Writer, Dancer, Lover, Thief

Writer, Dancer, Lover, Thief.

I met him at rehearsals for an obscure play by an unknown playwright in a back street theatre in the Northern quarter.

He played the writer.

I played the dancer.

I cannot dance at all but this was immaterial, as in the play I had a broken foot.  For the show I wore a faded tutu and stripy leggings like a bizarre Christmas tree fairy that had spent too much time in the loft.  He wore a bowler hat and glasses and braces over his shirt.

Rehearsals took place in the back room of the back street theatre or – on occasion in the back room of the Fox and Glove round the corner, above the thud of contemporary rock music and under patchy lighting where half the bulbs had blown and never been replaced.

“I’ve never even heard of this play”  I complained to my agent in his stuffy office cramped with souvenirs from half famous people he had known back in the day and items crafted out of loo rolls and margarine tubs by his kids.  He gave me a look as if to say beggars can’t be choosers; I supposed after all it would put food on the table, so to speak.

In the play he was in love with me.

In reality, I bored him beyond belief.

After rehearsals sometimes we would slope downstairs to watch the band and I would regale the cast with extraordinary tales of the people I had encountered and the situations I had found myself in during my lifetime in the theatre whilst he glanced at the clock and fashioned a poor man’s origami from the beer mats whilst nursing a pint of mild.

“What is his problem?” I complained to the thief.  The thief was played by a young man in his twenties who held a degree in engineering.  He had a moustache which looked out of place upon his face.  For the show, the thief wore a black jumper and a beret.  The thief sucked on a Marlborough red and shrugged his shoulders because he didn’t know, or because he didn’t care.

The director never came to these soirees.  He would invite us, individually, to dinner at a restaurant in the city where he would book a table in the centre of the room and smile and nod at other, more successful directors whilst pretending to engage in conversation with whichever of us he had invited, laughing in all the wrong places and nodding or smiling when he should have been saying something.  On one such occasion I had ordered the most expensive thing on the menu even though I hated duck and afterwards, was leaning back in my seat, impatient for the waiter to whisk away the fowl’s remnants and bring the desert menu as I sucked my Marlborough. 

“You seem to work well with him” The director stated.  I replied with a noise halfway between a snort and an ironic laugh.

“Well I am an actor, Charles.”  I felt hideously smug coming out with lines like that, Marlborough in my poised fingers, skirt falling over my crossed legs, brushing the floor. The director had lost interest in the conversation already, eyes wandering to some West End musical wannabe starlet.  I decided I wanted to keep it.

“Two single malts – Talisker!”  I shouted at a passing waiter.  The director turned back to me, smiling; I know how to hook a fish.

“What were you saying, Josephine? Hmm?” He cradled the tumbler between his fat paws.

“ I wasn’t. You were saying.  About him - The Writer.”

“Ah yes…extraordinary fellow – played Puck at the Royal last year….can’t remember how he came to – oh yes – Roger Dickenson – you remember Roger don’t you? Top hat – well, always wears one – thing of his. Anyway, what was I saying?  Oh yes, that one off of Malfi.  Terribly versatile he is.  And you seem to work well with him.”  His eyes glazed as the glass emptied.  I had lost the prize, after all.  Starlet had won.

At the next rehearsal, I cornered him, between Acts two and three.

“Charles said you did “The Duchess of Malfi” – that must have been challenging” I ventured, over tea in the green room.  He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  He wore them all the time although his eyesight was perfect.  The lover had told me.

“ I once auditioned for The White Devil – though I never got a part. “ I continued “to be quite honest with you I prefer a decent Shakespeare – I was Ophelia at The Royal actually and-“

“Excuse me” He said, at once standing up and making a quick exit before I could excuse him at all.  He left me staring disappointed in to my tea.

It was at that point the lover walked in; he had just finished his scene. 

“I wouldn’t even bother with him darling” He stated, propping himself up on a stool and grabbing a custard cream. The lover pulled off his curly blond wig and flung it idly on the couch, revealing his dyed red Barnet.

I stared at him.  “I’m not bothered” I said.

The lover gave me a knowing look.

The show ran for six weeks, every night (except Sundays) and a matinee on Saturday.  On Sundays I met with my girlfriends who were mainly other actresses working on shows or working in restaurants and call centres.  The topics we discussed ranged from the crew members who irritated us most during our current performances to the ideal men we hoped to marry someday.

It was right at the end of the show that it happened. Afterwards, the director put on a huge party – surprisingly with real champagne in addition to a buffet complete with prawn vol-au-vents (how seventies) and a gigantic bowl of strawberries to dip in to a chocolate fountain.  It was there we bumped in to one another.  He was no longer wearing his glasses; I commented on the fact.  At once he turned to me, apologising profusely, almost excessively, for his behaviour towards me throughout the run of the show.  I was somewhat taken aback at this heartfelt display and barely knew what to say in response.

“I find it so difficult to mix my personal life with my professional one” he explained “I am not a shy or standoffish person yet people think I am” He held his hands to his head in a dramatic gesture – the writer.  I stood and stared at him.  “What would you like to do now, Michael?”

“I think I would like some air!”  Indeed it appeared he had little to spare.  I walked with him through to the gardens.  His kiss was like ice upon my soul. We hurried through the dark streets to his apartment nestled against the fontaine de la nuit.  I felt the excitement well inside me like the lava within a volcano, just waiting to explode.  I felt like anything in the World could happen, as I heard him whisper how much he loved me.

The next morning I walked with a swing in my step as I boarded the Metro to Paris.  Naturally, I had given both the theatre and my agent a false name – with accompanying false identification.  In my manicured hands I carried the case that contained my outfit for the show, and every item of possible worth that he owned.

I heard his words from the night before echo in my head as the train pulled out of the station – a hazy dream, or perhaps a reality;

“ I am the writer – you are the dancer”  He said

But he was wrong.

I am  the lover.

And I am the thief.



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