Played! Page 9

  He wasn’t at all prepared to see Heather standing there.

  “That’s odd,” he said, nonetheless with a welcoming smile. “My thumbs weren’t pricking in the slightest. Greetings to you, oh benevolent dictator. Step into my humble abode; thou shalt have five thousand welcomes.”

  “One’ll do, ta. Got your address from Con, by the way, in case you were wondering,” she threw over her shoulder as she stepped past Tristan and into Nanna Geary’s living room. Her beady eyes scanned the room, taking in the no-nonsense, old-fashioned furniture in sombre shades of tweed. “Nice place you got here. Used to be your gran’s, right?”

  “Actually she was my old nanny. And my mother’s before me. Rather a family treasure, you might say.”

  Heather’s eyes widened at that. “You mean she was just an employee, and she left you her house? Bloody hell, your lot have got all that feudal stuff down pat, haven’t you?”

  Tristan stiffened. “I resent your implications. Nanna Geary was a much-loved family member, even if not by blood.”

  “Sorry! Not trying to imply anything. What was it, one of those old-fashioned arrangements like Downton Abbey or something where the kids spend more time with the nanny than with their own mother?”

  “Mother died when I was twelve, so it was somewhat unavoidable after that,” Tristan said curtly. She’d been ill for a long time too. Tristan hated that he’d never realised just how ill she was. She’d always seemed so lively when he was taken to see her, lying propped up on a mound of fluffy pillows and always ready to laugh and joke with him. He’d never known just how much of her strength it had cost her to pretend for his sake that things were going to be all right.

  “Shit. Sorry. I’m putting my foot right in it today, aren’t I? I didn’t actually come here to be a bitch.” Heather wrapped her arms around herself. “Been a bit of a long day.”

  Tristan had to give her that. “How is Patrick, by the way? Have you any news?”

  “Oh, he’s… Well, he’s still in hospital getting his leg fixed. Which is kind of why I’m here.”

  Tristan frowned. “You’re surely not thinking of cancelling the play?” If he’d been unprepared for Heather’s arrival, he was even less prepared for the thrill of horror that shot through him at the thought. He couldn’t lose this last chance to do what he loved.

  “Don’t wanna. But we’ve got to find someone to do Puck. You up for it?”

  Tristan eyed her askance. “Far be it from me to criticise your direction, but I feel having one actor play two characters who are on stage at the same time might be a tad confusing to the audience. Or do you have another Bottom in mind?”

  Heather nodded. “Look, you like Con, don’t you?” she said.

  “Con?”

  “Big bloke, not bad looking, muscles on his muscles, plays for your team?”

  “I know who he is. I’m just not sure quite how he’s relevant to the present discussion.”

  “But you like him, yeah?”

  “He’s not without his charms,” Tristan agreed cautiously.

  “Wouldn’t mind spending a bit more time with him, am I right?”

  “I imagine I could endure it, yes. But are you seriously suggesting he’s agreed to play—”

  “Nope. That’s your job.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got to get him to say yes.”

  “Moi? Pourquoi? I mean, why me, of all people?” Tristan elaborated hastily.

  “’Cos you’re gonna have to help him out. No way he’s gonna be able to learn his lines from the book.” She stopped. “You knew he’s dyslexic, right? And he never got a lot of help, ’cos his gran who brought him up… Well, he’s never said, but I reckon she wasn’t any better at reading than he is. Worse, probably. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Con can read, it just takes him a while, yeah? Makes it hard for him to learn stuff. So someone’ll have to help him.”

  “And again I feel compelled to ask, why me?”

  “Well, it’s not like you’re doing anything else, is it? The rest of us have all got jobs to go to.”

  “I do have a life, you know.”

  “Do you?” she challenged, quick as lightning and twice as painful. “’Cos it looks to me like you’ve got everything on hold. One last summer of lazing around before you go over to America to run a bank or something. I’m right, aren’t I? So why not use the time to do something useful.”

