Chapter Twelve
Charlie, Gillian and Olivia arrived at the Gielgud Theatre just before eight thirty. A woman in a black dress opened the double doors to let them in and directed them from the lobby into the auditorium.
‘Wow!’ Olivia exclaimed. The theatre was already a gorgeous one, a baroque confection of red velvet, dazzling chandeliers and ornate, gold-embossed balconies, but the set onstage – ready for the play’s opening the next week – was quite astonishing.
Depicting a Byzantine building in Venice, it was a stage-wide, two-storey fretwork construction composed of a grand central plinth, with intricate ‘windows’ on each ‘floor’, and two sets of wooden steps up each side to the second level.
‘See, Charlie?’ Gillian cried as they all walked over to it. ‘Look how wonderful the craftmanship is!’ They wandered around, Charlie taking in every surface, every joint. ‘Honestly, I could get you a gig like this! I have connections . . .’ Gillian wiggled the fingers of both hands theatrically.
‘I’m happy with my current employment,’ said Charlie, but not morosely.
‘Oh, Charlie, and this is why we love you so much,’ said Gillian. ‘You just never change.’
‘And neither do you,’ Charlie said to his friend. They gave each other a squeeze. Olivia loved their relationship. That never changed, either. ‘But thank you for bringing me here, Gill,’ he added. ‘It’s fascinating.’
Charlie peeled off for a closer look at the artistry of the flight of steps. Olivia and Gillian peered through a fretwork window at the scaffolding beyond.
‘So, are we writing?’ Gillian asked her.
‘I’m reviewing,’ Olivia replied. ‘The film reviews, still, for the Morning Shout.’
‘Well, good. Good girl.’ Gillian fingered a trellis, lasered her eyes on her god-daughter’s.
Olivia’s first memory of her godmother had been Gillian giving her a book wrapped in a brown paper bag for her fifth birthday: Little Women.
‘Keep it somewhere safe for when you’re older,’ Gillian had told her disappointed and bewildered god-daughter.
She’d been expecting a Bunty annual. ‘What about something more, darling? What about a novel?’
‘I’d like to, one day. It’s just finding the time. My day job’s pretty full-on at the moment. And the social life.’ She grinned sheepishly.
‘Been out enjoying yourself?’ She couldn’t tell if Gillian looked disapproving or not.
‘A little bit.’ Another sheepish grin. ‘And I have to keep all the plates spinning, financially, you know?’
‘But it’s still a dream, right?’
‘Yes, it’s still a dream. I do have big dreams, and I’m thankful that you’re always encouraging me. I want to be successful. I want to write things that people want to read. I want to make some money—’
‘I get it,’ said Gillian. ‘You want more out of life. I did, too. Something creative and lucrative. But you also want to keep some of what you already have, right? Your working-class roots. Your feet on the ground. And there’ll always be your dad.’
‘Yes, there’ll always be Dad,’ Olivia said with a smile. They both looked over at him. He was running his hand along one of the wooden steps.
‘Good girl. Well, I’d love to see your name in print. And not just in a newspaper. You’ll get there, I’m sure you will, if you carry on doing the right things. And if you work hard.’
Charlie drifted back over.
‘Look at these flats,’ he said. Protruding from the side of the stage the technician had disappeared into, stage left, was a wide, thin stack of painted backdrops, fabric on MDF, set on to castors.
The one facing them was a scene of the Grand Canal in Venice, pale eau de nil water, ghostly buildings.
Gillian ran her hand over the St Mark’s Basilica and they all walked into the wings to follow the skyline’s progression.
It took a long while, examining all the flats.
Gillian was quite enraptured by them. The scenes of Venice, a city she told them she’d always wanted to visit.
The colours, the brushstrokes. Charlie liked the one that had been embossed in the corners with wooden frets and scrolls in pale oak.
There was an extended chat with set designer, Max – Gillian’s mate – who turned up with a tray of coffees and ready to give a sip-by-sip and piece-by-piece explanation of the craftsmanship of the entire set.
Then there was a tour of backstage at the Gielgud, the green room, the stage door and the portraits of former players that lined the walls.
Then they were back on the stage again, with Sam talking about dovetail joints and the contrasting merits of a scroll saw, a fretsaw and a coping saw. Charlie was rapt.
At ten thirty, Olivia checked her watch for the final time.
‘Sorry,’ she said, tapping Gillian on the arm. ‘I have to go. I have a deadline.’
‘You do? You not coming for something to eat with us?’
‘No. I didn’t know we were going to. I have to deliver a film review in the morning.’ She frowned. ‘I thought there was plenty of time. Dad usually likes to be in bed by half ten – I reckoned we’d have left by now.’
‘You couldn’t ask for an extension?’ Gillian looked disappointed. ‘Have a birthday supper with us instead? I thought we’d go to a steak house somewhere.’
‘No, sorry, I really can’t. You don’t mind, do you, Dad?’ She turned to him. ‘I can pop over tomorrow, bring a cake?’ She looked at her watch again.
‘No, of course I don’t mind! Go, go!’ Charlie said, flicking both hands in her direction. ‘Go and do what you need to. And cake tomorrow sounds good.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Olivia gave her father a big squeeze. ‘See you tomorrow. Thanks, Gillian,’ she said, giving her godmother a quick hug, too. ‘It’s been a lovely evening.’
Olivia waved to them as she turned and left the stage. Gillian and Charlie. Her little world. Gillian’s face could not be read, but Charlie was smiling, his hand raised in goodbye, his hair a little messed up. Scruffy jeans. Navy V-neck jumper. Gola trainers.
Smiling and waving goodbye.
An image of her father she would keep in her heart forever.