Forty-Four Theo
Forty-Four
THEO
S he’s magnificent. Majestic. And she fights me like a warrior.
The crowd laps it up, wide eyes tracking our movements around the stage and each other, bodies leaning in, breath held. It’s impossible not to be moved by the energy coming from them. So we face each other down, our verbal blows and parries sharpened by the response.
This time I let her strike me, catching her wrist as she pulls back. Shock flashes in her eyes for a moment and then I see her regroup. She understands what I’m doing and plays up to it. We square up to one another, our faces a breath apart. The closeness hurts, but I press on. Our audience gasps and murmurs, with us for every moment.
And all the time I’m being cocky bastard Petruchio I want Lucie back in my arms and the crap of the past twenty-four hours to vanish.
I channel the longing and fury at my own stupidity into Petruchio’s wild and untamed response to this woman who refuses to yield to his laughable attempts at machismo. I remember our argument back in our first week working on this scene, where I suddenly understood Petruchio’s filthy jokes and pathetic comebacks. It’s true now but not just for him: I find myself completely out of my depth on the stage alongside my character, out-classed and out-witted by the incandescent woman opposite.
I am totally hers.
I love her.
And, like Petruchio, I’m already lost.
We dance and we wheel around one another, the tension building between us, until we reach the final lines before my exit:
‘… We will have rings, and things, and fine array …’
I move to within a breath of Lucie, who matches my movement.
‘… And kiss me, Kate; we will be married o’ Sunday. ’
I cup her chin in my hand, my lips almost on hers. We practised it before and it’s brilliant, but today, knowing this is the beginning of the end, knowing that I’m losing her, the rush is bittersweet. We pause long enough to hear the audience’s gasps, then I plant a kiss on Lucie’s forehead instead and walk off the stage.
As applause breaks out – some people standing, others raising their phones to get a better view – I run back on stage and join hands with Lucie again. When this performance is done, I have to speak to her. Tell her what I worked out far too late.
She doesn’t look at me as we change behind the trellis flat: her discarding her velvet jacket and putting on her lace shawl, and me discarding my shirt altogether. It feels wrong to be delivering Tempest last, but Ophelia Henry is not to be crossed. She’s ending on a romantic note, of course. But I suspect there’s an ulterior motive at work.
I have to tell Lucie I love her – in a way that makes her hear me this time.
On the stage I’ll do it as Ferdinand, hopelessly in love with his captor’s daughter. But I’ll mean every word as the wretched bastard playing him, too.
Ced begins his speech as the Scottish laird (I daren’t even think the name of Shakespeare’s famous Scottish play during a performance – as actor superstitions dictate) and I can feel the respect of the audience for him from all the way back here. I hope the spotlight falls on him, too. It must have been annoying to be in the shadow of Lucie and me during the social media storm. He’s an incredible actor and deserves far bigger audiences than the garden stage can provide.
I hope they’re both recognised after this season.
I still can’t believe that Lucie turned down Tempest . I’m furious that it’s because of me, and Greg should have to grovel on his knees to win her back. He won’t: that’s not how it works. Bastard directors get to remain bastards until someone with enough dirt on them pulls the plug. And even then, they survive.
In an ideal world, Lucie would have her role and Greg would be the one job-hunting, out on his ear for being a disgusting human being. But the theatre world is never your friend: never fair or just.
I watch Lucie as we wait for our cue. She’s fixing wayward strands of hair that worked loose during our Shrew scene, her fingers pushing and smoothing the place where the braided strands meet. She’s doing it by touch alone and it’s remarkable. Like she’s done it a hundred times before.
Then it strikes me: she’ll do this again and I won’t be here to see it. All the practised ritual, the regular movements I’ve become accustomed to. Without me. Just like she’ll do everyday things in her life without me. When we leave today, that’s it.
Unless I tell her …
‘Lucie,’ I whisper, just as a huge swell of applause signals the end of Ced’s Scottish play scene. Panic rising, I press on. ‘Lu, I have to tell you …’
‘Your turn to dazzle ’em!’ Ced puffs, bright-eyed and buzzing as he arrives on our side of the trellis flat.
‘You were incredible!’ Lucie tells him, blanking me as she hugs him.