  “But…” Tristan could feel his resolve crumbling under the unexpected force of her gaze. “Does he even act? Can he even act?”

  Heather scrubbed at her face with both hands—fortunately she’d had the foresight to wear very little makeup; Tristan had seen Amanda do that once or twice and she’d emerged looking like a clown caught in a deluge—then slumped down on Nanna Geary’s sofa. “That’s gonna be part of the job—convincing Con. See, me and Sean, we’ve thought for ages he’d be great on stage, but he’s got this idea he’d be rubbish. You know, ’cos of the reading thing. But I thought, if you give him enough help, maybe, I dunno, record the speeches so he can listen to them? I reckon he’d do really well.”

  Tristan frowned. “I see your point, but should he really be your first choice for an important role like Bottom?”

  “Yeah, well, prob’ly not, but we’re shit out of second choices. So, you gonna do it?”

  “You do realise we’re not on the best of terms right now?”

  “What, ’cos he didn’t wanna shag?”

  Tristan winced. He’d hoped that hadn’t become public knowledge. “Is it too much to ask that a gentleman should not kiss and not tell?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. So you got turned down. Get over it. You telling me that’s never happened to you before?”

  “Yes! I mean no. I mean…” Tristan pressed his thumb and forefinger against his forehead. “I fail to see why that’s any of your business. And I resent your implication that rejection must be a daily occurrence for me.”

  Heather leaned forward and smiled. It didn’t bode well, that smile. Meggie the Second, Tristan considered, had probably worn such a smile an instant before this morning’s mouse became a stranger to his own hind quarters. “Poor you. Must’ve been a bit of a shock, Con saying he didn’t want you. Bet you’d like to see him eat his words, wouldn’t you?”

  “Possibly,” Tristan conceded reluctantly.

  “And let’s face it, the only reason he’d turn you down is ’cos he doesn’t know you well enough, yeah?”

  Tristan nodded. She undoubtedly had a point.

  “So he needs to get to know you a bit better. See the real you. Trouble is, he’s a bit shy, Con is. He’s probably feeling a bit awkward around you right now.”

  Tristan didn’t mention it was mutual. She didn’t need to know that.

  “So,” Heather went on, “all you need is a way to spend time together focussing on other stuff, yeah? So you can both forget to feel embarrassed”—damn, she’d noticed—“and just get on with getting on.”

  Tristan had been nodding so much he was starting to feel a little dizzy. “That does sound quite logical.”

  Heather clapped her hands together and stood. “Brill! So you’re gonna do it, yeah? Right, next rehearsal’s tomorrow night, but I reckoned I’d give you till the end of the week to talk him round. So you just need to come up to the hall ready to play Puck. Might wanna practice your lines a bit first, yeah?”

  And she was gone. Tristan replayed the conversation in his head.

  He was still totally unable to identify any point at which he’d actually agreed to do what she asked.

  By the time he was able to talk to Amanda, Tristan was feeling much more sanguine about the whole thing. Technically, of course, he could have Skyped Amanda the minute Heather had skipped gaily out of Nanna Geary’s house, mission accomplished, but luckily Tristan had the foresight to calculate that i
t was then around three in the morning in Hong Kong, and the wisdom to realise that if waking her at six on a Sunday morning was bad, then doing so at three on a Monday morning would most likely be apocalyptic.

  Amanda, when he called, was already online and eating her breakfast.

  It appeared to be the remains of last night’s dinner. “Is that really healthy?” he asked, frowning at the takeaway carton of gelatinous gloop displayed fuzzily on his screen. He couldn’t quite work out what it was supposed to be.

  “Fat-shaming? You’ve got a nerve.”

  “Fat shaming? Who said anything about fat? I’m simply concerned about your well-being. Although now you come to mention it, you are looking a trifle puffy around the jowls—”

  She hung up.

  Tristan gave it a good five minutes, then called her again. “Are we caffeinated now?”

