you’re ready,’ he called, and the scene began.
‘I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him …’
‘Speak up, Anne. We hope that the audience will fill more than just the front row.’ Tom’s voice was cool, businesslike. The scene started up again.
Helen watched spellbound. It was Rosalind’s scene, but this Orlando was more than equal to it. Tom Hart’s right, she thought. Oliver does have a feel for it. All the self-confident grace of Oliver’s natural movements stayed with him on the stage. And the loose, half-ironical lightness of his manner spoke subtly for Orlando. The girl opposite him had a sweet, melodious voice but her body looked wooden beside his.
Chloe leaned across to Helen. ‘If they’re going to play it in doublet and hose,’ she whispered, ‘that girl’s legs are too fat.’
‘Thank you,’ Tom called. ‘Can we try it again with Belinda now?’
Another hopeful Rosalind climbed on to the stage. This girl was taller and slimmer and she moved well. But as the to and fro of the elegant, sparring speeches began again, it was still Oliver who drew all the attention. He looked gilded on the stage, as if he were already spotlit instead of quenched by the dull house lights like everyone else.
Stephen fidgeted in his seat and peered impatiently at his watch. ‘So much for the perfect Rosalind,’ he murmured.
There was a shade less confidence in Tom Hart’s manner as he retraced his steps to the stage.
‘Thanks,’ he said briefly. ‘Stephen, could we talk about …’
From the back of the auditorium a clear voice cut across the ripple of talk.
‘Is this the right place for the audition?’
They turned to stare at the newcomer.
Helen heard the soft hiss of indrawn breath before she turned round too.
A girl was standing against the red velvet curtaining that hung over the exit doors. In the second before she spoke again, she looked almost too pretty to be real, like an exquisite statue without warmth of flesh and blood. But as soon as she moved, smiled her question again, animation came flooding back and lit her face up.
‘The As You like It audition?’
Still no-one answered. The girl came down the aisle towards the stage. She had silver-blond hair, cut fashionably short and feathery to show the oval perfection of her face. Her wide-set dark blue eyes flicked from one to another of them and she smiled again, teasingly, and with a little challenge now. Although she was young, no more than nineteen, the newcomer was evidently used to the effect of her appearance.
‘Who is this vision?’ Chloe breathed to Stephen.
‘No idea. But I’m not going without finding out.’ He winked at her, and Chloe had the pleasurable sensation that there was already an understanding between them.
Tom collected himself first. ‘Yes, we’re auditioning now. You’d like to read for us?’
The girl turned her dazzling face to him.
‘May I? I don’t want to butt in. Let me explain first – my name’s Pansy Warren, and I’ve just come to live at Follies House. The landlady, Rose Pole, told me that you were looking for a Rosalind. I’d love just to have a try. I’ve acted a little bit, at school and in Switzerland, but …’ Pansy shrugged, self-deprecating.
‘Okay,’ Tom’s voice was crisp again. He handed his copy of the text to Pansy and helped her up on to the stage. Oliver bent to take her hand, and between them they led Pansy into her scene as if she were a piece of priceless china.
Helen sank lower in her inconspicuous seat. I could never, she thought, ever have walked in here as she did, unknown and unexpected, and asked to be auditioned. But then I don’t look like that.
There was a faint shadow on her face as she watched the players begin on the familiar lines again.
Pansy was wearing a loose roll-collared sweater that masked her slim, small-breasted figure, jeans, and soft suede ankle boots. With her cap of tousled hair she looked completely the girl-dressed-as-a-boy which the scene demanded.
‘Love is merely a madness,’ read Pansy, ‘and I tell you, deserves as well a dark house, and a whip, as madmen do.’
Her voice was soft, but surprisingly resonant.
There was no need for Tom to tell her to speak up.
She’s good too, Helen told herself. Good in the same way that Oliver is. She doesn’t care who is looking at her, or what they think. She can just be herself because she’s sure of being right. Like Oliver, she doesn’t have to try.
Helen was too intent on Pansy herself to notice something else, but Chloe saw it. There was a crackle between this Orlando and Rosalind that had been completely missing from the earlier attempts. There was a new edge of seriousness in Oliver’s performance as the youth in love with love, which made his posturing credible. Before, it had only been amusing.
And Pansy’s Rosalind, although she was mocking her lovesick youth, showed the girl’s attraction to the young man too.
That was right, as well.
‘With all my heart, good youth,’ said Oliver softly.
‘Nay, you must call me Rosalind.’ The balance of humour and longing in Pansy’s exit line was perfect. They want each other already, Chloe thought. And people like those two always get what they want. She shot a quick glance at Helen’s rapt profile and sighed for her.
The spatter of involuntary applause brought Oliver and Pansy to the front of the stage, flushed and pleased.
‘Weren’t they good? Wasn’t Oliver good?’ Helen was beaming at Chloe.
‘Very good,’ she answered shortly. ‘Unless the director is as blind as a bat, Follies House has provided the world with a Rosalind. What do you think of our house-mate?’
They looked at the slim, silvery figure between Tom and Oliver on stage.
‘How exotic to be living in the same house as someone like that. But she looks nice, don’t you think?’ Helen kept her voice deliberately neutral.
‘Mmmm.’ Chloe thought that indeed she looked nice, but it wasn’t the kind of niceness that Helen would benefit from.
Clearly the auditions were over. The two disappointed Rosalinds had slipped away and now Tom was flicking off the lights. Helen stood up uncertainly, longing to go to Oliver but too shy to make the first move. Behind her, she heard Stephen Spurring murmuring to Chloe, ‘There’s still time for some lunch. Would you like to?’
Tactfully, Helen hurried to pick up her things. She didn’t want to make Chloe feel that she should be invited too. ‘See you later,’ she said firmly. Oliver and Pansy were still standing at the edge of the stage.
When they spoke, neither of them mentioned their first meeting in the mist on Folly Bridge. Instead they let the memory of it hang between