‘Do you think so? Yes, of course you do! I was bloody magnificent!’
I watch them together and instantly I’m on the outside again, where I thought I’d never return. I hate it.
‘… Please welcome back to the stage, our darling Theo Larkin as Ferdinand and our wonderful Lucinda Hart as Miranda, as we present our final piece, The Tempest !’
‘You’re on, loves,’ Ced rushes, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder.
There’s no time now. The last piece must be performed.
We’ve played this scene countless times this summer, Ophelia sneaking it into the programme as often as the Romeo and Juliet scene. But the late change of order today makes it feel as it did the first time: a risk, a thrill, the danger of our almost-touches registering with the audience and us in turn. Only this time Lucie’s tender brushes against my skin are like burns. I’m battling to stay in character as recent memories of her touch return. Touches I won’t feel again, all because my soon-to-be director decided to set us up.
It’s all wrong. I didn’t seduce Lucie to impress Greg. Everything that happened with us happened because we chose it, nobody else. How can I undo the damage? I’m tried and convicted without ever giving my defence. She won’t listen to me. She’s already made up her mind.
‘… Do you love me? ’
My heart crashes to a halt.
For a second I’m lost – but then I see Lucie’s concealed glare. They aren’t her words but Miranda’s – wide-eyed in wonder, helplessly falling for her father’s prisoner, waiting to hear what she doesn’t dare hope for.
Ferdinand must answer.
But this time, I’ll speak with him.
I catch Lucie’s hand and pull it slowly towards me, her fingers finding the warm skin above my heart. I press my hand flat over hers, speaking my lines softly in time with my heartbeat, praying she feels it.
‘… O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound,
And crown what I profess with kind event … ’
I see her lips part, pain only I can see at close quarters flooding her smile. I keep my eyes fixed on hers, willing her to understand.
‘… I,
Beyond all limit of what else i’ th’ world,
Do love, prize, honour you. ’
There’s a pause, as real tears fill her eyes. Did she understand me? Will it change her mind?
‘… I am a fool
To weep at what I am glad of. ’
I watch her closely as we complete the scene, our playful flirtations and almost-touches continuing, the choreographed sequence playing out as it has every time. I wrench my attention back to Ferdinand and our audience who are watching two young lovers promising to marry. As soon as this performance is over, I’m talking to her. I don’t care what I’m supposed to be doing.
Applause fills the garden as we end, Lucie accepting my hand for our bows, which last longer than they ever have. Ophelia calls Ced back on and we thank the crowd while they stand and cheer, stamping their feet.
It should be a total high. But nerves are making me study Lucie’s every move. I can’t read her. I’m scared I’ll see no change. But on the stage, overwhelmed by the delight of our audience, it’s impossible to judge.
We sign autographs and pose for selfies, and this time I drag Ced into all of them. I should have done this every time, but better late than never. Lucie joins us, but keeps her attention focused on our visitors.
‘Can you sign this for me, please?’ a lady asks, handing us her Birthplace guidebook. ‘My name’s Katie Groves.’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you!’ She beams while we sign. ’Will you act together again soon?
‘I hope so,’ I say, turning to Lucie who just smiles back at her.
‘You’re magical! Made for each other! Can I have a selfie, too?’
We pose for her camera, our smiles tight.
Six weeks ago, I wanted this after-show adulation to last forever. Now, I just want it to end. At the beginning it was all about regaining what I’d lost. A summer season on, all I want is not to lose Lucie Hart.
When we’re allowed to leave the stage, I don’t stop to collect my costume. I jog ahead, turning to intercept Lucie on her determined walk back to the crew room.
‘I have to talk to you,’ I say, blocking her path.
‘Not now.’
‘Yes – now .’
She glares up at me, hands balling into fists in the folds of her skirt. For a moment I think she’s going to punch me out of her way. She has every right to do so. But then her shoulders drop and she glances at the door.
‘Not in there,’ she says.
‘Where, then?’
We can’t go into the garden – there are far too many people and no doubt journalists mingled amongst them, looking for a story. We can’t risk being overheard. The crew room is too small for any kind of discussion, heated or otherwise, and with Ced and Ophelia due there imminently we’d have no time alone.
Lucie looks down the path that runs from Henley Street to our building. ‘By the gate.’