The Red Slayer
8 - Davis the Diva

After each show since our secret discussion in the library, Tara has come to my dressing room for a two-minute snog. I’m changing out of my costume into some casual clothes when I hear the knock I’m expecting.

‘Come in,’ I say and reach for a cherry chap-stick on my dressing table. It’s for Tara’s benefit. I can’t think of a tactful way to point out her dry lips.

I turn around, expecting to embrace my girlfriend and possibly convince her not to lock the door this time. So, imagine my surprise when, instead of brunette, blue-eyed Tara, I find blonde, grey-eyed Bradley standing there. For a moment, I think he has the wrong room, but he doesn’t leave with a quick apology.

‘Hi, Iorwen,’ he says.

My jaw clenches. ‘Hi. What’s up?’

‘Um…’ He ruffles his hair, tugs on his t-shirt, clamps and puckers his lips. If I wasn’t in a good mood from the interview news earlier, I’d sigh and tell him to get on with it.

‘…Do you want to go out sometime?’

‘Eh?’ I stare at him, bewildered. Did he really think I was flirting with him at lunch?’

I press my lips together and lick the sweet cherry off. I can’t tell Bradley I’m taken and I can’t tell him I’m gay. True or not, they’re the oldest tools in the book for rejecting boys. I don’t want to hurt his feelings either. What to do?

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, forcing softness to sound genuine, ‘But my dad won’t let me.’

Bradley’s shoulders droop, though not as dramatically as I expected. ‘Really?’

I nod. ‘You know how dads are. He says I can have male friends, but no boyfriends before sixteen.’

He shrugs. ‘That sucks. But does that mean I can ask you out then?’

I say nothing. If he believes that, fine. Tara lets herself in at that moment and raises her eyebrows at Bradley’s broad grin. ’What are you doing in here?’

‘Don’t mind me,’ he says. He opens the door and looks back at me. ‘I don’t mind waiting. Your dad will like me for that.’

I smack my forehead as Tara locks the door after him. ‘What was that about?’

I expect her to laugh when I tell her Bradley fancies me. Instead, her mouth is as straight as a ruler. ‘I’m not surprised by the way you were being all cosy on him earlier.’

‘I didn’t ask him to kiss me, you know?’

‘I know. You’d be more likely to cheat with Vicki than Bradley.’

The very idea. I make a performance of choking and retching until Tara bursts out laughing and takes my hand. ‘Hey, who can blame him for fancying you? He’s not the only one.’

***

Dad isn’t at the stage door. Instead, I find Elisa stood there with Luke at her side, eyes fixed on his phone. She hands me a lunchbox stuffed with avocado toast.

‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask.

‘He’s had a problem at work and asked me to take you to your therapist.’ She leads the way down the street, her trench coat swooshing after her. It’s part of her casual academic ensemble. Jeans, boots, waistcoats and blouses with long coats. She teaches economics and sociology at the University of Westminster.

Luke and I follow. ‘How come you’re here too?’ I ask him.

Elisa looks over her shoulder and answers for him. ‘He got in trouble with his Art teacher. I was summoned in.’ She sounds neither amused nor disappointed.

‘What happened this time?’ I ask.

Luke shoves his phone into his blazer pocket. ’Our coursework has us do a portfolio about one of our favourite artists. According to them, Hayao Miyazaki isn’t a real artist.’

‘What? That’s ridiculous.’

’That’s what I said, but according to them, even concept art of Spirited Away counts as anime. They’d be happier if I do Van Gogh or Picasso like everyone else.’

I wrap a consoling arm around his shoulders until we reach Elisa’s car on the next corner. Little by little the frustration leaves him. By the time we reach Dr. Clarke’s office on the edge of Hampstead Heath, he’s in a much better mood.

In the waiting room, I leaf through Luke’s sketchbook. A pastime I’ve frequented since we were eight-year-olds sat in front of the TV with felt-tips and poster paints. He does fanart, original work, sometimes I’m in there since my hair is fun to paint (his words, not mine). The penultimate drawing is me going full Hamlet with Yorick’s skull. The final one makes me jump. I’ve seen that contorted, fanged face before.

