I sleep with my script undermy pillow, just in case there’s any truth in that old theatrical superstition that lines can be passed from pillow to brain.
* * *
Rick is committed to a radio interview this afternoon, so I have to imagine his presence in rehearsal, while the stage manager calls out the lines from the front row in between frantic phone calls. It’s fine during my soliloquies, but becomes a little trickyduring our big love scene, where I have to embrace and kiss thin air. Even a tennis ball on a stick would have helped.
As the week progresses, I begin to relax into the part more and start to enjoy it, actually listening and reacting to what’s being said on stage, instead of thinking,Oh shit, I was supposed to shut the door when I entered just now, wasn’t I?orI know it’s my line soon, butwhich line?The motion sickness I suffered due to the revolving set during my early performances has also settled, and I’m able to get on and off it quite smoothly now.
Rosalind flew up to see a matinée and has invited some of her Scottish contacts, but I told her it’s best I don’t know who or when, so as not to get my hopes up. Then whatever happens is a bonus.
I have been living my dreamin one of my favourite cities these last few days, not thinking about the past or worrying about the future, but focusing on the now. I wish I could hold on to this feeling and keep it safe in a bottle. Then next time I’m having a severe case of what’s-to-become-of-me blues, I’d uncork it, close my eyes, and inhale deeply. With just one whiff, my flagging spirits would be instantly revived, andI’d be back on track.
* * *
I arrive at the theatre on our final Saturday evening to find three bouquets of flowers waiting for me –three!
I close the dressing room door, switch on the kettle and rip open the envelopes.
Hear you’re a triumph, darling!
Thank you & break a leg tonight,
Sophie x
Emily to the rescue!
Thank you for your hard work,
The Producers
In bocca al lupo!
Mille grazie ~ Sergio
I let out a sigh, drink my tea then head to the stage for my very last warm-up. I look out into the silent auditorium, studying the glittering chandelier, the detailed plasterwork, the gilt cherubs, the plush red velvet seats, and the Royal Box – which, according to Arthur, is haunted by the Poet of Stockbridge, who was deeply in love withone of the actresses from the theatre, but she was the muse of the Duke of Stockbridge. In a fit of jealousy, the poet threw himself from the Royal Box during a performance and died in front of her.
Before I knew this story, I swear I fleetingly saw the hazy figure of an otherworldly gentleman in a top hat during a matinée, but without my glasses, I can’t be absolutely sure.
I wave tothe ushers and wish them well before returning to the dressing room to put on my make-up and wig cap.
* * *
As we take our final bow to cheers and whistles, Rick takes hold of my hand and kisses it. I smile as I think how impressed my teen self would be.
I look out into the packed auditorium through blurred eyes. In that instant I am reminded why actors struggle, do mind-numbing dayjobs, and sacrifice the material things of life; it is for this. Pooh, pooh to all that psychobabble about us suffering from some sort of narcissistic personality disorder. All I know is, nothing else has ever given me the same buzz, joy, and satisfaction, or feeling of camaraderie. But while I’ve now had a taste of where I want to be, I’m not prepared to get there by ruthlessly treading on anotheractress’s toes – or by willing her foot to get trapped in a revolving set, for that matter.
Faye says it’s all down to meaningful coincidences – that the universe is constantly sending us signs and guidance, but we need to be open and ready in order for the magic to work. It’s taken time for me to fully understand this, but I now realise it’s simply down to embracing new opportunities, insteadof running for the nearest exit or the first National Express coach out of town.
* * *
After farewell company drinks in Rick’s dressing room, I stagger out of the stage door, laden with flowers, my vanity case, towel, and yoga mat.
‘Buonasera, Signorina!’
‘Francesco! What are …’
‘Brava, brava!’ he cries, picking me up and spinning me round, sending my yoga mat into the pathof an inebriated passer-by tucking into a cone of chips.
‘Scusi, scusi,’ says Francesco, checking the guy’s okay.
