I feel my stomachlurch as I glance at the sandwich board outside the pub. This is it. No more ‘Sorry, what’s my next line?’ or ‘Should I be sitting at this point?’ After three weeks’ rehearsal, IthinkI’m pretty solid on my lines and moves, but there is always that fear lurking somewhere in the shadows, of stepping out in front of an audience and thinking, Who am I? What the hell am I doing here? Whoarethesepeople?
I make my way upstairs to the cramped, communal dressing room. Where, oh where is the star on the door and the mirror with light bulbs all around it?
I am the first to arrive and bag myself a wee corner. With fourteen of us in the cast, it’s going to be a tight squeeze. I lay out my make-up, hairbrush, bottle of water, and lucky elephant charm (a treasured gift from the cleanerat the crew hotel in Mumbai). I then distribute my First Night cards.
One by one, the others start to drift in, and nervous, excited chatter and vocal warm-up exercises soon reverberate around the room.
There is a rap at the door and Hugh enters, pushing eighty-year-old Betty, playing Anfisa, the nanny, into the lap of Vershinin (he’s the lieutenant, who’s in love with Masha, my sister,but they’re both married, his wife’s suicidal and … well, it’s complicated).
‘Break a leg, everyone. Unfortunately our audience tonight is slightly thin on the ground, but please don’t let that put you off. I want you to act like the place is full – which I’m sure it will be once the reviews are out.’
Another knock on the door and Rocket calls breathlessly from the other side, ‘Act Onebeginners, please!’
As I wait in the pitch blackness behind the stage, I wonder if there’s anyone out there at all. No excited chatter or rustling of sweetie papers. I find a tiny hole in the masking drapes, close one eye, and peer through, just as the door at the back slams shut. A solitary cough fills the silence.
The lights go down and the opening music, by some Russian composer whosename I can’t remember, let alone pronounce, crackles through the speakers. I clear my dry throat, fumble my way through the leaden darkness five steps to the makeshift stage, and take up position. The music fades and the lights snap on, burning my face, blinding me with their glare. Here goes …
‘“… Andrey could be good-looking, only he’s filled out a lot and it doesn’t suit him …”’
A mobilephone goes off.
‘Hello …’
‘“But I’ve become old, I’ve got very thin …”’
‘It finishes around 10.30, I think … Ihope…’ (snigger) …
‘“I suppose because I lose my temper with …”’
‘Okay, darling, see you in the bar. Hmm? I’m not sure …’
‘“… the girls at the Gymnasium. Today I’m free, I’m at home, and I have no headache …”’
‘Ooh, I know … make it a vodka and orange … adouble … I’ll need it! Byee!’
‘Shh!’
‘“I feel younger than yesterday …”’
We haven’t even reached the end of Act One and I am consumed by an overwhelming sense of despair. Marvellous method acting? Would it were true.
A car alarm goes off.
What in God’s name is that guy doing?
‘“… Andrey, don’t go off …”’
I don’t believe it. He’s getting up. KER-CHUNG! goes the seatas it flips up. EEEEEEAK! creaks the door. A shaft of light streams through from the bar.
‘“He has a way of always walking off. Come here.”’
‘GOAL!’ comes a collective, triumphant cry from the bar, just as the door swings shut.
I guess Chelsea must have scored against Sheffield then.
We brazen it out to the interval - somehow. Acts Three and Four go a little better, and apart fromthe odd cough, our meagre audience seems to settle down. Maybe they’re actually getting into it. On second thoughts, judging by the lukewarm applause as we take our curtain call, maybe they were comatose.
It wasn’t meant to be like this; I didn’t expect a standing ovation and flowers to be thrown at our feet, but I wasn’t prepared for this: to be in a production where the actors outnumberthe audience. Is this what I have sacrificed my job and everything for? This is not my dream. I had such high hopes. Things are just not panning out as I expected. My bubble has burst already. My nails are chipped and dirty; my knees are bruised from pushing and shoving desks around the office and scrubbing stone steps at the pub. I wouldn’t care had I had one reply from a casting director or agent;even aWE REGRET TO INFORM YOUwould have been nice, courteous.