‘You drew a Feral?’ I whisper, slamming the sketchbook shut.

‘Yes and no,’ he replies just as softly. ‘I just used the face. I thought it was interesting.’

‘What if someone sees it?’

’They won’t. I haven’t forgotten the promise we made

The receptionist calls my name at that moment. I hand the sketchbook back to Luke with a meaningful stare and leave.

***

Dr. Clarke’s office is far from the classic lying on the couch while a stern-faced doctor in an expensive suit coldly writes notes. Because she specialises in child psychology, she makes her patients more comfortable by providing beanbag chairs and records a transcript to look more engaged. Even though she wears a fancy trouser suit and wears Gucci glasses, she sits on a beanbag too like she’s your friend.

‘How are you, Iorwen?’ she asks.

‘Pretty good.’

‘Is your show doing well?’

‘Absolutely.’ And I tell her about the broadcast and interview.

‘That’s great. I’ll be sure to watch it.’

I smile and my back settles into a comfortable slouch.

‘And how’s school going?’

I stop smiling. ‘Maths is awful as usual. And Mr. Whitman is a freaking sociopath. Vicki got me in trouble with him today.’

‘Who’s Vicki?’

‘A girl in my year. She specialises in dance and calls me show-off.’

I spend ten minutes laying into school. ‘Why is it that in every school I’ve been to, there’s always one teacher and pupil that hate me for no reason?’

‘Hate sounds a little strong,’ says Dr. Clarke.

‘I don’t know how else to see it. Olivier’s and Kensal Green High weren’t too bad. But the school I went to while at the Hughses was packed with shouty teachers. I used to find places to hide at playtime, but I always had footballs kicked at me. Michael would yell at me for being scruffy. No one ever asked if I was okay.’

‘You cannot blame yourself,’ says Dr. Clarke. ‘You did nothing wrong.’

‘I know,’ I say and start fidgeting with my hands.

She notices and goes to a drawer in her desk. ‘Here,’ she says, and gently tosses a foam Pokéball in my direction. ‘It’ll help you get your feelings out, and stop biting your nails.’

‘I don’t bite my nails.’

‘It’s never too late to develop bad habits.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, squeezing the ball. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. ‘Sometimes I can block it out. I tried to forget it all when I started living with Dad again…’

But I didn’t know how I scarred I was. The first night at home, I choked on my dinner because I ate too quickly, afraid it was going to be taken away. Or when I spilled my drink and cried for twenty minutes.

‘…No wonder I’m such a good Hamlet. We’re both complete wrecks of human beings.’

‘That isn’t true,’ says Dr. Clarke. ‘You made great strides. Occasionally, yes, things will crop up and remind you of the past. Everyone gets that. The trick is to keep moving forward. Take stock of the positives in your life.’

I feel a smile coming on. I squeeze the stress ball again. The colossal amount of tension and anxiety that’s been brewing inside me since Michael’s release and vampires showed up in my life is depleting. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘Of course. If you’re nervous on Saturday, it’ll come in handy.’

***

‘How was it?’ asks Luke on the way home.

‘You can’t ask that, it’s confidential,’ says Elisa from the front seat.

‘It was fine,’ I say and show him the stress Pokéball.

‘Cool,’ he says and takes out his sketchbook. ‘I drew this while I was waiting.’ It’s an early sketch of me with my hair taking up most of the page. I’m above a forest, smiling back at me with a thumb’s up.

’That’s from Nausicaä, isn’t it?’ I say.

‘For your birthday,’ he whispers, ‘But you didn’t hear that.’

I laugh. It feels great. I’m always emotionally exhausted after therapy, like I’ve come off a treadmill in a stuffy room without cooldown. An extensive Phantom song binge usually brings me back up.

Dad has dinner ready when we get home. Goat’s cheese carbonara made totally from scratch. I dig in the moment he hands me a helping.

‘Sorry if it’s awful,’ says Dad, giving a plateful to Luke. ‘I made it at the last minute.’

‘It’s amazing,’ I gasp. The avocado toast went right through me and the potato stopped working about the time I stabbed Polonius.

