‘We have clearance,’whispers the stage manager.
‘She came.’
He looks at me blankly. ‘You okay?’
I give him the thumbs-up.
The lights go down; the music starts.
What a difference an audience makes; to hear reactions to what’s said on stage lifts everyone’s spirits and performances. Everything is heightened, and the lines ring out earnest and true.
Instead of the usual, muted interval break,the atmosphere in the dressing room tonight is lively and buzzing.
‘You know the bit where I say, “Your clock is seven minutes fast”? Well, I got a reaction! Woohoo!’ says Nick, playing Kulygin. ‘They’ve actually picked up on my psychoneurosis – that I’m more concerned about the clock than the fact that my wife may be sleeping with another man. Bitch!’
‘I do love you really, darling,’says Susannah, blowing him a kiss in the mirror.
‘This calls for a celebration. Tea all round,’ I say, flicking the kettle switch and collecting everyone’s mugs.
As Act Four unfolds, we have the audience in our grasp – not one shuffle or yawn or mobile phone menace.
‘“If only we knew, if only we knew!”’
The music fades. The lights go to black and there is silence. Lights up, andwe join hands for the curtain call. Thunderous applause cracks the air, accompanied by cheering, whistling, and stomping.
Soon the whole audience is up on their feet. We all look at one another in astonishment, savouring the atmosphere. Dean was true to his word, and his rent-a-crowd has come up trumps.
‘See the trouble I go to to get you to have dinner with me?’ he says later in the bar,handing me an enormous glass of wine. ‘We really enjoyed it, didn’t we, guys?’
‘Aw, you’re just saying that,’ I reply with a self-deprecating shrug. (Why do I always do this? Throw compliments back.)
‘Nope, but strewth, what was the big deal with Moscow? I was there in June, and I much preferred St Petersburg.’
‘Darling! Well done!’ A familiar, cultured voice cuts through the raucousbabble, and I turn to see Portia walking towards me, arms outstretched, theatrical in her long, burgundy velvet coat and fedora.
‘Is this the same woman who, not so long ago, was embarrassed to lay bare her emotions?’ she says, clasping me to her. ‘You shone tonight, Emily. I’m proud of you.’
‘Really?’ I say, secretly thrilled, but my insecure side is telling me she’s only being polite.
‘Really. Your performance worked. You breathed life into Olga, and my heart went out to her. I wept at the end.’
‘I didn’t come across too whingeing, too bitter?’
‘Not in the slightest. You got the balance just right.’
‘It’s just that some nights, I feel my insecurity infects the audience and I lose them altogether. The more I think about it, the worse it gets.’
‘If you’re worryingtoo much about the audience, then you’re not concentrating. Believe in yourself more, Emily,’ she says, placing her hands firmly on my shoulders. ‘Never forget Shakespeare’s words inMeasure for Measure:“Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.”’
She takes out a pen and jots the quote down on a Post-it Note, then places it firmly in my hand.
I look deeply into her face. She hasn’t just taught me about acting; she has taught me so much about myself, more than any therapist could have done, and I feel a stronger person for having known her.
‘Thank you, Portia,’ I say, hugging her, my warm tears running onto her cheek. ‘“Our doubts are traitors” will be my mantra from now on.’
‘Are you up for Waltzing Matilda’s karaoke barlater?’ interjects Dean, resting his elbow on my shoulder.
I smile at him. ‘Sounds great.’
