‘Break a leg!’
‘You’ll befine!’
Will I?
With lines swirling aroundmy head, and pizza, pasta, Waldorf salad, red wine, and Rescue Remedy sloshing around my stomach, I lumber towards the stage area, one hand clutching reams of heavy, burgundy velvet, the other the wall. I now know how Mary Queen of Scots must have felt as she made her way to the gallows. I can almost hear the solitary drum beat accompanying my every step.
As I take up position at the stage-rightwings, I let out an almighty burp, the lace of my corset straining to the max. Rick gives me an encouraging thumbs-up from the dimness of prompt corner, opposite. I have only ever rehearsed with the other understudy, and wonder if he actually even knows my name. Until this moment he’s probably been thinking I’m one of his many crazed, adoring fans, following the show religiously from Wokingto Aberdeen.
‘We have clearance!’ hisses the stage manager. Oh, my God, what’s my first line? Breathe, breathe, you can do this. You are ready.Our doubts are traitors, our doubts are traitors.What is my first line? Help! I can’t remember! It’s too late to rush round to prompt corner. Why the hell didn’t I bring my script down with me? The lights are going down.Our doubts are traitors…The stage manager’s stepping out in front of the curtains …
The excited chitter-chatter gives way to a deathly hush.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. Due to the indisposition of Miss Sophie Butterfield, the role of Constance at this evening’s performance will be played by Miss Emily Forsyth.’
A gargantuan groan reverberates around the auditorium. I feel likethe booby prize in a raffle. I can almost hear them tutting and spluttering on their Mint Imperials, saying things like, ‘Never heard of ’er.’
‘Has she been on the telly?’
‘Bloody cheek! These tickets cost a fortune …’
The lights dim and an eerie silence descends.Our doubts are traitors, our doubts are traitors…
I leave the security of the wings and venture out onto the vaststage. The curtain rises. Someone coughs. Any minute now they are going to start jeering, baying for my blood. All at once I am drowning in a sea of white light. I feel like a prisoner of war caught climbing the perimeter fence, exposed by the stark beam of a searchlight.Hände hoch!Sweat trickles down my spine. I step forward, push out my diaphragm, open my mouth to speak and – nothing comesout.Get a grip!a voice in my head tells me. My brain is scrambling for the words.You do know it.
I can’t stand here like something from Madame Tussauds, so out of sheer desperation, am about to throw myself on the floor and burst into floods of tears, hoping Rick will take it as a sign to come on early, when the lines tumble out in the nick of time.
The next two hours are a blur. It’sas if I’m on automatic pilot, drifting through a fog, the dialogue and moves appearing out of nowhere …
Then all at once I am standing centre stage, hand in hand with Rick as we take our final bow to a standing ovation. It’s over. I’ve done it, and I didn’t muck up my lines or belch or bump into the furniture and no one demanded a refund at the interval.
I close the dressing room doorfirmly and lean against it, heaving a mighty sigh of relief. Alone at last. I feel giddy and ravenous. I unpin the heavy, Antoinette wig, kick off Sophie’s two-sizes-too-small shoes, and rip open the bag of Jelly Babies. Those little red, black, and green faces smile back at me sweetly as I devour them greedily. There’s a knock at the door. Thank God! That will be Doris coming to unlace me.
‘Yesh!’ I call, through a mass of congealed strawberry, orange, and lime jelly.
‘Well done, baby!’ drawls Rick, bursting into the room, frilly shirt unbuttoned to the waist, a bottle of bubbly and two glasses clutched in his strong, manly hands.
Whoa! I blink several times, jaw scraping the floor. I need a reality check here. Standing before me is the demigod, Rick Romano: a man adoredby millions of women the world over, invitingmeto drink champagne with him. And here am I, with what resembles a pair of tights on my head, mouth so crammed full of Jelly Babies I’m unable to string two words together.
‘Tank yub,’ I drool, flashing him a gummy smile.
* * *
‘Sophie’s broken her foot,’ says Simon in a phone call two hours later. ‘She’ll be in plaster for the next fewweeks, so you’ll be playing Constance until the end of the run.’
‘That’s great,’ I blurt out. ‘I mean, not great that she’s broken her foot but …’
‘We’ve scheduled an extra rehearsal for you tomorrow afternoon at three on stage. Okay?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, mind buzzing. ‘Yes, of course.’
He hangs up. My stomach heaves. Oh shit, shit, shit. I’ve got to go through it all again tomorrownight, then another one, two, three … twelve performances after that.
‘But this is the big chance you wait for,cara,’ says Francesco during our now routine late-night call. ‘It’s your dream.’
‘I know, I know. I just wish I had more time to prepare.’
‘There is never enough time. Live in this moment,cara, and appreciate.Sogni d’oro.Golden dreams.’
