Stage Door

I like to watch from the wings as you settle into the stalls, your faces upturned and expectant, your hands fiddling with your programmes and your numbered seats. There are no opera glasses for you, not here, not this close. I can see your ties, scarves, bracelets - trinkets of the real world - until the house lights dim and the leaping of the trumpets begin, and those trinkets disappear into the gentle darkness.

I’m not on stage until scene two, but I’m dressed, waiting for the knock on my dressing room door. I put my mask on – carefully, so that the edges of the sequins don’t scratch, and the plumage doesn’t bend. I hear the knock and the manager calls. Standing up, I glance in the mirror to check Elena’s there, I hesitate, then walk towards the door. This is my last night, not the show’s last night, just mine; I’m no longer needed, they explained, I’m no longer young enough, I heard. Tomorrow night the flamboyant dresses will be worn by someone else, I haven’t bothered to find out who. The dresses I can deal with, but the masks? I’ve grown attached to those, they are part of me, my barrier to keep the world away. Who am I without them?

 The metallic aroma of the hot footlights draws me to the wings again. I glimpse you through the legs of the dancers and between the shuttered shadow of the lights. Your faces are transfixed, still as mannequins, caught by the drama.

 I hear my cue, it’s hard to miss - the roll of the timpani, the growing mass of strings and the call of the solo trumpet. I imagine Theo as he’s playing, down in the humid orchestra pit, smelling of warm brass and valve oil.

I burst onto the stage, into the centre, throwing my arms high and wide, embracing you all. You sit alert, then you clap; you’ve come for Elena and in the thunderous noise, the whirl of the dancers, the bounding of the orchestra – I give myself to you. Elena De Beaux.

The show charges on. I’m not always on stage, and when I’m not, I wait in the wings or run quietly to my dressing room for costume changes where I flitter with agitation while the stage crew help me change. You’re my addiction, you lure me back, I hate to be away.

The Royal Circle, with its gilt and velvet, hides its audience from me. I’ve tried to feel them before, but they’ve given nothing back. Since it’s my last night I try again, but they stay at an arrogant distance. Occasionally, I see manicured hands holding opera glasses, but I still can’t feel them, they are cool and secretive. The Grand Circle rises above them, and, higher still, the balcony - where the audience are heat and noise, but little else.

But you, you are different. Down in the stalls I can touch your emotions, row behind row. I sense you from behind my mask – a Venetian flourish for Act Two – and I’m strong. You’re with me, your eyes are pools of longing, your hearts beat with mine.

The night is crashing towards its triumph with cymbals, sequins and plumes. The Finale explodes around you, I’m up, up in a fountain of feathers and you shout and thunder your feet and call ‘Elena! Elena!’ I curtsy to you, my chest heaving and sweat slicking my skin.

And then you stand, a few of you at first, but you rise together at last and burst with adoration. Behind my mask I’m burning with pride. I love you all.

The curtain falls after three raucous encores. The house lights come up and I hear you retreat in a drift of chatter. You’ll leave behind your plastic wine glasses, kicked about on the floor, and your ice cream tubs with the little wooden spoons. And me. You’ll leave me behind too.

There’s champagne in my dressing room, and red roses. People come and hug and go again. I’ve spent years with them, but I don’t know them well and won’t see them again. Theo doesn’t come, musicians keep to themselves as far as I can tell. I tidy my costumes, hang them in order on the rail, and gather up my makeup. My masks lie blindly on the dressing table, all five of them glittering back at me, abandoned friends in a row. I whisper goodbye. As I close the door, I notice my name plate’s been taken down.

The red carpet leads me away, past the framed photographs - gravestones of previous stars, smiling their last smiles, captured in black and white and dated below. I’m already there, nailed and hung.

I slip out of the stage door. The alley is soundless. There’s no one here to relax me with shallow chatter. I’m not even here. How can I be? I left Elena in my dressing room, and I don’t know who I am. I’m scared, confused even. Standing still, just for a while, I breathe hard through my aching throat. All my adult life has been with Elena.

My naked face feels the brisk touch of winter and I snuggle into my scarf, moving into the alley. I walk faster, following the darkness that scampers away ahead of me. Turning the corner, away from the theatre, I’m pulled towards the lights of the bars.

The air of London murmurs gently, brushing my skin and inviting me towards her. She smells of rain and wine and fortune cookies. She has rhythm in her toes, and she picks me up, taking me with her, past the lilting music in the street and the laughter of the crowds. She shows me the river stretching away, the glistening statues and the bridges built from dreams.

I’m in Trafalgar Square, watching pigeons and people. I’ve never seen them before, I’ve looked of course, but I’ve looked beyond them, never towards them. They ignore me and briefly I wonder what would happen if I leapt across the square with my arms flung wide, just as Elena would. That makes me laugh because they’d still ignore me, I’m nothing to them and I can do as I like. I raise my chin to the sky, squinting just enough to turn the streetlights into spotlights and the stars into threads of sequins. There’s even the music, dotted here and there, spilling from restaurants and subways. I smile to myself. You can believe anything you want to.

A familiar sound makes me stop; I can’t place it at first. It’s music, but different from the rest. It floats crisply down to me, singling me out, calling my name. I spin around, searching the Square. The trumpet plays on and I’m willing it not to stop, but where is it? Looking up, I scan the crowds. I smile again, but bright this time, for everyone to see. He’s on top of the great flight of steps, leaning gracefully against a marble column, drawing me towards him. Theo.

I walk towards him, my face upturned and hopeful. He stops playing and waves.