Fifty-Two Theo
Fifty-Two
THEO
T he theatre is quiet when I burst through the doors, a cleaner mopping the floor giving me a filthy look as I dash across the newly washed lobby. I hold up a hand of apology as I pass, my intended target pulling me on.
Duncan Harrow isn’t going to know what hit him.
My fellow actors have yet to arrive, the rehearsal rooms empty. The connecting corridor echoes to the sound of my determined footsteps, my breathing ragged from my flight through town. Blood pumps at my temples, its thunder filling my ears.
‘Theo, you’re early.’ Issie, the stage manager for Hamlet , steps into the corridor ahead of me.
‘Where’s Duncan?’ I growl.
‘Er, he was here a moment ago. Maybe try Production?’
I nod my thanks and press on, not wanting anything to stall my anger. It’s necessary, fuel for my mission.
I should have known Duncan would be involved. He’s obstructed Lucie’s career in every way possible for years. Why would he willingly stand by now and watch her receive the break she always deserved? His ultimate revenge was kicking away the opportunity at the eleventh hour – and then conspiring to install my ex in Lucie’s place – and I made it easy for him.
I hate that.
I reach the end of the corridor and pause by a fire exit. Where is the little scrote?
Then I hear a distant whistling back in the direction I’ve come from. It’s unmistakable, a discordant irritation I’ve heard many times since we began rehearsals. Like an infuriating gnat, persistent by your ears.
A gnat that needs squashing …
I follow the sound, my fury kicking up a gear as I near the first rehearsal room.
And there he is, arranging chairs to mark out a makeshift stage for our rehearsal. Inordinately pleased with himself, a smug smirk on his smarmy little face. The stance of an entitled toerag who thinks himself beyond reproach. His kind are still ten-a-penny in this business, despite the best efforts of people to root them out. Privileged, entitled, mostly white dudes who’ve had free rein for far too long. They’re like cockroaches: squash one and four more swarm out of the woodwork.
No more.
He looks up as I storm in, opening his foul little mouth to unleash some loaded comment as he always does. But this time, he doesn’t get his way.
Shock paints his features as I grab his shoulders and shove him bodily against the wall. ‘What the … ?’
‘You crossed me,’ I hiss, inches from his pale face.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He writhes beneath my grip.
‘Yes, you bloody do.’
‘Let me go …’
‘Not until you admit it.’
‘Admit what?’
‘That you threw Lucie under the bus. Made her give up this job.’
He gives a snort. ‘She did that all by herself. She always does … argh !’
I increase my grip, my fingers digging into his shoulders. ‘You set me up.’
‘When Greg hears about this you’ll …’
‘I’ll what? Be out on my ear? Fulfil your crap little revenge plot?’
‘You don’t deserve this gig!’ he spits back. ‘You were literally the last resort!’
‘And you’re an interfering little shit who can’t deal with being dumped,’ I return. ‘So here we are.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I want the truth!’
‘You went along with Greg’s publicity plan. You replied to his texts. Lucie has a right to know …’
‘You had no right showing her!’
‘Why? So she wouldn’t find out you’d used her? You’re not the hero you think you are, Theo Larkin. You’re a washed up has-been who had a lucky summer. But you’re a loose cannon with a predilection for violence.’ He holds his arms out. ‘You think Greg will still want you if he knows you’re in here now, threatening me? Like Cannes all over again, mate. You just made the biggest mistake crossing me. Wait till Greg hears about this …’
I glare at him, a shot of panic cutting through my fury. I don’t think he intended me to find out what he did, but have I just played into his slimy little hands? A slow smile spreads like a slick across his face.
He thinks he’s won, doesn’t he?
My hold on him slackens and he starts to wriggle free.
But a fresh wave of indignation crashes over me.
No more.
I’ve been at the mercy of his type for far too long. Those who crowed over my mistake in Cannes, who gleefully joined in the kicking when my career came crashing down. Little tinpot power lords, their only claim to influence their willingness to step over anyone to get what they want. The sort that slither their way into positions they’ve no right to hold because people don’t dare speak up when their careers are on the line.
I will not be cowed to Duncan bloody Harrow.
