Four Theo
Four
THEO
O kay, maybe I shouldn’t have crashed her party. But she cut out Petruchio’s lines! How can you have a great romantic sparring scene like that with only one voice?
I get why she did it. Judging by her co-star and his ponderous Falstaff it wasn’t like she was ever going to get him leaping around as Kate’s love interest. Handsome male protagonists are rather thin on the ground in The Garden Players, that’s for sure.
It made sense for me to step into the breach.
It helps that I learned this duologue at drama school, playing alongside Clara Draymore, now a rising star in Hollywood. Though it’s been years since I last spoke Petruchio’s lines, they come back to me as easy as breathing.
And my Kate today was worth crashing her stage for.
She’s beautiful and her delivery is off the scale. I almost feel guilty for stealing her limelight. But it was just too tempting to ignore.
Theo Larkin, you are a bad, bad man …
The applause we receive is something else, though. It makes all the questionable stuff totally worthwhile. The whole garden is alive with cheering and clapping – it’s been so long since I felt that rush of love from an audience. A film set doesn’t let you know you did well. A TV camera doesn’t make you feel like you just rocked its world. I’ve missed this.
And, whether Kate likes it or not, our chemistry was unbelievable. The audience saw it: I felt it.
Did my Kate feel it, too?
She isn’t looking at me, but she deserves her applause. As it continues, I glance over to the back row of the invited guests where my agent is standing. He’s the reason I’m even here so early this morning: Barry thought it would add to my research to see where William Shakespeare’s life began, and as he’s a long-time patron of the Trust that runs this place, he dragged me along as his plus-one.
Fortuitously, as it turns out.
At first, I can’t see him, but then he moves into view between the cheering patrons.
And – bloody hell – he’s smiling .
I haven’t seen a genuine smile from him like that for over a year. I was beginning to think I’d never witness one again.
Maybe this was the best idea I’ve had.
The lady in charge of proceedings is fluttering around the garden, Falstaff’s hastily procured velvet cap in hand, as the delighted audience members dig into their purses and pockets for tips.
Is this how my Kate makes a living?
She’s still smiling and curtseying to the crowd, so I join in with some suitably flowery flourishes beside her.
‘Half of those tips are mine,’ I say, keeping my smile in place as I bow.
‘What?’ she hisses.
‘The tips. In your man’s hat. We did a great performance but half of it was down to me.’
Her smile doesn’t drop, but the temperature between us does. ‘Listen, mate , this is my gig. I didn’t ask you to crash it.’
‘Ah, but I did. And we were insanely good.’
‘ I was amazing.’
‘Yes, you are … were .’
She notes my stumble with the slightest lift of one eyebrow. ‘Well, now you’re done, you can skip off back to the audience where you belong.’
‘Not until our ovation is over, good Kate .’
Her face flushes but she doesn’t reply. Bet she’s wishing she slapped me for real now …
Okay, so she hates me. But what is it they say about the line between hate and love being thin?
Our chemistry was electric – I thought the woman in the wide Fedora hat sitting on the front row was going to full-on swoon when we did the fake slap. You don’t get that just from Billy Shakes’s words alone. The performance is everything.
Then the woman in charge wafts over and ushers us slowly off the stone stage – while the audience are still clapping, would you believe it? – and the other actor starts his Falstaff 2: The Revenge . You can almost hear the deflation of every person in the audience as they reluctantly quieten down.
‘My darling, darling man! Where did you come from?’ the woman asks, in a whisper that still has the gravitas of her voice at full volume.
‘Theo Larkin,’ I say, offering my hand. When she takes it, I plant a cheeky kiss on the back of hers, a move rewarded by a rose flush from her and rolled eyes from my co-star. My Kate can think what she likes: I haven’t had a reaction to anything I’ve done – or me at all – for what feels like forever. I intend to milk this for all it’s worth.
‘Theo – your name is familiar …’
‘He’s Theo Larkin,’ my agent puffs, having run over from the patrons to join us.
Barry ran ? The only time I’ve ever seen Barry Antony actually run was when they opened the champagne bar early at the Vanity Fair party three years ago. Barry never runs …
‘Hi. I’m Barry Antony, Theo’s agent. Theo is the star of The Marchioness’ Lover on Hulu , Bolingbroke: The Early Years on Apple TV , Broken Lines on Netflix and a key player in Eye Spy , Season 3. He was also voted Most Fanciable Male at the TV Pop! Awards three years running.’
