suicidal and … well, it’s complicated).
‘Break a leg, everyone. Unfortunately our audience tonight is slightly thin on the ground, but please don’t let that put you off. I want you to act like the place is full – which I’m sure it will be once the reviews are out.’
Another knock on the door and Rocket calls breathlessly from the other side, ‘Act One beginners, please!’
As I wait in the pitch blackness behind the stage, I wonder if there’s anyone out there at all. No excited chatter or rustling of sweetie papers. I find a tiny hole in the masking drapes, close one eye, and peer through, just as the door at the back slams shut. A solitary cough fills the silence.
The lights go down and the opening music, by some Russian composer whose name I can’t remember, let alone pronounce, crackles through the speakers. I clear my dry throat, fumble my way through the leaden darkness five steps to the makeshift stage, and take up position. The music fades and the lights snap on, burning my face, blinding me with their glare. Here goes …
‘“… Andrey could be good-looking, only he’s filled out a lot and it doesn’t suit him …”’
A mobile phone goes off.
‘Hello …’
‘“But I’ve become old, I’ve got very thin …”’
‘It finishes around 10.30, I think … I hope …’ (snigger) …
‘“I suppose because I lose my temper with …”’
‘Okay, darling, see you in the bar. Hmm? I’m not sure …’
‘“… the girls at the Gymnasium. Today I’m free, I’m at home, and I have no headache …”’
‘Ooh, I know … make it a vodka and orange … a double … I’ll need it! Byee!’
‘Shh!’
‘“I feel younger than yesterday …”’
We haven’t even reached the end of Act One and I am consumed by an overwhelming sense of despair. Marvellous method acting? Would it were true.
A car alarm goes off.
What in God’s name is that guy doing?
‘“… Andrey, don’t go off …”’
I don’t believe it. He’s getting up. KER-CHUNG! goes the seat as it flips up. EEEEEEAK! creaks the door. A shaft of light streams through from the bar.
‘“He has a way of always walking off. Come here.”’
‘GOAL!’ comes a collective, triumphant cry from the bar, just as the door swings shut.
I guess Chelsea must have scored against Sheffield then.
We brazen it out to the interval - somehow. Acts Three and Four go a little better, and apart from the odd cough, our meagre audience seems to settle down. Maybe they’re actually getting into it. On second thoughts, judging by the lukewarm applause as we take our curtain call, maybe they were comatose.
It wasn’t meant to be like this; I didn’t expect a standing ovation and flowers to be thrown at our feet, but I wasn’t prepared for this: to be in a production where the actors outnumber the audience. Is this what I have sacrificed my job and everything for? This is not my dream. I had such high hopes. Things are just not panning out as I expected. My bubble has burst already. My nails are chipped and dirty; my knees are bruised from pushing and shoving desks around the office and scrubbing stone steps at the pub. I wouldn’t care had I had one reply from a casting director or agent; even a WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU would have been nice, courteous.
‘Well done, everyone!’ enthuses Hugh, giving us the thumbs-up as we trudge up the stairs. ‘The drinks are on me.’
I’m about to make the excuse of having to be up at 0430, when Susannah, who plays Masha, as if reading my mind, says, ‘Come on, sis’, shall we show our faces and have just one?’
‘Why not?’ I say flatly, forcing a smile.
‘Ladies!’ calls Hugh, waving us over to the bar.
‘Hugh’s a sweetie,’ whispers Susannah. ‘I’ve worked for him before, and not only is he a brilliant director, but he really values his cast. The theatre is his life-blood. He should be at The National – but then shouldn’t we all, darling?’
Despite early success (she was plucked from drama school at the age of nineteen to play Rumpleteazer in Cats), Susannah tells me she has struggled since, doing the odd commercial and bit part on telly.
‘The only way I get to do the juicy, classical roles is on the Fringe, in productions like this, with a couple of students or maybe a pensioner or two for an audience at matinées. But who knows, one of these days, Sam Mendes may be out there scouting for new talent,’ she says brightly. ‘Top-up?’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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