rub the centre of my forehead where a dull ache has taken residence. ‘Not this journalist, no. But there have been plenty of interviews with me …’
‘None of which have gained the traction this one has. How is Lights, Camera, Showbiz doing it? Hm? They must have paid full whack for priority because who the hell would choose to read their drivel?’
‘It’s a good article,’ Eric argues wearily. ‘They have a large, loyal subscriber following. It’ll draw more people in to see the garden shows …’
‘… To see her !’ Greg thunders. ‘Why does no one see the issue here? We worked hard to set this up so that an army of fans would follow Theo from the summer shows to us for Hamlet . They weren’t meant to notice her, beyond Theo’s love interest!’
The mention of the plan Greg thinks I’m following makes me inwardly cringe. ‘About that, Greg …’
Oily Duncan Harrow, the assistant director, who has been uncharacteristically quiet during Greg’s outburst, raises his hand. ‘With respect, Greg, once our show rolls into town, nobody is going to remember Lucie Hart. I’ve known her for years: she shies away from the spotlight. She’s never been able to handle attention. She’ll do the same this time, just watch …’
Hang on, Duncan knows Lucie? How am I only learning this now?
‘And where are the #TheoKiss searches today?’ Greg ignores him, stabbing his laptop screen where a spreadsheet sits. ‘Fiftieth trending topic in the UK. Fiftieth! Unacceptable!’
I hate being here, made to feel complicit by association. I wish Greg could have seen the effect that article had on my co-star. It made her shine, like it was permission to finally believe in herself. Lucie doesn’t care about search results or trying to get one over on my career. And I haven’t once seen her shy away from the praise she so rightly deserves. Why would Duncan suggest otherwise?
‘She’s getting people excited about the garden shows,’ I say – because I have to say something, regardless of whether or not Greg Dabrowski hears me. ‘That’s what we want, isn’t it? Lucie deserves some attention. What lifts her lifts me and Ced, too.’
‘We need to up our game.’ Greg continues pacing. I don’t think he’s even registered what I’ve said. ‘Hire journos, sponsor tabloid pages, wine and dine whoever the hell gets stories to the top of searches. Push Theo and that sex-on-stage as far as possible …’
Oily Dunc sniggers again. I resist the urge to respond, trading hopeless looks with Eric instead. No wonder our producer has been ‘regrettably absent’ from most of our other meetings. My guess is we won’t see him at the theatre again until the show is much further developed. And who could blame him? If I could duck out of this part of the Being Directed By Greg Dabrowski experience you wouldn’t see me for dust.
Finally, after many more laps of the production office, Greg declares that he’s taking us all for dinner. That’s news to me, but I won’t argue. A restaurant dinner paid for by someone else is far more preferable to my whatever’s-edible-in-the-freezer plans for tonight.
Even when he says he’s taking us to Gonzalo’s.
The restaurant where Lucie works.
I’m hungry and I want to eat, but as we take the short walk from the theatre up Sheep Street, nerves nip at my insides. Lucie’s mentioned she works evenings – will we be dining before her shift begins? I wrack my brain as we walk, trying to remember if she mentioned she’d be working tonight. If I knew her better – if I’d only taken the time to ask about her life beyond the Birthplace’s borders – I might already know.
Eric trails Greg, Oily Dunc and me to the restaurant, and I wonder if he’ll hit the white wine quite as hard as he did before. If Lucie is there, I might be joining him.
Greg can rant all he wants: I’m hungry and I’m going to enjoy dinner.
We’re early, so the restaurant is quiet. There’s no sign of Lucie, which is a relief. Maybe she isn’t working today. Late afternoon sunshine streams in through the leaded glass windows, making the subtly decorated space appear like a stage set. I could imagine it being a location for an Agatha Christie thriller, with Miss Marple enjoying a luncheon just before a horrible murder occurs. Gonzalo’s has that slight sense of unease playing beneath its welcoming interior that many old rooms have – as if secrets are hidden within its half-timbered walls …
I laugh as I accept a menu from a polite male server. My imagination has taken on a life of its own since coming to Stratford. Maybe it’s a side effect of moving to Shakespeare’s home town …
‘We need wine,’ Greg snaps, waving the wine list. ‘Three bottles of your most expensive red. And keep them coming.’
The young server scurries away with his order.
