Joe had landed me with the job and I hardly put up a fight. It was a dirty trick and I felt licensed to kill.
I could sabotage the whole event, give a false image. It would not take much imagination, hire male strippers, serve hot dogs and lukewarm beer, give the press handouts with a sliding scale of accuracy. I could forgetfully call it a performance of Twelfth Knight and imply jousting at the court of Henry VIII.
Joe would be livid. But how could he blame me? I was only the prompt. Born to rectify other people’s lapses of memory, not my own.
It was a satisfying daydream for a short while. We were rehearsing Act 2, scene 4. The Duke was making heavy weather of his speech, in fact he was floundering on the shore, knee deep in mud. He needed rescuing.
‘If ever thou shalt love, in the sweet pangs of it remember me,’ I said, loud enough for Byron to hear. He managed most of the rest of the lines, hesitantly, sweating profusely and overemphasising his stance and gestures.
‘You’re not supposed to be staggering, faltering,’ Joe said.
‘I’m a faltering lover,’ said Byron defiantly. ‘She’s going to turn me down.’
‘It gives a very echo to the seat where love is enthroned,’ said Elinor with Viola’s words.
‘There you are,’ said Byron. ‘She turns me down.’ He could argue anything to tea time, and carry on till supper. He looked up into the tangle of ropes and wires.
‘That’s not turning you down,’ said Elinor. ‘It’s very positive. But she is assuming the role of a boy, remember? Dicey, even in those days.’
‘Can we have this ethical discussion some other time?’ said Joe returning to his laptop and desk lamp in the fourth row.’ Back to “If ever thou shalt love”.’
Byron groaned. ‘I hate that speech.’
‘Learn to like it,’ said Joe. ‘Learn to say it with feeling. Say it over and over again. Make it part of your life. That’s your remit for today.’
The Press Reception was a week away. I had sent out the invitations. I wrote them by hand in copper-plate Shakespearean handwriting, sloping and twirling, on fake manuscript paper I found going cheap in a card shop. Some of the edges were curled which gave them an air of antiquity.
Joe never asked to see what I had written or whether the arrangements were in place. So far there was no food, no drink and no entertainment. It was going to be a very short party. Say, fifteen minutes at the most.
The fact was I was too tired to be bothered. Not the right attitude. I should be bubbling with enthusiasm, ‘brisk and giddy-paced’ as Shakespeare wrote so eloquently for the same scene. Giddy-paced was not my style or size. Far too energetic. I needed folic acid and calcium.
Bill Naughton strolled over. He had a breathing space, liked breathing down my neck. Lighting were trying to fix something in the flies above.
‘How’s my favourite prompt?’ he asked, peering at the page. My neck warmed up. ‘Found your place?’
‘Want my job?’ I said, vaguely Bette Davis. I’d only caught her on afternoon movies, long before my time. ‘Any nearer and you can have it.’
‘Just making sure you are not asleep,’ he chuckled.
‘Quiet in the wings.’
Joe’s voice whipped over. He must have hearing sharper than a dolphin.
They can hear things miles away. And he was just as slippery. But could he do backflips?
It was a long scene. Twice I had to stretch my legs during moments of theatrical harassment. Prompt was not supposed to move. It was embarrassing but I could get stuck in one position. Then I waddled, like a duckling out of Honk!
‘Are you leaving us, Prompt?’ Joe asked, swinging his voice round towards my corner. ‘I don’t blame you. They are making a pig’s dinner of this play. Maybe we could turn it into a musical and get a band to come in. Let the noise drown the words. Elinor, go and get a good night’s sleep. You need it. Fran, stop flaunting the boobs. You’re a lady in waiting, not a lap dancer. Byron, for the last time, learn those words. And Mr Naughton, a word about those bloody slow changes. A tortoise on the run would have moved faster.’
I shrank back into my poncho. I’d lost my brittle shell, felt soft and exposed. My script fell open at a different page. One of the mischievous theatre ghosts on the prowl. Act 2, scene 3: ‘Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?’
Cakes and ale! Bingo. Hundreds and hundreds of deliciously scrummy cakes (keep Elinor away from them). Casks of ale? Where do I get authentic casks? What else did they eat in those days? Venison and stuffed swans? I drew a line at stuffed swans, poor things with such long necks. Did M&S sell venison? Venison sausages? Sweetmeats. What are sweetmeats? Sweets or meat? This was suddenly getting interesting. The press reception had potential.
