an attractive red-head of about twenty, still full of breathless excitement about actually ‘being in the theatre’. She was quite talented, and devoutly believed Paul Lexington’s and Peter Hickton’s conviction that
It had been obvious from rehearsal that Peter Hickton fancied her, but whether he had got anywhere, Charles could not judge. In fact, he couldn’t imagine how the director’s rehearsal schedule would leave any time for thoughts of sex, though, of course, all things were possible.
On balance, Charles thought that probably nothing had developed. A part from the logistics, Lesley-Jane was so naive and bubbly, he could not imagine her keeping quiet about a love affair. He even suspected that she might be that remarkable rarity, a theatrical virgin.
And it was more likely that Peter Hickton was saving his assault on her for the less hectic time when the play was actually running. There would be two and a half weeks then, which should give the young director plenty of time.
‘Oh, Charles darling, this is for you.’ Lesley-Jane thrust one of the packages into his hands.
‘Oh,’ he said blankly.
‘First-night present.’
‘Ah.’ Theatrical camp, he thought. What would it be? A fluffy toy? No, felt too hard. A plaster statuette of a pierrot? Yes, that’d be the sort of thing. ‘Oh, er, thank you. How are you feeling?’
She opened her green eyes wide. ‘Scared witless, darling. Paul says he’s hoping there’ll be some people from London out front.’
‘Oh really?’ Charles had heard that a few too many times to get very excited about it.
‘And, even worse. .’ She paused dramatically.
‘What?’
‘My mother’s come down from London to see it.’
‘Is that bad? Is she awful?’
‘No, she’s an absolute angel. But she’s got awfully high standards. Used to be in the business, you know.’
‘Oh.’ The need to get to the lavatory was suddenly strong again. ‘If you’ll excuse me.
‘Yes. Is Alex in the dressing room?’
‘Sure.’
Sitting on the lavatory, Charles opened his first-night present. Oh, good, that girl would go far. He took back all his thoughts about her naivete and theatrical camp.
It was a quarter bottle of champagne. He drained it gratefully.
As he went back to his dressing room, he met the author of
‘Don’t worry. It’ll be all right. It’s a good play.’
‘Do you really think so?’ The schoolmaster’s pouncing on this crumb of praise was almost pathetic.
‘Yes, of course it is. We wouldn’t have put in all this work on it if it hadn’t been.’
‘Oh, I do hope so. It’s just no one seems to have talked about anything for the past few days except the bits that don’t work and all the technical problems it raises and. .’
Poor sap. Yes, it must have been strange for him, religiously attending the last week of rehearsals, and knowing nothing about the workings of the theatre. Everyone would be far too busy to waste time assuring the author that his play worked; there would be a lot of complaint about its inadequacies and difficulties. Anyone who had had a play produced before would have been prepared for that; but for Malcolm Harris, snatched from teaching the Causes of the Thirty Years’ War to fourteen-year-olds, it must all have been a profound culture shock. Charles felt guilty for not having realised earlier what the author had been suffering.
‘It’ll work. Really.’
Malcolm made a grimace that might have been intended for a smile. Maybe. My main worry is everyone getting the lines right.’
That’s what every author wants, thought Charles. And occasionally they get it. though most actors are highly skilled in the art of paraphrase.
‘I do hope Alex gets that big speech about the Hooded Owl itself right. I mean, that is the key to the play, and he got the rhythms all wrong this afternoon.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Charles soothed. Poor old Alex was having a bit of difficulty with the lines, he thought complacently.
‘Oh, and Charles, could you watch your line at the end of Act One.’
‘What?’
‘At the Dress Rehearsal, you said, ‘I’ll tell you one thing — it’s the last time I’ll come running.’
‘So? Isn’t that right?’
‘No. It should be, ‘I’ll tell you
Oh really! thought Charles. Bloody authors!
But he didn’t say it. Instead he asked, ‘Anyone out front tonight?’
‘Oh, just my wife and my wife’s mother.’
‘Ah.’ Then reassuringly, ‘And maybe lots of impresarios and film producers waiting to snap up the rights. How would you feel about a film offer on the play?’
‘Oh, I’d. . I’d get my agent to deal with it,’ replied the author, with an unsuccessful attempt at insouciance.
Still, good. At least he’d got an agent. Slowly he was sorting himself out.
Charles looked at his watch. Twenty past seven. ‘Must just go in and check the old slap,’ he said, gesturing to his make-up.
‘Yes, I’ll come in and wish Alex all the best.’
Charles opened the dressing room door to discover that Alex Household had stopped his ‘Rub-a-dub-a-dub- a-dub-a-dub’ routine. In fact, though they sprang apart quickly, he appeared to be doing his giving-Lesley-Jane- Decker-a-cuddle-on-his-knee routine. Well, there’s a novelty, thought Charles.
Alex tapped Lesley-Jane on the bottom in a way that was meant to suggest the contact had just been theatrical excess, but he didn’t convince Charles.
‘And thank you so much for the ginseng, darling,’ said Alex, to reinforce the impression of casual contact.
Ginseng. Of course. It would be. Lesley-Jane had got Alex’s number all right.
‘Um. .’ Malcolm Harris began awkwardly. ‘Um, Alex, just came in to say good luck — ’
‘Oh Lord!’ shouted the actor. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ The author looked mystified by the outburst.
‘Don’t you know anything, you bloody amateur?’
‘I don’t understand. .’
‘You mustn’t say what you’ve just said.’
‘What? I mustn’t say good — ’
‘Don’t say it again!’ Alex shrieked. ‘It’s bad luck.’
‘Well, what should I say?’
‘Oh Lord — break a leg or. . anything but that!’
Charles should have remembered: amongst Alex Household’s other fads was devout observance of all the theatrical superstitions.
Malcolm Harris’s minimal confidence had now deserted him completely.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know these — ’
‘No, you don’t know anything!’ snapped Alex. ‘Don’t even know how to write a decent play!’
In a second the author’s hand clenched into a fist and was raised to strike. But in the fractional pause that preceded the blow, the Stage Manager’s calming voice came over the loudspeaker.
‘Beginners, Act One, please.’
Malcolm Harris lowered his fist, glowered at the lead actor of his precious play, and scurried off to find the pass-door to join his wife and his wife’s mother in the auditorium.
Alex Household, Lesley-Jane Decker and Charles Paris hugged each other wordlessly, and passed through the
