Thirty-Six Theo
Thirty-Six
THEO
I manage a few hours’ sleep when I get back to my digs after taking Lucie home, which is more than I expect. I feel like I’ve inhaled ten shots of espresso, adrenaline racing through my body, but the memories of Lucie in my bed send me drifting into blissful slumber.
That is until the sharp tone of my phone kicks me out of my dreams.
Blinking away sleep, I grab my mobile and squint at the screen.
Barry calling
Bollocks .
I answer the call and close my eyes. ‘Hey.’
‘So apparently you dress your directors down now. In a room with fifty witnesses .’
I can’t work out my agent’s tone, but that’s nothing new. Barry Antony can sound like he’s having a panic attack when he’s celebrating or about to bring the house down with a joke when he’s furious.
‘I can explain …’
‘Directors who may well be your last bloody hope of employment, ever.’
‘He was out of line.’
‘Like Xavier Michel was in Cannes? Like every other leading director and producer doing anything worthwhile in this industry? They’re all arseholes, Theo. That’s the point.’
‘He verbally attacked Lucie – Lucinda Hart,’ I correct myself. I’m trying my best to keep my nerves and irritation at bay, but it’s a two-way battle on so little sleep.
‘So you stood up for your co-star.’ His words heft great weights of meaning. ‘Because that tactic served you so well in the past.’
I can’t argue and I won’t. I won’t apologise, either. I did the right thing and what happened afterwards proved that. But I need to know where it leaves me.
‘Have you spoken to Greg?’
‘I’ve just come off the call.’
I wince. ‘How bad is it?’
I swear Barry learned dramatic pauses from the SAS. Even though I regret nothing, I’m sweating. I didn’t consider any of this last night when I challenged Greg, but it could prove a fatal kick for my career comeback. Hell, it might already be.
‘How bad?’ I ask again, because I need to know.
‘It could have been catastrophic,’ Barry growls. ‘But luckily for you, Greg Dabrowski is a forgiving man.’
‘Define forgiving?’
‘He’s mortified. Turns out you hit a nerve.’
‘I did?’
‘That, and the fact that a major patron of the RSC happened to be at a nearby table and saw the whole thing. They called him this morning before he called me.’
It’s a twist I didn’t see coming. I was expecting a firing squad. ‘Wow.’
‘He wants to apologise to Lucie, apparently. Whether it happens or not is anyone’s guess. It won’t be today – he’s nursing a hangover from hell and licking his wounds, I reckon. Just a heads-up. Don’t tell her.’
‘I won’t. Thanks, Barry.’
‘And I swear, if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I will drop you faster than a hot rock. You got lucky this time: next time might be the end of your career. Clear?’
‘Crystal. You know, if Greg wanted to make it up to Lucie he should see her in action.’
There’s a long pause as my agent considers this. Then, ‘Why?’
‘Because last night he made out she was talentless, a hanger-on to my success. And he should eat his words.’
‘Careful, Theo.’
‘He should.’ I’m bold after last night. Possibly daft, too, considering the small amount of sleep I got. ‘Get him to a performance in the Birthplace garden next week. Front row. Lucie deserves his attention.’
I can hear Barry’s tongue clicking down the line as he thinks it through. ‘It’s a big ask. But I’ll give it a shot.’
‘You won’t regret it,’ I say. ‘Lucie’s a star.’
*
The crew room is buzzing when I arrive, Ced and Ophelia deep in excited chatter with Lucie. When she sees me, she hurries to the door and kisses me, to my surprise and our colleagues’ delight. So much for keeping us under wraps, then. We’d discussed it in the car as I drove Lucie home after our night together.
‘Nobody needs to know yet,’ Lucie had said. ‘Let’s just be us while we figure everything else out.’
The best-laid plans …
I don’t mind that Ced and Ophelia know. I don’t think we could have concealed it for long, anyway. As we run through our latest piece – Act IV, Scene 1 of As You Like It – as Rosalind and Orlando, our shared laughter and almost-kisses give the game away.
