‘I don’t know …’
‘Come and stay with me.’
And so they continued, going round and round in circles.
*
Jonathan got off the train at Bodmin and stepped into the car Penny had sent him. On the seat was a note addressed to Jonathan Mulberry, Theatre Manager, The Pavilions, Trevay.
He opened it and read:
Darling Jonathan,
I promise you won’t regret it. Welcome aboard.
All my love,
Penny
When he had received the phone call from Penny telling him about Julian Fellowes’ incredible offer, Jonathan remained cool. So cool that Penny felt the need to tell him again.
‘He’s written a forty-five-minute piece for us. It starts off as a sort of dialogue between Maggie and Hugh about the incredible and hilarious things that happened during the making of
Downton
. While Maggie and Hugh recount tales from the series, our Brooke will be re-enacting some of the events, portraying some of the characters from the series, like Mrs Patmore and Elsie. She’ll have a lot to do on the night. Then, after the interval, he’s offering to do an ‘Ask the Author’ question-and-answer session on his own. It’s just incredible!’
‘Hmm, not a bad start. Not a bad start at all,’ said Jonathan.
‘It’s fucking brilliant is what it is!’ shrieked Penny.
‘It’s pretty good,’ he admitted. ‘You know what you’ve got to do now?’
‘Send you a contract to be our new theatre manager?’ Penny crossed her fingers and scrunched her eyes up in anticipation of a positive answer.
‘Hold your horses,’ he drawled. ‘First, you need to phone Mavis Carew and tell her what Julian has offered. I’m willing to bet that she’ll leap in with an offer of her own – a fundraising evening with herself and the stars of
Mr Tibbs
taking questions from the audience.’
‘Ahh!’ Penny gasped. ‘Do you really think so? Jonathan, you are a genius.’
‘I have my moments,’ he acquiesced.
‘
Then
will you be our new theatre manager?’
Jonathan chuckled down the line: ‘You bet your life.’
Penny almost wept with relief before adding: ‘All we need now is a stage management team, lights, designer, sound, wardrobe department, stage-door keeper, and box office manager. Simple.’
Jonathan laughed again. ‘Hey, I know a few people and can sort that out – provided you do the rest.’
That night a much happier and more relaxed Penny sat with her feet resting on Simon’s lap as they watched the first episode of a new comedy drama called
Horse Laugh.
It was very good. One actress in particular stood out.
‘Jess Tate … isn’t she the girlfriend of that bloke who plays the Italian in that thing about opera and espionage?’ asked Simon.
‘Blimey. How would you know that?’ asked Penny with jokily raised eyebrows.
Simon was a bit annoyed. ‘I do read the papers.’
‘I know, but … never mind. What is his name?’
‘Venini something?’
‘Yeah …’ Penny reached for her iPad and tapped a query into Google. After a moment’s searching she found what she was looking for. ‘Here he is: Ryan Hearst. I’ll put a call in tomorrow morning to see if he’d like to join our merry gang.’ She typed a short note to remind herself.
*
Ryan was in the pool, having just finished his one hundred daily lengths, when his PA, Jimmy, called him to the phone. ‘It’s the London office.’ As soon as Ryan had pulled himself out of the pool he handed him a towel and then the receiver.
‘Hi,’ said Ryan as he put the phone to his ear.
His agent gave him all the latest news from the office and his filming schedule for the next day then said, ‘You’re probably not interested in this but Julian Fellowes and Mavis Carew are both involved in raising funds for a dilapidated theatre in Cornwall.’ Ryan heard the sound of computer keys being tapped thousands of miles away in London and imagined them bouncing off a transatlantic satellite somewhere above him. His agent was looking up the information. ‘Here we are. It’s the …’ Ryan imagined him scrolling down the email ‘… the Pavilions in Trevay.’
‘The Pavilions? Yeah. I’ve read about it.’
‘Well, they wondered if you would like to join the company for a summer season.’
‘With Julian and Mavis?’
‘No, as a name for their summer show.’
Ryan laughed. ‘Ha! No way! My end-of-the-pier days are behind me now, thank God. Equity minimum and dingy digs with grim landladies. No thanks.’
‘Thought as much. You have to admire their balls, though!’ The two men enjoyed the joke.
