“Before you go, dear boy. I’m supposed to be going to the preview of the National’s new show tonight. There’s a comp waiting for me in the ticket office. Could you sub in for me and write a little review for Monday’s paper? Just a few hundred words.”
I’ve never said yes to anything so fast in my life. Uncle Ben withdrew his grip with equal speed.
“Careful, dear boy. You nearly bit my hand off!”
* * *
I sent Sunny a message saying my phone would be off for the next few hours and slunk into my seat in the stalls, my notepad and pen on my lap. There had only been one complimentary ticket, not two, so I hadn’t been able to invite Sunny along. As I waited for curtain-up, the seat next to me was frustratingly empty. I imagined Sunny sitting beside me. Holding hands with him. Hearing him laugh at the funny parts. Swapping glances when the play got romantic or sentimental. I was woken from this daydream by Wilhelmina Post, the editor ofStagemagazine, gliding into the seat beside me.Stagewas the real theatre enthusiast’s journal of choice, read cover to cover by the actors, producers, directors, wannabes and used-to-bes, and fans of London’s theatrical community. Wilhelmina, a woman whose dedication to shoulder pads and perms with combed-back fringes was yet to be rewarded by seeing them come back into fashion, was the centre around which this universe circled.
“Hello, Ludo, darling,” she said, kissing both my cheeks. “How positively wonderful to see you! Where’s my lovely Benny? I need someone to have a cigarette with at the interval.”
I filled her in on Uncle Ben, and she promised to swing by the hospital with a bunch of grapes.
“If you really want a few brownie points, sneak him in a packet of Phillies.”
She winked.
“Is it your first-ever review?” Wilhelmina asked. I nodded. “Darling, you’ll be a natural.”
“Any advice for a rookie?”
“Always be honest, but never be cruel. That’s the first rule. Not if you want to last in this business. Although perhaps that’s less of a concern if it’s a one-off. But remember, actors have long memories, and you’re only a child. Plenty of time for them to knock you off your bicycle in the King’s Road if they’re feeling vengeful.”
I laughed.
“The second rule. Say whatever you like, as long as you can explain it. If you think the script was weak, you owe it to the writer, whom you’re calling out in a public forum, to explain why you thought it was weak. You also owe it to the audience and to your readers. If you can’t explain it, then you don’t really mean it.
“And the third rule: whatever you say, say it in your own voice. Don’t try to be your uncle Benny. Ben Diamond is a legend of the game. His reviews are the stuff of folklore. Laurence Olivier nearly died choking on a chocolate digestive while reading Benny’s review ofLong Day’s Journey into Night.”
“Is that the one where he wrote something like ‘The play is as rickety as the Edinburgh sleeper and takes about as long to get to its destination’?”
“That’s the one!” Wilhelmina said. “Well, it was a five-hour play even before Larry fluffed his lines. Anyway, the point is, don’t ape your uncle Benny. Develop your own style. Find your own voice.”
Golly! It was a masterclass. The theatre darkened, the audience hushed, and I felt the rush of anticipation that comes with curtain-up. A burst of trumpets—an old-fashioned overture. The actors took their places onstage. I picked up my pen and, in the dark, wrote down Wilhelmina’s advice. I might not have got to spend the evening with Sunny, or with Uncle Ben, but learning from one of the industry’s all-time greats wasn’t a bad way to spend my night. Just for a moment, I let myself imagine that this was my life—and I found I liked it very much indeed.
Chapter35
Sunny
Having successfully navigated Maxime’s elevator and Jonty’s door list, I found myself unsuccessfully looking for Ludo among the noisy partygoers and the swirling waitstaff offering trays of drinks and canapés. There must have been several hundred people, all dressed in their glad rags like they were off to the opera. I felt slightly underdone in my rolled-up white shirtsleeves and skinny black tie, chosen to match my black skinny jeans. The Converse trainers were definitely a mistake. Ludo hadn’t told me to dress like we were off to a wedding. This was a fundraiser for a rodent. I had thought the place would be filled with the kind of people who make jam from their own allotment, not the kind of people who bulldoze allotments to build skyscrapers.
At least the crowd wasn’t too Westminstery. I hadn’t spotted any MPs, just Torsten Beaumont-Flattery, and I guessed he was only there because he knew Jonty from school. He was standing in a corner, deep in conversation with a tall blond man I didn’t recognise. I found myself in front of a display of information about the hazel dormouse, pretending I found the literature absorbing. I was just about to ask a waiter for a pen to fix some of the grammar when a pair of hands clasped over my eyes and voice from behind me said “Guess who?”
“Noted Hollywood chameleon Meryl Streep?”
Ludo let his hands drop, and I turned around to face him. By this point I was expecting to see him wearing a tuxedo, looking like Timothée Chalamet auditioning for the part of James Bond, but in fact, he was dressed almost identically to me, only in black leather shoes and chinos. Not even a jumper. On closer inspection, he looked slightly dishevelled. I kissed him on the cheek, unsure what the correct etiquette was for greeting each other at a public event, given our unclear relationship status. Let’s be honest, mostly I just didn’t want Ludo’s parents’ first impression of me to involve interrupting a snog with their son.
“I couldn’t find you,” I said.
“I know, I’m sorry. Bit of an accident. Jersey’s a write-off, I’m afraid. Unless you know the secret to getting espresso martini out of cashmere?”
“Funnily enough, they didn’t cover that at the school I went to. Might be why Ofsted marked us down so hard. Although the knife violence might also have had something to do with it, to be fair.”
Ludo paused, clearly tossing up whether I was being serious before deciding the safest bet was to plough on.
“So, I was in the gents, drying my shirt under the hand dryer. I hope you weren’t too bored.”
“Did you know the French call the hazel dormouse the rat-d’or?” I said, showing off my freshly acquired knowledge. “And in Suffolk they call them sleep-meece, which is proper cute and makes me really like the people of Suffolk.”