‘… Then love me, Rosalind …’
‘… Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all …’
‘Stop giggling!’ Ced says, giving us a rueful smile. ‘The audience is supposed to find it hilarious, not the players.’
‘I just find it funny that Fridays and Saturdays are bonus days for love,’ Lucie replies.
‘You’re supposed to be playing a game where Orlando thinks Rosalind is a young man called Ganymede helping him to work out how to win her heart.’
‘Sounds a bit complicated to me. Why doesn’t he just tell Ros he loves her?’ I ask, loving the game. ‘It’d be quicker.’
‘It’d be a damn short play if he did,’ Ced returns. ‘Honestly, Theo, if you’re like this after one shag, I dread to think how you’ll both be by the end of the summer.’
‘ Ced !’ Ophelia exclaims, flapping a hand in front of her face. ‘There’s a time and a place for that.’
‘So I heard,’ Ced grins, sending us off again. Even Ophelia laughs, despite her horror. ‘Let’s try it again, with more longing looks and a little less lusting, please …’
*
Within days of us getting together, I’m aware that Lucie Hart is unlike anyone else I’ve dated before. So, too, are her friends.
Who, it transpires, I get to meet in one fell swoop.
That it happens in the after-hours emptiness of the pancake and ice cream shop now infamous as the #NotMyGabriel location does little to calm my nerves.
Lyle, the housemate. Cass, the best friend (and owner of said pancake and ice cream café). Dev, the first-job-of-the-day boss. And a gaggle of performers I completely miss the names of, who are as colourful and vibrant as I expected friends of Lucie to be. Thank goodness for Ced, who greets me with all the glee of a friend who knew what I was wandering blindly into.
I’ve got to admit, it’s a shock to the system. All my recent girlfriends have moved in the same circles as me: that is to say, endless rounds of previews, meet-and-greets, industry events and promos. So we meet and we chat with the same people, but always with one eye on the cameras circling us all. We visit bars, fashion shows and opening nights, knowing that tip-offs have been made to the press. Nothing is a ‘let’s grab a bite to eat’, or ‘let’s go for a walk’. Everything is designed for maximum visibility, maximum exposure.
I realise now, as I’m introduced to the people who love Lucie most, that I’ve never done this before. Not even with Amy Jo, my last serious girlfriend.
Lucie is loved . Her network of friends are fun, creative and fiercely protective of the woman who’s fast stealing my heart.
‘Good to meet you,’ her housemate, Lyle Robinson, says, grinning over his glass of red. ‘I was wondering when we’d get the chance.’
‘Turns out it’s tonight,’ I reply, taking another nervous gulp of wine. I should slow down: I’ve only been here twenty minutes and I’ve almost emptied my glass.
‘Ha! Lucky you, eh?’
‘Yeah. So blessed.’
‘Ah, mate.’ Lyle claps a hearty hand on my shoulder. ‘Better this way, I reckon. Meet all of us in one go, save yourself a dozen awkward individual introductions.’
‘Good point.’ I relax a little, letting my gaze travel around Cheerily’s, opened this evening especially for us. ‘It’s cool in here. After hours.’
‘Perks of knowing the owner,’ Lyle says. ‘Cass is ace. Lucie’s biggest supporter, too. You know, after me.’
‘Have you known her long?’ I ask.
‘Years. We met at a backstage social at The Swan. She was there with a couple of friends and I’d been dragged along by the other techs because I was moping over a break-up.’ He smiles at the memory. ‘We bonded over our love of Twiglets and the rest is history.’
I’m mid-sip of my wine when he says this and have to swallow hard to prevent him wearing it. ‘Twiglets?’
‘Don’t underestimate the power of small things. It started with snack food love, became a great friendship, and, when we were both looking for somewhere to live, finding a place together was an obvious choice. I adore that girl.’ He glances over at Lucie, who is giggling with Cass, clearly loving this evening. She’s shining … ‘So word to the wise, Theo: look after her.’
‘I will,’ I manage, surprised a little by the edge in his tone.
‘Because if you break her heart,’ he adds, his smile vanished, ‘everyone in this room will come after you.’
