Chapter 27.

The two weeks, as it turned out when Femi let the schedule grow, was exhausting, but all the while Jess kept thinking of Anna and how soon she would see her again. They talked briefly a couple of times on the phone, Jess enjoying Anna’s remedying voice and the delicious promise of what waited at home.

France was the highlight with the film premiere at Le Grand Rex in Paris. The crowd outside was raucous and large. Jess had breathed in deep and thrown back her shoulders like Kalemdra and for once it worked and was enough to power her through two hours of signing autographs and shaking hands with the crowd. She was careful to avoid the intimidation of journalists with their onslaught of prying questions, which could break the spell, and saved her limited tank of words for fans who wanted to talk about their mutual obsession with Atlassia.

Her heart now belonged to two sisters, around eight to ten years old, who had matching thick glasses. They were dressed in clothes like Kalemdra’s, their black hair shaped like the character’s, with their Mum beaming with pride behind them. Jess had signed their graphic novels and apologised in her school-girl French for not being able to converse fluently. The mother and the eldest told her not to worry in embarrassingly perfect English and the girl spent five minutes, without a pause, telling her how much she loved the character and showing her favourite parts of the story. Her younger sister twirled on the spot and buried her face in her mother’s armpit.

“Sorry,” the mother said. “We’ve been waiting a long time and this one’s tired and about to have a meltdown, otherwise she’d be chatting to you as well. She’ll be talking about you all day tomorrow when she’s had time to take it in.”

“She’s autistic,” the eldest chipped in, “and she forgot her beads that she shakes to relax.”

The younger girl made a noise and shot a look of exceptional displeasure that only a sibling can provoke. She whined something in French that Jess made out as being upset that her sister was talking about her as if she wasn’t there.

Jess hesitated, taking the girl in, the child’s bottom lip pulled and her scowl both furious and upset. Jess squatted down beside her, but didn’t try to catch the eye of her kindred spirit.

“Me too,” Jess said, and she reached into the pocket of her tuxedo jacket and drew out her string of smooth green beads. She let them unfurl and swing in the air between them.

“These are mine,” Jess said, considering the beads and careful not to insist on eye contact or to bombard the girl with questions.

“I have several of these,” Jess continued. “When I was young I had a special set. I always played with them when I got anxious or tired. But I’d lose them or forget them and that would make me more stressed.” The girl unwound from her mother’s chest.

“So,” Jess said, “I make sure I have several sets so it doesn’t matter if lose one. I like the feel of them,” she said, letting the beads stream into her palm, then running them into the other hand. “I like their spherical shape on my palm and the way they flow. It’s mesmerising and pleasing all at the same time. It makes everything quiet, my mind and outside, and I can think again.”

The girl’s face was in the open, her expression blooming, and eventually she stepped forward with a confidence that things of importance imbue.

“You have beads,” she said in French. She stared at Jess, then incredulous wonder brightened her eyes and a goofy smile spread across her cheeks.

“Yes,” Jess said, the pleasure at their similarity infectious and her own face lifting. “I used to shake them like this when I was little.” And she held one end and flicked the string so that it snaked in a blurred figure of eight. Other kids had mocked her and she’d adapted to the more socially acceptable flowing beads between her palms and it had never felt the same again. But she didn’t relay that.

“I do that!” the young girl said, her face radiating sensational delight. Not an ounce of emotion was hidden. Jess could swear she could sense the warmth of that joy.

“They might not feel right,” Jess started, “but do you want to have mine?” and she offered the beads.

The girl nodded. She took the end and flicked her wrist so the string of beads snaked in the air. “They’re a bit light,” she said earnestly. “I have large wooden beads at home.”

“Say thank you, Michelle,” said the mother, mortified.

“That’s OK,” said Jess. “If they don’t feel right, then they don’t feel right.”

The girl experimented, putting them from one hand to the other. “But they sound nice,” she said and she looked at the beads in her hands reverentially. “Can I have them anyway?” she said, peering up with wide excitement in her eyes.

“Yes, you can,” Jess replied, and the girl jumped on the spot with unfettered glee. She showed her sister, refining the movement so that it became hypnotic and the girl was lost in its soothing rhythm.

“Thank you,” the mother said, tears brimming and twitching on the verge of giving Jess a hug. Then with a look of fondness at her daughter and one of apology to Jess, “We might not get her attention again.”

“There’s no need,” Jess shrugged.

“Merci,” the mother said, hand on her heart.

“You’re welcome.” And Jess had to move on.

Matt, the producer, was conspicuously absent and that was a loss. Jess had missed being able to download without reservation to someone who knew the stresses of the business and the series in particular. Seeing the rest of the cast lifted her though. They were a professional and amiable group, even A-lister Chris Smith, especially when intoxicated by the energy of the premiere and then literally drunk at the after party.

