I turn out of Lou’s quiet road, towards the hum and thrum of the city. The streets are full of busy, bustling people who all seem to be in a rush to get somewhere. I like feeling like one of them. After all, I have somewhere to get to as well.
I love seeing the women in their modern, colourful clothes, hearing the roar of the traffic, staring, bewitched, into enormous shop windows full of everything from clothes to toys to suitcases to kitchenware to towering patisserie. It all feels so big, the buildings stretching up endlessly into skies the flat grey of a dreary November day. There are narrow roads, cobbled and twisting, springing off vast streets, wide enough to give a confused feeling of space coupled with the thronging and slightly claustrophobic crowds.
Not wishing to appear to be a tourist, I try to look at the map as little as possible, and as a result get lost several times on the way to the theatre. After one wrong turn I find myself outside Hatchards, its tall windows full of beautiful books, and I press my fingers briefly to the glass before stepping through the front door.
The inside is dark and cool, with crowded shelves everywhere I look. I browse, running my fingers over spines, gently leafing through pages, enjoying the feel of the paper, the quiet of the room. Then I make my way slowly up the staircase, my fingers hovering lightly over the bannister, breathing in the lovely smell that only comes from books – a smell that’s something like smoke and the way the earth smells after it rains.
I find the drama section and am thrilled to spot The Importance of Being Earnest, bound in pale green, with the title picked out in swirling gold. I practically skip downstairs to buy it, gleefully convinced that it must be a sign. The copy that I have at home is so old and well read that it is almost falling apart. It’s a story about two men – Algernon and Jack – who have both created fictional personas that they can use to avoid doing things they don’t like. Everything goes well until they fall in love, and the women they’re in love with think they’re both called Ernest – that’s when things get complicated and really, really funny. I’ve never seen it performed onstage before, and it’s another reason I’m excited to find out what’s going on in Kit’s world. Perhaps I’ll be able to sneak a peek at some of the performance if they’re rehearsing.
Thankfully, it is not a long walk from the bookshop to the theatre. The theatre itself is tucked down a rather unassuming alley, and I think I must be growing immune to all the spectacle around me because it’s only after I look at it for a moment that I realize how lovely it is.
The front is stone, painted a creamy white, complete with pillars that look vaguely classical. On the first floor, the marquee is not lit and the white sign where the name of the play currently being performed would stand is empty. The floor above has three tall Georgian-looking windows, nestled between the pillars, and several ornate stone wreaths. The top floor stretches up into a peak, giving the whole place the feeling of a modern acropolis.
I’m here, my heart sings. I’ve arrived. This is it.
I push eagerly against the gold-rimmed doors, but they’re locked. Undeterred, I walk down the side of the building and around to the back where a shabby and unassuming door stands propped open.
The stage door.
I hesitate only for a second, my heart pounding in my chest, and then, lifting my chin and taking a deep breath, I push my way through.
It’s a bit of an anticlimax to find myself standing in a dimly lit corridor with doors coming off either side. I’m not exactly sure what I had been expecting – something gilded and imposing, perhaps. Rousing orchestral music at least.
“Can I help you, miss?” a voice comes from my left. I swing around to find myself looking into a sort of booth and at a man who I guess must be at least ninety years old. He is small, and largely hidden by a desk that reaches up to his chest. His face has the look of a wizened apple that has collapsed in on itself, his eyes are like two dark currants and a wisp of white hair sits on top of a mostly bald pate. He smiles at me politely, and his smile is full of large, very white teeth, the effect of which is slightly startling.
I hesitate. “I’m looking for Kit. He told me I could call around.”
“Mr Kit, is it?” The old man’s toothy smile grows wider. “Always seems to know the prettiest girls, that one.”
He turns away and from the wall beside him he lifts something that looks like an old-fashioned telephone receiver and speaks into it.
“Kit to the stage door, please. Kit to the stage door.”
Faintly, in the distance, and behind the closed doors I hear the words ringing back with a light crackle.
“He’ll be up in no time, miss,” the man says.
He is right; it is scarcely three or four minutes later when Kit’s already familiar face appears. He looks at me for a second in confusion, and then his face clears.
“Freya,” he exclaims. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the pantaloons.” The dimples flash. “Joe, this is the girl I met on the train – the one I said was going to come and have a look round. Freya, this is Joe, a living legend. He’s been the porter here at the Queen Anne for over sixty years.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say politely.
“So you’re the little actress.” Joe casts a look of appraisal over me. “Yes, I see.”
I’m not sure what he sees exactly, but I smile hesitantly. “Being a porter at a theatre like this must be very exciting.”
Joe laughs, a wheezing sound, like the slow compressing of an accordion. “Exciting’s one word for it, miss.”
Kit groans. “Don’t get him started, Freya; trust me, he’s got enough stories to keep you here for a week.”
“Oh, but I do want to hear those stories.”
The accordion laugh again. “Don’t you worry, miss. I’m not going anywhere any time soon. Maybe young Kit here will bring you for a cup of tea in the porter’s office some time.”
“I will.” Kit takes the parcel with my book and hands it through the window to Joe. “Look after this, will you, Joe?” Then, with a flourish, he holds out his arm to me. “Shall we go? I must say I didn’t expect you so soon – you are keen.”
I place my hand on Kit’s arm and we walk down the corridor. As soon as we are out of earshot of Joe, I tug at his arm, pulling him to a halt.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, frowning.
“Oh, Kit,” I say in a low voice. I find I am actually wringing my hands together, a phenomenon I wasn’t sure actually happened in real life. “I’ve got myself into the most awful muddle!”
CHAPTER SIX
“Let me see if I understand,” Kit says. “You told your sister that you have an audition here today. And if you don’t get the part you think they’re going to send you home?”
“That’s about the size of it,” I say miserably, pulling my knees up to my chest. We’re in a little room off the corridor, no more than a cupboard, full of racks of costumes. I am sitting with my back against the wall, surrounded on one side by a cloud of blue taffeta, and on the other a military uniform.
Kit is sitting on the opposite side of the room, seemingly unbothered by the long feathered gown that he has to keep brushing away from his cheek. “I understand that your sister got you all riled up – sisters have a way of doing that.” His mouth lifts here in a way that lets me know he himself is familiar with the despotic ways of sisters. Then, like a cloud flitting across a clear sky, the frown appears again, puckering between his grey eyes. “But what was your plan in coming to London? I mean, please don’t rip up at me for asking – but how did you think you would get into acting?”