Sweet Sorrow(87)

‘I said you were out rehearsing.’

‘Rehearsing?’

‘They seemed to know all about it.’

‘Because you told them!’

‘No. Look …’

On the phone table where we kept the takeaway menus was a large, glossy piece of paper folded into quarters, a dot of Blu Tack in the corner. In Harper’s handwriting: ‘We missed you, stranger! So many secrets!’ Without unfolding the paper, I knew what it would be.

We’d taken the photographs the week before, Alina summoning us one at a time to pose in front of a white sheet. In the quest for relevance, the intention was to pastiche the Trainspotting poster, with the same font and colour scheme, individual black-and-white character portraits lined up like a police ID parade. ‘I need some charisma,’ Alina had demanded, ‘some bravado, like a movie star.’ The result had all the dead-eyed awkwardness of my school photos but with the added unhappiness of a sword pointing at the lens. Still, no one will ever see it, I’d thought, misunderstanding the purpose of publicity.

‘I think you look very cool,’ said Dad, ‘with your sword and everything.’

I’d already told him about the play, in the high-minded elation that had followed the all-night party. We’d been standing at the sink, me washing, Dad drying; it was always easier to communicate when we couldn’t see each other’s faces, which made me wonder if ideally we’d be in different rooms, shouting through the door.

‘Benvolio.’

‘Who?’

‘A guy called Benvolio. He’s Romeo’s friend.’ I glanced to my side, saw him tilt his head, confused, amused.

‘Where did that come from?’

‘I don’t know. Just thought it might be, you know, a laugh.’

‘And is it?’

‘Yeah. I like the people.’

‘And who are you playing again?’

‘Benvolio!’

He muttered the name, as if Benvolio might be someone he knew from school. ‘Is it a big part?’

‘Well it’s not the eponymous role.’

‘What?’

‘Quite big.’

‘So – you’ve got lines?’

‘Lots of lines. Couple of big speeches.’

‘And … do I have to come and see it?’

I laughed. ‘Not if you don’t want to, Dad.’

He thought about it. ‘Is it long?’

‘Quite long. Like I said, you don’t have to—’

‘No, let’s see. Let’s see,’ he said, picking at the egg on a frying pan. ‘I wondered where you’d been going. I thought you were just roaming the streets, waiting for me to go to bed.’ This was exactly what I had been doing. He slid the pan back into the water, and we said no more about it.

Now, cycling to Harper’s, I told myself that it was not a big deal. I even practised the words out loud. ‘Not a big deal’, accompanied by a little shrug. It was, after all, Shakespeare not ballet. The big house stood in its field, lights in all the windows. I leant my bike against the cement mixer and ran to the door, adopting the wry, self-assured half-smile that said ‘not a big deal’.

Lloyd opened it. ‘By my troth, ’tis thee!’

‘Hello, Lloyd.’

‘Why dost thou call here so late in the even-time, arrant knave?’

‘Look, is Harper there?’

‘Aye, aye, he is, he is. Step forth …’ Lloyd bowed and beckoned me in. ‘But leavest thou thy sword outside.’

I stepped inside. Earlier that day, we’d rehearsed the scene in which Romeo, returning from Juliet, is teased and goaded by Tybalt but, suddenly wise, floats serenely through the mockery and aggression with a hippy-ish, almost religious serenity, preaching peace and reconciliation. ‘Thou knowest me not,’ he tells his enemy. ‘I loved thee better than thou canst devise,’ as if being in love made him invulnerable and endlessly forgiving. That was what I aspired to, that Act III, Scene I attitude.

Harper stood at the end of the hall, Fox grinning behind him, eyes bright in anticipation. ‘Lewis! You’re full of surprises.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said Lloyd. ‘Quite the dark horse he is.’

‘Are you going to keep that up, Chris?’ I said. First names. Keep calm. Stay in control.

‘What of it, sir?’

‘They’re just leaving,’ said Harper.

‘Aye, aye, we tarry not!’

‘Because the joke’s quite old now,’ I said.

‘Of what dost thou speak, thou saucy knave?’

‘Yes, I get it, I got it the first time.’

‘’Tis not a joke.’

‘You’re not even doing it very well.’

‘All right, keep it down!’ said Harper. Behind him, Fox started to laugh.

‘Do not lose thy rag with me,’ said Lloyd.

‘You are so tiresome.’

A high-pitched, goading laugh …

‘You too, Fox.’

‘Thy words have no sting, fancy lad.’

‘Pack it in, Lloyd,’ said Harper. ‘Fox, go home.’

Fox stepped outside but Lloyd was incapable of leaving without some final flourish. ‘We saw your dad, Lewis.’ He clicked his fingers quickly, crooner-style. ‘The Jazzer, jazzing out. Ba-da-ba ba-ba ba-ba-pow!’