I open the door to dressing room number three, which Mags and Ishare. She’s already there in her paisley silk dressing gown, applying her make-up.
‘Wow! Are those flowers from your Italianamore?’ she asks, a girlish glint in her eye. ‘How romantic!’
‘I think so …’ I say, secretly hoping, as I rip open the card.
In bocca al lupo!
Luigi, Maria, Rosalba, Luke e Francesco
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your half-hour call,’ cuts in thedeputy stage manager’s voice again. ‘Thirty minutes, please.’
A ripple of excitement mixed with sheer terror courses through my veins.
As I flick my powder brush to and fro, my thoughts drift again to Francesco. I wonder what he’s doing at this very moment. Concocting one of his delicious sauces, no doubt, whilst singing along to Zucchero or Renato Zero …
‘Break a leg, my darling,’whispers Mags, pressing her cheek against mine.
‘God, have I missed the beginners’ call?’ I say, coming back down to planet earth.
‘No. Don’t panic. I like to get down there early to check my props – and I have a daft little ritual I need to perform in the wings before every opening night,’ she says confidingly. ‘It’s too silly for words, so don’t ask. See you down there. Let’s knock ’emdead!’
A little jitter creeps back into my tummy. This is it. Two scenes, and I’m on. All the rehearsal and anxiety of the last three weeks, wondering if it would all come together in time, has culminated in this moment, and I’m thinking about Francesco and his pasta sauces. I give myself a severe ticking off, and take one last look at my lines, in an attempt to block him out and disciplinemy thoughts.
From the moment I make my first entrance, my nerves vanish as the magic takes hold, and I get lost in Chelsea; one moment a grown woman in complete control of her life, the next, a little girl, insecure and desperate for parental approval.
I am one of the lucky eight per cent of actors in paid employment, and to prove it, blu-tacked to the dressing room mirror (with lightbulbs all around it!) is the invitation to my first proper opening night party …
THEMANAGEMENT OFTHERIEGERTHEATRE,VIENNA
INVITE THE CAST&CREW OFONGOLDENPOND
TO FIRST-NIGHT DRINKS IN THEHAYDNBAR
* * *
‘Fraulein?’ says the waiter, clicking his heels as he tops up my glass of Sekt for the second time.
I give myself an imaginary pinch; I am in Vienna. I AMAN ACTRESS, WHO IS SIPPING CHAMPAGNE AT AN AFTER-SHOW PARTY IN VIENNA. ‘Congratulations!’ says a deeply familiar, über-smooth voice.
I veer round and find myself eyeball to eyeball with – NIGEL.
‘Oh my God, what are you doing here?’ I say, covering my mouth with my hand, heart hitting the floor.
‘Hey, I didn’t expect you to exactly fling your arms around me, but …’
‘Sorry, it’sjust I didn’t expect …’ I whisper, my voice disintegrating.
Why did I just come over all fluttery and apologise? This is the callous bastard who, in five minutes flat, sabotaged my whole life plan of moving to the country, having two kids (we’d even chosen names), a red setter, and a vegetable garden.
‘Minnie, you were fab-u-lous. Didn’t know you had it in you. Short hair suits you, bythe way,’ he says, his hand running down my cheek. ‘It makes you look much younger. You should have had it cut years ago.’ Excuse me? Is this not the same man who warned me never to cut my hair or he’d leave me? His thumb strokes my bottom lip as he holds me with his wolfish stare for longer than is comfortable. That old familiar scent of Paco Rabanne swirls around my head, awakening the past uninvited.
‘God, the loos here are a bit funny, babe,’ simpers a long-legged, lissom creature, bouncing over in an eye-popping, figure-hugging frocklet.
‘Ah, darling, this is Emily. Emily, Natasha,’ says Nigel, not looking me in the eye.
‘Natasha?’ I say, raising a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Sorry, I thought …’
‘Natasha,’ he says firmly.