There’s nothing I like more than research on Google at the library. Shakespearean food and drink. Tell me more, oh sweet screen, thou flickering cursor.
I was on my way out when Mr Mighty Joe Harrison blocked my path. He was wrapped up in a big scarf, not liking our English wet and cold. And winter was coming. It was nipping the air with splinters of ice.
‘Have you the right to look so happy?’ he asked.
‘I am happy,’ I said. And I was. ‘I love everybody but unfortunately that’s not necessarily including you. That I would have to work on. Call it overtime.’
‘How’s the press reception?’ It was the first time he’d mentioned
‘You’ll be amazed,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be spectacular, fantastic, terrific.’
Joe looked worried. ‘I don’t like the sound of spectacular and fantastic. Professional, I hope?’
‘Come along and find out. If there’s room for you. Everyone is coming. Half of London has accepted. Stalls, Dress Circle, Upper Circle, packed.’
‘Well done.’ He sounded suspicious. He didn’t trust me. I didn’t trust me. ‘Don’t forget, I shall want to say something about the production.’
‘I’ll find you a slot,’ I said. ‘Before the fireworks or after the ice skating? Maybe before everyone goes out or passes out.’
‘Is it going to be that kind of press reception? A medieval fountain of alcohol? No fireworks, please, unless you’ve invited the London Fire Brigade.’
‘It’s going to be wonderful,’ I said dreamily, very Charlize Theron, without the flawless skin and model figure. ‘Trust me.’
‘I don’t.’
I toured a people-packed, teeming M&S store in the break. The shelves were stacked with wonderful party food. I could eat everything. Not exactly Shakespearean but I could tweak it here and there. Casks of ale were no problem. The local brewery was willing to deliver. I found a delicatessen that would make venison sausages and honey cakes. Thirty-four plays and 154 sonnets recorded but what did Shakespeare eat? No burger bars around then but lots of street stalls selling piping hot food. Grazing is nothing new. Medieval homes didn’t have cookers or microwaves and not everyone lived in a castle with a cow-sized spit.
Shakespeare lived fifty-two years, dying on his birthday, 23 April. No mean feat to die on your birthday; think of the party. He began life with a bread and dripping job, working in his father’s wool and glove shop in Henley Street, Stratford. What was his mind thinking as he sold gloves to the ladies and rich merchants of the day? Daydreaming? Writing plays? He loved strolling players, followed them around. Good on you, William, the groupie. Go soak up the vibes.
But what did they eat or drink? I needed more information or this press reception was going to be dull and boring. That night I stayed up, reading the Bard. Cakes and ale, good wine, a pot of ale. Could it be served in pots? I didn’t fancy roasted egg or roasted wild boar. Forget them, nothing roasted.
Beef was mentioned frequently. Then, in Henry IV, I hit the culinary jackpot. Cheese and garlic, pigeons, short-legged hens, a joint of mutton and pretty little kickshaws. I had no idea what a kickshaw was but I had time to find out. Richard III mentioned strawberries, plenty of those still around and Romeo and Juliet came up trumps with quinces and dates. My party menu was going to be awesome.
I was walking through Covent Garden the next day when I heard some strolling players playing music. A group of out-of-work actors, desperate for food, drink, drugs, anything. They had a lute and flute and several sorts of other medieval instruments and were playing vaguely madrigal-type music with a bit of Queen thrown in. I booked them on the spot. They had to wear Shakespearian-type gear, be on time, and I would pay them cash, I said.
They liked the sound of cash. And the music wasn’t that bad. Could be catchy in a couple of centuries.
‘Now I’m depending on you,’ I said. ‘If you let me down, then your name will be more than mud, it will be foul-smelling sludge. If you haven’t the costumes, then we can fit you up out of Wardrobe.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mike, the leader. ‘We’ll be there in green and yellow stockings and caps. We can borrow the gear. It’ll be cool.’
The work was beginning to get to me. I wasn’t built for this kind of hassle. I had actually lost a couple of pounds in the last week. My flat was heavily into squalor. Instead of catching up on sleep at night, I was writing and checking lists, phoning people who were never in. Could I call this expenses?