  “Are we going to refrain from personal comments now?”

  “Possibly. Do you have a mo?”

  “Of course, darling. All the time in the world. It’s only Monday morning in the world of the gainfully employed; what possible other demands could I have on my time?”

  Tristan pouted. “So you’re saying I should call you back tonight?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. So come on, what’s the news? Please let it be something dire enough that I won’t have to go in to work. Have you caught something incurable?”

  She didn’t have to sound so excited at the prospect. “I’ve had a breakthrough.”

  “Not a breakdown? Because I would have thought that seemed more likely.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. I’ve—”

  “Does your family know you go around quoting the New Testament? I can’t see that going down too well at synagogue.”

  “Wouldn’t know. Never been. And don’t interrupt. There’s no trust, no faith, no honesty in you—that better?”

  “Much. Do continue.”

  “There’s been a sea change in the production. Instead of playing Bottom, I’m now to be Puck—a role I feel far more suited to my sprightly nature. All jokes about fairies to be taken as read, please. And you’ll never guess who’s now to be my Bottom.”

  “With a lead-in like that, it can only be your grunting handyman. Has he even heard of Shakespeare?”

  “I do wish you’d stop talking about him like he’s a complete idiot. He’s dyslexic, not mentally subnormal. And yes, he’s a member of the company, so he’s quite familiar with the Bard. I’m to be his acting coach.” Tristan beamed. “I’m telling you, Amanda—if ever proof were needed that the gods are on my side, this is it. Think about it. The man’s never acted before, and he’s barely literate. Through no fault of his own, I might add. I’ve a good mind to write to the Times about the shocking failings of the state school system. But in any case, I’ll have to spend half my waking hours with him.” Soon to be followed, he hoped, by the majority of his non-waking hours.

  “So you’re taking on an unpaid post as a remedial English teacher. This is good, why?”

  “Amanda, dearest darling, haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve told you about him? The man is a marvel of genetics. Well, in the physical department at least. Why he isn’t in pornography I’ll never know.”

  “And the fact that he’s become your own personal Everest has nothing to do with it?”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re determined to mount him or die trying. You just want to conquer him and plant your little flag—”

  “Less of the little, please, darling.”

  “I wouldn’t know, would I? As it’s only straight men you bestow your favours upon.”

  “Jealous?”

  “In your dreams. So. The educationally challenged odd job man you’re about to go all Professor Higgins on and turn into the star of the show, he’s agreed to all this, has he?”

  “Well, not as such. Not yet. I, well, I haven’t actually asked him yet.”

  “So what if he says no?”

  “Of course he won’t say no. Pass up the chance of expert tuition like that? Trust me. He’ll say yes.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Thou Dost Infect my Eyes

  “No,” Con said flatly, putting down his mug on the flowery coaster on Mrs. Geary’s dining table. Tristan’s. Whatever. “No way. Come on, there’s gotta be loads of other people you could ask.” And why was it Tristan doing the asking, anyhow? Had he taken over the whole of SADS? He’d only been in the village five minutes.

  Tristan, who was standing next to Con’s chair, clapped a hand on his shoulder and smiled down at him. God, the bastard had done this on purpose, hadn’t he? Sat Con down with a cup of coffee just so he could get the height advantage for once. “But you’d be perfect,” Tristan purred in his nice voice, the one that wasn’t all sarcastic. “Nick Bottom is a craftsman; so are you.”

  “I’m a handyman. He’s a weaver.”

  “Pish tosh.”

  Con stared. Jesus, who even said that? “That’s why you called me over this morning, remember? To be a handyman. Urgent repairs to your back door to stop people coming in and murdering you in your sleep, you said.”

  “False alarm. Just needed a good kick. I’ve seen your sketches for the forest scenery,” Tristan just went on smoothly, as if being caught out in a lie didn’t bother him at all. “Heather showed me. It’s inspired. You have true artistic talent, dear boy. And a feeling for the text.”

