CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Agony & the Ecstasy
Three months later
ISWING AROUND THE CORNERinto St Martin’s Lane WC2, collar pulled up against the driving rain.
TONIGHT AT 7.30
Private Lives
by
Noël Coward
There’s still a part of me that’s convinced I’ve been dreaming, and whenever I arrive at The Congreve Theatre, the stage doorman will say, ‘Not you again. Look,love, I’ve told you before, you can’t come in. This is aprofessionaltheatre forprofessionalactors.’
I mean, my name’s not up in lights with the others, is it? No, but if you happen to have a magnifying glass handy, at the foot of the poster you can just about decipher …
Introducing Emily Forsyth as Louise
My character doesn’t appear until Act Three, but it’s a great littlecameo role. My lines are all in French – my language degree may not have led to a job at The United Nations, but it has landed me the role of a French maid in a West End show – not a maid in the sexy, oh-là-là style ofCarry Onfilms. In fact, she’s described as ‘frowsy-looking’ and her clumsiness and inability to speak English give her some of the best laughs in the show.
At the audition,when the director asked me to leave the room and mime staggering back in with a tray laden with coffee pot, milk jug, sugar bowl, and basket of brioche, I was glad I’d not only prepared my lines, but had also done some character research by studying Julie Walters as the elderly, deaf waitress in the ‘Two Soups’ sketch on YouTube. I think that clinched it.
Imayalso get to play the leadingrole of the glamorous Amanda, as I also understudy this part. There’s no revolving set in this production, but you never know. That’s all I’m saying.
No cobbled-together costume here, stumbling on stage with half-learned lines, unsure of whose turn it is to speak; we’ve enjoyed the luxury of six weeks’ rehearsal, carefully planned fittings at Angels Costumes, dialect coaching sessions, andpreviews.
A year’s contract in London’s West End – with a possible Broadway transfer – is more than I could ever have dreamed of.
‘Evening, Doug,’ I say, ticking my name off.
‘Evening,’ he grunts, slithering down from his stool and taking my key from the hook, eyes glued toThe One Show.‘Don’t suppose any of those are for me?’ I ask longingly, indicating the array of first-night bouquets.
‘Take a look,’ he says with a shrug, still not looking away from the screen.
Yesss! There, at the back, hidden by all the dramatic, OTT, beribboned floral arrangements, is a simple orchid with my name stapled to the cellophane. Could it be?
Break a leg!
Best wishes
from all at Whiteley Productions.
Lovely of the management, I’m touched, but I can’t help wishing they werefrom someone else.
I wend my way up two floors to my dressing room. It has a brass plaque on the door …
EMILY FORSYTH PRIVATE LIVES
Sadly, the glamour stops there: step inside, and you will be struck by the faded, peeling Regency wallpaper, the grubby, threadbare carpet, the yellowish-brown stain on the ceiling, the one-armed chair with foam spilling from a rip in the seat, thedusty light bulbs (most of which have blown) around the cracked mirror, the rusty, Victorian radiator that doesn’t radiate, and the resident mouse, whom I’ve christened Colin. Yet, I am in paradise.
Not long to go now until Act Three and my first entrance. I practise my breathing exercises and unwrap a Vocalzones lozenge. There is a faint tap at the door.
‘Come in!’
‘These just arrivedfor you,’ wheezes Doug, one hand holding the doorframe, the other a sheaf of deep red roses wrapped in green gauze.