It didn’t help that when I walked home that evening, I was followed by a stalker. I knew someone was a few paces behind me. Such a creepy feeling. I was sick with fear. My hand was on my mobile but how could it help me? I’d be flat on the pavement, minus bag, before my fingers even remembered where 999 was.
I’d worked in London for several years, various theatres, never been frightened before. But now I was. It was the most awful feeling, being followed, being stalked. I started crossing the street, then re-crossing, keeping a distance. They say keep a distance. Try to relax, let the tension go out of your shoulders. Strike with the palm, not a clenched fist. The fist hurts you more. I shrank into my own skin, hoping someone would rescue me first. I couldn’t even aim a stamp on an envelope. Robin Hood? Wrong county. Wrong century. I quickened my steps.
‘Sophie? Slow down. I’m not stalking you. Don’t be afraid. I live in this street too now. I’ve taken on the tenancy of the first-floor flat in the same house. It may not be the most salubrious area but it suits me.’
It was Joe Harrison, puffing. He was standing behind me, laden with flight bags and cases. A carton of milk was balanced on top. I rescued it, the words sinking in. I didn’t want a neighbour, especially this particular neighbour.
‘The first-floor flat?’ I said in a deadpan voice. My own voice. ‘It’s been empty for ages.’
‘I know. Overpriced but I can afford it, and it’s only for the run of the show. Well furnished. All white and minimalist. Do you want to see it?’
‘No,’ I said, following him inside like a zombie. The first floor was no climb at all. Joe was bouncing his bags and cases up the stairs. I didn’t offer to help. I’d helped him once before and look what good it had done me.
He pushed open the front door of his flat. It had a hall, not straight into the living room like mine. I followed him through to the kitchen and dumped the milk. It was all stainless steel and white tiles. Not a spilt Rice Crispie in sight.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’ll suit me very well.’
I could see the living room, big bay windows and long draped ivory curtains, two three-seater sofas and thick rugs on the polished floor. Call mine an aerial rabbit hutch. Still, I did have my own birds.
‘Lovely,’ I said, backing out.
‘Won’t you stay for a cup of tea? Some sort of house-warming drink?’ he shouted from the bedroom. No doubt it was also palatial and well furnished. ‘I think there’s some champagne in one of these bags.’
‘Sorry,’ I trilled merrily. ‘Busy night. Big party. All my mates. Got to wash my hair first.’
The big party was watching any mates who’d been lucky enough to get bit parts on TV soaps and were hurt if you didn’t spot them. Blink and you missed their line. Busy night was checking more replies. I washed my hair, that much was true. Protein for strength, it said on the bottle label in unreadable tiny print.
I sat in front of the telly towelling dry my strong hair before the drips ran down inside my collar. I was celebrating with a raspberry yogurt. Champagne wasn’t that good for you. Wrinkled the skin round the eyes or something.
I was unable to hear what was going on down on the first floor so if Fran joined Joe for the celebratory glass of champagne, I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t spend my life counting his visitors.
My bed was a shambles. I barely had time to tidy anywhere before I left every morning. I threw over the rose-patterned duvet and gave it the odd smoothing pat. Housework done.
There hadn’t been time for my usual evening call but my mother was still up, making her night-time cocoa. She answered the phone straight away.
‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.
‘Of course, right as rain. You sound tired.’
‘I am. This press reception is a lot of extra work. These things don’t just happen. There’s so much to think about.’
‘I hope he’s going to pay you.’
‘Yes, he said he would. But people forget, don’t they, when it’s all over?’
‘Then don’t let him forget. Type out an invoice and present it to him in the middle of the reception when everything is going well. But keep a copy in case he loses it. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
I groaned. ‘No guarantee of that. It could be a disaster. There’s so much to arrange. My corn is hurting and that means a disaster, doesn’t it?’
‘No, it means your shoes are too tight or it’s going to rain.’
‘That, too. How’s everything your end?’
‘He’s fine. Sound asleep. Had a busy day.’
‘I miss him.’
‘Do you? Come home a bit more often then. You know where we live. Come before he forgets who you are.’
My mother could be snappy. She’d had years of practise. My sense of inadequacy homed in like radar.