‘Oh, he’s going to hear about this,’ I say, grabbing his arm and forcing it behind his back, pushing him towards the door. ‘From you.’
‘Wait – no – you can’t do this!’ he yelps, struggling beneath my hold.
I don’t listen, propelling him out of the rehearsal space and along the corridor to the production office where Greg has temporary residence. Duncan spits and protests, calling down all kinds of damnation on my head. Greg is going to sack me, my good luck is finished, my career over … Desperate threats I don’t give a second’s thought to. I can’t back down now: I won’t facilitate the silence. It’s time Duncan Harrow lost his crown.
Greg jumps to his feet as we crash into the office, his chair slamming against the wall. ‘What the hell?’
‘He’s lost it,’ Duncan rushes. ‘He attacked me …’
‘Tell him!’ I demand.
‘Theo, let him go.’
‘Not until he tells you what he did to Lucie Hart.’
Greg’s stare passes from me to his pathetic assistant director, moaning and making the biggest show of a wronged man. ‘Well?’
‘He attacked me! Entirely unprovoked. Just like he did with Xavier Michel!’
Greg’s brows knot, his eyes cast into ominous shadow. I’ve seen that before, when Barry heard what happened in Cannes and I almost lost him as my agent. When fellow directors heard Michel’s version of events and refused me work. When casting directors saw my name on call lists and denied me access to auditions.
Judgement. Decisions made against me with no recourse. A death knell for my career.
Have I thrown my best chance away?
‘Let him go.’ His voice is low, controlled, the worst kind of red flag.
Duncan scrabbles away from me, clutching his arm accusingly. ‘We should sack him. Immediately. If word gets out …’
Greg blinks. ‘And how is that going to happen?’
‘It always does! Behaviour like this is always exposed. It could destroy the production, kill those ticket sales we’ve worked so hard to achieve …’
‘ We ?’
Duncan offers an insincere smile of apology. ‘You, Greg. You staked your reputation on this … this thug . Think of the damage that could do to your career. You don’t need me to tell you how fickle audiences can be. How quicky icons fall …’
‘He stole screenshots of our private text conversations from your phone,’ I state, cutting Duncan’s thinly veiled threats dead.
Greg turns to me. I can’t read his expression. I press on, determined to get this said, even if it’s the end of this job. I won’t be kicked aside without a fight.
‘The reason Lucinda Hart turned down the role you offered her was that she saw those screenshots. She thought you and I concocted a scheme to force a relationship between us to drive ticket sales. Only I never agreed to that. You might think I did because I never countered you. That was my mistake. But Lucie deserves the right to her own career, not to be used like a puppet to further yours.’
My words hang in the air. My heart thunders in my head.
‘He’s lying.’ Duncan might look defiant but his voice belies the truth. He’s scared – and now Greg knows it.
Greg says nothing. I can see him weighing the pros and cons of the information he now has. Is that a good thing? Am I right to even trust his response? He’s hardly a moral warrior: I’ve seen enough of his questionable behaviour to know that. And yet my future in this job (and the implications for my career) now rest on Greg Dabrowski doing the right thing.
Have I made the biggest mistake?
‘Why didn’t you say?’ he asks slowly.
‘Because I was a coward.’ I’ve nothing to lose by being honest. ‘It was easier to let you believe I was okay with everything than risk losing the job.’
He blinks slowly. ‘Don’t ever do that.’
Bit late to advise me now … Nevertheless, I accept it.
Greg turns to Duncan who is giving his best impression of a wronged party. ‘So, what happened?’
A flicker of uncertainty briefly appears, before Duncan’s pout returns. ‘He just burst into Rehearsal One, slammed me up against the wall like a Jason Statham wannabe and started yelling abuse. Completely unprovoked. It was like Cannes with Xavier Michel all over again.’
The repeat is deliberate, designed to remind my director of the scandal that still haunts me. The glint of triumph in Duncan’s slick grin is proof he thinks he’s won. The marked silence from Greg suggests he might have.
‘He thought I wouldn’t find out,’ I counter, not caring now what happens. It’s pretty clear Greg Dabrowski isn’t about to play my saviour in this. I can’t respect him anyway, not knowing what I do about his plan to bring in my ex to take Lucie’s place. ‘And you thought I wouldn’t work out the deal with Amy Jo.’
