-•✦—✦—✦•-
Saturday, July 11th, 1998, Hanover Gardens
Sweet bliss of doing nothing. I loved it. I was playing Snake on my new Nokia 6110—it was so beautiful and way smaller than the brick Dad owned. The middle button was for up or down and shaped like a parabola; I loved keeping my fingers pressed right in the middle and seeing which button would actuate first. My phone rang—Badinerie by Bach played. As far as birthday presents went, a mobile phone was the best. I let the song play out right until the poor speaker just couldn't pull off the complicated section of Bach's work.
"Hello?" I answered, expecting Mum.
"Good evening, Wilfred!" A very French voice replied.
"Gilles?" I let out in shock.
"Oui, it is I, Gilles Alberr Lagarde. And you are Wilfred Price, are you not?" He teased,
"You've called me, of course you know it is me. How do you have my Mum's phone?" I challenged.
"Miss Erin Price, she is a true dragon among women. Welsh flower, Cymru Princess. Sacré bleu!" Gilles said with two hundred percent more Frenchness. My face reddened with anger.
"It is Mrs. Erin Price; and she is a Queen to a King! But you are right on other counts," I informed him as calmly as Dumbledore.
Discordant laughter was all I could hear—apparently, I'd been on speakerphone. Both of my parents had been privy to the conversation.
"I tell you, Monsieur Price, your son is very protective of your wife. Ah, he is a fine gentleman, no?" Gilles asked politely,
"Any true gentleman would," Dad said. I couldn't read his tone as he was bit too far away.
"Is Wilf still there? How does this thing work?" Mum said.
"I'm here!" I shouted indignantly.
"Oh, we better turn off ze volume," Gilles chuckled.
"I've just come home after a taxing performance. I'd appreciate it if you stopped teasing me!" I said through my teeth.
"Two months in London and he's become much—how you say—Posh! Zat's it. Soon he'll be demanding a subscription to Sky TV or ze like. Oh là là!"
My dad, I think, made this gasping sound a fish would make.
"He's already roped us into paying for it! He watches Spanish channels!" Dad exclaimed.
"Mon dieu, what have I done? Zis is already too late, your petit child is lost. My condescensions," Gilles apologised.
"Don't you mean, my condolences?" I shouted down the microphone on my phone.
"Hé hé hé," he let out, sounding as smug as I'd ever heard him. "Sorry, my English no bueno. Zut alors!"
"You've been in England for a decade! That's longer than I've been alive!" I said, frustrated.
"Some people live, some learn. I had no reason to learn zis barbaric language when I could learn art and live life," Gilles said, and I imagined him turning up his nose like he always did.
"I'm hanging up," I said simply.
"No, non. Zis is tres important, no more joking. Oui? Mon dieu, zese children, always too thin-skinned," he complained.
"You were the one joking around." I pointed out.
"Anyway," he said, still sounding smug, "I've seen an interesting program. Have you any idea what it was about?"
I was forced to think about what it could be. Then my mind stopped. How could I forget about this? I had done my very first interview with a new journalist called Darcy Booth. She'd been there for our rehearsals a couple of times and even received preview and press night tickets. The mini-documentary/advertisement should be released today after evening news. The clock on my wall said 10:53 PM, I'd missed it.
"Is it the documentary?" I asked, knowing it to be the case.
"Indeed. Do you know how much it hurt for me to find out about your play on the television? Where are your manners?" Gilles accused.
"Ohh—" I said. He was right, of course. I had completely forgotten about him.
That wasn't entirely true—I channelled his persona every single day and imagined him speaking to me whenever I failed a dance move or sang a flat note. But it was true that I hadn't spoken to the man or thought about him other than when I was putting the skills he taught me to good use.
"Hello? Cat got your tongue?" Gilles mocked me.
"No, but you sound so hurt by it. Perhaps I should never invite you to any of my shows. I'm very posh now, got better friends… Teachers too, you know," I said, going on the offensive.
That was the only way to win against him.
"Ah! Zere you are. Oui, ego will keep you strong and on top of ze industry. You are learning, magnifique!" Gilles said excitedly.
I knew he had given up his teasing now. His voice changed, marking the shift in conversation.
"I thought you may be—how you English say—ehh, half-arsing… Oui, so I, Gilles Alberr Lagarde, shall go and make sure you are not developing bad habits," Gilles explained.
"Oh…" I trailed off, then my eyes narrowed. "Are you asking me for a ticket without asking for it?"
