It's Not In The Script by Jan Matby

Chapter 1: “He’s Behind You!”

The Green Dragon door creaked as Ellie pushed it open and peered into the snug. Almost deserted; only a few Early Bird diners finishing coffee by the open fire, bickering over the latest “Strictly Come Dancing” voting scandal. Thank heavens. She sidled in, hoping not to be noticed. For someone dressed in tartan breeches, with a shock of unruly red hair tied up with a purple sock, this was a doomed ambition.

She slunk towards the bar, hitched herself onto a high stool and let her duffle bag drop into her lap. This was supposed to be her moment of triumph. The first step on the road to stardom. As if. More like a grade one, unmitigated disaster. All the effort she had put into the script had been a monumental waste of time.

She fumbled in her fleece pocket for her purse as Tom emerged from serving in the public bar.

“Evenin’ love,” he said, “you’re early. What can I get you?”

“Oh, a shotgun, ten thousand aspirin; maybe an open window fifty floors up…”

“That bad?”

“Worse.” She stood up and dug in her trouser pockets for cash. “Sorry, Tom, you can’t rely on The Playthings to boost your profits this year. Forget Cinderella; those auditions were enough of a pantomime to last me a lifetime.”

Tom hid a smile as he took an open bottle of house white from the fridge. He held it up and raised his eyebrows, quizzically.

“Oh, yes, please,” she said, emptying her duffle bag onto the bar, rummaging for the elusive purse.

Tom poured the icy Pinot Grigio into the biggest wine glass he could find. “On the house, love.”

Ellie wrinkled her nose, blew him a kiss and stuffed her crumpled Cinderella script back into her bag. She felt a teeny pang of guilt. Her interminable scrabblings for her purse weren’t a deliberate ploy to avoid paying for her drinks; she just never remembered where she’d put the wretched thing. She really must get properly organised or she’d never manage to stage this show. She smiled as Tom handed her the brimming glass. She took a gulp and winced as the acidic liquid hit her empty stomach. Tom disappeared into the public bar and Ellie, one hand propping up her chin and the other picking the layers of a soggy beer mat, closed her eyes and thought of what might have been…

The thick maroon curtains hiccupped shut and struggled open again as the cast assembled for yet another bow. Cheers whoops and whistles rang around the rafters of the village hall until Barry, splendid in false bosom and drag, stepped forward in size 12 high heels and held up his hands for quiet.

“Heartfelt thanks, ladies and gentlemen. The past few months have been fantastic for all of us, and we’ve had a ball tonight. Every single Plaything is crucial to the success of any production, but we couldn’t have done it without our wonderful, talented, darling producer-director, Miss Eleanor Roberts.”

His words were lost as the audience got to its feet, stamped and cheered.

Barry beckoned to her and her legs buckled as she climbed the steps onto the stage and into the spotlight, whilst the little orchestra struck up a chorus of “Isn’t She

Lovely?” Through a film of tears she saw young Geraldine struggle from the wings with an enormous bouquet. As she stooped to kiss her and take the flowers, Geraldine said into her ear,

“There’s a man waiting for you in the dressing room. He says he’s from the West Yorkshire Playhouse…”

Tom finished serving in the public bar and interrupted Ellie’s flight of fancy.

“Earth to Planet El, come in please…”

Ellie smiled ruefully, mentally waving goodbye to beckoning stardom.

“I desperately need some men.” she said, pushing her empty glass towards Tom who obediently refilled it.

“Men?”

“Yes. I haven’t even got enough ladies, and of course they all want to play Cinders. Imagine Marian or Alice singing “Some Day My Prince Will Come”! I’ve no men at all, except Geoff and Phil, but they just want to do lighting and scenery.”

“Well if it’s men you want, there’s plenty through in the bar. But what about Barry? Wasn’t he there?

“Nope, no sign. I was relying on him. He’s a luvvie magnet. If Barry’s in it, everyone wants to be. He was always in Alan’s shows.”

“Where was he?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen him for days.”

”Well did he say he’d be there?”

“I haven’t spoken to him about it. I thought he’d have seen the notices and just come along.”

”Ellie, love, that wasn’t very tactful. You should have asked him specially. You know what he’s like. Very sensitive.”

”Yeah, with an ego the size of Mars. God knows why. He was just a bit-part actor in a scummy soap even in his heyday, and that must be around a hundred years ago.” She took another gulp of wine.

“Ellie...”

“He’s brilliant at comic parts. I wanted him to be an ugly sister, but I didn’t think I’d have to go grovelling to him. I thought he’d jump at the chance to strut about in front of his adoring public. But maybe he thinks that because this is my first show it’s beneath him.”

”Ellie…”

But she was in full flight. “If anyone in this village, even Barry, thinks I’m going to go down on bended knee and beg them to be in my pantomime, they’re bloody well mistaken. There’s tons of people who’d love to be in it so I’m not pandering to anyone’s monster ego. Sorry, Tom, I can’t talk any more just now; I’m going to do a Barry and sulk in the corner for a bit.”

She slid off the bar stool and turned away, colliding with the customer waiting patiently behind her and drenching him in Pinot Grigio.

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry…” she started, then looking up, “Oh shit! Hello, Barry!”

***

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