Fifty-Four Theo
Fifty-Four
THEO
‘W here’s Amy Jo?’
The runner shrugs and dashes past me.
I scan the theatre interior. Where the hell is she?
It’s bad enough we’ve been called to present a benefactor’s sample showcase with less than twenty-four hours’ notice, but my co-star going AWOL now? It’s too much.
I’m already panicking about Hamlet , the task set for me now horribly clear. The lines are going in too slowly, my characterisation still not set and so much stage business still to nail. But the looming role isn’t the only issue causing dread today.
Greg said he was going to make things right with Lucie over a week ago, yet I’ve heard nothing. Was that another calculated lie, designed to stop me quitting?
According to Viola, the very capable but now super-stressed assistant director Greg promoted over Duncan, this mini performance is a last-minute idea from the RSC board to woo their list of benefactors and encourage their support for our new programme. Vi told us this morning that the full Hamlet and Tempest companies couldn’t be spared, with rehearsal time being at a premium and our opening shows looming scarily close. So, three of us will be responsible for the benefactor showcase. I’m to give my Act III, Scene 1, ‘ To be, or not to be’ soliloquy and Kris Shore, our twin production’s Ferdinand, alongside Amy Jo, will present the Act III, Scene 1 Tempest scene Lucie and I made our own during the summer.
Although, so far, there’s no sign of either of my fellow actors.
Or Greg, for that matter.
Where the hell is everyone?
I’ve been told the first guests have arrived and are being entertained with wine in the RSC bar. We have just under half an hour before they’ll file into The Swan to take their seats. An assistant is down in the empty rows already, hastily laying out sheets of programme notes for our invited audience. The tech team is setting lights and testing sound, our musical director for The Tempest gathering a handful of musicians on one side of the stage, while props and costume team leaders scurry about.
‘Shirt, Theo,’ rushes Bianca, our amiable head of costume, chucking an Elizabethan-style linen shirt at me as she passes by. I’m already wearing Hamlet’s long black leather boots and trousers and, admittedly, the Nirvana T-shirt I chucked on this morning doesn’t exactly match. I change quickly, the sight of my now infamous chest between shirts causing giggles from a couple of stagehands.
I resist the urge to groan, waving gamely back.
Given Greg’s enthusiasm for promoting the ‘Theo chest’ enjoyed by audiences over the summer, I should be grateful I’ve been allowed a shirt at all.
‘Twenty minutes,’ the stage manager calls, his voice causing heads to rise all around the wooden galleries of the theatre. The collective level of panic builds.
It’s remarkable to see what the brilliant teams here can achieve at such short notice, though. It helps that the theatre itself is remarkable, so anything we add to it only amplifies the excellence.
‘Anyone seen Greg?’ A worried-looking events manager scurries down one of the aisles, a clipboard clutched to her chest.
A chorus of No meets her question.
‘Ah. Okay. Keep going, all.’ She turns tail and hurries out, muttering ‘ shit , shit, shit ,’ under her breath.
I head backstage to see if our director, Amy Jo or Kris are around. Maybe they’re chatting somewhere, or quickly running their scene.
‘Where the hell is Greg?’ Jude, the stage manager for Tempest , appears before me. I just about manage to avoid a collision neither of us wants.
‘I came back here to look for him,’ I reply. ‘I can’t find Amy Jo or Kris, either.’
‘Bloody marvellous.’ Jude grinds his teeth. ‘I said this would happen. I said we weren’t prepared. And to think Greg originally asked for an act each of both plays. An act! We’re so behind schedule we’ll be lucky to get five lines and a skull …’ He offers a briefly apologetic smile. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘Okay, contingencies. If Greg is a no-show, we’ll send Vi on to intro. If Kris and Amy Jo fail to materialise, we’ll just send you. I suppose at a push we could drag in our Polonius … Although Luke Silk-Glass would milk that for weeks …’
‘I’ll manage,’ I assure him.
Jude’s sigh shivers through the wings. ‘And that, Mr Larkin, is why you’re my favourite actor. That and your chest.’
I accept this with a gracious bow, having heard enough chest references here to last a lifetime. My smile exists only until the stage manager has gone.
Bloody hell …
If Jude doesn’t know where they are, we’re in real trouble.
‘Fifteen minutes!’
Groans and shrieks echo around the theatre.
Where are they?