"Oui! Zis is ze polite way of asking your friends and colleagues for a ticket. I, Gilles, have taught you a valuable lesson," he said proudly.
"Ughh—yes, I can get you a ticket." I agreed reluctantly,
"Tomorrow?" Gilles said.
"I'm off tomorrow and Monday's dark. Tuesday's the premiere," I said.
"Perfect! Get me a ticket. I'll see you tomorrow," Gilles said with finality.
"What?" I asked, but the call was cut.
"What just happened?" I asked the empty air in the darkness of my room.
No one answered my question.
—✦—
Sunday. Hanover Gardens
Nain's cooking woke me up—ham, eggs, toasted bread, salt, and pepper. A smile came to my face. Today was a special day: no more singing or dancing. All I needed to do was relax. Two days of rest before the big bad 'world premiere'. I didn't feel the need to do something or practice—my voice could use some rest and I could too. Performing nine shows so far had me tired. Adult actors had done sixteen in the same twelve-day period. They must be exhausted.
I skipped down the steps, making sure to use the wall and staircase to not plummet off it. Though the stairs were so skinny that I felt it to be an impossibility.
"Morning! Morning!" I sang, high and then low.
"That would be my unruly grandchild," Nain explained to our guest.
Suddenly feeling embarrassed, I considered going back to my room. But the promise of egg and bacon pushed my feet forward. Walking like a guilty child, I tiptoed into the kitchen, only to freeze in shock.
Our guest was enjoying a milk tea and my Nain's special double butter butty.
He turned towards me and gave a smile so white that he could play in a toothpaste commercial.
"Bonjour, Wilfred," Gilles said.
—✦—
Sunday, Ovalhouse
Gilles had come to my house as a surprise. Hammond had holiday courses that ran each month of summer. He had finished his summer dance course and was going back home to see his family in France. Coincidentally, he had seen the documentary on BBC One and decided to make a whole trip out of it to London, then take the Channel Tunnel back to Paris.
He kept joking about having made my parents pay for his trip to France and that he was here for private lessons. I couldn't tell if that was true or not. But he seemed serious about the lessons because we were at the Ovalhouse.
"Hi, Jan!" I said with a wave.
"Is that you, Wilf?" Jan, the elderly receptionist, asked while fixing her glasses to her face.
"Yes, how are you? Do you have room for dance rehearsal?"
Our conversation moved a mile a minute. I hardly spoke; Jan spoke enough for the both of us.
"Oh! Sorry, sir," Jan apologised once she noticed Gilles. "The rehearsal for Murray's play is over there." She pointed to the back.
"Sorry, he's with me," I explained.
Jan seemed shocked by that, so I explained. That took ages, but by the end, Jan was shaking her head at my eccentric teacher.
"Rehearsal room is in use, but it's only the Sunday crew. I can ask the director if they would mind you practising nearby."
"Thank you!" I said.
Did I feel guilty? Yes, but I doubted Jan would've asked that if it was impossible. The room could be partitioned off, after all.
After a good five-minute wait, she returned bearing news.
"Murray—the director—wants a fifty-pound discount. You can guess where that'll come from." Jan said,
"I'm good for it. Can you write it down so my Nain can come and pay it later?"
"Sure thing, sweet," Jan said.
"Fifty pounds don't even make you blink—zis is posh," Gilles stated.
I could only sigh. He was going to France. Out of the two of us, there was only one person who could be called posh. Gilles was dressed in a leather jacket (in summer!) and had a beanie that made him look a decade younger. Somehow, in the months I hadn't seen him, his moustache seemed to have become sharper, thinner and more elegant.
Walking the same halls again made me appreciate how far I'd come. That church in Croydon was only presentable due to dozens of layers of paint, whereas Ovalhouse was a decently sized theatre that I couldn't really complain about one way or the other. Yet, it didn't come close to the grandeur of the Lyceum or even the Apollo.
"I can see why she racially profiled me," Gilles chuckled.
We were inside the rehearsal room, and indeed, the Sunday crew had half a dozen colored actors. The only white person in the room before I walked in was a man in his fifties—top of his hair gone, yet he hadn't given up on it based on the horseshoe surrounding his skull.
"Scenework—we might have to be quiet," I noted.
"We will be as loud as we want to be; we have paid. How zey say? ze show must go on!" Gilles proclaimed.
For all his bluster, once we set up in the corner, Gilles remained quiet and gentlemanly. He was the posh one! After a warm up routine, he tried to run through my dances but stopped with an annoyed look.