  “I haven’t even read the text.”

  Tristan leaned in close with a smug smile on his face. It suited him, the bastard. “I bet you’ve listened to it, though. Or seen a film adaptation.”

  Con didn’t say anything. He’d actually done both, but that wasn’t the point, was it?

  “And in any case,” Tristan was saying, “you’ll have moi to help you.”

  He made it sound like that was the clincher, like anything Con said now couldn’t possibly stand up against it. “Hev put you up to this, didn’t she?” Con’s face burned. He was going to kill her next time he saw her.

  “That’s a very cynical way to look at a heartfelt appeal from one of your closest friends. Heather needs you. She was here—yes, I don’t deny it—weeping anguished tears over the cruel fate—”

  Con frowned. “No, she bloody wasn’t.” Heather, coming over to cry on Tristan’s shoulder? It sounded about as likely as Con winning an Oscar.

  Or the Nobel bloody prize for literature, come to that.

  “—that’s left her bereft of the means to fulfil her bright potential as a director. Not to mention potentially robbed her of her first starring role—”

  “She’s starred in lots of stuff. She’s one of the best actors we’ve got.”

  “—and a chance to prove herself against the nay-sayers who dismiss her simply because she’s a young mixed-race woman.” He stopped and looked expectantly at Con, like he was politely waiting for another interruption.

  Con gave an embarrassed little shrug. “That one’s a fair point.”

  Tristan beamed, like he thought that one concession meant he’d won the whole bloody argument. “Then how can you deny her this?” His face fell way too quick to be natural, and he gazed at Con like a puppy whose tail Con had just stepped on. “I really hadn’t thought you’d be selfish.”

  “What?” That was so unfair Con didn’t even know where to start.

  Tristan took Con’s mug from his numb fingers, moved it way over to one side, and hopped up to sit on the table facing him. “Think about it, dear boy. When will you ever get the chance of personal tuition from a classically trained actor?”

  “Who says I want personal tuition from a classically trained actor?”

  “All of your friends, for a start. I’m told you’re quite the raconteur when amongst convivial company.” Hands gripping the table edge, and a mischievous smile on his face, Tristan lean
ed forward so far Con could feel the warmth of his breath. He smelt fresh and sort of spicy, like he’d had something with cinnamon in for breakfast. “Nobody joins a dramatics society if they don’t have a secret yen to perform. Why not grasp this opportunity? Carpe, as they say, diem.”

  “I’m not…” Con sighed. It was almost tempting… And he really didn’t want to let Heather down… But he’d just make a total cock of himself in front of everyone he knew. That was what’d happen if he gave in and grasped anything or bloody well carpe-d it either. “I just do the scenery, all right?”

  “But you could do so much more! And… God, you don’t know what you’re missing.” Tristan’s smile turned dreamy, and he hopped back off the table to pace around the carpet. “It’s a buzz, a natural high… The audience hanging on your words, taking their meaning from the life you give to them. And the words themselves, God, the rhythm of them, the back-and-forth… Dream isn’t Much Ado, I’ll grant you that, but then that’s in your favour, as a novice. And just seeing it all come together, seeing those dry lines in the book every schoolboy hates to study transformed into a living, breathing, ephemeral work of art…” He spun on the spot and fixed Con with a childlike stare, his hands flung wide in a gesture that somehow seemed totally natural. “How can you not want to act?”

  Oh God.

  Something was squeezing Con’s heart in his chest. Either that or it’d grown too large for his ribcage. He wasn’t sure which.

  He’d always thought Tristan was all, well, acting, all smoke and mirrors, nothing real and honest about him, but right now… Right now Con felt like he’d seen Tristan’s soul. And it’d nearly fucking blinded him.

  He couldn’t tear his gaze away from Tristan’s face. Even as it changed, lost some of the enthusiasm and the wonder, and turned uncertain.

  Oh shit. Just what was Tristan seeing right now?