‘I’ve lost a glove!’
‘Anyone got any hairspray?’
‘Can you call Babs? A button’s just come off my jacket.’
‘Has anyone seen my cigarette holder?’
Excited chatter from the auditorium blares through the speakers. Every seat sold. I feel sick.
During the dress rehearsal this afternoon I ‘dried’ three times, and my wig got caught in the zip of my tail during a quick scene change.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, just like Faye taught me to, in an attempt to steady my frazzled nerves. I breathe in the sweet perfume of the two bouquets of flowers on my dressing table: freesias from Mum and Dad, and pink roses from Francesco. I glance at the card and smile a private smile.
In bocca al lupo, cara! Fx
Mamma mia, if he could see me now, I think as I stare atthe Donatella Versace lookalike in the mirror.
‘Act One beginners, please.’
I’m not on for nine pages, but set off early to allow myself time to waddle down to prompt corner in my fishtail. I also need to have a practice-run in the wheelchair, which only materialised half an hour ago.
I scoot up and down the backstage area, heart going da-dum-da-dum-da-dum.
‘We have clearance,’announces Mark, giving the thumbs-up. ‘Break a leg, everyone!’
The lights go down, and the curtain goes up on Act One, Scene One.
‘Fade music. Cue telephone … go!’ whispers Abi into her mic.
Limbering up stage left is Betty, the maid, played by Tamara, an actress fresh out of drama school. The green cue light is illuminated, and with a little skip and a jump, she takes to the stage.
Ten minutes! Ten minutes of our precious rehearsal time was spent discussing ‘motive’ and which room Betty’s in when the telephone rings.
‘As it’s late afternoon, I feel she’s in the kitchen putting away the tea things, or maybe preparing the vegetables for dinner. Which scenario do you prefer, Jeremy?’ she’d said. ‘I could even be wiping my hands on my apron as I enter.’
My jaw hadtightened. Yeah, yeah, whatever, sweetheart. This is weekly rep, remember, not the bloody National Theatre. Just get on with it. How I wish Jeremy would put her in her place.
Despite being the youngest member of the company, Tamara doesn’t have to carry out ASM duties. She’s the daughter of the well-known playwright and director, Maurice de Fresnes, and is therefore leapfrogging her way upthe theatrical ladder.
‘I know,I knowshe can be rather tricky,’ Jeremy had said, taking me aside on one particularly bad rehearsal day. ‘But what you have to remember is that she was in an award-winning short film at last year’s Lithuanian Film Festival. And like it or not, we are lucky to have her as she’s being mooted as the next Carey Mulligan.’
So, this is her licence to get awaywith murder; she’s either having a tantrum, on the verge of tears, doing incessant warm-ups, or prancing about, practising her red-carpet smile.
Vince swigs water from one of the bottles on the props table, his eyes darting about nervously.
The green light comes on. Knees bent, he scoops me up into his bony arms, and we veer onto the shaky set of the doctor’s Bloomsbury flat.
Underthe glare of the lights, it’s as if I am watching someone who looks and sounds like me moving around the stage and saying the lines.
‘“Am I heavy?”’
‘“No, Miss … quite the contrary.”’
‘“You look so very strong.”’
‘“Do I, Miss?”’
‘“What wonderful muscles!”’ (Snigger from the stalls.)