Dad smiles and hands the next helping to Elisa. ‘Thanks for picking up Iorwen, by the way.’

‘It was no trouble, Jason. I know how important Iorwen’s therapy is.’

‘How come you couldn’t pick me up yourself?’ I ask.

‘Some idiot deleted the code I spent the last two weeks writing,’ he says. ‘I had to go through the middle of London, in rush hour traffic, to give them the backup because I didn’t trust sending it again.’

Luke and I glance at each other. Last time I checked Imperial College was not the middle of London. He could only have been in heavy traffic if he was handing that backup directly to MI5. I looked them up. They have a headquarters near London Bridge. Regardless, neither of us say anything.

Dad quickly changes the subject. ‘I got a call about your interview on Saturday, Iorwen.’

My shoulders droop. ’Oh! I wanted to tell you.’

‘Sorry. They needed my consent for you to go on the air.’

‘Just think, Iorwen,’ says Elisa, ‘You’ve become a sensation. I wonder if they’ll extend the run again.’

‘It won’t go longer than March,’ I reply. ‘It can’t. The Year Tens are going on work experience at the beginning of April. I’ll be at Drury Lane.’

’Mine’s not ‘til June,’ says Luke. ‘I’m going to a game developer’s office.’

Luke and Elisa go home after dinner. They’d stay longer but discussions must be had about Luke’s behaviour in Art.

Dad starts to clear the plates once they’ve gone and asks, ‘Any homework tonight?’

‘Just some R.E. stuff,’ I say. ’Not due ‘til Friday.’

‘Then why don’t we watch a film? You can choose, I’ll make popcorn.’

I agree, if only to be treated to his popcorn. He uses olive oil with a pinch of sugar, much better than anything done in the microwave. Thanks to Luke, I choose Nausicaä. Ariel comes and spreads herself across the both of us, her head in my lap.

‘At the risk of sounding like an old tosser,’ says Dad ten minutes in, ‘They don’t make them like this anymore.’

I agree. The flying scenes feel more realistic than most fantasy films today. Perhaps I’ll call Dante later and ask him to meet me on top of Canary Wharf at 5AM.

We pause halfway through so Dad can make more popcorn. I follow him into the kitchen to feed Ariel and grab a Diet Coke. The second I close the fridge door, Dad says, ‘I also got a call about your Maths teacher today.’

I stop short of opening the can and hang my head. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ He turns his head to me. ‘Don’t be. Whitman’s been a prat since university.’

I run my fingers through my hair, gathering it into tight fists. ‘He pointed out how much I suck compared to you.’ I sigh.

Dad’s jaw drops. ‘In front of the class?’

I nod.

Dad gives the pan a shake and hisses, ‘Bastard. How?’

I take a notepad and pen we use for shopping lists and recreate the problem I was made to solve. Dad looks over it and works out the bonuses for the characters in half the time I did. But when he comes to the same obstacle as me, he shakes his head.

’Yeah, I’d need a calculator for that.’

My jaw drops. ‘But you could solve quadratic equations at thirteen.’

‘No, I couldn’t,’ he says, with a laugh, decanting the popcorn into a bowl. Quadratic equations used to be my worst nightmare. Even now, I let the computer solve them for me.’ He pats me on the back and starts heading the living room.

I can’t leave it there. I have to know. ‘Aren’t you disappointed because I’m not smart like you are?’

Dad turns with a look of disbelief. ‘Iorwen, you’re playing Hamlet in the West End. How would that disappoint me?’

‘But,’ I murmur, ‘I’m not smart like you. I never will be. Maths makes me feel ill.’ I raise my hands and look down at myself. ‘I couldn’t be any less like you. Look how tiny I am.’

Dad puts down the popcorn bowl and pulls me into a hug. He’s trying to be serious, but laughter escapes him bit by bit until he manages to form words. ’Iorwen, you’re the best thing about my life. You don’t have to be like me. Besides, you are smart. Remember how you fought off that vampire and found the lab?’

I raise my eyebrows. We haven’t mentioned of those things since that day.

‘You observed your surroundings. You used what you could to your advantage. That’s Sherlock Holmes level deduction.’

