The Stage Door – Part 1: Understudy

"Name?" said the man at the stage door.

"Imogen Pryce. I'm the new understudy."

He looked up from his crossword. He was thirty-four, in a cardigan and a name-badge that said THEO, with tousled brown hair, round glasses and the expression of a man who had seen every possible kind of arrival. A kettle whistled on a ring behind him.

"You're early," he said.

"It's seven a.m."

"The rest of the cast arrive at six in the evening. This is the sacred hour." He nodded at a cracked mug. "Tea?"

She sat on a battered stool in the tiny office, surrounded by pigeonholes, framed posters and a thousand yellowing photographs of actors. She was thirty, nervous, her heart pounding, her script clutched like a shield. The leading lady, she'd been told, was prone to laryngitis.

"I've never done this before," she said.

"Understudying?"

"Any of it. The West End."

"Ah." Theo poured tea with a flourish. "Well. There are three rules. One: be kind to the stage door. Two: never mention the Scottish play. Three: the ghost in the dress circle is friendly."

"There's a ghost?"

"There's a rumour."

She laughed. The nerves unclenched. He told her stories: the star who'd locked herself in her dressing room for two days; the actor who had arrived in his pyjamas; the director who'd fallen in the orchestra pit. By nine, she knew where to find the best coffee, the quietest corner and the loo that didn't flush.

"You're very kind," she said.

"I'm very bored," said Theo. "But also kind."

For three weeks she arrived at seven, sat in the stage door office, and ran her lines while he held the script. He corrected her cues. She corrected his crossword.

"Can I ask you something?" said Imogen.

"Yes."

"What would you do if I went on tonight?"

"Hold your hand," said Theo. "Metaphorically. And cross my fingers."

"Green?" she said.

"Green," said Theo, grinning. "Very green. Break a leg."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Curtain Up.