‘Chuck it to Jess,’ said Ryan. ‘She needs something to keep her busy this summer. She’s got nothing on till
Horse Laugh
gets recommissioned.’
*
Jess was reading a stunning review in the
Daily Telegraph
for
Horse Laugh
and for her performance in particular when her iPhone popped up with a message from her sister Emma.
See: told you it would happen, you’re a bloomin superstar. Call you in half an hour when I’m back home. Xxx
Jess didn’t have time to reply before the phone rang again. It was her agent, Alana Chowdhury.
‘Darling. Who’s my little star then?’
Jess blushed with pleasure. ‘Was it OK? Did you watch?’
‘Did I watch? Darling, nothing would have moved me from my sofa!’ This was a lie. Alana had been dining with another client but had made sure she’d watched it on Sky Plus this morning, fast forwarding through the scenes that Jess was not in. Not that there were many, which had made Alana late for the office. ‘You were in-cred-i-ble. I’ve just got the overnight figures and you won the slot with a 42 per cent share.’
‘Really?’ Jess tried to sound as if she knew what Alana meant. ‘Gosh.’
‘Yes, gosh. The network are thrilled. I’m sure we’ll hear about a recommission any day. Have you seen the papers?’
‘Yes,’ Jess replied shyly.
‘And?’ Alana demanded. ‘I haven’t had a chance to look yet.’
‘Well …’ Jess stretched out her hand for the
Daily Telegraph.
‘The
Telegraph
says, “an exciting new comedy talent, with divine timing and a real sincerity”.’ How she wished her parents were alive to read it.
‘And do they mean you, little miss modest?’
‘Yes, but they mention everyone else too.’
‘Forget the others! This is all about
you!
’ Alana laughed richly. ‘Oh, that reminds me. Want to spend the summer in Cornwall?’ Alana filled Jess in on the Pavilions job, carefully not mentioning Ryan chucking it to her as one of his scraps.
‘What fun! Yes, please. I’d love a summer in Cornwall and so would Ethel and Elsie. Wait till I tell Ryan. He may even come down to visit. He loves regional theatres and is always talking about how we must back them or lose them.’ Jess was thrilled with this new opportunity and rang Ryan immediately …
‘Hey, babe,’ he answered sleepily. Jess looked guiltily at her clock. 10 a.m. in the UK. Shit: 2 a.m. in LA.
‘Ryan, it’s me.’
There was a clatter on the other end, as if he’d dropped the phone, then a scrunching and things grew muffled. Jess imagined him in the darkness of his room, trying to find where he’d dropped the phone and accidentally burying it under the pillow. She thought she could hear him swearing faintly, but when he came back on his voice was smooth and unruffled. ‘Jess … darling. It’s two in the morning. What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry to wake you. It’s just … you’ll never guess what!’
‘What?’
‘
Horse Laugh
got a 42 per cent share of the audience last night and rather lovely reviews.’
‘Did you get a mention?’
‘Erm yes.’
Ryan felt a pang of peevishness and didn’t ask her to read any of them, but managed, ‘Good girl. Any other news?’
She told him about Trevay. ‘Maybe you could come down when you get a filming break?’
‘Yeah maybe, babe. Listen, I gotta split.’ Jess hated this new faux American accent he felt the need to affect. ‘I need to get another few hours in the sack. I’ve got a couple of heavy scenes to shoot in the morning. OK, babe?’
‘Yes. Speak later?’ But he’d already gone.
Jess spent the rest of the morning answering congratulatory texts from her friends and colleagues from the show and searching the Internet for a picture-perfect Cornish cottage that she and Elsie and Ethel could rent.
*
‘Ollie, it’s Mum.’ Her voice was loud in the receiver.
‘Hi, Mum,’ replied Ollie in a downbeat voice. ‘I was just taking a nap.’
Undaunted, his mum raised her voice even louder: ‘Then wake up, boy – I have some good news. They’re looking for actors to star in the new summer season at the Pavilions and I’ve got you on the list for tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh, Mum, no, I really don’t want to … It’s very kind of you and all that, but … I’m not in the mood and I’m waiting to hear about
Dial M for Murder
and …’
‘Get yourself on the 14.23 from Paddington – I’ll be waiting for you at Truro station tonight. Oh, and I’ve booked you a haircut first thing.’
She’d gone before he could say a word.
