Page 39 of Best Supporting Actor
Mikey looked gratifyingly impressed. It wasn’t a reaction Tag got often, and it had an involuntary smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He turned to the grill, pretending to check the toast, to hide his pleasure.
“Amazing,” Mikey said. “Though I’m guessing you’re not getting paid much, if you’re staying in this shithole.”
The cheese was bubbling now. Tag slid the slices onto the waiting plate and took it over to the table, dropping into the seat opposite Mikey, who was now looking much more alert.
“You’re right about that,” he admitted, as Mikey crammed another slice of cheese-on-toast in his mouth. “I’ve got to pay for my own accommodation and expenses out of what I get, plus I’ve got financial commitments back home. And I had to give up my steady barista gig to take this part.” He sighed heavily. “I’m going to be living on baked beans for the next couple of months.”
Mikey looked thoughtful. “Well, if you’ve done bar work, I can probably sort you out with some shifts?”
“Could you?” Tag said hopefully. He’d been planning to see if he could pick up some casual work but knew it wouldn’t be easy with him only being in town for such a short time. “That would be fantastic. And yeah, I’ve been a barman. And a waiter, kitchen porter, cleaner, labourer—I can turn my hand to a lot of things.”
Mikey grinned. “In that case, I can definitely hook you up. The guy I work for owns a bunch of bars and a club in town, and he’s always looking for staff, especially for late shifts and call-offs at weekends. He needs someone who can rock up and fill in wherever he needs them—like a floater? I used to do that, but now I’m a manager, so I’m permanently in one venue. Would that work for you? It sounds like you’ve got the experience.”
“That would be perfect for me,” Tag said fervently—having even a little bit more money would be a ton of help. He might even be able to afford the odd lunch sandwich, though maybe not the gourmet deli ones Jay apparently liked. Christ, the one Jay had brought back today… practically half a baguette stuffed with deli meat and cheese and salad and pickles. And the way Jay had been groaning as he ate it. That had been… hard to ignore. Thrusting that thought aside, Tag determinedly dragged his attention back to Mikey. “We have our rehearsal space from ten till four each day, and the director wants to use it to the full, so I think day shifts will be pretty much out for me, but I’m expecting to be available most evenings while we’re rehearsing.”
Mikey stuck the last piece of cheese-on-toast in his mouth, then pulled out his phone. “Perfect,” he mumbled through the food. “I’ll text Graham right now. He’s gonna be stoked.
* * *
When Tag headed off to the Salter Street Centre the next morning, he was feeling considerably less nervous and more optimistic than the day before. He’d met the rest of the cast and crew and, with the possible exception of Rafe, liked them all. Plus he’d bonded with one of his housematesandfound himself a job—Mike’s boss, Graham, had cheerfully offered him as many casual hours as he could fit in from Wednesday till Sunday for the next few weeks. Things were definitely looking up.
It was a couple of miles to the Centre, and Tag found his mind returning to yesterday’s table read as he walked the route. It had been an interesting start. Henry clearly had a way he liked to work. Bea seemed a little impatient with it, but while Tag had some sympathy with her—the play was her baby after all—he was instinctively attracted to Henry’s actor-centred approach.
As the Centre came into sight, Tag saw Freddie walking up the path to the front door ahead of him, a stout, colourful figure in purple leggings and Doc Martens, weighed down with a backpack and a large shoulder bag.
He followed her inside, where Henry and Jay were already chatting, coffees in hand. Freddie was standing at the table, extracting a large binder from her backpack. This was her promptbook, a huge bible of documents containing her own marked-up copy of the script, another clean copy she had started marking up yesterday with blocking notes, a props list, a costume list, scene breakdowns, and God only knew what else besides. Tag, who had never worked with a professional stage manager before—only student ones at drama college—had been fascinated as he watched her work yesterday. Despite her slightly chaotic air, Freddie’s promptbook was meticulously maintained, bristling with sticky tabs and colour-coded annotations.
“Morning, Freddie,” he said, walking towards her.
She looked up. Her eyes, which were a very light blue, were bright against her tanned skin, and the laughter lines around her eyes and mouth were deep grooves. “Good morning, beautiful boy,” she said, beaming at him. “Ready for day two?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he said. “Can I get you a coffee?”
“Please, lovely,” Freddie said. “A cappuccino with double chocolate sprinkles would be perfect, but I daresay a cup of that awful, tepid filter will do for now.”
Tag laughed and reached for the vacuum jug, loosening the lid. “Ordinarily, a cappuccino wouldn’t be a problem for me,” he said as he poured out two mugs of rather wishy-washy brown liquid. “I’ve been working in a coffee shop for the last few years, and I’m pretty good with a steamer wand if I do say so myself. But there’s not much magic I can work with this, I’m afraid.”
She laughed, accepting the mug from him, then doctoring it with a slug of semi-skimmed. “And I see we’re reduced to the custard creams today,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “They look like the same ones they gave us yesterday.” She prodded one of them experimentally, and, ominously, it gave a little beneath her finger.
Tag grimaced. He’d skipped breakfast since he still hadn’t bought any groceries yet, and his stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself.
“So,” he said, trying to distract himself from his hunger. “I gather you work with Henry a lot?”
“All the time, darling, for my sins.”
“Then you probably know how long we’re going to be spending on this stage of the rehearsal process?”
Freddie sent him an amused glance. “Do you know, practicallyeveryactor who works with Henry for the first time asks me that?” She shrugged. “Honestly, it depends, but it’s certainly the case that he likes to spend alotmore time than any other director I’ve worked with. He calls it the ‘getting to know the play’ phase.” She grinned, her expression conspiratorial. “I think poor Bea’s finding it rather irritating, don’t you?”
Tag couldn’t stop the huff of laughter that escaped him at her mischievous look. “Perhaps,” he demurred, not wanting to jump into company gossip on day two.
“Well, it’s hardly surprising,” Freddie said blithely. “She’s very like her father. They’re both incredibly bossy and single-minded. I mean, Henry adores Timon—he really is amarvellousactor, you know—but he gets very cross with him too, because Timon simplycannottake direction. Honestly, the rows they’ve had over the years!”
Tag tried not to look like he was hanging on Freddie’s every word, but he couldn’t help but lap up this sort of backstage gossip. The truth was he felt starved for it, and his nerdy little theatre brain was happily filing away every story-nugget to revisit later.
“If Bea spent more time listening to Henry,” Freddie continued, warming to her subject, “she’d benefit enormously from this experience. I mean, what other young playwright gets the chance to havetheHenry Walker directing their debut play? You can’t buy that sort of opportunity.”
Tag’s good humour dimmed at that reminder. The truth was, pretty muchnoother young playwright could swing such a coup. Bea had been given it on a silver platter because Henry and Bea’s father, Timon Lawson, the foremost Shakespearean actor of his generation, were good friends.