‘I … I won’t …’
His smile is the cruellest rib-dig. ‘Mate! Your face! You are going to have to get used to our sense of humour if you’re going to survive here.’
‘Ha … oh … wow.’ My nerves completely shot, I laugh weakly back. ‘You got me.’
‘Brilliant.’ He slaps my back. ‘You’re officially in . Now, Bolingbroke: The Early Years , loved it, mate. I have questions about the finale in Season Three …’
He’s cool. They all are. But it makes me realise how much is expected of me. Lucie Hart isn’t just a summer season fling: she’s the real deal. I knew it before, but now I’m determined to show everyone in that room how much I love her.
I love her.
First time I’ve admitted it to myself …
‘Happy?’ Lucie asks, threading her arm through mine. She smells like summer flowers and is beaming like sunshine. How could I not be happy beside her?
‘Beyond happy,’ I say, kissing her.
*
Next day, after almost a week of us being together, my plan to make Greg Dabrowski see the error of his ways finally comes together. I have my agent’s reluctant tenacity to thank for this: the result of a series of carefully worded phone calls between him and my soon-to-be director.
Today’s audiences are a hardy bunch. The bright sunshine that bathed the garden while we were rehearsing this morning quickly became a grey drizzle stubbornly claiming the sky by 11 a.m. We’ve been very lucky with the weather so far: this being England it was bound to break at some point.
A sea of multicoloured umbrellas greets us as Ophelia welcomes us on stage, row upon row of smiles hidden beneath. Immediately, I spot a certain gruff-faced director in their midst. Probably still a bit hungover, too. Was it the best plan to bring him here on a rainy day when his head is hurting? He definitely doesn’t look happy. But then Greg has one of those faces that reverts to ‘permanently unimpressed’ when he isn’t paying attention.
Has Lucie noticed?
I glance across to where the beautiful creature is waving at the crowd. She doesn’t look concerned. Good . I want Greg to be shocked off his little plastic chair.
We move through the programme, each piece greeted with determined, bright applause. The rain is pouring now, soaking us to the skin. I’ve never acted in a storm before. Bad weather always stopped filming when I was doing outside location shots. It should be grim, but it’s exhilarating.
The audience are in on things, too, which lifts a good performance to a memorable one. They know we’re being rained on because they’re also being rained on. It creates a lovely atmosphere of support, our audience willing us on as we do our best to entertain them in sodden costumes on a rain-soaked stage.
We end to hearty applause – and a unanimous standing ovation from our soggy guests. Of all our performances so far, this is by far my favourite. Partly because of the rain, the umbrellas and the atmosphere; but mostly because of Lucie.
I can’t believe she’s mine.
After the flood of hasty selfies and curled-paper autographs, we hurry back to the crew room, where Jake Balfe from the management team has brought us towels and bowls of hot soup. When we’re changed into dry clothes and are huddled round our soup bowls, Ophelia ushers in a bedraggled man. Her eyes are wide as she leads him up to us.
‘Lucie. You have a visitor.’
Beside me, Lucie looks up – and instantly loses her smile.
‘Throw me out if you like,’ Greg says, holding up a hand. ‘You have every right to.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘To offer you a job.’
I don’t dare breathe. By the look of Ophelia and Ced, neither do they.
Lucie stares at Greg Dabrowski for the longest time. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Miranda. In our Tempest . Recreate the magic I’ve just seen on stage. And I’m not talking about the rain.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because Theo was right when he confronted me: you’re amazing on stage. You embody Miranda – I need that level of authenticity in my production.’
I can’t tell what Lucie is thinking. She could tell him to get lost after the way he spoke to her, and nobody would blame her for it. But if she accepts … The thought of being in the theatre next door to her for the length of my Hamlet run is exciting.
Finally she speaks. ‘Can I think about it?’
‘Sure. Have my card …’ He hands a remarkably dry rectangle of thick card to her from his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll need to know in a week or so. Sooner would be better. I very much hope you’ll accept.’
We’re stunned as he leaves.
It could work – if Lucie says yes.
But will she accept?