The Red Slayer
9 - The Cinnamon Roll

Bradley can be as bitter as he likes, but it won’t stop me enjoying Hamlet as the run heads into January. We get a break at half-term, which I mostly spend sleeping or up on the rooftops with Dante. We return to Dominion the next Monday and told the run will extend two more weeks so Midlands schools can be bused in. The applause at the end of every show feeds my enthusiasm, never letting it slip.

Friday 16th March, our final performance, is a mixed bag of excitement to get my evenings back, but also wistfulness. Besides the toffee wrappers I have to clear from my cupboard, it’s my final death as Hamlet that hurts the most. Like so many actors before me, my Hamlet dies for the final time. After tonight, the rest is truly silence.

But one thing cheers me up. My birthday is this Sunday. Every year, Dad makes this day as special as possible for me. He makes a gigantic breakfast which we eat in the living room and watch a film I’ve never seen before. This year, it’s Belgian waffles and bacon with Robin Hood: Men in Tights. I have to time sipping my hot chocolate between gags or else I’ll choke.

Afterwards, we prepare the pool party. Mostly by locking off rooms and setting out food. I invite the same people from my last party, even Bradley, making this our end-of-run party as well as my birthday bash.

Luke and Elisa come over after breakfast, a usual trend. Luke gives me my present on the spot. It’s the original sketch of me recreated on an A3 canvas in acrylic paint. I swear you can see every shade of red in my hair. I’m almost crying by how great it is. Elisa’s gift is a pair of designer trainers. Red, black stripes, no laces. I can’t wait to break them in.

Olga arrives an hour early, both to change discreetly and to tell me at length why I must start reading the manga she’s bought me. Dante comes half-an-hour later with a pair of fingerless gloves for outdoor exercise.

Everyone arrives at around the same time. The girls head up to my room to get changed while the boys use a spare bedroom. The presents from my fellow cast members are the best, even the purple unicorn plush from Bradley, a beret to match my red suit from Robbie, a Día de Muertos skull from Lewis, and a t-shirt from Penny saying I’m Princess Hamlet Biyatch!

I may be biased, but the bracelet from Tara, made of sterling silver eyes with aquamarine pupils, is the best. Not only is it beautiful, it fits around my skinny-ass wrists. ‘I managed to dip into the trust fund for it,’ is all she says.

I save opening the presents from Dad and I have our space again. I promise they’re not a huge pile. Going to all this effort to organise the party is more than enough, but he insists on one or two extras. A fountain pen with ink and a navy-blue outdoor vest with tons of pockets.

‘I’ll pick you up from school tomorrow,’ he says, ‘And we’ll get you a provisional licence sorted. I’ll start teaching you as soon as it’s ready.’

I squeal with delight. ‘Omigod I can’t wait!’ Even though I know you have to be fifteen and nine months at the very earliest to get your provisional. It must be yet another thing MI5 will let slide in exchange for my silence. If this means I’ll be the first driver in our year, it’ll be worth it.

***

With no show to schedule my week, March passes in a blur. The first week of April marks the Year Tens going on their work experience. A majority of my year are going to their parents’ offices or a friend of a friend’s place. Very few followed our form tutors’ instructions to submit letters of enquiry. I managed to snag a sweet gig at London’s Theatre Royal, aka Drury Lane. They usually don’t let under-sixteens backstage for health and safety reasons, but since they have an upcoming show, they said I could stay in a studio with them. No heavy lifting or falling hazards, just assisting the cast and crew.

Tara meanwhile, managed to get accepted by the Florence Nightingale Museum. Since I won’t be using it any time soon, I lend her my red suit to make a good first impression.

I show up at the stage door that Monday, dressed down by my standards. Jeans and a jumper with my navy vest and lace-up boots. When was the last time I just had a ponytail and didn’t braid it? Don’t be fooled though, beneath my veneer of practicality, I’m a shy wreck. I can stand strangers if there’s at least one person I know, but a whole week with them makes my mouth dry up. I hope no one forces me to speak more than two sentences at once.

I’m shown to a rehearsal studio with white walls and a hard, grey floor. Chairs and tables are folded and stacked in a corner. The only surface is occupied by a laptop and piles of paper. A woman with cropped hair and a flannel shirt turns from the laptop to see me and comes over with a welcoming grin.

‘Ah, you must be Iorwen,’ she says. I’m surprised. She got my name right first time. ‘That’s a Welsh name, right? Mine too. Catrin Glynn, the director.’

I and shake her hand, noticing her Cardiff accent.

‘Thanks for helping out,’ Catrin continues. ’We’re only in the second week of our rehearsals, so it’s new to us too. It’s called Posh, ever heard of it?’

I shake my head.

‘It’s about a gang of Oxford boys up to no good. Sounds unappealing, but it’s very funny. I’ll print out a copy of the script for you.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, sounding calm enough.

‘I need you to make a note of the props, when they’ll be needed in a scene and which side of the stage they should be on, etcetera.’

Before then, she tasks me with setting out some chairs for the cast, as well as one long table to be the main set-piece of the play. I’m putting out the last ones when the first cast members come into the studio. Most of them are students or graduates with only two middle-aged men as a senior cast. They greet me as they pass by, talking among themselves about footie scores or who they hooked up with at the weekend.

