Rosie Thomas - Follies

The moment was past and she let Oliver take her hands and draw her to her feet. He watched her dressing so appreciatively that she forgot her embarrassment, and she felt herself growing more comfortable with him.

Outside, the black Jaguar was parked in a space marked ‘Reserved for the Dean’. When Helen was settled in the low seat, Oliver bent so that their eyes were level.

‘I like you. And I enjoy your company,’ he said. Then, as if the admission surprised him, he vaulted into his seat and the car shot forward into the cold air.

If this is all, Helen thought, it will just have to be enough. It’s more, much more, than I’ve ever had before.

Helen stared unseeingly at Chloe and Stephen, deep in conversation just ahead of her. In just a few minutes she would see Oliver again. A blurry kind of happiness mixed with apprehension gripped her, and for a panicky moment she thought that her knees might give way beneath her. Then as they reached the door of the Playhouse, she saw Chloe and Stephen pause for her to catch up, and she hurried blindly forward.

The unflattering house lights were on inside the theatre, revealing the worn red plush seats and the threadbare patches in the crimson carpet between them. Three or four people were sprawling in the front stalls, with Tom Hart’s dark head prominent among them. Helen took all this in in a second, and then she saw Oliver. He was sitting centre stage with his legs dangling over the edge, intent on a paperback copy of the play.

Stephen strode down the centre aisle towards them.

‘Right,’ he said crisply. ‘Let’s not waste time.’ He settled himself in the third row, and Chloe and then Helen slid in beside him.

Oliver looked up. There was a flicker of surprise when he saw Helen, then a cheerful wave of greeting. He held up his play text with a grimace, then went back to studying it.

Helen was oblivious to everything else. She missed Tom Hart’s brief nod of greeting, and the frisson of irritation which vibrated between Tom and Stephen.

‘You won’t mind my bringing a little audience to keep you on your toes,’ Stephen said easily.

‘Not particularly,’ Tom answered. ‘Okay, everybody. We’re reading Act Three, Scene Two, Rosalind and Orlando. Ready?’

Chloe watched the director with interest. With his quick, economical movements and his authoritative manner, he looked a natural leader. His dark, sardonic, goods looks interested her without attracting her. An arrogant young man, she thought, as she watched him positioning Oliver and the plump girl who was to read Rosalind. But clever, too.

Tom had settled himself at the back of the stalls.

‘When you’re ready,’ he called, and the scene began.

‘I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him …’

‘Speak up, Anne. We hope that the audience will fill more than just the front row.’ Tom’s voice was cool, businesslike. The scene started up again.

Helen watched spellbound. It was Rosalind’s scene, but this Orlando was more than equal to it. Tom Hart’s right, she thought. Oliver does have a feel for it. All the self-confident grace of Oliver’s natural movements stayed with him on the stage. And the loose, half-ironical lightness of his manner spoke subtly for Orlando. The girl opposite him had a sweet, melodious voice but her body looked wooden beside his.

Chloe leaned across to Helen. ‘If they’re going to play it in doublet and hose,’ she whispered, ‘that girl’s legs are too fat.’

‘Thank you,’ Tom called. ‘Can we try it again with Belinda now?’

Another hopeful Rosalind climbed on to the stage. This girl was taller and slimmer and she moved well. But as the to and fro of the elegant, sparring speeches began again, it was still Oliver who drew all the attention. He looked gilded on the stage, as if he were already spotlit instead of quenched by the dull house lights like everyone else.

Stephen fidgeted in his seat and peered impatiently at his watch. ‘So much for the perfect Rosalind,’ he murmured.

There was a shade less confidence in Tom Hart’s manner as he retraced his steps to the stage.

‘Thanks,’ he said briefly. ‘Stephen, could we talk about …’

From the back of the auditorium a clear voice cut across the ripple of talk.

‘Is this the right place for the audition?’

They turned to stare at the newcomer.

Helen heard the soft hiss of indrawn breath before she turned round too.

A girl was standing against the red velvet curtaining that hung over the exit doors. In the second before she spoke again, she looked almost too pretty to be real, like an exquisite statue without warmth of flesh and blood. But as soon as she moved, smiled her question again, animation came flooding back and lit her face up.

‘The As You like It audition?’

Still no-one answered. The girl came down the aisle towards the stage. She had silver-blond hair, cut fashionably short and feathery to show the oval perfection of her face. Her wide-set dark blue eyes flicked from one to another of them and she smiled again, teasingly, and with a little challenge now. Although she was young, no more than nineteen, the newcomer was evidently used to the effect of her appearance.

‘Who is this vision?’ Chloe breathed to Stephen.

‘No idea. But I’m not going without finding out.’ He winked at her, and Chloe had the pleasurable sensation that there was already an understanding between them.

Tom collected himself first. ‘Yes, we’re auditioning now. You’d like to read for us?’

The girl turned her dazzling face to him.

‘May I? I don’t want to butt in. Let me explain first – my name’s Pansy Warren, and I’ve just come to live at Follies House. The landlady, Rose Pole, told me that you were looking for a Rosalind. I’d love just to have a try. I’ve acted a little bit, at school and in Switzerland, but …’ Pansy shrugged, self-deprecating.

‘Okay,’ Tom’s voice was crisp again. He handed his copy of the text to Pansy and helped her up on to the stage. Oliver bent to take her hand, and between them they led Pansy into her scene as if she were a piece of priceless china.

Helen sank lower in her inconspicuous seat. I could never, she thought, ever have walked in here as she did, unknown and unexpected, and asked to be auditioned. But then I don’t look like that.

There was a faint shadow on her face as she watched the players begin on the familiar lines again.

Pansy was wearing a loose roll-collared sweater that masked her slim, small-breasted figure, jeans, and soft suede ankle boots. With her cap of tousled hair she looked completely the girl-dressed-as-a-boy which the scene demanded.

‘Love is merely a madness,’ read Pansy, ‘and I tell you, deserves as well a dark house, and a whip, as madmen do.’

Her voice was soft, but surprisingly resonant.

There was no need for Tom to tell her to speak up.

She’s good too, Helen told herself. Good in the same way that Oliver is. She doesn’t care who is looking at her, or what they think. She can just be herself because she’s sure of being right. Like Oliver, she doesn’t have to try.

Helen was too intent on Pansy herself to notice something else, but Chloe saw it. There was a crackle between this Orlando and Rosalind that had been completely missing from the earlier attempts. There was a new edge of seriousness in Oliver’s performance as the youth in love with love, which made his posturing credible. Before, it had only been amusing.

And Pansy’s Rosalind, although she was mocking her lovesick youth, showed the girl’s attraction to the young man too.

That was right, as well.

‘With all my heart, good youth,’ said Oliver softly.