The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(22)
Fitzwilliam Darcy, ladies and gentlemen. Your iconic romantic hero.
“If you don’t stick to the fucking script, I’m going to knock your fucking teeth in,” Tarik Khan shot at Dylan. “It’ll be fucking dark before we even break for lunch at this rate, arsehole.”
And Captain Wentworth, such a legendary way with words. So eloquent. So achingly tender.
Freddy exchanged glances with Maya, who was looking equally fed-up, but was less likely to say so. “Can we please all just stick to the script?” she asked, pulling her sticky camisole away from her stomach. She was sweating like mad, and seriously regretting wearing polyester.
Everyone in the first half of Act One had been allowed on The Henry stage for a read-through, while the actors whose characters didn’t come in until later scenes were having their first costume fitting. The whole cast had been enamoured by their first proper look at the theatre, to the point where even Dylan and Sadie had remained silent for about forty-five seconds. The mood hadn’t lasted. It was sweltering hot, and the standing fans the crew had set up were only cooling down the people standing directly in front of them. It had taken just one stumbled line in the first ten minutes of the read for tempers to flare.
The construction crew were doing finishing touches to the mainstage arena, so the dialogue was punctuated by drills and hammers, which wasn’t helping to mellow the atmosphere.
Maf had ducked outside for a few minutes to take a call, so all the kiddies in the sandpit had started throwing their toys.
“Yeah? Try it, dick,” Dylan said to Tarik, ignoring Freddy’s interjection.
“Oh my God,” Maya muttered, rubbing her hand over her forehead. “It’s like being back at school.” Her angular cheeks were flushed red and she was fanning herself with a call sheet.
Freddy had tried that earlier using her script, and just about knocked herself unconscious. Each deadweight copy was probably the equivalent of an entire tree. And on current form, it was going to be performance night before they’d even managed one pass of it.
“Sit down.” Maf stalked back into the stands. Barring a few frizzy curls at her temples, she looked totally unfazed by the heat. “You’re not being paid this salary grade to act like snot-nosed first years at drama college. All you’re required to do is plant your arse on a chair and read the lines someone has typed in a nice large font for you. If you’re confused as to which part you should be reading, it’s the line under the bright yellow highlighter. If that’s still too difficult, see me during the lunch break and I’ll give you the name of a decent neurologist.”
“I think we just got pulled up in front of the headmistress,” Greg Stirling murmured to Maya, who flushed and didn’t answer; in the increasingly stressful atmosphere, she’d drawn into herself. Greg didn’t seem to notice the lack of response. He was one of several TV actors in the cast, and so far, high-maintenance. His personal assistant was arriving by train shortly, which was fortunate, because he’d run a production assistant ragged this morning, and the girl had escaped half an hour ago and not returned. He was playing Mr. Knightley, so was meant to be secretly in love with Sadie’s Emma, but clearly nobody had run a chemistry test between him and Sadie. They’d been cold and wooden with each other all morning.
With Maf keeping a firm hold on the reins, the read-through progressed, but not smoothly. There were productions when the chemistry clicked from the beginning and everyone’s personality slotted into place like pieces coming together in a puzzle. And there were the rocky-road jobs, a mess of disparate methods and temperaments thrown together into a jumble, sometimes resulting in unexpected brilliance, but always bumpy.
“Good,” Maf said to Freddy at one point. “But more. More. I wanted you for this role because you have the inner reserves to give depth to this version of Lydia. You have the substance as well as the fizz and flirtation. Find the pathos, the side the audience will connect to. She’s transitioning here from the young girl she was to the adult woman she’ll become. She’s still vibrant, still defiant, but regret underpins her every action in these scenes. And the crossroads later, the decision she makes—or the audience makes for her—will entirely determine the outcome of her character.”
Over her shoulder as she moved on, she tossed out, “Unless the public decides to give you the cyanide cocktail, in which case you’re out by intermission and can have a cuppa in the green room until the curtain call.”
“Which I expect you would find disappointing.” Sadie made her jump. Freddy hadn’t seen her coming at all. Maybe she’d started materialising out of thin air. Like a demon in a horror film, gathering in strength. “Being so very dedicated to your career.”
Freddy finished winding her hair into a sweaty topknot and turned to face her. “If you have something to say, could you put it into plain words, please, instead of floating in and out making cryptic statements? It’s like being in a Greek tragedy.”
Sadie’s PA had been darting in periodically with blotting pads and foundation touch-ups so, fittingly, Emma Woodhouse looked a lot more pampered and put-together than any of the other women. She was also off-book already, which Freddy should appreciate for the sake of overall progress, but was petty enough to find annoying. Sadie smiled that cat-smirk again. “I’m just admiring the energy that some people expend for the sake of the job.”