Page 4 of Best Supporting Actor

“That’s the spirit,” Tag said, grinning. But when his gaze flickered back to Jay Warren, the glint in those stormy grey depths was far from friendly.

ACT ONE

CHAPTERONE

Tag

December - Six weeks later

No matter how gentle the alarm tone Tag set, he still woke up cursing when it went off at five-thirty in the morning. Especially at this time of year when it was pitch black. This particular alarm tone began as a distant, gently waking dawn chorus that gradually grew louder, but it might as well have been a pneumatic drill. It still made Tag roll over in despair and fumble blindly for his phone on the bedside cabinet to switch the bloody thing off.

It was too early.Waytoo fucking early. But he’d asked to swap shifts with Sarah this morning, opting to open up so that he could finish earlier and get over to the RPP studios in time for the afternoon’s filming.

Filming. Just the thought made today’s early rise worth it. This was it. The Holy Grail. A proper, paid acting job.

Today wouldn’t be his first day of filming, but he hadn’t featured much so far. Mostly, he’d just been standing in the background, speaking a few inconsequential lines here and there. But today, he’d be filming his character’s pivotal scene, the one he’d spent weeks preparing for. His chance to shine. Okay, it was pretty small potatoes as far as the rest of theBow Streetcast and crew were concerned, but for Tag, it was the most important few minutes in the whole double-episode pilot, the moment when his character, Jude ‘Bishop’ Morton, went to Arthur Thorne of the Bow Street runners and betrayed the leader of the criminal gang that had been his surrogate family since he was a child.

Just one shift at City Beans coffee shop to get through first.

Throwing the bed covers back, Tag swung his legs over the side of his single bed and let the chilly morning air shock him awake before getting to his feet and heading for the bathroom. He tried to be quiet, since his dad was still sleeping. Downstairs, he could hear the faint sounds of his mum moving around in the kitchen. She’d been on the night shift at the care home, so she wouldn’t have been back long. Probably having her habitual cuppa before heading off to bed, just as his dad was getting up.

“Ships that pass in the night, that’s us,”she always joked. And, yeah, it had been that way for quite a while. Money was always tight.

Tag started the shower, then loaded his toothbrush with paste while he waited for the water to warm up. When he was done brushing, he ran his tongue over the smooth surfaces of his teeth, examining them in the mirror. He’d made the mistake, back in the summer, of home-bleaching them ahead of the audition for the toothpaste ad. It had made them way too white, and his parents—being savage and merciless O’Rourkes—had laughed their arses off when they’d seen the result. Da was still calling himJawseven now. Thankfully, the worst of it—when his smile had looked almost luminous—had worn off before the audition, and he’d got the job. His teeth had calmed down a lot more since then, but even now, he still worried they looked a little too bright. Overly bleached teeth didn’t exactly scream ‘serious actor’, and theydefinitelydidn’t screamBow Street, which was supposed to have a dark and grimy vibe. Bishop was meant to be a hard-worn and hungry street rat, ground down by life, not an Essex boy with waxed eyebrows and a dodgy tan.

Sighing, he turned away from the mirror, kicked off his underwear, and stepped inside the cubicle to get showered.

* * *

When he walked into the kitchen ten minutes later, it was to find his mum sitting at the table, still in her uniform and drinking tea from a ‘World’s Best Mum’ mug Tag had got her for her birthday a few years ago, the words mostly faded now from repeated dishwasher cycles.

“Morning, love,” she said tiredly. “You want a cuppa?” She pointed at the teapot on the table.

“Go on, then, since you’ve made a pot,” Tag said. “I’ll grab a quick one.”

She crooked a smile at him as he grabbed another mug off the draining board and set it down on the table. “Don’t you go getting used to it,” she said. Her accent was strongly Irish even after all these years of living in England. “I only made a pot because I wanted to talk to you about something before I go and put me head down.”

“Yeah?” Tag said, while he nabbed the milk out of the fridge. “Sounds serious.” He sloshed a dash of milk into the mug.

His mum rolled her eyes, lifting the pot to pour the tea. “Nah,” she said. “It’s just about Christmas.”

Tag groaned, even as he slid into the chair opposite her.

“What about it?”

“We’re going over to Caitlin’s on Boxing Day,” she said. “Andnowriggling out of it. You’ve only seen the baby twice since he was born, and he’s five months. She’s mentioned it. She thinks you’re avoiding her.”

“I’m not avoiding her,” Tag grumbled.

“Why haven’t you been over then?” His mother looked bewildered. Charlie was her first grandchild, and she was completely in love with him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tag muttered, grabbing his tea and taking a big slurp.

“Don’t give me that,” his mum said, pointing a finger at him. “What’s got you so you don’t even visit your own sister and nephew for months on end?”

“Fine,” Tag said, setting down his mug sharply on the table. “It was just—it was something Stevie said.” Stevie was Caitlin’s fiancé. He was a plumber and a lad’s lad. Loved his footie and his beer. Got on famously with Tag’s dad.

“What’s up with Stevie?” his mum asked, frowning. Then her eyes widened. “Don’t tell me he’s one of them homophobes. I’m not having that!”