Peter Lovesey: Stagestruck

Book 11 in the Peter Diamond series, 2011

This is a work of fiction. I have a deep affection for the Theatre Royal, Bath, which I hope is conveyed in these pages. The characters – with the possible exception of the grey lady – live only in my imagination and the shocking, scandalous and gruesome events have nothing to do with the true history of this great theatre, its management, staff and performers. Liberties were also taken in depicting the layout backstage, which I was privileged to visit on one of the regular tours.

Many sources have been consulted. In particular I wish to express my indebtedness to The Theatre Royal at Bath , by William Lowndes (Redcliffe, Bristol, 1982) and Past Present Future: A Recent History of the Theatre Royal Bath, 1979-2005 , by Anna O’Callaghan (Bath, 2005) and to the files of the Bath Chronicle and its theatre correspondent, Christopher Hans-ford. Anyone wishing for an accurate account of the theatre should consult these experts, not me. For an insight into the Garrick’s Head, nothing can beat a personal visit, but I also recommend Bath Pubs by Kirsten Elliott and Andrew Swift (Akeman Press, 2003).

Peter Lovesey

www.peterlovesey.com

‘People keep asking me if I’m nervous.’

‘Really?’

This week’s star attraction gave a broad smile. ‘Believe me, anyone who’s played live to a million screaming fans on Copacabana Beach isn’t going to lose sleep over this.’

‘Right.’

‘As if a first night in an itsy-bitsy provincial theatre is going to make Clarion Calhoun wet her pants.’

But the face told a different story. The woman waiting to apply the make-up watched the confidence vanish with the smile and spotted the tell-tale flexing of the muscles at the edge of the mouth. Clarion was outside her comfort zone. Acting was a different skill from pop singing. Because of her inexperience she was getting special treatment from the Theatre Royal. Almost all professional actors do their own make-up. This one couldn’t be trusted to create a simple nineteen-thirties look with nothing more technical than a Cupid’s bow and kohl-lined eyes.

She was getting the nursemaiding in spades. ‘You’ll be a knockout. They love you, anyway. A lot of the actors who come through here have it all to prove. You’ve got it made.’

‘My fan base, you mean?’ Clarion looked better already. ‘Every ticket sold, they tell me.’

‘Right through the week. The management are over the moon.’

The dresser unscrewed a new jar of cold cream and picked up a sponge. ‘Your day make-up is gorgeous, but it won’t be seen under the lights. Do you want to remove it yourself?’

‘Go ahead. I’ll think about my lines.’

Clarion meant the lines in the script, not her face. A few more of those were revealed as the cleanser did its work. She was past thirty and her days as a rock star were numbered. Time to revamp her career. She was playing Sally Bowles in a new production of I Am a Camera . With her name on the billing, it was almost guaranteed a transfer to London later in the year.

A thin layer of moisturiser went on.

‘Remind me of your name,’ Clarion said. A touch of humanity. They’d met before the dress rehearsal, but frequently the leads treated everyone backstage like furniture.

‘Denise.’

‘So, Denise, how long have you been doing this?’

‘Working in theatre? Most of my adult life.’

‘Here in Bath?’

‘No, I’ve moved around. If I can be personal, your skin is marvellous.’

‘It should be, all the money I spend on treatments. Is that the colour you’re going to use on me?’

‘The foundation.’

‘I don’t want to look as orange as that.’

‘Trust me. You won’t.’

‘What is it – greasepaint?’

‘Glycerine-based cream. It’s going to feel dry. That’s why I used a base of moisturiser.’

‘I may sound like a beginner, but this isn’t the first play I’ve been in. I was drama trained before I got into the music scene or I wouldn’t have taken this on. I always promised myself I’d get back on the stage.’

Denise passed no comment as she smoothed on the foundation, working it down the neck and as far as the cape.

‘Do you want to put some on my front? I wear that really low gown in the second half and a little extra shadow in the right place would be all to the good.’

‘Later. I’ll finish your face first.’ She did the shadowing and highlighting. Then she used a plump rouge mop to brush on some powder.

‘May I see the result?’ Clarion asked.

‘Not yet, if you don’t mind. Eyes and lips make all the difference.’

In another ten minutes Clarion was handed the mirror.

‘Hey! Transformation. Sally Bowles.’ She switched to her stage voice. ‘How do you do, Sally? I’m terribly glad to meet you.’

There was also some nervousness in the audience. Towards the back of the stalls, Hedley Shearman was fingering his lips, trying not to bite his nails. The casting of Clarion Calhoun wasn’t his doing. He gloried in the title of theatre director, yet the decision had been made over his head, by the board of trustees. Until now, he’d always had final approval of the casting, and it had more than once earned him certain favours. No such chance with this megastar, who treated him no better than a call boy. Each time she looked at him he was conscious of his lack of height and his bald spot.

Clarion’s name guaranteed bums on seats and a standing ovation from her fans, but Shearman dreaded the critics’ verdict. He cared passionately about the Theatre Royal – almost as passionately as he cared about sex. In two hundred years all the great actors from Macready to Gielgud had graced this stage. This woman was expected to get by on that dubious asset known as celebrity. True, she was a singer playing a singer, but this was entirely an acting role. She’d learned her lines, and that was the best you could say for her. Speaking them with conviction was a difficulty that had become obvious in rehearsal.

He only hoped her glamour would dazzle the critics. A week with every seat sold, including matinees, was the pay-off, whatever they wrote.

The lights were dimmed and the excited buzz of voices stopped, replaced by a scratchy phonograph tune that nicely evoked Berlin in the thirties. The curtain rose on Fräulein Schneider’s rooming house, tawdry, of its time and place: tall, tiled stove, pendulum clock, washstand, bed partly concealed by a curtain, Medici prints, wicker flower-stand, three-fold screen, couch and chairs. The set designer was a professional, thank God, and so was the head of lighting. The single shaft of light on Isherwood focused attention for the speech that set the tone for the entire play. Preston Barnes, the actor playing Isherwood, had learned his craft at Stratford. Could he compensate for Clarion’s wooden delivery? The irony was that she was supposed to be animated, while Preston cultivated the passivity of the camera.

The opening minutes couldn’t have been bettered. Preston’s soliloquy was exquisitely done and so was the dialogue with the landlady. Yet Shearman couldn’t ignore the fact that everything was just building up to the entrance of the real star.

Immense anticipation.

And there she was.

A burst of applause from her fans.

Give Clarion her due. She moved with poise. She had the figure, the strut, the sexuality of a night club singer, all the attributes of a Sally Bowles. Until she opened her mouth.