"We need music—zis is killing me," Gilles said finally, rubbing at his face in frustration.
As if they had been listening to us, the other corner of the room started to play an orchestral piece. Eight count, not perfect but it would work.
Gilles' eyes lit up, knowing the song somehow.
"They're doing Peer Gynt—are they geniuses or just fools? I'd love to see which one zey are," Gilles wondered out loud.
"What is it?"
"A play zat always fails on stage. But foolish directors always think zey can make ze screenplay translate to ze stage. Some zings are better imagined in ze mind. Magic is lost when you translate it." Gilles doled out his wisdom.
"Art that can't be translated to another medium is not art at all," I argued.
"Say things like that more and I would lose respect for you. You're warned," Gilles said dramatically.
I showed him my dance number; he learned it after a single demonstration from me and played Matthew Muggs' role to perfection. I kind of wanted him to play Muggs in place of Bryan, but I somehow doubted Gilles could do an Irish accent.
"You are so stiff. I want you to move fluidly. Commit more, like zis!" He said as he demonstrated the dance, making odd noises as he appreciated his mirror reflection.
As usual, I was schooled—literally. Gilles was a decent singer, but he was an excellent dancer. His long limbs and lithe body moved like a snake—graceful and slithering, or sharp and energetic depending on whatever fit the music better. My simple eight-count dance routine was embellished and simplified. None of the original intention of the moves changed; it was just simply done more smoothly. Gilles' entire process worked on something he called body lines—each dance move was a line that we made with our body. He smoothed it out so I would only be in a sharp straight shape when the scene required for me to demonstrate such boldness. The concept was hard to explain but simple to see—Gilles' demonstrations showed how I was overshooting my moves at times. When I moved my feet forward, my shoulders followed instead of moving on the next count. These were natural movements but hard to get rid of, once fixed my dance number looked more slowed down because it was so on beat and smooth looking. Night and day difference.
I laughed maniacally once I got it down exactly as he taught.
"How did you do that?" I asked him.
"Experience, knowledge, and vast amounts of talent," Gilles boasted.
"Ughh, you always have to ruin it by saying things like that," I jeered.
"Excuse me?" someone called out from behind us.
"Oui?" Gilles said, turning around.
"I couldn't help but watch what you were doing with the boy. Are you a dance captain?" the woman asked. She looked about the same age as Gilles.
"Before, oui, I was. Now, I teach. By teaching, I also learn." Gilles nodded to himself as if he'd said something enlightening.
"Gilles Albert Lagarde. Miss?" He extended his hand, his eyes questioning and curious.
"Josette Bushell-Mingo. Mrs. Bushell-Mingo," she clarified.
"Ah, shame!" Gilles said with an easy smile.
"What are you doing?" I pointedly asked Gilles.
"Whatever do you mean, Wilfred?" Gilles posed innocently.
"You've just said Albert, with a T! You're also speaking weird, is it because she's a woman?" I pointed out.
"Sorry, I don't understand you," Gilles deadpanned.
I looked back and forth between the two but shook my head. Josette started her speech again.
"Are you interested in getting back into the theatre again? I am heading up this new play with an all-black cast. Not sure if it will end up being fully black, but that's the plan! You can also do this one if you like straight plays," Josette explained.
"I like ze drama, ze dancing. So, non, my dear, no straight plays. And certainly not ze Peer Gynt! Sacré bleu, I prefer ze excitement, some life in ze play!" Gilles answered.
"How about a musical then? It will be a Kiwi play—All Blacks!" Josette said with a giggle.
"Ah, sorry. I zon't want to go to New Zealand," Gilles shook his head, waving his hands in dismissal.
"I meant, like the rugby team. All Blacks, because we will have an all-black cast!" Josette spattered, trying to explain the joke.
Gilles only smirked. "Ah, it does feel good to tease a beautiful woman," he said with a side glance at me.
Too gentle of a slap was sent to Gilles; he accepted it with devilish smile.
I noted down the entire interaction so I could use it when I grew up.
"I'm serious," Josette insisted. "We need a dance captain who can put everyone through their courses. African dance isn't for everyone—even for black actors," Josette chuckled.
Gilles suddenly had a gleam in his eye.
"African dance?" Gilles blurted out.
"Yes. Are you interested?" Josette asked.
"Maybe. What is the musical called?" Gilles asked eagerly.
Josette smiled wide as if she knew she got him hook, line, and sinker. Seconds passed, and Josette only stared at Gilles with a widening smile. I saw his expression falter after a brief silence. He was unsettled—shaken for the first time I'd seen him. It was hard to reconcile that image with the flirtatious man from moments before.
