The Agony & the Ecstasy
Three months later
I SWING AROUND THE CORNER into St Martin’s Lane WC2, collar pulled up against the driving rain.
TONIGHT AT 7.30
Private Lives
by
Noël Coward
There’s still a part of me that’s convinced I’ve been dreaming, and whenever I arrive at The Congreve Theatre, the stage doorman will say, ‘Not you again. Look, love, I’ve told you before, you can’t come in. This is a professional theatre for professional actors.’
I mean, my name’s not up in lights with the others, is it? No, but if you happen to have a magnifying glass handy, at the foot of the poster you can just about decipher …
Introducing Emily Forsyth as Louise
My character doesn’t appear until Act Three, but it’s a great little cameo role. My lines are all in French – my language degree may not have led to a job at The United Nations, but it has landed me the role of a French maid in a West End show – not a maid in the sexy, oh-là-là style of Carry On films. In fact, she’s described as ‘frowsy-looking’ and her clumsiness and inability to speak English give her some of the best laughs in the show.
At the audition, when the director asked me to leave the room and mime staggering back in with a tray laden with coffee pot, milk jug, sugar bowl, and basket of brioche, I was glad I’d not only prepared my lines, but had also done some character research by studying Julie Walters as the elderly, deaf waitress in the ‘Two Soups’ sketch on YouTube. I think that clinched it.
I may also get to play the leading role of the glamorous Amanda, as I also understudy this part. There’s no revolving set in this production, but you never know. That’s all I’m saying.
No cobbled-together costume here, stumbling on stage with half-learned lines, unsure of whose turn it is to speak; we’ve enjoyed the luxury of six weeks’ rehearsal, carefully planned fittings at Angels Costumes, dialect coaching sessions, and previews.
A year’s contract in London’s West End – with a possible Broadway transfer – is more than I could ever have dreamed of.
‘Evening, Doug,’ I say, ticking my name off.
‘Evening,’ he grunts, slithering down from his stool and taking my key from the hook, eyes glued to The One Show. ‘Don’t suppose any of those are for me?’ I ask longingly, indicating the array of first-night bouquets.
‘Take a look,’ he says with a shrug, still not looking away from the screen.
Yesss! There, at the back, hidden by all the dramatic, OTT, beribboned floral arrangements, is a simple orchid with my name stapled to the cellophane. Could it be?
Break a leg!
Best wishes
from all at Whiteley Productions.
Lovely of the management, I’m touched, but I can’t help wishing they were from someone else.
I wend my way up two floors to my dressing room. It has a brass plaque on the door …
EMILY FORSYTH PRIVATE LIVES
Sadly, the glamour stops there: step inside, and you will be struck by the faded, peeling Regency wallpaper, the grubby, threadbare carpet, the yellowish-brown stain on the ceiling, the one-armed chair with foam spilling from a rip in the seat, the dusty light bulbs (most of which have blown) around the cracked mirror, the rusty, Victorian radiator that doesn’t radiate, and the resident mouse, whom I’ve christened Colin. Yet, I am in paradise.
Not long to go now until Act Three and my first entrance. I practise my breathing exercises and unwrap a Vocalzones lozenge. There is a faint tap at the door.
‘Come in!’
‘These just arrived for you,’ wheezes Doug, one hand holding the doorframe, the other a sheaf of deep red roses wrapped in green gauze.
‘Thank you!’ I say, leaping up and taking them from him.
He mumbles something under his breath and shuffles off down the corridor.
I rip open the envelope …
In bocca al lupo!
Amore mio, ti voglio sposare.
Un caro abbraccio ~Francesco.
How sweet! Good luck! My love, I want to ? you.
Sposare? I haven’t a clue what this verb means. I want to ? you. The random, wild translations that are teasing my imagination cause me to blush profusely. I grab my pocket Italian dictionary, sitting amongst my good luck cards, put on my glasses, and flick through the pages:
sportivo
sporto
sposa
sposalizio
sposare ~to marry; to espouse.
The dictionary falls to the floor. I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs. I catch sight of my reflection: face flushed under my beret, eyes the size of pizza pies. This wasn’t on my write-it-down-make-it-happen list.
‘Miss Forsyth, this is your call.’
Jelly-legged, I make my way downstairs to prompt corner, dizzied by the crazy, jumbled-up emotions spinning around my head. I collect my string bag of bread and lettuce from the props table, and take up position in the wings, waiting to make my first entrance, heart battering my rib cage.
I love Francesco, of that I’m sure; I think about him constantly; he’s funny, generous, supportive, and kind, makes me feel alive, special, desired, respected, and I hate being parted from him; but if I were to marry him that would mean moving to Italy to live with his father and daughter, whom I have no doubt are lovely too, but I’m just not ready. I’ve worked so hard to get to this point and am not prepared to give up my dream again, just when I’ve been granted my first West End break. All the hardships, the sacrifices I’ve made, I owe it to myself to keep on this road and not allow my judgement to be clouded over by my emotional need to be loved, and my fear of this possibly being the last-chance saloon.
Whilst I don’t want to end up like some old Norma Desmond with only memories and faded reviews for company, I know I must keep on this path for now, wherever it may take me. Maybe it’s time I accepted that you can’t have it all.
Is it fair to keep Francesco hanging on? Family is everything to him. He deserves a loving, devoted wife to make the Rossi unit whole again.
They say if you really love someone then you should set them free …
‘Miss Forsyth to the stage, please. Miss Forsyth to the stage.’
From the darkness of prompt corner the stage manager mouths, ‘Break a leg!’ and points his thumb upwards.
I flick away a tear and force my quivering lips into a smile. Mustn’t miss my cue. Here I go … I inhale deeply and move towards the light …