‘Really?’

Dad nods. ‘You learn by doing which. Schools rarely teach that. They want you to shut up and swallow facts and regurgitate them in your exams.’

I cringe. ‘Uh…I appreciate the thought behind your words.’

He laughs and we head back to the sofa. ‘Point still stands. Don’t sell yourself short—no pun intended.’

I scoff and nudge his shoulder playfully. ‘Dad!’

He laughs harder. ’Yeah, you’re right. As a father, all puns are intended.’

***

Tuesday and Wednesday pass without me noticing. Thursday and Friday are twice as long. The cast buzzes with excitement about Saturday’s interview while my stomach switches between knots to butterflies, knowing we have cameras on us. I decide to keep the stress Pokéball on me at all times except when I’m onstage. Not that Hamlet wouldn’t have benefitted from a stress ball, but it would stand out among our Tudor costumes.

I go out on Saturday morning to spoil myself. First going to a nail salon to have a set of silver gels done. It feels wonderful to be treated like a grownup as the stylist puts them on, though I can’t shake that this would have been something Mum and I would have done together if she was still around.

By the time I’m at Oxford Street to find my outfit, I imagine she’s there with me, making a huge fuss about her daughter’s first big interview, sampling makeup on me and deciding a colour scheme. She’s with me when I go into the shop of my choosing, egging me on to choose a claret trouser suit displayed in the window, as well as the black shirt and grey waistcoat to go with it. But the shoes are entirely my idea. Red sparkly heels that make me look wonderfully tall.

My ensemble turns everyone’s heads when Dad and I enter the BBC green room. My fellow cast members are sat on one sofa with a few other parents talking amongst themselves. We’ll watch the play broadcast in here, then go straight to the interview. I sit myself between Tara and Penny. The latter’s wearing a red 1950s dress which makes her boobs pop, while the former, in her yellow floral shirt, dark blue jeggings and Ugg-boots, looks at my suit with a flash of envy in her eyes.

‘You look great,’ she murmurs.

‘You should have come shopping with me. We could’ve got manicures together.’

She shrugs. ‘I couldn’t afford it. Mum won’t give me any after she found out about my trust fund.’

I hesitate to speak, until I realise that Tara’s mother is the only one not here. Lewis, dressed in a brown suit with a yellow bow-tie, leans across the other boys and explains he and his mum gave Tara a lift.

Still, it isn’t fair that Tara will be the odd one out among us. I take off my waistcoat and hand it to her. ‘Put this on.’

She gazes at it. Her eyes glisten with tears. ‘I can’t. It—It’s too nice.’

‘We can do something,’ says Penny. ‘I brought my makeup bag.’

Lewis, Robbie and Bradley move to another sofa while Penny and I spend the broadcast giving Tara a makeover. I initially have my hair up, but I take out my pins and grips and use them to make her straight brown hair look livelier. Penny applies smokie eyeliner and glistening highlighter until she looks like a model. I rarely take my eyes off Tara’s hair to see myself onscreen. My ego swells to know thousands are watching me. Are other Hamlets watching? Is there a club for people who played him? If not, I’ll make one.

The six of us are chaperoned to the studio twenty minutes before the play ends. By then, Tara is unrecognisable. She should style her hair more often.

We’re sat along a red sofa with the host sat opposite us. I think she must have been on Blue Peter. Her hair is straight and her outfit trendy but non-threatening. She introduces herself to us before the producer counts down to going live. I take out the stress Pokéball and start squeezing. Tara notices and holds my spare hand.

The presenter turns to the camera and starts speaking. We’re live.

’Welcome. I’m Stella Westerfield. What started as an experiment to get teenagers interested in Shakespeare has erupted into a sensation. Schools are coming from all over London to see it and even a few from outside. I’m joined by the main cast of Hamlet at Dominion Theatre now. Guys, hello.’

I put on my widest grin and say ‘hi’, along with everyone else.

Stella looks at the clipboard of questions in her lap. ‘Tell me, how did this all start?’

Lewis jovially explains the school’s deal with Dominion and how it decided on Hamlet. After which Robbie recalls our auditions.