T
he Easter production of
Tales of Downton
was a sellout, with tickets changing hands on eBay for many times their face value. The great and the good of Trevay were all out in force, and the Islington Chatterati, many of whom had Cornish second homes, made it their business to secure tickets. Rumours were rife that David and Samantha Cameron would be coming to watch too. They often stayed in neighbouring Rock on their holidays. It all generated a buzz of excitement that equalled anything to be found on a West End opening night.
Brooke was nervously putting the final touches to her make-up. They’d had precious little time to rehearse and she could only hope that her training at the Bristol Old Vic and the Actors Studio had stood her in good stead.
As it was a fairly informal set, with just Brooke and the other two actors on a simply lit stage, she’d opted for an understated but elegant black calf-length dress that wouldn’t ride up over her knees when she sat on her stool. Tonight was all about changing the way people thought of her. This wasn’t about looking good on the pages of a tacky tabloid; this was about Brooke Lynne – the actress.
Jonathan popped his head around the door.
‘Ready? Curtain call in about five mins.’ He gave her a calm and encouraging smile. ‘Feeling OK?’
‘You betcha.’ Brooke gave him a wink with more confidence than she felt and put the final touches to her hair.
*
Julian Fellowes did not disappoint his fans. His script for the evening was brilliantly written and perfectly performed by Hugh and Dame Maggie. The anecdotes were hilarious and they held the audience in the palms of their hands. Brooke was a natural. Playing the parts of the other
Downton Abbey
cast members was a perfect showcase for her talents. Naturally funny, she imbued the (liberally exaggerated) stories of behind-the-scenes high jinks and mayhem with humour and intelligence. Her talent as an impressionist was a revelation and the audience were doubled up with laughter at her rendering of the much-loved characters, in particular, her performance as Carson, the butler.
When the three actors took their bows, they received a standing ovation. As they left the stage, the ongoing cheers and cries of bravo brought them back for an encore. Brooke caught the Colonel’s eye in the front row and he gave her an approving smile as the audience cheered and clapped their approval.
The night continued in the same enjoyable vein. Sir Julian’s ‘Any Questions’ section was a hoot, and both Lord Fellowes and the audience enjoyed Queenie’s good-humoured heckling from the front row, proffering an invitation for Thomas Barrow to drop in and share one her famous pasties out the back of the shop anytime he was passing …
The evening ended with an auction. The sale of
Dr Who
memorabilia and a jacket from Quentin Tarantino, who had worn it while directing
Django
, made almost £50,000. An awful lot of the money raised would be disappearing into the black hole of building costs and the rent that the council was charging them, but it did a great deal to lift everyone’s confidence.
Their next big fundraising gala was scheduled for the autumn. Billed as
A Night with Mr Tibbs
, it was already selling well.
*
Buoyed by the success of the
Downton
evening, everyone involved with the Pavilions was in a buzz of excitement about the summer production,
Hats Off, Trevay!
By the time the cast assembled for the first day of rehearsals, the theatre had a full complement of staff for the first time in maybe twenty years. For the next five months the Pavilions would be open every day, a proper working theatre once again.
The bustle of the auditorium was what Ollie liked most. He hadn’t been in a theatre since he’d left Stratford and the Royal Shakespeare Company. He stood at the back of the newly repaired rows of seats and drank in the smell of paint and fresh wood shavings. On the stage a gaggle of young people were walking about with bits of three-by-one on their shoulders or carrying tins of paint. An older man – Ollie assumed he was the production manager – was barking instructions: ‘Ed, stop twatting about and get that bloody ship’s rail painted.’ A ginger-headed boy with nose piercings sulkily stopped painting the back of his mate’s dungarees and got on with his job.
An electrician rattled open a very tall set of aluminium ladders and shouted to someone in the dark at the back of the stalls: ‘Jim? Put up circuit 27.’ A voice near Ollie replied, ‘Okey-doke!’ and a bank of lights lit up the left side of the stage. ‘Cheers, mate.’ Ladder man climbed up and started adjusting the lamps way up high.
A woman Ollie thought he recognised from his audition walked past him. He racked his brains. Was she the company manager? He couldn’t remember. That day had been a blur. The only bit he remembered clearly was going home and telling his mum he’d got the job.
‘Excuse me …’ He stopped the woman.
‘Oh, hi,’ she said, recognition spreading across her face with a smile.