The Stage Door – Part 2: Curtain Up

The call came at six in the evening.

"Imogen. You're on."

She stared at the stage manager. The leading lady's voice had gone. The understudy had four hours to prepare. In the dressing room, her hands trembled as she buttoned the costume. Through the intercom, she heard the audience filing in.

A knock at the door. Theo stood in the corridor, holding a mug.

"Tea," he said. "With honey. For the throat."

"I can't."

"You can." He pressed it into her hands. "You know every line. You've known them for three weeks. I held the script, remember?"

She took a breath. "You'll be here?"

"I'll be here. Stage door. I don't move."

The performance was electric. She walked on in a pool of light and the whole theatre held its breath. Every line was clean. Every cue came on time. At the curtain call, the audience rose, roaring, and flowers rained onto the stage. She stood in the glare, panting, tears running down her cheeks.

Afterwards, in the cooling corridor, she stumbled toward the stage door. He was sitting on his stool in the empty office, with a thermos and two mugs. A single lamp was lit.

"You were brilliant," he said.

"I was terrified."

"I know. I could tell from the way you walked on."

She laughed shakily. "I did it."

"You did."

"Can I ask you something?" said Imogen.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Theo, very softly. "And if you say stop, you must give me your autograph."

"That isn't a punishment."

"It's the only one I could think of."

She kissed him, sweet and breathless, a bunch of flowers crushed between them, her hand against his cardigan. He kissed her back with tender, awed reverence, tasting of honey and tea. The lamp glowed. Out in the street, a bus rumbled by.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Imogen. "Very green."

On the wall of the stage door office now hangs a signed poster: For Theo, who held the script. With love, Imogen.

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