Jess couldn’t remember when she’d handled a glitzy event this well. A little Champagne and a good dose of camaraderie with the familiar cast, and the thought of her family at home and Anna in London, had given Jess a confidence boost, a base of happiness, a promise of respite. She played to the cameras that flashed everywhere at the party but avoided the nosy hacks.

Then, after a whirlwind fortnight, she stood nervous and hopeful outside a theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue in London. This was the kind of place she’d only entered on school trips and it had been daunting enough stepping foot into this world to see a matinee performance of Macbeth with her classmates, let alone knocking on the doors to audition for a role. It was a world to which she didn’t feel she belonged in many ways.

That didn’t mean she was going in unprepared.

The auditorium smelled of history: dust, the sweat of generations of audiences and actors, and spilt coffee. She tapped the seat at the rear of the stalls and it squeaked as it rocked back. They must have been the originals, small and tightly packed together, even the velvet covers decades old and wearing thin from thousands of bottoms. It was the kind of dishevelled chic that attracted actors from overseas, top directors and a loyal audience, despite the cheaper seats being obscured by pillars and suffering the odd spring in the rear.

It was a sizeable theatre too with a few hundred seats in the stalls, Jess guessed. She turned round and gazed up at the ornate and gilded balcony above, the royal gallery, and up again to the gods. It was awe-inspiring despite its shabbiness and Jess imagined that when the lights went low the anticipation and atmosphere must be on another plane.

“Ms Lambert I presume,” came a female voice, the kind that could cut glass. It came from the front of the stalls and Jess finally noticed a tuft of iron grey hair peeking over the top of mid row.

She strode towards the stage and found the diminutive figure of the director, cross-legged and pale fingers entwined, on the front row. She considered Jess over the top of scarlet, cat-eye glasses.

“Yes,” Jess said pleasantly. “Jessica Lambert.” Then she realised, always a step behind, the director was toying with her. She undoubtedly would have recognised Jess immediately. Jess put out her hand in any case, but it was ignored.

“Hello, Ms Warwick,” Jess said and she casually withdrew her hand, as if she took no offence, because in general Jess took less than most.

Deborah Warwick continued her silent appraisal. She was a stalwart of the Royal Shakespeare Company although her productions were innovative and controversial, at least in her heyday. Her rehearsal process was rigorous and experimental and expensive, which sometimes led to productions, as Celia would say, “dying on their arses”. Jess wondered if she was the kind of director who would not appreciate a rookie film star imposed upon her. It seemed her suspicions were correct. Deborah Warwick gave Jess the kind of look a cat might give when offered a bubble bath with a spaniel.

The director glanced at her watch. But Jess had been punctual to the second and Ms Warwick was slightly aggrieved.

“So,” Deborah said, flicking open a script. “I assume you’ve read it.”

“I have.”

“Memorised your part at least?”

“Yes.”

Deborah hesitated a fraction of a second. Was Jess's preparation unexpected?

“A little presumptuous, don’t you think? You don’t have it in the bag just yet,” Deborah snapped.

Oh. It was a bad thing. But Jess suspected that every possible answer would have reflected badly.

“Well, let’s get on with it. Hop up on the stage then.” Deborah tossed her a script.

Jess caught it and took the stage in a single bound.

For a fraction of second, it had been fleeting, Ms Warwick looked impressed, then she downgraded with, “You’ll need that fitness if you’re going to catch up with the rehearsal schedule and perform twice a day.”

Jess turned away to hide her smile and walked centre stage.

The set design was reassuringly minimalist: a menacing dark background to expose the characters, Jess had read in a newspaper review. It was rather like being in a green-screen studio, which Jess was more than used to, conjuring a performance in an imagined world, where the rushes contained only your raw performance with nowhere to hide.

Doors clattered at the entrance to the stalls.

“Sorry I’m late,” came a powerful voice with precise enunciation.

A young white actor entered, Jonathon Bates, who Jess recognised as playing the part of her character’s husband. His tardiness was apparently tolerable and Deborah waved him onto the stage.

He at least gave Jess a welcoming smile after he’d clambered up. “Bloody good to meet you,” he said with a grin and firm handshake and Jess was comforted by the gesture.

“From page twenty, would you please,” Deborah said, her voice ringing though the auditorium. “From where Jonathon enters. So as you should know, if you have indeed read the script, your character has had an affair and Jonathon has found you out.”

Jess flicked to the page. “Got it.” And she let the hand with the script drop to her side. She had memorised a good portion of the script and it had stuck easily, but she was glad of the reassurance of it in her hand.

Jonathon paced the stage, his presence large and footsteps thudding on the boards.

“When did it begin?”

She twitched at how loud he’d pitched his voice. It came so naturally as if his barrel chest was a powerful musical instrument.