That earns me another eyeroll from my Kate. She’ll make herself dizzy if she keeps doing that.
‘Ophelia Henry,’ the slightly startled woman replies. ‘Director of Garden Performance. I must say you took us quite by surprise, Mr Larkin. It’s so fortunate that we had our absolute best Garden Player, Lucinda Hart, to ably support your wonderful performance.’
‘What?’ my Kate says, but Ophelia and Barry aren’t listening.
Lucinda . I like it.
She glares at me before turning pointedly to watch her huffing, puffing colleague who is still rolling around the stage.
‘Theo is in town preparing for a role,’ Barry says, daring to place a hand on Ms Henry’s arm. ‘ Hamlet , at the RSC. The title role. Directed by Greg Dabrowski.’
Ms Henry recognises that name immediately. ‘Dabrowski’s Hamlet ?’ She glances over her shoulder at my seething co-star. ‘You auditioned for that production, didn’t you, Lucie darling?’
Lucy is even better. Is it Lucy as in classic Lucy or Lucie with an i-e? My money’s on the former.
I watch her shoulders bristle. ‘No, it was The Tempest . Greg’s directing both as a double-run.’
‘Cool. Did you get it?’ I ask.
‘They’re letting me know,’ she replies, through gritted teeth.
Uh-oh. Every actor knows what that means. The same as let’s do lunch and the cheque’s in the post and we should collaborate on something – basically translated as nothing is ever going to happen, now get out of the building or I’m calling security …
‘Tough break,’ I sympathise.
She mutters something I can’t quite make out.
‘Your Kate was breathtaking,’ Barry says to her. ‘Truly. And cutting Petruchio’s lines? Genius.’
She stares at him uncertainly as if trying to work out whether she should slap him, too. ‘Thanks.’
‘But together …’ Ophelia rushes. ‘Mr Antony, might I be so presumptuous as to request an encore from your protégé?’
I see Barry’s eyes cloud over for a second. He’s a fan of straight talking – big words confuse him. I jump in, before the pause becomes uncomfortable or Lucinda/Lucy/Lucie unleashes what she’s clearly ramping up to say.
‘An encore, Ms Henry?’
‘Not this morning – we are short on time due to the schedule – but another performance? Romeo, perhaps? I see you as a very arresting Montague.’ Her eager eyes make a slightly unnerving sweep of me. ‘If you’re in town to prepare for Hamlet , my darling, what better way to evoke the spirit of The Bard than to perform his most famous duologues here?’
‘Well, I don’t—’ I begin, because Petruchio and Romeo are the only two I can actually remember. But my agent’s eyes are already sparkling.
‘I’m sure we could come to some agreeable terms …’
Lucinda Hart is sending death stares towards us all. My heart is plummeting faster than my rating on IMDB.
Ophelia pales a little. ‘Ah. Payment could be a problem, considering the starry status of your client. After all, we are but a small part of the Trust’s vital work. And money being what it is for charities at present …’
‘I’ll do it for tips,’ I say.
What the hell am I doing? Why did I say that?
‘No, you won’t,’ my Kate begins, but she’s silenced by her boss’s raised hand.
‘Tips we receive are a profit-share amongst The Garden Players,’ she says, blinking quickly as she thinks on her feet. ‘However, the extra tips that an actor of Theo’s calibre might garner for us could be considerable …’
‘Ophelia, you can’t just …’ Lucinda growls.
Ophelia Henry claps her hands, a whip-crack that causes old bumbling Falstaff to turn from the audience. She blows a kiss of apology and turns back to us. ‘It’s decided, then! Theo, you may start with us four afternoons a week from Monday. Will that suit?’
‘He’ll be there,’ Barry rushes.
I glance from him to my soon-to-be co-star. She really hates me now.
‘Perfect!’ Ms Henry twitters, giggling like the girl she once was.
As she and Barry start to whisper excitedly, I take a step towards Lucinda.
‘Could be fun?’ I offer.
‘Don’t talk to me,’ she hisses back, picking up her skirts and storming away.
Well, this is going to be a blast …