This romantic duo sets the stage alight.
You’d be mad to miss it!
~ The Yorkshire Evening Post
‘You up for it?’ Simon asks, knowing full well it doesn’t matter whether I’m ‘up for it’or not. Why else have I been travelling up and down the country, getting paid £500 per week plus touring allowance? So I may sit in my dressing room, stuffing my face with Hobnobs and tea whilst reading trashy magazines, or to be allowed to finally finish readingDoctor Zhivago, which I started back in 2010?
Nah – if it’s all the same to you, Simon, I’d rather give it a miss.
‘Of cour-hourse!’I reply, with a loud laugh, verging on hysteria.
‘Knock ’em dead, girl!’ he says with more enthusiasm than he feels, I suspect.
I feel my bottom lip trembling. Oh, my God. This is it. I’m trapped. There’s no way out. Stay calm. Deep breaths. STAY CALM. I AM IN CONTROL. I AM A PROFESSIONAL ACTRESS. I CAN DO THIS. I AM IN CONTROL.
‘Miss Forsyth to dressing room twoimmediately,’ cutsin the wardrobe mistress’s calm but commanding voice over the tannoy. I float downstairs in a daze.
‘Arms up!’ instructs Doris with a sympathetic smile, as she unravels an eighteen-inch corset. Before you can say ‘Mr Darcy’, I am stripped of my jumper and jeans and unceremoniously wrapped up like a pound of sausages. She yanks the laces tight. I gasp for air, secretly cursing the waitressfor having persuaded me to have the banoffee pie with whipped cream to finish.
‘This is your five-minute call,’ crackles the stage manager’s voice through the speaker, barely audible over the excited laughter and chatter of the unsuspecting audience. ‘Five minutes please.’
The show relay is switched off abruptly, and the only sound is Rick gargling in the dressing room next door. I stareat the stranger with big hair and heaving bosom looking back at me. God, I’m scared. My startled gaze falls on a bottle of Bach’s Rescue Remedy, sitting amongst Sophie’s numerous cards, flowers, make-up brushes, and other leading lady paraphernalia.Directions: Squeeze 4 drops onto the tongue.Bugger that. This is an emergency. Unscrewing the top, I swig the lot, in a desperate attempt to stopmy knees knocking together and my teeth from chattering.
Our doubts are traitors, our doubts are traitors …
I toy with my mobile. To phone, or not to phone? Why not? I’m in need of some moral support, and that’s what friends are for: to call upon in your hour of need.
‘Francesco? Hi! It’s Emily.’
‘Cara!Che cosa? What’s going on?’
I feel calmer already. ‘I just wanted you toknow I’m on!’
‘Scusi?’
‘In five minutes I’m on! Sophie had an accident and I’m on!’
I hear the sound of a pot lid spinning on the floor at the other end of the phone.
‘Francesco?’
‘Madonna mia!Fantastico! Eh, Luigi …’
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Act One beginners’ call. Miss Forsyth and Mr Romano. Act One beginners, please.’
‘I’ll call you later.Ciao!’
‘In bocca al lupo, cara!’
Oh my God, just hearing my name mentioned in the same breath as Rick Romano’s sends a wave of electricity around my body.
Little does he know that some twenty-five years ago, as the object of my teenage passion, his life-sized poster adorned my wall, smiling out at me, encouraging me through my A levels, comforting me when my pet rabbit died, and when Blair Gallowaydumped me for Miss Young Farmer 1990.
His hair is flecked with grey now, and he may be sporting a paunch in place of a six-pack, but there’s still something effortlessly magnetic and wildly attractive about him. His come-to-bed eyes are bluer than the sky, his seductive smile makes your legs wobble, and that mellifluous voice would make the football results sound likeFifty Shades of Grey. The moment I have dreamed of for a quarter of a century has finally arrived, and I’m so overfed and petrified I could vomit, and my breath reeks of garlic. I swipe an extra strong mint from my newly acquired cleavage, and crunch it fiercely.
Other cast members pop their heads round the door.
‘Good luck!’
