‘The storm is up, and all is on the hazard’
(Julius Caesar)
The rain poured in torrents over the next few days. Tour groups were cancelling at the last minute leaving Kelsey at a loose end on dark, dreary days. Taking the opportunity to FaceTime her mum, catching her between appointments one morning, Kelsey’s heart swelled to see her face.
‘How have you been, sweetheart?’ Mari asked.
‘Great, thanks. There’s so much going on. I’m getting the hang of the tours now, and I got my first pay packet which is always nice. And, I, um… I did a photo shoot at the weekend, for one of the actors.’
‘Kelsey, that’s wonderful! Good for you. Who’s the actor? Anyone famous? Was it that Kenneth Branagh? I like him!’
‘You won’t know him, he’s a theatre actor in an American touring company.’
‘And is he still in town?’
Kelsey detected the change in tone, the hint of teasing in her mum’s voice and the sparkle in her eye. ‘Yup, they’re here all summer for the big festival of plays.’
‘That’s nice. And have you, um… spoken to Francis at all?’
Kelsey swallowed. ‘Not yet. He texted, but when I rang him back, he didn’t pick up.’ She knew this sounded feeble and that she could have tried much harder to get in contact.
‘I’m sure you’ll reach each other, eventually. It’s been a fortnight since you left, love. The summer’s flying in, isn’t it?’
Kelsey let this pass with a silent nod and a twinge of burning anxiety. She knew what her mum was getting at. She owed Fran a call.
‘So are you doing any more photo shoots? Or… meeting your actor friend again, what was his name?’
‘Jonathan. I doubt it. He’ll be busy.’ With his girlfriend.
Kelsey thought it best to change the subject at that point. She didn’t want her mum worrying that she was already mixed up with some new bloke when she didn’t have the courage to even talk to Fran. It was easier to chat about the weather, and all the sci-fi conventions Calum was planning to drag Mari to over the summer.
‘Make sure you take every opportunity to enjoy yourself, sweetheart, that’s what I’d be doing if I were you,’ Mari said before they ended the chat.
The familiarity of her mum’s placid, cheerful face helped comfort her as the rain pounded down on the pavements outside, and she resolved not to waste these unexpected days off, no matter the weather. Mari was right; there were still adventures to be had.
Taking her umbrella and camera with her she followed the canals as far as she felt safe into the lush, overblown greenery of the surrounding countryside, and sat in cafés for hours at a time, working her way through overpriced cappuccinos. She’d finished reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream, adoring its strange plot in which the fairy folk trick and confuse the hapless mortals in the wood. Finding herself hooked on Shakespeare’s comedies, she’d spent hours in the antiquarian bookshop looking for her next play, at last picking Love’s Labour’s Lost from the shelves. To her delight, she found it was about a bunch of flashy, clever blokes who virtuously swear off women to concentrate on their studies, only to be thrown among some seriously tempting ladies. The plot made her laugh, the poetry made her sigh, and it helped pass the rainy hours.
Meeting up with the other guides for lunch or a drizzling stroll around the marina, Kelsey became aware of Will’s conspicuous absence. The whispered gossip from Gianfranco was that he’d gone down to London for a big acting audition and he didn’t want any of the other guides to know, which instantly piqued Kelsey’s interest. Just how important is this role exactly? Gianfranco had grinned mischievously as he passed on the news and Kelsey wondered how long it would remain a secret. She hadn’t had sweet, quiet Gianfranco down as a lover of gossip. It’s always the quiet ones, she mused, taking a mental note not to tell Gianfranco anything about Will’s flirting with her in case the details made their way around the agency.
Will’s absence didn’t bother Kelsey too much, but there was something dragging her down; a strange, unsettled feeling ever since the photo shoot. She reluctantly admitted to herself she was scanning the streets hoping for a glimpse of the tall, handsome American who’d made her feel so interesting and capable and talented. He was ensconced at the studio, of course, with Peony.
How can you miss someone you barely know? That’s ridiculous, right?
There was nothing else for it but to order yet another muffin, swallow down the sad feelings, turn another page of her play, and try to distract herself.
Fran still hadn’t been in touch and she found herself wondering where he was and what he was doing. Was he busy networking at the teachers’ conference, finally getting recognition for being the ambitious, hardworking man that he was? She missed him, but mostly, she hoped he was happy and not missing her too much.
Making the most of her agency discount, she splashed out, buying tickets for all the plays running in the main houses, seeing the evening performances back to back over the course of the long, wet week, loving every second of them.
There was the jealous and brooding Othello taking poor, innocent Desdemona’s life. Kelsey had inwardly raged at the stupidity of the man and the vindictiveness of Iago who’d told him Desdemona was a cheat. It had been nearly impossible to sit still. She’d wanted to shout out, ‘Don’t be a twat, Othello, she clearly loves you! That Iago’s a spineless prick, don’t listen to him.’ But she sat there fidgeting and getting cross instead.