‘Excuse me?’ Greg’s glare swings to me. It’s designed to terrify me back into line. But I’m done with power games. I may have lost Lucie because of my silence, but I won’t leave here without speaking my mind.
I have held my tongue for months, through indignity, injustice and downright lies traded freely about me. I have borne the brunt of rejection and seen my potential written off because people took a powerful director’s word over mine. And this summer I lost the woman I love – that I continue to love, despite the fact I don’t think she’ll ever speak to me again – because I was scared of repercussions that might end my career for good.
And what was it all for? So some bastards with an agenda could go unchecked? So nobody had to challenge behaviour that might rock the status quo?
‘And just what exactly did I do with Amy Jo?’
‘You brought her in to fulfil the role you thought you’d given Lucie. Not on the stage, but as my perceived love interest in real life. A tantalising bit of drama to send fans rushing to see it for real.’
Greg observes me for the longest time. The shrug that follows makes my heart hit the floor. ‘Perhaps I was protecting my production.’
‘With respect, your production can look after itself. We’re eighty per cent sold with two weeks till we open. That’s pretty healthy. You don’t need a faked co-star relationship to make that happen.’ I take a breath, push on through the fear. ‘And what audiences saw with Lucie and me was genuine. We made it happen, not you. In fact, it happened despite our best efforts to avoid it. I was always going to fall in love with her. I didn’t need your help.’
A slow handclap sounds from my right.
‘A touching speech, Theo. Shame Lucie thinks you’re a liar.’
Okay, that’s it. I’ll accept my own guilt in not challenging Greg, but I’ll be damned if I take crap from his greasy minion.
‘What’s wrong, Dunc ? Still smarting over Lucie dumping you all those years ago? Because that’s what this is really about, right? Your pathetic little power trip. You obstructing every chance she had to shine because she kicked you to the kerb.’
‘What is he talking about?’ Greg eyeballs Duncan.
‘Nothing. He’s deflecting. Fact is, if you don’t get rid of him your production will suffer. And so will your career. Why risk losing so much just for the sake of a washed-up actor?’
‘I might be washed up, but Lucie chose me—’ I shoot back, enjoying the flinch my verbal kick lands on him, ‘—and not because I promised her help to progress her career like you did, or kept her doubting herself when you were together to keep her in line. And, yeah, she may never speak to me again, but I wouldn’t for one second stand in the way of her career like you’ve done your best to.’ I look back to Greg. ‘Did you know he has form on this? That he wouldn’t even let Lucie finish her audition for Tempest back when you cast me in Hamlet ?’
‘No.’
‘So he omitted to tell you that, and he misused his privilege by stealing private information from your phone. Now he’s suggesting he can trash your reputation if you get rid of him. I don’t claim to be an expert on damage limitation, but I’d hazard a guess that if anything is likely to jeopardise your production, it’s him .’
I wait, watching my director’s mind whirr as he looks between Duncan and me.
And then – nothing.
He remains stony-faced and Duncan is still in the room.
Shit.
I should have known it wouldn’t work.
This industry never changes because it won’t challenge what’s always been done. So sleazeballs like Duncan Harrow get to go their merry way, and cowards like Greg Dabrowski – who have the power to do something about it – let it go unchecked.
‘I think you should leave,’ Duncan says, staring down his nose at me.
Greg doesn’t say anything.
‘I expected better,’ I tell the room, knowing the only power my words have now is in the echo they cause. It’s over: I failed. Whatever happens next is beyond my control. ‘So much better than this.’
I don’t wait for the axe to fall. It isn’t necessary to witness it. Instead, I power out of the building, leaving my last big chance behind. I’m pretty sure Greg is already on the phone to Barry, magnificently severing my contract. Let him. I said what I had to. This time, at least, I’ll take the consequences as a badge of honour.