‘Be careful, Greg,’ Eric warns. ‘Take it steady. You know what your wife said …’
‘ Ex -wife,’ Greg shoots back, pinning Eric to his seat with a furious stare. ‘And Missy can say what the hell she wants about me. I’m not her lapdog any longer.’ He slaps the table, raising his voice. ‘Can we get service here? Or do you just like looking at our faces?’
My stomach twists. I just want to eat and get out of here so that there’s no chance we’ll bump into Lucie. Oily Dunc doesn’t help by sniggering like a teenager at a filthy joke beside Greg. I imagine he’s lapping up the thrill of being so close to entitled power. From my limited experience of the man, I can tell he’s the sort to slither his way next to anyone he perceives as powerful. He probably held the school bully’s blazer while the thug beat seven bells out of a classmate.
I will a server to get to our table quickly, to diffuse the Greg-bomb before it has chance to blow.
But then it gets worse.
Horrifically so.
The double swing doors to the kitchen open and another server approaches. As soon as she appears, I recognise her.
‘Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Lucie and I’ll be your server this evening.’ She looks up from her order pad and our eyes meet.
My heart plummets to the parquet floor.
Greg’s mouth drops open. ‘Really? You’re a server?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I’ve seen that determination set in her face before. When she’s preparing to fight. Dignity in the face of conflict. It’s impressive – and it temporarily knocks the wind from Greg’s sails. I just wish we didn’t have to be the cause of it.
‘Surprised you have the time to be here, Ms Hart, after all that free publicity you snatched today.’
‘Hey, Luce,’ Oily Dunc smarms. ‘Still waiting tables, huh? Some things never change.’
Just how long has he known her? And why does he think he has the right to speak to her like that?
Lucie’s smile becomes a shield as she blanks him. ‘Are you ready to order?’
‘I am,’ Eric says in a hurry, before Greg or Duncan can launch another objectionable reply. ‘Halloumi fries to start, then the belly pork, please.’
‘Excellent choice.’ Her gaze lowered, Lucie makes swift, efficient notes on her order pad. ‘And for you, sirs?’
Her gaze briefly passes over me.
‘Same, please,’ I say.
‘Make that three.’ Duncan is eyeing her like she’s his dinner. I don’t like it.
‘And for you?’ Lucie addresses Greg, her shoulders squared for whatever smart remark he’s about to utter.
‘What I’d like is for my leading man to get the attention he deserves. And for other hangers-on to know their place.’
‘From the menu, sir?’ There’s steel in her reply.
I want to jump in and break the atmosphere. Lucie doesn’t deserve to be spoken to like this, by Greg or by Duncan. But my stomach twists as I see how this could play out. Greg is already furious Lucie’s getting more attention than I am: now he knows who she is, he isn’t going to let up, is he? He’s been looking for a target for his fury all afternoon and Lucie just walked straight into shot.
He can’t do that.
She’s worth a hundred of him …
I kick myself as Greg grudgingly places an order and dismisses her. I should have said something, countered his rudeness, but I couldn’t speak when it mattered. So much for showing her who I really am. So much for asking for her trust …
More diners begin to arrive as the wine order is brought to our table and glasses are poured. True to form, Eric starts as he means to go on, his glass empty within five minutes, another poured to take its place. I feel sick from the tension, so mine remains untouched on the table. I fill my water glass instead and gulp it down, hoping it calms the acid rolling around my stomach.
I block out the self-satisfied sniggers of Oily Dunc and Greg’s seething. With Eric doggedly preoccupied with his wine and the restaurant rapidly filling up, I hunker down and will the time to pass.
But when the food arrives, Greg shifts gear. He sends his starter back for being lukewarm, then his steak for not being rare enough. He complains about the vegetable selection. He drops his knife and demands a new one. With each new indignity he inflicts on Lucie, I witness the sick pleasure he takes in belittling her. He’s very drunk now, his speech slurred and any inhibitions he still possessed obliterated by alcohol.
It’s disgusting.
But I don’t know how to stop it.
I want to kick back my chair, grab Lucie’s hand and take her far away from here, where Greg’s offensive attacks and Duncan’s loud sniggers can’t hurt her.
A memory of her in my arms as my Juliet suddenly assaults me – and I’m poleaxed by its intensity. The warmth of her body against mine. The softness of her lips, the longing in her touch, and the safety we find in each other’s embrace …
And it hits me like a thunderbolt: that’s what I want to do.
I want to cradle Lucie in my arms and treasure her, kissing away every trace of the injustice Greg’s forcing her to endure …
It’s out of the blue, unbidden.
But it’s how I feel.
So why won’t the words I need appear?