Smiling innocently, Josette let out the answer.
"It's this little new show we're bringing over across the sea. The Lion King—have you heard of it?"
Gilles' mouth dropped wide open.
—✦—
Tuesday, July 14th, Labatt's Hammersmith Apollo
I had a lovely time hanging out with Gilles over the weekend. He was easy to deal with after a long conversation with Josette. No longer was he the well-disciplined taskmaster; he'd turned introspective and easily distracted. Yet for all of that, it didn't diminish the effectiveness of his lessons. After he fixed my moves in Dolittle in just a couple of hours, he continued by teaching me other dance moves. He kept on with ballet the most, always saying that it was the mother of all dance.
"Ballet is not the oldest dance," I had pointed out.
"It is not about being the oldest—it is about being a good teacher. Ballet teaches tempo, flexibility, discipline, and coordination," Gilles replied then, voice inflamed.
"Ballet is the teacher of all dance," Gilles quoted himself again.
"You fixed it after I pointed out your mistake," I had noted with a laugh.
"I don't know what you mean," Gilles played dumb.
Our world premiere was attended by 3,153 people—we had a full house. Documentary and news about the Royals had a visible result. When I first turned from my opening scene and onto the house, I actually froze. Our previews had the biggest attendance at somewhere between one thousand and two thousand. Today's sight was stifling and intimidating in ways that the smaller audience couldn't compare to.
When I went to the Lyceum, it had been a full house—but there, the audience somehow felt larger despite the absolute number being closer to Dolittle's preview figures. Hammersmith was enormous for a theatre, with a thousand more seats than the next largest venue. A half-empty house made it feel smaller, but today, every seat was taken. The audience was packed in like canned sardine.
Visibly, I stumbled through my cues, messed up my line, and corrected it in moments. Hopefully, people thought that was just me acting my part and not messing up. Focus! I brought out the imaginary drum machine and counted out the beats. My body knew what to do, I loved muscle memory!
—✦—
Gilbert toured the backstage with my Nain and Maddie. He had a charm that let him get away with more than anyone else I'd ever known. The backstage area was supposed to be off-limits to the audience, but he'd talked his way through with ease. I'd only ever seen him at the Hammond before last weekend, but now I was fully aware—he was a smooth talker and a ladies' man through and through.
"I'm Madelyn Shaw, but my friends call me Maddie!" Mad-Eye Maddie said with a giggle, her hands subconsciously playing with her hair.
If you saw my eyes then, I would be the one nicknamed Mad-Eye.
"Ah, Maddie. Pleased to meet you," Gilles said, reaching in for an easy hug.
I made a mock gagging noise. Maddie completely ignored me, going back to her conversation with Gilles as if nothing had happened.
"Who is zis? I must know!" Gilles exclaimed when we passed by Bernadene.
"Sorry?" Bernadene said, shaking herself awake.
She was present today for the premiere party; the one I wasn't welcome to. After which she was off the production unless she was needed to train up new actors. No more rehearsals after today, and she unfortunately had no roles in the play. I don't think she minded because she was getting an assistant director credit.
"You look familiar. Have we met before?" Gilles said with a genuinely confused expression.
"Have you been on a cruise?" Bernadene asked, her expression had softened at Giles' dumb look.
"Are you inviting me to one?" Gilles teased with an easy smile.
Maddie's eyes squinted dangerously.
I made a mock gagging noise again. Gilles ignored me, nothing was going my way today, and everything was going right for Gilles ever since last Sunday. Ignoring their flirtatious behaviour, I turned to my Nain.
"Can we go home?" I asked.
She too giggled. "Of course, bach. Of course."
"Bye," I said quietly in Gilles' direction.
I didn't want him to hear me and make me suffer through another one of his flirtatious conversations. He could party in my stead today—he surely deserved it for all he'd taught me.
As if excited to ruin my wish, he instantly turned toward me. All the devilish charm was gone from his face. He was serious.
"I will come by in the morning before I take the train to Paris. Drop you off the reviews," Gilles said.
"Sure." I nodded, then asked him the burning question plaguing my mind, "Did you like the musical?"
"Ah!" Gilles chuckled, then turned toward the two women hanging on to his every word.
"Ladies, let us go find this party before I speak about the play. Or we might find ourselves too saddened to party right!" Gilles said ominously.
The two women only giggled in reply, not even catching that he'd insulted the fruits of our labour. I think I gagged for real that time around.