Chapter Three Seacombe, Cornwall #2
‘Come in, come in,’ Edward exclaimed heartily.
He was made up and ready to go on stage.
His face with its large, bulbous nose, assertive chin and hooded grey eyes was mud-spattered, his clothes those of a medieval soldier.
He had grown his beard especially for the part, and it was clipped and shaped to look suitably regal.
In one hand he held a can of Coca-Cola, in the other Citizens by Simon Schama; both looked incongruous against his eleventh-century garb.
He put the book down on the dressing table cluttered with the grubby script, his mobile telephone and various pots, tubes and cotton wool balls, and looked at Joseph with the invigorated gaze of a man who comes alive in front of an audience, any audience.
‘What bringeth you to my door, my good man?’ he asked in the voice of Macbeth. ‘Sit down, sit down, my dear fellow.’
‘I just wanted to wish you luck,’ said Joseph, taking the chair in the corner of the dressing room and crossing one leg over the other, revealing a stripy Paul Smith sock in red, yellow and green. ‘Not that a seasoned actor like you needs luck,’ he added, for Edward was a veteran of the stage.
‘I just need my dear beloved wife to do what she is paid to do and play her part,’ he said. Then becoming Edward again, he added in an accent closer to Estuary English, ‘She’s a bloody nightmare. Remind me never to work with her again!’
Joseph laughed uneasily. He wanted to say that thanks to Isadora the theatre would be full for the entire run, but knowing Edward to be sensitive, he said instead, ‘The two of you are a formidable team. You might not like her very much off stage, but the chemistry on stage is insane.’
‘That might be true, but really, rehearsals have been a trial for all of us, but mostly for me.’
And me, Joseph wanted to add. In fact, when it came to Isadora’s demands, ninety-nine per cent of them were directed at him.
‘Look, you’re a professional and you’re doing a great job.
I appreciate it. The play is going to be great.
This is the best cast I’ve ever worked with.
’ Which wasn’t true, but Joseph wasn’t in the business of telling the truth when the success of the production depended on the odd white lie.
‘Isadora will calm down once she gets into it. The first night is always tense.’
‘Well, she could do with a bloody reality check. We’re not so impressed with her here.’
‘I know, but a lot of people out there are, and they’re buying tickets.’
Edward took a swig of Coke, swallowed, then burped unselfconsciously.
‘She thinks she’s going to earn brownie points in Hollywood by working in a provincial English theatre for peanuts.
’ He grunted with disdain. ‘Good luck to her, I say.’ He chortled bitterly.
‘If she really wants to earn respect she should be more professional backstage and less of an arse.’
Joseph looked at his watch. It was seven fifteen. He got up. ‘I’ll go and check on her,’ he said.
‘Into the lioness’s den,’ said Edward with a snigger, picking up his book.
‘You just concentrate on what you’re doing and leave her to me. Leila will be in the front row.’
‘Lovely Leila,’ Edward gushed. ‘Now that’s a classy dame, if I ever saw one. Give me ten Leilas for one Isadora.’
‘Break a leg,’ said Joseph.
Joseph closed the door and took a breath.
It wasn’t good that everyone was already losing patience with the leading lady.
They’d just have to bite their tongues and be professional because Isadora wasn’t going anywhere.
In fact, the idea of her walking out was a nightmare he couldn’t bear to contemplate.
People had booked their tickets way in advance just to see her, and it was a sell-out.
She might not have won the respect of her colleagues, but she was incredibly popular with people who knew her only from a distance.
To them, her diva-ish antics, which were regularly reported in the press, just made them all the more curious to watch her perform.
Isadora’s dressing room was a few doors down from Edward’s, and the largest and most comfortable in the building, naturally.
Joseph gathered himself for a second before knocking, his fist poised in front of the brass name plate.
Isadora’s whims and complaints were only half the problem, it was the sugary way she expressed them that grated the most, because it was so insincere.
It was a challenge not to let his impatience show. He took a deep breath and knocked.
A moment later Isadora’s long-suffering assistant, Lezli, opened the door and her elfin face appeared pale and gaunt in the gap. On seeing Joseph, she turned her head and informed her boss. ‘It’s only Joey,’ she said in her Chicago drawl. That also grated; no one called him Joey.