‘And before this, what was your opinion on Shakespeare? Did you think he was boring? Have you done any of his plays before this production?’

′I played Edward V in Richard III when I was twelve,’ says Bradley sharply, fluffing his suit jacket as if he won an Oscar for it.

Penny brings attention to herself by tossing her hair and leaning forward as if she’s sharing a secret with Stella. ’I’ve watched Baz Luhrman’s Romeo + Juliet so much, I can recite the whole thing.’

Stella laughs before Tara adds, ‘I’m the same, but with the sixties version. I wore out the DVD from watching it too much.’

‘Oh dear,’ says Stella, then turns to me. ‘What about you, Iorwen?’

I squeeze my Pokéball three times and cross my legs. ‘I love the comedies. Centuries later, we’re still laughing at the donkey head or the twins being confused for one another. It’s great that, out of all the parts I could have played for my first Shakespeare production, it’s as Hamlet.’

‘Did you watch any other Hamlets for research?’

Tara puts her arm around me. ’Iorwen watched all of them.’ And counts on her fingers, ‘Branagh, Olivier, Tennant, even that time Prince Charles did the “To be or not to be”.’

I laugh. ‘That’s not entirely true. There’s a black and white Russian version I couldn’t find, and I pretty much skimmed Mel Gibson’s.’

‘Yeah, but you really threw yourself into the role. Reciting the lines every day, even during P.E. And that dedication shows. When she tosses me to the floor, that’s totally real.’

‘You should have seen her during the audition,’ says Robbie.

I’m blushing too hard to recall it myself. Instead, everyone except Bradley take turns talking about how I threw myself into the audition. Stella laughs after every sentence, giving me a sympathetic smile. I hope I’m wearing enough foundation, but my cheeks must be scarlet.

‘I guess you wanted the role very badly,’ she says.

’That’s not the reason why I did it. I knew whoever played Hamlet would make or break the show. We wouldn’t be here if Hamlet wasn’t miscast. It had to be the right person.’

The others gasp, most of them jokingly, but Bradley rolls his eyes.

From then on, the interview is far easier to bear. The more we be ourselves, occasionally jumping over each other to answer Stella’s questions, the less it feels like we’re being watched by the nation. Bradley speaks very little, only answering questions directed at him. The rest of us by comparison go into detail about what it’s like to die onstage, the baked goods Lewis brings in every Friday and what we plan to do after the run.

Stella smiles throughout. To her, this is most entertaining interview she’s ever given. ‘So, what would you say to other companies trying to get your generation interested in the arts, including Shakespeare?’

‘Let us be involved,’ says Lewis. ‘Let us do plays like this and don’t talk down to us.’

Penny nods. ′Our generation always gets made fun of for being obsessed with social media or offended about everything. We can like the classics too. But, like every generation, we bring in our own things and take the old with a pinch of salt.’

I applaud her. She must have been rehearsing that all week.

Spurred on, Tara adds, ‘I hate it when people think translating Shakespeare to plain English will appeal to kids, like we’re all idiots.’

I nod. ‘They try so hard to be relevant, they forget to be entertaining.’

‘Those are some great points,’ says Stella. And turns to face me. ‘Now, finally, Iorwen?’

‘Yes.’

’A female Hamlet.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you feel your performance gaining critical praise will help break down gender barriers in the future?’

I grin. ‘Just watch, I’ll be tearing down more than societal expectations in the future.’

Stella grins back. ‘Iorwen Davis, thank you. And a big “thank you” to everyone else. You have been great and I wish you all the best for future projects.’ She turns to the camera. ‘We’re going to look at how the audience liked the show. Afterwards, we’ll be talking with the director and producers who made the show possible.’

The cameras stop rolling. That’s it? That’s all we had to do?

We stand up to leave and Stella shakes our hands before we’re led out of the studio. Once we’re in the corridor, I pull Tara into a hug.

‘You were great,’ she says, kissing my cheek.

Penny, Lewis and Robbie invite themselves into the hug while Bradley slinks past.

‘What’s up?’ I say.

He frowns at me. ‘Vicki’s right. You really are a show-off.’

© Alice of Sherwood, September 2019

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