Forty-Five Lucie
Forty-Five
LUCIE
T he gate that admits us from the street to our workplace is crowned with a lush green arch of honeysuckle, its sweet fragrance strengthening as the summer weeks pass. It’s sheltered from the street and sufficiently hidden from the garden, and while we still might be overheard, the chances are lesser here.
Theo follows me, saying nothing. I know he’s saving it for when we’re out of view. I want to imagine that I don’t know what he wants to say to me, but his lines spoken in the Tempest scene buzz around my head like angry wasps.
‘… I,
Beyond all limit of what else i’ th’ world,
Do love, prize, honour you. ’
But that was Ferdinand; speaking words William Shakespeare wrote for him over four hundred years ago. Did he ever imagine when he wrote those lines that two confused, love-burned actors would one day speak them in the garden beside his birthplace?
I need perspective: for the universe to not just consist of Theo and me.
We are infinitesimal in time, just two more broken hearts on a stage, and we’ll be forgotten once the summer ends. But on our fleeting stage, under the gaze of the biggest crowd we’ve played to yet, did Theo just tell me he loved me?
‘We don’t have long,’ I say, acutely aware of the small space between us.
‘I know. I just want you to hear me.’ He maintains the distance as he moves a little under the shade of the honeysuckle bower. ‘I let you down by not correcting Greg. I have no excuse for it. You deserved better.’
I don’t reply.
His gaze flickers for a moment.
‘I love you. I said it onstage and I meant it. I love you, Lu. I can’t let you go.’
‘It’s done,’ I reply, my own words alien. I love him, too – Ced was right – but he hurt me and I’ve thrown away the best chance of my career because of it. I’m exhausted and overwhelmed by everything. And while I wanted to hear him say those words, now he has, it isn’t enough.
‘Lucie, no …’ He moves to close the gap between us, his fingers finding empty air as I step aside. ‘Don’t do this. Don’t push me away. I need you …’
‘I – can’t …’ I manage, my throat thick and tears appearing.
‘Please.’
‘It’s too much!’
A passing group of tourists beyond the gate turn their heads at the sound of my raised voice. I flatten my back against the stone of the crew room building until they pass.
‘It’s too much, Theo,’ I repeat, little more than a whisper now. ‘You can’t just say you love me and think that absolves you.’
‘I don’t think it does. But you can’t just throw away what we have like it doesn’t matter. I know it matters to you.’
‘It doesn’t … It can’t any more …’ I am not equipped for this discussion. We have two more shows to get through and I’m dreading them both. Being close to Theo, touching him, kissing him, when I know how easily he discarded my feelings for the sake of Greg Dabrowski, is the cruellest sentence to serve. Twice more will be unbearable if he’s trying to say he loves me alongside everything else. ‘We have to finish the programme. For Ced and Ophelia. For the company and the crowd. I need you to help me finish.’
It’s the same weapon of persuasion he used on me and it’s just as unfair when wielded by my hands. But I can’t think of any other way of completing our programme. That’s all that matters – all that can matter until we’ve delivered our final lines. I have strength enough for that, but only if Theo plays his part.
He makes to reply, but the words are abandoned in favour of a nod. It’s enough.
I watch him slowly walk away, my heart in pieces as I slump back against the sun-warmed stone. I won’t follow just yet. I need quiet after the roar of the garden and the storm we’ve just endured beneath the honeysuckle arch.
It’ll be over soon , I tell myself. It’s going to get easier than this .
But deep down, I don’t believe it will.
There’s an hour until our second-to-last performance. I make the most of my time outside, waiting until the crowd has dissipated before I fetch the remaining items of my costume from the basket behind the rose trellis flat. Theo’s shirt and jacket are gone: their absence a stark reminder of what this job will be after today.
When I return to the crew room, it’s empty. Ced will have gone for a stroll into town to find coffee and his favourite cinnamon buns. It helps him to be away between performances.
‘It grounds me,’ he told me, at the start of the season. ‘Less time to stew over my next show.’
It’s a beautiful day and I should be outside, too. But I’m so tired that all I want to do is rest. So I find an old embroidered cushion in the props trunk and head for the dressing corner. Settling myself on a dustsheet between the boxes of costume and playbooks, I rest my head on the faded peacock-blue velvet and close my aching eyes. The tick of the kitchen cupboard clock begins to drift into the distance, the soft pull of sleep coaxing me away.
I relax into darkness, finally letting go. The hurt, anger and bruised legacy of tears fade: instead of dreaming I am just held, safe in quiet calm. I rest into the blankness, the absence of everything else a blessed release …
‘Lucie.’
When the voice arrives it’s far in the distance. I know I recognise it but I’m not ready to discover how.
‘Lucie, darling, it’s almost time.’
Ced’s voice, low by my ear. Of all the people who could have found me here, I’m glad it was him. I slowly wake, the dim light of the crew room still too bright as I open my eyes.
‘Twenty minutes.’ Ced’s apologetic smile comes into focus. He’s crouched beside me, one hand hesitantly brushing back strands of hair that have fallen across my face. ‘You should have a drink before we go back on. I’ll make you a tea.’
He hurries away and I’m left to pick my stiff body up from the changing corner floor. My head protests, the sleep I managed clearly nowhere near enough. And while I couldn’t have stopped myself dozing, I instantly regret it.
‘Where is everyone?’ I ask, walking over to Ced, smoothing out the creases in the skirt of my dress. I should have changed out of it and back into my jeans before going to sleep. Another decision I regret.
‘Pheels is hob-nobbing it with Jake Balfe and the board directors who’ve come for the final shows. Theo—’ he pauses to look at me, gauging my mood ‘—went out as soon as he’d brought his costume back. I don’t know where.’
I nod, accepting the mug of tea.
‘If he isn’t back in five minutes, I’ll call him.’ Ced leans against the sink. ‘I take it he upset you again?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
His brow furrows but he claps his hands and presents a smile. ‘Then we shan’t.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Full post-mortem in a few days? Over a bloody enormous Titania Dream at Cheerily’s?’
I cradle my mug, inhaling the ginger and elderflower steam. ‘Maybe.’
His smile is sad as he observes me. ‘Two more shows, love. Then it’s over.’
It isn’t the reassuring thought he wants it to be.