‘Joey, come on in, sweetie,’ came Isadora’s treacle voice. ‘I need some love. I’m feeling like a Christian at the Colosseum.’ If that were the case, Joseph would feel sorry for the lion.
He stepped into the room. He was hit by the powdery smell of Isadora’s perfume and the cloying scent of Elnett that Joanne, the make-up girl, was generously spraying onto her hair in a sticky mist. Isadora was resplendent in a green velvet dress, sitting at her dressing table in front of a mirror framed with bright round light bulbs.
The dressing table was cluttered with bottles of make-up and brushes, a half-eaten box of pastel-coloured macaroons from Ladurée in London, and an empty crystal champagne flute.
Extravagant bouquets of flowers, still in brown paper and cellophane and tied with silk ribbon, had been placed in glass vases around the room. ‘All good?’ he asked hopefully.
Isadora looked at him through the mirror and wrung her hands.
Even caked in stage make-up she looked beautiful with her high cheekbones and beguiling kitten eyes.
‘I’m so nervous,’ she said, hunching her thin shoulders and giving a little shiver like a greyhound in the starting block.
Joseph was used to this act. Playing the ingenue, while sucking the energy out of everyone like a vampire.
‘You’re going to be great,’ he gushed, indulging her need for constant reassurance.
‘Yes, you are, sweetie,’ Lezli agreed in the effortless manner of a professional fawner. ‘You’re made for this part.’
‘It’s a full house,’ said Joseph. ‘The theatre is packed!’
‘They’ve all come for you,’ Lezli added.
‘Have they?’ Isadora’s moonstone green eyes widened with disingenuous self-doubt.
‘The press too?’ Her scarlet lips extended into a tremulous smile as she stared wistfully at her reflection, as if seeking confirmation that she was still beautiful.
More beautiful, at least, than the three younger women who were taking the parts of the witches.
She put her fingers to her cheek and narrowed her eyes.
‘Oh, my Lord, I hope the press are kind. I haven’t been on stage since I was a girl.
It’s daunting, you know. I forgot how daunting it is. I feel judged already.’
‘The press will love you,’ said Joseph, glancing at his watch.
‘Joanne, do I need a touch more blush, do you think?’ she asked.
Joanne stood back and appraised her face with a critical air. ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied.
‘I do,’ said Isadora, her voice hardening. ‘Touch it up a little. I don’t want to look like a corpse.’
‘You could never look like a corpse,’ gushed Lezli, on cue.
Joanne reached for the blush and brush. ‘Okay, just a little,’ she said as Isadora tilted her face expectantly.
‘I’d better go,’ said Joseph, making for the door. ‘Break a leg, Isadora,’ he added.
‘Thanks, Joey, darling,’ she replied in her little girl voice.
As he left the room he heard her practising her lines in a flawless English accent.
‘Come you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts … Come to my woman’s breasts …
Come, thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell.
’ She might be a pain to deal with, he thought, but she sure could act.
Joseph made his way swiftly to the back of the auditorium.
The place was crammed. The air thick with body heat and perfume, and the low murmur of idle chatter.
His wife Emma was in the stalls somewhere.
She’d come with Leila. After weeks of listening to her husband complaining about his leading lady, Emma was curious to see whether hiring her had been worth all the stress.
Joseph hadn’t shared his grievances with Leila.
He didn’t want to worry her. As far as she was concerned, everything was running smoothly, and he was doing a tremendous job.
He settled into his seat in the back row, gratified by the sight of so many people.
At last, the lights went down, the voices hushed, and the red velvet curtains lifted to reveal a dark, foggy stage.
This was one of the moments Joseph loved the most. That brief pause before the action starts, when the audience holds its breath, not knowing what it’s going to see.
In this case, three ghostly faces illuminated suddenly in an eerie blueish glow, to the unsettling sound of dissonant music.
The witches. The three young women who had been on the receiving end of Isadora’s sharp tongue.
Joseph had had quite a trial pacifying them each time Isadora, in her sweet, girlish voice, insulted them.
Isadora knew exactly how to wound, and exactly how to act the victim when accused of being a bitch.
She was a master at turning the tables with wide-eyed innocence and claiming ignorance of so shrewdly calculated strikes.
Joseph pushed those thoughts aside and concentrated on the play.
It didn’t matter what politics seethed behind the scenes.
It only mattered what happened on stage.