“After you’d left,” she said weakly.

“Good god,” Deborah shrieked. “Louder, or else they won’t be able to hear you beyond row C. We don’t have microphones for this production thank you very much.”

“After you left,” Jess said again, her voice cracking a little. She hoped it came across as the character being affected rather than Jess being unused to projecting.

“How soon after I left?”

Jess twitched again, genuinely. Jonathon’s voice boomed with threat right through her.

“Not straight away,” she stuttered.

Jonathon pounded the stage behind her, taking up space. In contrast she must have looked part of the set, twisting round to follow his movement. Jess realised she was keeping her spot and staying within camera field of view. She decided to step slowly towards the audience, at the same time making herself smaller as she went.

“Was it when the others returned?”

“No,” she said, inching forward, as if bracing herself. “Not even then.”

She walked right to the very edge of the stage, as far away from Jonathon as she could, as if protecting herself from her husband. She was more intimate with the audience, confiding in them almost.

“Was it...” Jonathon’s voice softened but remained powerful. “When you thought I was dead?”

“No,” Jess whispered, with fear. She stopped. “It was when I heard you were coming back.”

The theatre was silent.

“What?” He said it with a heart-broken whisper that Jess could tell carried right up to the gods. It was thrilling.

“When I knew you were alive and coming home for good,” she said.

“But…”

“I wanted to know what it was like.”

“What?”

“Love.” Jess hugged herself and leaned over the edge of the stage. She felt Jonathon follow and loom over her. “I wanted to know what it was like to be touched by someone who cared. I wanted, for one moment, to be loved for who I am, not whose sister or daughter or beneficiary. Just me.”

“And now?” His words surrounded her. She saw Deborah twitch at the threat. The atmosphere bristled, even between the three of them, and she caught Deborah leaning in too.

“And now?” Jonathon repeated louder.

“I wish I’d never known,” Jess said, closing her eyes in despair.

There was silence again and Jess had the sense of being cocooned in a moment of magical tension that all three of them inhabited.

Then Deborah’s chair creaked and the whole room switched back to reality.

Jess looked up to find the director shuffling in her seat and contrition squirming across her face.

Jonathon grabbed her hand and grinned. “Liked that. Liked that a lot. Injects real pathos into an otherwise unsympathetic character.”

Jess beamed, all the time watching Deborah.

Deborah narrowed her eyes and said, “Do it again.” That was it.

Jess wondered if this was a challenge but she was more than up to it. She’d had to repeat a scene fifty times, every time perfectly, while others corpsed or otherwise ruined the take.

After five more times, each experimenting with suggestions, Deborah waved her hand and said, “Thank you, Jonathon. Take a break before the matinee.”

After he left, shaking Jess's hand and showering her with encouragement, Deborah busied herself with the script for the whole of five minutes while Jess kicked her feet on the edge of the stage.

“Well,” Deborah said, deigning to speak at last. She removed her glasses. “Your projection is appalling.”

Jess couldn’t fault her for that. The difference between her and Jonathon was vast.

“But…”

There was a but. At least there was a but and Jess's heart skipped a beat.

Deborah fixed her with a scrutinising gaze. “You have a naturally strong voice and good range. And after a very shaky start where I feared you’d actually glued yourself to the floor, you have a stage presence which is,” she breathed in deeply, “emerging, if I’m being generous.”

Jess tried very hard to keep her eyebrow from twitching but must have failed.

“Ms Lambert,” the director snapped. “People pay over a hundred pounds to see this play. They won’t take kindly to a substandard performance and neither should they.”

“A hundred quid?” Jess said, surprised.

The director leaned back in her seat. “That might be a pittance to you, but it’s a much anticipated treat for people although it’s the better off who are more likely to crucify you in reviews.”

“That’s not a pittance to me.” Jess shook her head. “I think I can count on my fingers the number of my possessions that cost that much.”

“Really?” The director tutted.

“My phone. Shoes. Winter coat.” Jess thought hard. “My suitcase, but that was a gift. Outfits are hired for me for public events, when fashion houses don’t want me to model their clothes. Otherwise, there’s not much else apart from what you see. Music, books, all on my phone. I live out of a suitcase and I don’t want it to be a large one.” She shrugged.

The director was still considering Jess over her glasses.

“Ms Lambert,” the director sighed, “your frugality is commendable, but I’m sure you are comfortable after your blockbuster series and other lucrative roles.”

“Jess. Please call me Jess.”

Deborah hesitated again. Jess smiled, realising she was wearing down the director by a process of congenial attrition.

“Jess,” the director sighed. “As you can see I’m not sure what to make of you. But...”

Jess held her breath.

“With some specialist help and a lot of work, I believe we can make something…passable.”

And Jess couldn’t help laughing out loud.