Then there’d been a smart and sassy Cleopatra, played by a megastar of 1970s TV, who still very much ‘had it’ in her late sixties. It was easy to believe she could seduce bluff, brazen Antony. Kelsey was held, transfixed, by the passion and the all-or-nothing commitment of Cleopatra’s love. Then there had been an exhilarating Hamlet and a weird, other-worldly King Lear, and a sparklingly light Twelfth Night.
During these brief interludes in the theatre, Kelsey forgot herself – forgot Fran, Will, and Jonathan too – she was transported to other times in other worlds. But afterwards, as she stepped out of the glamourous playhouses into the drizzling darkness, real life closed in on her again, and it came back in waves – memories of Jonathan’s gestures, or his scent or something he’d said.
She’d been tempted to text him, but what would she say? She’d done the shoot now, his pictures would be arriving soon. What else was there? Peony had very publicly staked her claim to him and they were obviously more than just fellow actors in the same company. She remembered with some pain the photograph of Jonathan kissing Peony that she’d seen in their intimate little dressing room. Her thoughts careered down and down in free fall.
They’re obviously together. They must be. If not, she has quite some hold over him. Is she his ex, maybe? I can’t very well ask him, can I? I’d look ridiculous. He hired me for my photographs, I took them, now he’s disappeared into his cloistered little theatre world and I’m not part of it.
Torturing herself, she imagined the two of them up on stage in the pretty fairy bower on their opening night wrapped in each other’s arms, reciting beautiful poetry, Peony looking stunning in that costume. And they’ll be doing this every day, two shows a day. Of course they’re together. How could I be so stupid?
And so, on a drizzling Midsummer’s night, after that first rainy weekend spent struggling with herself, she resolved to begin the slow process of accepting that Jonathan was just a friend – not even that, an acquaintance, if anything. Telling herself that she’d imagined their intense connection – it had been the build-up of the electrical storm in the air or her hormones and missing Fran at home, or Will and his damned mulberries – she buried her feelings deep.
Examining her features in the landing mirror on that rainy summer solstice, she gave herself a pep talk. ‘Whatever was going on in that studio, you’ve got to get your head back in the game. This is supposed to be your summer of enlightenment. This is your Eat, Pray, Love summer – but without the effort of all the yoga and meditation stuff, or the dysentery risk.’ She practised a breezy smile and watched her reflection as the forced grin fell. ‘But how I wish, I wish, Jonathan Hathaway was mine.’
As the early July days progressed and the rain clouds rolled away from the Welcombe hills (she’d discovered that this was what the hills in the near distance were called), tour guide life resumed as before. Will had come back from London in a foul mood and was keeping a low profile. Sure enough, word had spread among the guides, but no one dared ask him how his audition had gone, it was all too obvious, and they weren’t supposed to know, anyway. The sun shone again and Kelsey’s rota seemed relentlessly busy.
It was getting on for a fortnight since the shoot that had ended so abruptly and awkwardly, when two things happened to disturb Kelsey’s usually quiet and very early breakfast.
The first was a text from Mirren.
Just as Kelsey was coming up with ideas for things they might do together – get out of town into the Cotswolds, maybe – she heard the postie dropping the mail through the letter box. The heavy slap of a large parcel falling onto the doormat reverberated in the tiled hallway and up the stairs. She knew exactly what it was: the proofs from the shoot, along with other photographs she’d taken around Stratford, fresh from the developers. Abandoning her breakfast, she rushed downstairs.
The pictures were better than she had anticipated, even with her handsome subject. The light wasn’t too harsh or too soft on Jonathan’s perfect features, the contrast between dark and light wasn’t too severe, and, apart from one dodgy one, they were all in perfect focus. The pride swelled in her chest as she pored over the photographs spread out over her bed. There was no denying it; looking at his face replicated over and over again in velvety monochrome and remembering the intensity of that hour in the studio theatre, she knew for sure she couldn’t help falling for him, and hard.
If I hurry I can get these to him before work.
Forty minutes later she was at the door to the Willow Studio which was wide open. An A-frame sign stood by the steps with a poster pasted to it. It read, A Midsummer Night’s Dream by the Oklahoma Renaissance Players. Performances 2pm and 7pm. Box Office Open. There was a picture of Bottom the Weaver beguiled and confused in his ass’s ears reclining in Titania’s arms. Peony was, of course, utterly gorgeous and ethereal in her white gossamer fairy costume and crown. Kelsey swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden guilt.
I’m not here to steal her man. I’m here to complete my assignment. Head shots delivered. Done and dusted. That’s all. Oh, I hope he’s here!
The lady at the box office shook her head. ‘Sorry, love, he doesn’t usually arrive until after lunch. Can I give him a message?’
‘Tell him Kelsey, I mean the photographer, dropped by with his new head shots, please. Oh, and he left two tickets here for me, they’re comps.’
Kelsey handed over the precious photographs. There was a code inside so Jonathan could log into the developer’s website and order as many high-resolution copies of the digitised images as he liked. Kelsey had kept nothing but the negatives. As the photographer they belonged to her. They meant she would never lose this lovely man completely. He’d always be in her possession, in mirror reverse images on sleek transparent plastic where all that is dark appears bright.