Benjamin Bache could not hide his disappointment as he flicked through today’s edition of VG without spotting his own name. The paper had crowned this year’s best-dressed men, and last year he had come in a respectable third, beaten only by Morten Harket and Ari Behn; this year, however, he hadn’t even made the list. Damn it. The actor punched the wall in his dressing room but regretted it immediately. It hurt and made a noise. A moment later there was a knock on the door, and Susanne, the assistant director, appeared.
“Everything all right, Benjamin? I thought I heard something.”
Benjamin Bache stuck his still-aching hand into his pocket and put on his best smile. After all, he was an actor.
“Everything here is just peachy. Perhaps it came from Trond Espen’s dressing room?”
“Okay.” Susanne smiled. “Rehearsals start in fifteen minutes, act three from the beginning.”
“‘To be or not to be, that is the question,’” Benjamin recited with a wink.
The assistant director giggled before she disappeared. Oh, yes, he still had it. But for the love of God, he had made the list last year; what had gone wrong this time? He’d taken such care with his appearance. He had even hired a PR firm and a stylist to advise him. Making sure he looked good. Having his pictures taken at all the right events. From all the right angles. He heaved a sigh and sat down in front of his dressing table. He hadn’t aged much in one year. A few tiny wrinkles around his eyes. His temples were possibly slightly higher. He leaned forward and examined his hairline. There was cause for concern—it looked as if it had receded a bit since the last time he checked. He swept his hair to the side, as it looked thicker when he wore it like that. He began some vocal exercises. Warmed up his throat, pouted at himself in the mirror.
He had been hired by National Theater almost eight years ago. “A star is born,” Dagbladet had written after his interpretation of Estragon in Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, and from then on he’d been cast almost exclusively in leading roles, at least initially. He had played Romeo. He had played Peer Gynt. And now he was in Shakespeare’s Hamlet on the main stage. He had hoped for the title role. Hamlet. To be or not to be. But instead he’d been cast as Horatio. The part of Hamlet had gone to Trond Espen because . . . well, it would, wouldn’t it? Though he didn’t really see why. He was obviously the better actor by far.
Oh, my dear Lord . . .
He was most put out. Acting in the shadow of Trond Espen. Bloody Horatio, a character ignored by practically everyone. It was pretty much only Hamlet who bothered to speak to him. Standing onstage, bowing his head, treating Trond Espen like a king . . . no, that really went against the grain. Benjamin Bache got up and studied his body in the mirror. He really was very good-looking. It put him in a slightly better mood. His recent workout routine was producing results. The yoga, too. As were the skin treatments. He could not see a flaw anywhere.
He returned to his chair and carried on with the vocal warm-up as the stage manager’s voice crackled through the intercom.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready to run act three. Hamlet. Hamlet, act three from the top starting in five minutes.”
Benjamin Bache finished his vocal exercises, left his dressing room, and made his way to the main stage.