Page 31 of Best Supporting Actor

Gradually, the huge station concourse came into view, and his stomach squirmed excitedly. King's Cross and the 11:05 to York awaited.

This wasit.

The station was busy as Tag made his way through crowds of travellers, some striding purposefully, headphones on, others milling about in groups staring up at the train information boards. Tag had left plenty of time, so he didn’t need to rush. Briefly, he considered grabbing a coffee from one of the myriad eateries—the place looked more like an airport departure lounge than a train station—but he’d packed a sandwich and a drink and couldn’t afford to splash out on anything if he was going to make it through the next eight weeks. So he did a leisurely loop of the concourse instead, too keyed up to take a seat.

Keeping an eye on the ever-changing information boards, he strolled past families, business people, a noisy school trip, and the constant queue of tourists waiting to have their photos taken with the luggage trolley half embedded in the wall beneath thePlatform 9 ¾sign.

Tag checked the time on his phone. Walked on, checked again. It felt like forever, but eventually, when he looked up, he saw that his train had an assigned platform and he hurried to join the throng heading towards platform six.

It felt odd to be leaving London. This would be the longest he’d ever been away from the city. York looked interesting, though, and very quaint. He hoped the people were nice and didn’t hate Londoners on principle. Not that he’d have time, or money, to be sampling the local nightlife. Work, work, and more work was all he was there for, and most likely the only people he’d spend time with would be the cast and crew…including Jay.

Christ,Jay.

They hadn’t met since that bloody awful lunch, back in February, when he’d thought everything was going to screech to a halt before it had even begun. His heart had just about stopped when he’d realised that Jay Warren was the ‘big name’ Beatrice had been so excited about. The possibility had never even crossed his mind. As far as Tag knew, Jay never did theatre. And then Jay had turned around in his seat, his brief, betraying look of horror—definitely horror—swiftly hidden behind his practised polish. Almost as if they hadn’t had scorching sex followed by a blazing row only hours earlier.

Tag still couldn’t believe Jay had agreed to take the role.

In the restaurant, he’d been convinced that he’d blown his biggest and best ever professional chance, that Jay would refuse to work with him. He hadn’t felt much better about it after he’d left, Jay’s gaze cool and inscrutable as they’d said their goodbyes. Over the weeks that followed, he’d jumped every time his phone rang, dreading the call from Beatrice telling him that Jay had changed his mind and Tag was out of the production.

That call had never come, though, and now here he was, hauling his luggage onto the 11:05 to York.

This was really happening.

Stowing his suitcase and overstuffed rucksack in the luggage racks at the front of the carriage, he fished out his lunch and made his way to his pre-booked seat. Luckily, at this time on a Tuesday morning, the train was relatively quiet, and he had two seats to himself.

Settling down, he popped in his earbuds and pulled out a battered copy ofThe Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen, which he’d been reading obsessively over the last few weeks. At least, he’d been reading it obsessively when he hadn’t been working. Knowing he’d have to scrape by on peanuts in York, Tag had taken as much work as possible over the last couple of months—shifts at City Beans, working on site with his dad, and as many corporate catering gigs as he could fit around everything else. He’d built up a little cushion of cash, but it wouldn’t stretch far.

It would all be worth it, though, on opening night.

That’s what he’d tried to explain to his mum and dad, neither of whom were happy that he’d quit City Beans—his only ‘steady income’.

“Don’t worry,” he’d assured them as he calmly explained his plans. “I’ll still be able to pay you my rent while I’m away.”

They’d protested, of course, but Tag had ignored them. Yes, paying rent to them, plus paying for a room in York, would be difficult, but the fact was they couldn’t meet their mortgage payments without his money. “Think of it as a retainer,” he’d said cheerfully, “so you don’t rent my room out to anyone else while I’m gone.”

He’d watched them struggle with the idea, exchanging uncomfortable glances, and he’d seen the worry darkening his dad’s face. They all knew the consequences of getting into financial trouble, knew how far into the future its shadow could fall, how it could knock you down and keep its boot on your back.

Yeah, Tag knewexactlywhat he was risking, chasing his dream. He’d always known. Which was why he could only keep chasing it while there was a realistic chance of success. If his big break never came, he’d have to get a real job so that he could afford to move into his own place and let his parents downsize and pay off their whacking great mortgage.

Despite squeezing in a couple more auditions over the last two months, though, Tag hadn’t been cast in anything else. He’d got close once. The casting director had assured Tag he was her first choice. She’d waxed lyrical about his ‘nuanced and subtle conveyance of complex interior states’, but had eventually confessed that the money men wanted someone with more star power for the role. In other words, someone who’d put bums on seats. And that wasn’t Tag. Yet.

He wasn’t about to give up, though. Everything could change withLet Us Go Back.

Tag smiled, his excitement swelling as the train started to move. Slowly at first, it pulled out of the station but then quickly gathered speed, rocking from side to side as it accelerated, powering north through London towards York and Tag’s future.

* * *

It was overcast when they pulled into York station two hours later and Tag dragged his luggage off the train. Following the signs to the exit, he lugged his case up the stairs of an iron bridge that crossed the tracks and then down the other side onto a small concourse with a couple of shops.

Standing to one side to let people pass, he dug out his phone and opened Google Maps. His digs were walkable from the station, and to the rehearsal space that Beatrice had organised too. They’d be meeting there tomorrow at ten, so he’d given himself half a day to settle into his room, unpack, and get the lay of the land.

Heading off, he marched out onto a busy street, past a bus stop, a rank of taxis—and what looked like a castle on a hill. Nice. Although it was May, the air in York was noticeably chillier than at home. Fresher, too. He liked it. Excited, full of that springtime feeling of hope and new beginnings, Tag headed along a grand street lined with tall, grey imposing old buildings.

According to Google Maps, it was a thirty-minute walk to his new house. Following the map, he crossed an elegant stone bridge over a wide river—the Ouse, apparently—and found himself walking past ancient city walls and into the centre of York, passing the looming and awe-inspiring Minster. He stopped there, staring up at its towering Gothic stonework, statuary, and stained glass windows, then snapped a selfie and sent it to his mum.I’m here!

York really was a gorgeous city. And almost as full of tourists as London. He had to dodge a couple of large tour groups as he navigated his way past the Minster and into the city’s picturesque cobbled streets. Eventually, though, his map led him out of the city centre and the buildings gradually became less quaint and more ordinary. Well, that was to be expected.

The room he’d rented, a single in a shared house, was the cheapest he could find. It looked okay on the website, but far from luxurious—a 1930s mid-terrace, his room being the front parlour with shared use of the bathroom and kitchen. Really, he only needed a bed, didn’t he? Somewhere to sleep and leave his stuff. It would be fine for eight weeks.