Crew members arrive, carrying boxes of props which they leave by Catrin, who hands me a pad and pen to catalogue them. I go right ahead, listing fencing gear, a Georgian-style wig, stacks of fake money, plates, fake wine bottles, glasses…

The cast settle into their chairs, bearing fat scripts which they begin thumbing through. Catrin scans the room. ‘Everyone here?’

‘Kaarlo’s doing the coffee run,’ says a fair-haired Geordie on the chair next to mine.

‘We’ll give it five more minutes before we get started then.’

I think nothing of it and go back to listing props when the studio door opens with a slam, as if it was kicked open. A voice calls out, ‘Little help please!’

I look up, unprepared for the six-foot-tall embodiment of gorgeousness edging into the studio in black jeans, a leather jacket and a chocolate beanie. His arms are laden with coffee cups, balancing holders on his forearms and wrists. Everyone closest to the door go to take them from him. He sheds his jacket, revealing a white t-shirt. He reaches up and stretches, slowly, almost deliberately. His light-brown skin stretches over his muscles and I have to put a hand to my mouth to make sure I’m not drooling. And it doesn’t end there. He pulls off his beanie and ruffles out his voluminous mocha-brown hair.

His dark eyes scan the studio. I drop my gaze to the pad before he can spot me. But I can’t concentrate. I’ve looked upon the face of true beauty for too long. Carved by Apollo himself, launched a thousand ships, envied by Aphrodite. He’s more handsome than ten topless Chris Hemsworths. Hotter than a hundred Hugh Grants in his Richard Curtis years. Cuter than a thousand post-Hairspray Zac Efrons.

And yet, there’s a nagging thought in the back of my head that bothers me.

Oh yeah, I’m meant to be gay.

While I debate this with myself, I realise he’s standing a mere few feet from me, handing a coffee to the Geordie. ’They spelt my name wrong, again,’ he says, presenting the Carlos scrawled across his cup.

‘They put “who” on mine instead of “Hugh”.’

They laugh amongst themselves until Catrin calls over to them. ‘Kaarlo, can you take the fencing gear?’

I fish out the mask and sword from the box and hold them out to him.

‘Hi,’ he says. ‘You’re new.’

‘This is Iorwen,’ says Catrin. ‘She’s here for work experience.’

His shoulders sag. ‘I wish I knew you were coming. I’d have brought you a coffee too.’

Catrin laughs. ‘I think one more would have tipped the balance.’

‘Well, next time make the coffee run a two-person mission.’ He frowns, then looks at me a third time. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you.’

He goes to sit on the other side of Hugh. I stare like a numpty until Catrin remarks, ‘Cute, isn’t he?’

I nod and meekly sit down.

‘It’s his first West End show, acting alongside university.’

When the rehearsal begins in earnest, I start taking notes as instructed. It takes half-an-hour to get through the first scene to arrange blocking, pacing and delivery. The same happens in scene two. Actors occasionally shout, ‘Line?’ over at Catrin and the other crew members who read it out to them. Hugh loses his place once or twice and asks me where we are. The first time, I just point. The second, I say, ‘From the line about the potted plants.’

I try my best not to stare at Kaarlo when he’s speaking. Mostly because I have to concentrate on my notes. But also, every time I so much as glance at him, I get a growl in my stomach. It’s easy when he’s in character and the asshole he plays boasts about getting a little something from his fencing opponent’s girlfriend. Even the way he stands screams public school prig.

Come midday and Catrin declares lunch. The cast disperse, putting on their jackets to go out for lunch, or gather at the table in the centre to have their salad, sandwiches or leftovers. I pick up my backpack, thinking I can probably sit in the green room until Hugh the Geordie comes over.

’Come sit with us, he says, pulling up an empty chair.

‘Is that okay?’ I ask.

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I sit next to him and zip my bag open, pulling out a giant plastic container full to bursting with iced cinnamon rolls. I have no memory of putting this in my bag, but that would explain why it felt heavier than usual. The mystery is quickly solved when I find a note taped to the lid in Dad’s hand writing.

I hope 20 is enough 😉

Seriously? I roll my eyes. But at the same time realise his intentions. I hold the box in both hands, put on a smile and say, ‘Anyone want a cinnamon roll?’

‘Yes please!’ shouts Kaarlo from the other side of the studio, jacket half-on.

I leave the box on the table lest my shaky hands drop it. He takes the largest and takes a massive bite. ‘Damn, that’s good,’ he says with his mouth full. ‘Did you make them?’

I hesitate. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s the best pastry I’ve ever tasted.’

I let the words wash over me and I’m about to let them touch my heart when Hugh snarks, ‘You say that all the time.’

Kaarlo shrugs and threads his other arm through his jacket sleeve, holding the pastry in his mouth. Still, he has the awed look of everyone who tries Dad’s baking for the first time.

I feel that growl again, which refuses to leave even as I eat my lunch and two cinnamon rolls. It’s not until lunch ends and Kaarlo comes back that I realise the growling isn’t coming from my stomach.

But how? I’m gay and I have a girlfriend. What the hell is wrong with me?

© Alice of Sherwood, November 2019

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