was draped suffocatingly round a young reporter who was making notes of everything she said. Elinor had her own circle of admirers, mostly aging stage-door Johnnies but she was loving it. There was a silver-haired television mogul who seemed to be spellbound.
I looked around for Bill but he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably off down the pub for a proper pint and some chips. Receptions were not his style.
Joe made his few words dynamic and brief, plenty of sound bites. He said what was necessary and not an extra word. The Press appreciated not having to listen to loads of ethnic waffle.
I was a mass of quivering nerves by now. Stage fright, yet I wasn’t on stage. Yet, I felt people were looking at me, waiting for me to say something and I didn’t know my lines. I felt my muscles becoming rigid. It was an old nightmare.
The Royale Theatre began to expand, growing in size until it became huge. It was blowing me away. I was dwindling in stature, shrinking, but my blood was pumping like mad. My head was spinning. It was that red mist clouding my eyes again.
‘Joe,’ I said but he didn’t hear me. He was talking to some blonde, svelte female journalist from one of the Sundays. She was gazing at him with calculated interest. If he relaxed too much, she’d bite his arm off.
‘Did you say Wilton House?’ someone asked me.
I nodded. ‘In the courtyard.’ It came out as a croak. I wanted to disappear but I was chained to the stage by the fringe of my dress.
‘The Earl of where?’
I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t even remember my own name or why I was there. Not a star, not cast, nothing. Everyone was laughing and having a wonderful time. My body was folding up. Any minute I’d be a parcel.
Some place to hide. That’s what I needed. I fled past my corner and down the stairs, holding on to the plastered wall. There was a sense of toppling as I lost touch with the surface.
I fell on to the last step, and sat, crying with a dazzling intensity. They were not only tears for the night, but for the years past. A time not forgotten. The memories were as clear and sharp as today.
CHAPTER SIX
Joe was leaning over me. My face was wet with tears that dripped in all directions. He gave me a handkerchief, a real linen one, not a tissue.
‘Blow,’ he said.
‘I c-can’t,’ I whispered in a storm of sobbing.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why are you behaving like this? The reception is a great success. Everything is buzzing. It couldn’t be better. Stop acting like a silly juvenile lead.’
I didn’t want Joe around, seeing me like this. He was part of the ghostly torment. But I couldn’t tell him that. It was buried under a frost of pain. I was happier on my own.
‘Go away,’ I sniffed. ‘Go back to your adoring audience. Make another speech. Leave me alone.’
‘You’re talking nonsense, Sophie. Do I care about the Press? Yes, they are a necessary force. Feed them, fill them full of drink, then send them home. That’s all. They know little about real life. But we need them and they need us. I care a lot more about my theatre company.’
It was a river of misunderstanding. We were talking about different things. I dragged myself back to now.
‘ Twelfth Night isn’t real life,’ I said, blowing my nose. ‘It’s all fiction and fantasy.’
‘But we are real people bringing the story to life for our audiences. We’re making the story seem real for them. Don’t you see that, Sophie? It’s nothing to cry about.’
‘You can tell me when to prompt and not to prompt, and you canmake me wear a red dress when in my right senses, I would never wear red with my hair. But you cannot tell me when to cry and when not to cry.’
I wiped mascara and black liner on to his pristine handkerchief. Try getting that out without using Vanish. It was cold down in the basement, enough to freeze-dry tears. Roman ladies used to collect their tears in little glass phials. They found some phials at Pompeii, only
I looked around for Bill but he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably off down the pub for a proper pint and some chips. Receptions were not his style.
Joe made his few words dynamic and brief, plenty of sound bites. He said what was necessary and not an extra word. The Press appreciated not having to listen to loads of ethnic waffle.
I was a mass of quivering nerves by now. Stage fright, yet I wasn’t on stage. Yet, I felt people were looking at me, waiting for me to say something and I didn’t know my lines. I felt my muscles becoming rigid. It was an old nightmare.
The Royale Theatre began to expand, growing in size until it became huge. It was blowing me away. I was dwindling in stature, shrinking, but my blood was pumping like mad. My head was spinning. It was that red mist clouding my eyes again.
‘Joe,’ I said but he didn’t hear me. He was talking to some blonde, svelte female journalist from one of the Sundays. She was gazing at him with calculated interest. If he relaxed too much, she’d bite his arm off.
‘Did you say Wilton House?’ someone asked me.
I nodded. ‘In the courtyard.’ It came out as a croak. I wanted to disappear but I was chained to the stage by the fringe of my dress.
‘The Earl of where?’
I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t even remember my own name or why I was there. Not a star, not cast, nothing. Everyone was laughing and having a wonderful time. My body was folding up. Any minute I’d be a parcel.
Some place to hide. That’s what I needed. I fled past my corner and down the stairs, holding on to the plastered wall. There was a sense of toppling as I lost touch with the surface.
I fell on to the last step, and sat, crying with a dazzling intensity. They were not only tears for the night, but for the years past. A time not forgotten. The memories were as clear and sharp as today.
CHAPTER SIX
Joe was leaning over me. My face was wet with tears that dripped in all directions. He gave me a handkerchief, a real linen one, not a tissue.
‘Blow,’ he said.
‘I c-can’t,’ I whispered in a storm of sobbing.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why are you behaving like this? The reception is a great success. Everything is buzzing. It couldn’t be better. Stop acting like a silly juvenile lead.’
I didn’t want Joe around, seeing me like this. He was part of the ghostly torment. But I couldn’t tell him that. It was buried under a frost of pain. I was happier on my own.
‘Go away,’ I sniffed. ‘Go back to your adoring audience. Make another speech. Leave me alone.’
‘You’re talking nonsense, Sophie. Do I care about the Press? Yes, they are a necessary force. Feed them, fill them full of drink, then send them home. That’s all. They know little about real life. But we need them and they need us. I care a lot more about my theatre company.’
It was a river of misunderstanding. We were talking about different things. I dragged myself back to now.
‘ Twelfth Night isn’t real life,’ I said, blowing my nose. ‘It’s all fiction and fantasy.’
‘But we are real people bringing the story to life for our audiences. We’re making the story seem real for them. Don’t you see that, Sophie? It’s nothing to cry about.’
‘You can tell me when to prompt and not to prompt, and you canmake me wear a red dress when in my right senses, I would never wear red with my hair. But you cannot tell me when to cry and when not to cry.’
I wiped mascara and black liner on to his pristine handkerchief. Try getting that out without using Vanish. It was cold down in the basement, enough to freeze-dry tears. Roman ladies used to collect their tears in little glass phials. They found some phials at Pompeii, only