Two Theo
Two
THEO
‘S o, Hamlet .’
The producer, head of casting, and Barry, my agent, all loon-grin at me, their smiles noticeably tight. The director doesn’t smile: at this point, I’m not certain he ever does.
I smile back, wishing my heart wasn’t in my boots.
‘Looking forward to it,’ I say.
Was that bright enough?
I wish I could muster more enthusiasm. You see some actors arriving for auditions and casting meetings like they’ve had Haribo pumped into their veins, all bounce and boundless positivity. I envy them: the ones who can still do it, despite the acting life being immeasurably shit most of the time.
I can’t do it. Largely because I, like everyone else seated around the restaurant table in the hopeful June sunshine, know the truth: this might well be my last chance, after a catastrophic choice threw a spanner in the works of my promising career. Fact is, my name is currently mud as far as every other director, casting agent and producer is concerned, and all of it not my fault.
Well, mostly not my fault.
The memory of The Punch returns.
My heart makes a bid for the restaurant’s foundations.
At the time, it was justified – noble, even. But if I could reverse time to thirty seconds before I threw it, I would make myself walk away.
I was so close . The big stuff was happening – being on the slate for the Hollywood rom-com that was going to cement my name worldwide, TV appearances becoming more frequent, the possibility of headlining a play at the National Theatre. My name becoming recognised, quality scripts arriving on my agent’s desk like manna from heaven and the rarefied delight of being offered roles directly instead of having to audition. Flattering but daft headlines in magazines calling me the next Tom Hardy and the next big British star … Stuff I’ve worked my backside off for years to have a hope of achieving. Stuff my agent finally respected me for.
All gone in a heartbeat.
Just because I stood up to a scumbag director who was disrespecting my co-star in Cannes. A devastatingly well-connected scumbag, it transpired, who told all his industry mates to drop me because of it.
So this gig has to work, or I’m done.
Greg, the director, is eyeing me like someone dropped a sewer rat on his plate. He’s fresh off the plane from LA after a seven-hour delay and seems to have left any suggestion of compassion doing endless loops on Birmingham Airport’s baggage carousel. I wasn’t his first choice to play the Prince of Denmark. Hell, I wasn’t his twentieth. But Gabriel Marley skipped off to play James Bond, and with only three months till opening night, his pickings were slim.
For slim, read: me .
‘It’s a great opportunity,’ Barry rushes, nodding at me like a crazed primary school teacher on the front row of a nativity play, desperate to make the kids smile. ‘And absolutely the direction we’ve been seeking. Theo is over the moon to show his Hamlet .’
‘ His Hamlet better be worth watching,’ Greg mutters, loud enough for everyone in our party to hear – and most of the other tables in Gonzalo’s restaurant, too.
‘He has great pull,’ Eric, the producer, soothes. It’s sweet, but I don’t believe his apparent faith in me. He broke out in a nervous sweat within five minutes of arriving and now his entire forehead is glistening. I can see a damp patch beneath the arm of his striped denim shirt when he takes another shaky sip of his wine. Is that his third glass in an hour? ‘Theo’s going to bring in a whole new audience for the RSC. Like Tennant, with less quirks.’
Greg rolls his eyes.
I stretch my smile even tighter.
‘It’s been a huge ambition of mine to play this role since I first dreamed of the stage,’ I lie, willing every last scrap of brightness into my words.
Truth is, the absolute last part I ever thought I’d play was Hamlet. Romeo, at a push, but never old clutching-a-skull Ham. Me and Shakespeare have a bit of a rocky relationship to say the least. I know it’s probably heresy to admit it – especially here, in Stratford-upon-Avon, talking with the director of the next RSC headline production – but I didn’t become an actor because The Bard summoned me. I became an actor because I wanted girls to like me. At ten, that was a pretty noble ambition. And I wanted to race around in high-speed cars and shoot pretend guns and jump out of windows seconds before they exploded.
Basically, I wanted the big-screen job my predecessor just nabbed.
Bloody Gabriel Marley.
Although perhaps losing that job to him might turn out to be a blessing in disguise. Because in three months’ time I will star in one of the world’s most famous plays, here, in the town where millions flock every year to honour William Shakespeare and his works. It’s a chance to show what I’m capable of; to prove everyone wrong who thinks I’ve blown my career. Maybe it could unlock the suddenly slammed doors into theatre, or welcome me back into films. Maybe Gabriel Marley will rue the day he ducked out of this production because of the star it makes of his replacement.
Or maybe it’ll pay my rent for the next six months. To be honest, that’s a far bigger prize than career glory right now. I just need to work.
‘And he’s staying in Stratford,’ my agent offers, his grip on his wine glass tighter than I’d like it to be. ‘For the next two months, before rehearsals begin.’ He leans across the table a little, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘ Preparing for the role …’
‘Got a job waiting tables, has he?’ Greg offers.
Ouch. He’s too close to the truth for comfort – and nothing about this meeting is comforting me. I’d got used to the grind being far behind me. I can’t stand the thought of returning to the ranks of jobbing actors, scrimping and saving just to keep going between gigs. I deserve better than that.
I am better than that.
And Hamlet is my chance to prove it.
Greg’s terrifying, but he’s the best. I know he intends to make my life a misery in this production, but that’s why I’m in Stratford for the summer, getting as ready as I can to do battle with him. Also, because it’s good to get out of London for a bit while I’m persona non grata with pretty much everyone in the business. And I don’t have any other jobs at the moment …
‘Might just do that.’ I grin confidently, forcing my body to recline back in my chair as if this whole meeting is a pleasant formality and not a frightening test of my character. ‘I mean, Shakespeare started out as a jobbing actor: I think he’d approve of my hustle.’
I can’t repeat Greg’s reply …