Page 14 of Best Supporting Actor

He recognised the guy heading up the stairs from the previous audition. He was about Tag’s height, with dark hair and eyes. Rupert, or something else a bit posh, Tag thought.

Behind him came an older man wearing a shapeless knitted cardigan, a trilby hat, and a silver hoop in one ear. “Good luck, Rafe,” he said, offering his hand to shake.

The other guy—Rafe—took it. “Great seeing you again, Henry. Grandy sends his best wishes.”

Of course they bloody knew each other; somehow this lot always did. And, as always, it put Tag at a huge disadvantage in an industry that was rife with nepotism. He’d have to be twice as good as Rafe if he wanted to win the part, but win he bloody well would.

Henry inclined his head to Rafe, touching the brim of his hat with two fingers. “And the same to him.”

Laughing, Rafe mirrored the gesture and turned to go, sharing a cool look with Tag as he passed.

“Tag O’Rourke?” He turned to find Henry scrutinising him from top to toe, pale grey eyes fierce and intelligent in his narrow, craggy face. “I’m Henry,” he said. “Bea’s ready for you. Come on down.”

Tag followed him down and into the basement room. It was a cosy rectangular space, with a grey floor and walls and a large mirror on one wall. Beatrice Lawson, the playwright, sat on one of three plastic chairs, also grey, arranged in front of the wall opposite the mirror. She wore a long paisley skirt, combat boots, and a roll-neck green sweater, her cloud of red hair pulled back into a ponytail, freckled face shining, and eyes bright.

“Tag,” she said, standing and offering both hands. “Thank you for coming back.”

“My pleasure.” He took her hands and performed the obligatory air kisses her sort went in for. “I’m really excited about the role. It’s a wonderful play, and I feel a strong connection to Owen.”

She smiled. “Good. Let’s get to it, then, shall we? Henry’s going to read the Sassoon part today.”

Henry, who was just closing the door, lifted his hand in a wave and went to collect his script from a table set against the wall.

“Right,” Beatrice said. “When you’re ready, I’d like to begin with the argument scene in Act Two, Scene Three…”

Henry turned a smiling look on Tag. “Let’s grab a chair for this, because Owen’s going to be sitting down at the start…”

So they dragged one of the chairs into the rehearsal space, and Tag took a moment to set down his bag and pull out his script, getting himself into the mind of Wilfred Owen, a young soldier sitting in the officer’s bar behind the front lines in France.

Quietly, Beatrice said, “When you’re ready, take it from ‘And this is where it all comes back to’.”

Tag began to mime pouring himself a glass of wine, then turned to Henry.

“And this is where it all comes back to, Sassoon.” He lifted his imaginary glass as if in salute. “For you—in the end.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaningthat you think you should’ve bought it in ’18.” Tag raised a wry, unsympathetic brow. “You wish that bullet had killed you, don’t you?”

“From time to time,” Henry said airily. “Mostly when some half-witted bloody newspaper man asks me aboutyou. Owen: the lost genius. And his eternal spokesman, Sassoon, the washed-up has-been.”

Tag glared at him angrily. “My God, are youjealousof my death?” He gave a bitter laugh. “You needn’t be. It was—”

“Okay,” Beatrice interrupted. “That’s great, Tag, but can you take the aggression down a notch? It’s not really an argument, you see. Owen’s revealing a truth to Sassoon. It’s kindly meant.”

Tag nodded gamely, but in his opinion itwasan argument—or it should be. Here was Sassoon, at the end of his long and privileged life, envying Owen’s pitiful legacy as a dead young poet. Why would Owen bekindabout that? Sassoon was acting like a spoiled prick, and, in Tag’s opinion, Owen would call him on it. Still, this was Beatrice’s play, her vision, and if she wanted him to play Owen differently, then that’s what he’d do. She was the boss.

Across the rehearsal space, he felt Henry’s eyes on him again, watching with that intense assessing scrutiny Tag had noticed earlier.

“When you’re ready,” Beatrice said once more. And off they went again.

When they finally finished, Beatrice’s smile was unreadable, but Henry’s eyes glittered with obvious approval. Tag’s heart raced—and not only with the usual performance high. It had gone well. He could feel it.

Beatrice and Henry exchanged a few quiet words at the other end of the room while Tag put his script away in his bag. He slid a couple of quick glances in their direction but couldn’t hear what they were saying, although Henry looked quite animated. Then the conversation broke up, and Tag turned quickly back to closing his bag and slipping on his jacket.

“Great to meet you today!” Henry called then, and when Tag looked over again, he saw that Henry stood at the door, a heavy coat over one arm. “I’ve got to run, but good luck, Tag. You’re a promising young actor. I’m sure you’ve got a big future ahead of you.”

“Thanks,” Tag called back. “And thanks for, um, reading in today. I appreciate it.”