Sweet Sorrow(28)

‘You know you don’t have to keep saying “eponymous”, you could say “titular”. “I was the titular role”—’

‘It’s just such a fucking responsibility, you know, carrying the show?’

‘Except, there is this other character called Juliet,’ said Alex. ‘She’s quite important too.’

‘Hm,’ said Miles, sceptically.

‘What’s your favourite Shakespeare soliloquy, Miles?’ said Lucy, reverently, and I saw Helen and Alex roll their eyes.

‘You know a funny thing?’ said Miles, rubbing his chin, actually rubbing it. ‘You won’t find any of my favourite Shakespeare in a play. Because’ – the punch-line – ‘it’s actually a sonnet!’

‘Fuck me,’ murmured Helen.

‘Lucy,’ mumbled George, ‘do you have any idea of the monster you’ve unleashed?’

‘My mistress’ eyes,’ said Miles, turning his face to the sky, ‘are nothing like the sun!’ and I lay back on the lawn and pinched my own eyes shut, my lips already gummed together from silence and ignorance. If this creativity business was meant to make us more free and confident then why had I never felt so constricted and self-conscious? Alina had said something about learning how to move through this world, responding naturally to others, and I’d snapped to attention; to a boy who could not walk across a crowded space or share a sofa with a parent or stand next to a girl he liked without losing the power of speech, this was a talent worth possessing. But I wouldn’t acquire it by moulding a stranger’s face or pretending that my bones were disappearing one by one or by listening to Shakespeare burble out of some confident, arty bastard who knew poetry off by heart. I just wanted to know what to do with my hands, that’s all. Where do I put my hands?

If my mission was doomed, there now seemed something dishonest and dishonourable about it too. I was taking part in an initiation rite for an organisation that I had no wish to join, and which did not need me as a member. Helen was right: it wasn’t fair to waste their time. I would wait until the end of the day out of politeness, then leave without the telephone number. The picture of Fran would fade, the feeling too, like recovering from a mild cold. Or perhaps I’d go insane; I’d find out soon enough.

Cross-legged on the ground, Miles was now telling sad stories of the death of kings and I listened with the sun on my face. If I couldn’t quote Shakespeare, at least I could tan.

I felt the coolness of a shadow on my face. ‘Charlie, could we have a word?’ I’d fallen asleep. The others had long gone and now Alina and Ivor crouched over me like detectives over a body on the beach.

‘Sure,’ I said and, dizzy, stood between them, sweat chilling on my back as they escorted me back to the house. They’d seen my papers and knew that they were false and now I would be taken out to the rockery and shot.

‘Hey, great work today,’ said Ivor, and I wondered what part had been great. Being a leaf, drying in the sun? Making myself as small as can be?

‘We wanted you to take a look at this,’ said Alina, holding out a ring-bound document. ‘It’s the text that we’re using. You know the play of course.’

I shook my head and nodded at the same time.

‘Well, Monday’s our read-through. Nothing to worry about, we’re not looking for a polished performance—’

‘—but we’d love you to take a look at a guy called Sampson,’ said Ivor. ‘He’s one of the Capulet gang.’

‘He is a bit of a jack-the-lad,’ said Alina.

‘Great fun though.’

‘Lots of bawdy jokes.’

‘And he practically opens the play.’

‘Just give it a go.’

‘No pressure.’

Here was my chance: thank you, but I’m not coming back, it’s not for me. But Ivor looked so hopeful and Alina looked at me so intently that not for the last time, I missed my cue. I nodded – sure, okay – and the rest of the afternoon was spent pretending to be a steam-powered machine.

By the end of the day I was exhausted, full of unexpected aches, dusty from all that scuttling and crawling, and still no nearer to the magic phone number, or even the briefest of exchanges. Fran must have been avoiding me, and while the rest of the cast stood around and hugged each other, I gathered my possessions and the last of my pride.

‘Have a great weekend, people!’ shouted Ivor. ‘But remember, Monday is Shakespeare day. We’re going to dig into the text, and we’re going to dig deep. Nine sharp in the orangery. But remember – no acting allowed! We’re reading through, just reading through …’

My bicycle was where I’d left it, abandoned under one of the old yews that lined the driveway. I hid the play script on the other side of the tree, my letter of resignation, and mounted my bike to ride away, but the gravel slipped beneath me and I fell to the ground in one final act of degradation. From behind me, I heard laughter and applause. ‘Arty wankers,’ I murmured to myself and then turned to see Fran walking briskly next to me.

‘Hey.’

‘Oh, hi there.’

‘You forgot this.’ The abandoned script.

‘Yeah, right. Thank you.’

‘I’m hoping it was by accident.’ She held it out, as if it were a contract to sign.