She lives by the sea.
Also by Justine Elyot:
On Demand
For everyone who understands.
Practical Criticism
‘All right, Miss Vanessi. You asked for it and you’re going to get it.’
Leo couldn’t fail me now, and he was encouragingly forceful when he grabbed my wrist and dragged me to the bench, stage-right. I’d told him over and over, ‘Do it for real. Don’t hold back. Put your arm into it.’
At first rehearsals, he’d been reluctant, laughing and abandoning the endeavour halfway through, when he could even be persuaded to lay a hand on me.
‘I can’t do this, Callie. It’s not as if you really slap my face or anything in the bit before. It just seems … wrong. Assault, like.’
‘It’s not assault if I ask you to do it,’ I said, upright again in the middle of the hall while the rest of the company watched us, agog. ‘I have a reason for this. I think it’ll win us the contest. Trust me.’
Leo didn’t understand how smacking my bum on stage was going to win us the Amateur All-Comers trophy, and neither did anyone else, but it wasn’t their place to question the actor-director, and so they didn’t.
‘God, Petruchio’s such a bastard,’ drawled my Bianca the day Leo finally got his act together and gave me more than a limp-wristed hand-flap on the seat of my jeans.
‘We’re not playing this for PC points,’ I reminded her. ‘The whole premise is dodgy as fuck from the outset. Taming a shrew, for God’s sake. And why a shrew, anyway? Shrews are cute.’
Bianca, whose real name was Louise, laughed.
‘I know. They’d make good pets. It’s just hard to feel comfortable with it. Basically, he’s an emotional abuser.’
I sighed.
‘I know. But let’s just concentrate on getting the musical numbers together, shall we? Then we can write a sequel in which Petruchio gets a good kick in the nads.’
‘Soprano solo, nice.’
That was the fourth or fifth rehearsal. Leo had taken hold of me around my waist and bent me over his lap.
‘No, that was like a guy stepping up to waltz with his lady love,’ I said. ‘I’m going to fight you. You have to use force.’
Leo looked as if he might burst into tears.
‘I feel like such a twat, though,’ he said.
‘Welcome to acting.’
He huffed and puffed for a bit but his next attempt was so much better.
I looked at the little row of fingermarks on my upper arm that night in bed and pushed my thumb tip into the bruises. The tiny nag of pain was piquant and sweet, reminding me of the transient glow Leo’s hand had brought to my bottom.
I brought out again my application details for the competition, with the fulsome foreword by the judge and patron. Peregrine Sands had the sort of face that mocked you, even in repose. Take a look at yourself, you despicable creature, it seemed to say. Don’t insult me with your scrutiny until you can smoke a cigarette as contemptuously as I can.
‘Say what you like,’ I whispered to his curling lip. ‘You are going to give me this prize. Because I know about you.’
The weeks passed, subsumed in rehearsal and publicity and fine-tuning. Leo’s hand got harder and harder, and he learned to leave his liberal conscience in the dressing room.
When the night of the performance came, Louise and I shared a nip of Dutch courage in front of the lightbulb-mirror, lacing each other’s stays good and tight.
‘I couldn’t do what you’re doing,’ she said.
‘What? Play this role? Direct this show?’
‘No, I mean … that scene.’
‘What, the spanking scene?’
‘Yes. In front of everyone, on stage. Don’t you find it embarrassing?’
‘Not really. It’s acting, isn’t it?’
I kept my tone brisk and light, and changed the subject immediately afterwards. But secretly her words had given me a between-the-legs thrill. She was embarrassed for me. She, and everyone else, thought that I was being publicly humiliated.
Well, guess why we’re doing Kiss Me, Kate and not Mary Poppins …
I stood in the wings watching the first number, ‘Another Op’nin’, Another Show’, trying my level best to work out where Peregrine Sands might be sitting. He was here, wasn’t he? Supposing he was delayed, or ill, and hadn’t turned up? All my careful calculations would come to nothing.
But I saw him at last, midway through the third row, his suit sharp, his legs crossed, a notebook balanced on his knee. Nothing could be gleaned from his face, which was impassive, but his fingers occasionally tapped at the velvet arm rest, in rhythm with the number.