‘It’s a Dickensian Christmas improv evening. They’re going to make up a Christmas play on the spot with a bit of help from the audience.’
‘You are joking me?’
‘No, no I’m really not. It’s going to be awesome, and besides, it’s Dickensian so no flashing lights.’ She winks and her nose crinkles with delight.
‘We’re never going anywhere together again,’ I say as sternly as I can.
‘Oh, but we are. I’m your Christmas elf.’ She waves the elf hat out of the corner of her bag at me and I can’t help but smile.
‘I don’t think I ever agreed to that.’
‘Nope. It’s magic. You don’t need to agree, it just happens.’
‘We live in an age of consent.’
‘Not for the next two hours. I don’t think consent is very Dickensian. Anyway, hurry up with your one more thing before we need to grab our seats.’
I push her through the corridors back into the promenade deck where I lead her into one of the booths where the waxwork doctor stands, his kit all laid neatly out in his bag – scissors, glass bottles, possible instruments of torture – working on a patient who is looking away from his wound with credible emotion for a waxwork, even better than Cyndi on her birthday. She oohs and leans over to stroke the saw with a ghoulish fascination. Then her eyes light upon the medicine cabinet.
‘Ooh, look at this, they have everything. Laudanum, obviously…’ She turns and gives me a grin.
‘Don’t go getting any ideas,’ I say mock-seriously.
‘I was thinking for you, not me, to get you through this performance.’
‘Oh, well, in that case.’ I open my mouth wide and she giggles before turning back. ‘Look, they’ve got everyday things too like cream of tartar, what medicinal use does that have? Epsom salts. Nitre… That sounds dangerous.’
Her exploration pauses as a bell sounds.
‘We need to get our seats, come on.’ She grabs my hand and pulls me out of the doctor’s cabin. ‘We need to be quick, we want to get the right seats.’
‘You’re not going to sit me at the front, are you?’
‘Are you mad? It’s audience participation, the thought of being called upon scares the living daylights out of me. No, I’m going to sit at the back and refuse to make eye contact, that’s my plan. Then I can enjoy it in safety.’
I laugh and trip through the corridors with her up to the first-class dining area where she swoops on the chairs right at the back, next to a large column.
‘Phew, that was lucky.’
‘Who comes to an audience participation without wanting to participate?’ I ask. She really is a contrary creature.
‘I do.’
A thought pops into my head. I’d forgotten my intention for this evening. ‘How did it go with Jamal?’
Everyone is seated now and the cast, all in Victorian costume, are gathered by the entrance to the dining room.
‘Oh yeah.’ She pulls a face. ‘He didn’t take to me but thank you for trying. I really appreciate it.’
A large man in very tight trousers, a long tailcoat and high narrow-brimmed hat strides out into the centre of the room.
‘What do you mean he didn’t take to you?’ That’s ridiculous, these two are the perfect match, her project has to appeal to him on so many levels. There must be a mistake.
‘Will you shhhh, it’s starting.’ She wallops me on my leg. I yelp and the couple in front turn around and give us furious looks.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming tonight.’ The actor adopts the Lord Flashheart pose and a hammy shouting voice. ‘I am in dire need of your help. My wife has disappeared…’ he pauses, ‘…so I am desperately searching for Fanny!’ The audience guffaws. Someone starts making pig noises.
What has Belle Wilde brought me to?