The waterfront is bathed in impossibly lovely late-afternoon light as I emerge from the theatre. I’ll miss this town. Funny how different it is from the picture I had when I caught the train from London to travel here. I expected armies of snobs wafting about quaint old buildings, gatekeepers protecting Shakespeare from the mucky hands of ordinary people. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Across the lush green lawn from the theatre entrance, I spot the familiar bronze statue of Young Will. He isn’t separated from those who flock to see his birthplace: he’s just there, on the footpath, amongst the crowd. People pose with him for selfies, throwing their arms around his shoulder as they grin for the shot. Little kids hug him or tell him about their day. I’ve often seen birds balancing on his shoulder, as if they’ve popped by for a natter. He isn’t remote, or untouchable: he’s right in the thick of it.
I think about this summer, of the people who came to the Birthplace’s garden to watch Lucie, Ced and me share snippets of Shakespeare’s tales. People from all walks of life and myriad parts of the world, captured by the unfolding drama written four centuries before. No barriers. No gatekeepers. Just the stories and the characters and the flow of the lines.
That’s what I found here: not dusty old relics or drama school set-texts, but a writer’s legacy renewed with every new person who experiences it.
I might not get to be the Prince of Denmark on the large stage behind me. I’ve as good as blown that chance. But I helped hundreds of complete strangers to discover Shakespeare’s words – even if the kisses on the viral videos brought them all to me.
Come for the snogs, stay for the magic , as Ced would say.
I have to be happy with that.
‘Cheers, mate,’ I say, patting Young Will’s arm. ‘Hope I did you proud.’
‘You did.’
Surprised, I look up.
Greg is beside the statue, sweat slicked across his brow, his breath a little ragged from his dash down here.
I just stare back.
‘That’s twice you’ve scolded me in public,’ he says, flint-faced.
I nod, not wanting to say anything he might take as an apology. I wasn’t sorry for calling him out at Gonzalo’s and I’m not sorry now.
‘I hate it.’ His eyes narrow. ‘But you were right.’
What? I know I’m gawping, but I can’t wrap my head around what I just heard.
‘People lie to me,’ he says, glancing at the statue. ‘All the time. I get why, I just wish … I’m no saint, Theo. I never claimed to be. If I decide something, I stick to it, and to hell with the consequences. You may well think I’m a son of a bitch for doing it: that’s fine by me.’
I can’t tell where this is going. Is he concealing a final blow?
‘If you’ve come to fire me, you can save yourself the trouble. I quit.’
‘I haven’t come to fire you, Theo. I’ve just fired Duncan.’
I stare at him. ‘What?’
‘He’s a snake. Everyone knows it. I just kept him around because it was easier than kicking him out.’
‘He’s gone?’ I ask, aware of how gormless my question sounds.
‘No. He’d dine out on that for years. I just promoted one of the other ADs to oversee Tempest . If he wants anything done, he’ll have to ask their permission. Trust me, that’s the worst thing that could happen to him.’ When I don’t laugh with him, he shakes his head. ‘You think you have me sussed, don’t you? Well, I guess you do. But believe it or not, I appreciate your honesty. Always tell me if I’m out of line, even if nobody else dares to. Even if I punch you in the face.’
I’m not sure that’s the reassuring instruction he thinks it is.
I expected Greg Dabrowski to let me go in a blaze of indignation. I expected his seeming distaste for me to break the surface.
I didn’t expect this.
I don’t think for a moment that he’s likely to change his attitude, or become a bosom buddy, but this version of Greg might just be the one that surprises me. If we can part on civil terms, there’s the smallest chance it’ll go no further – and Barry might just forgive me.
‘I don’t know what to say, Greg.’
‘Don’t say anything. Just get your ass back in there. We’ve a rehearsal in ten.’
Bewildered, I watch him turn to go. ‘In the theatre? But I thought …’
He looks back. ‘Yeah, I know what you thought. I apologise , okay?’ He says the word as if it’s brand new and he isn’t sure he’s saying it right. ‘But tell anyone I did and I’ll finish you.’
‘What about Lucie?’
He shrugs. ‘She left the show.’
‘She thinks I lied,’ I say, imagining my agent turning puce at my impertinence towards the director who’s just thrown me a lifeline. ‘She saw those messages and thinks I was in on your plan. The only person who can prove I wasn’t is you.’
Greg stares at me for what feels like days. ‘You realise I am going to make your life hell on earth for this.’
I risk a smile, my heart slamming hard against my ribs. ‘I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.’