The first time Rhys mentioned the premiere reception, I was holding a sleeve against Ruth’s shoulder and trying not to put a pin into either of us.
“Two guests each,” he said from the doorway. “Names by five on the day. Passes collected from me, not invented by someone’s charming uncle.”
Ruth turned her head. I moved the pin out of danger.
“My uncle has never been charming.”
“Then he can buy a ticket like everyone else.”
There was laughter from the room. Rhys smiled, but only briefly.
“Green room after the show. Guests stay there unless you’re escorting them. Not the dressing rooms, not wardrobe, not wherever they think they recognize someone. We’re still working, even if they’re enjoying themselves.”
I finished the pin and let Ruth move. The words had settled somewhere beneath my ribs before I understood why.
Nick stood by the window, listening. He caught my eye and lifted a hand in a small greeting. I smiled back, but my mind had already moved to another room, another group of people arriving together because they thought their need to speak was more important than my ability to leave.
After the fitting, I found him in the empty auditorium. He was sitting halfway down with a script open on his knee, looking toward the stage. The work lights made everything visible that performance lighting usually softened: scuffed paint, cables, a wall that stopped abruptly where the audience would never see.
“Busy?”
“Trying to believe this is a drawing room.”
I sat beside him. “You have to help us a little.”
“I am. I’m ignoring the ladder.”
We looked at the stage together. It was a place we both helped make convincing, in different ways. I liked sharing that with him.
“Mum’s bought tickets,” I said.
Nick turned. “For the premiere?”
“Yes. Three. She told me this morning.”
He waited.
“Her, Sophie and Daniel.”
His mouth tightened. “Did she ask?”
“They’re public tickets. She doesn’t have to.”
“No.”
“I know I can’t tell people not to come to a play.”
“You could tell her you’d rather she didn’t.”
“I have. She thinks coming shows support.”
Nick looked toward the stage again. I could see the beginnings of a plan in his face, the careful arrangement of possible sentences. It had once seemed a reassuring expression. Today I didn’t want it.
“I don’t need you to talk to them.”
He looked back at me. “All right.”
“But I need to ask something.”
“Ask.”
I kept my hands flat on my knees. It felt unreasonable to be nervous about saying something so simple, but I was nervous.
“Don’t use your guest passes for them. Daniel, Sophie or Mum. If they come to the play, that’s their choice. I don’t want them backstage afterward, and I don’t want anyone arranging a private conversation for me.”
Nick nodded. “I won’t.”
I looked at him for another moment, making sure I had actually said the whole thing.
“Thank you.”
He closed the script. “Are you worried they’ll try?”
“I’m tired of finding out that everybody else has discussed what would be best for me.”
His expression changed. He reached for my hand, and I let him take it.
“No passes,” he said. “No arrangements.”
I exhaled. The auditorium seemed warmer after that, though nothing had changed except the answer.
We sat together until somebody called Nick from the stage. He stood, kissed the top of my head and went to argue with the ladder.
I returned to wardrobe and told Rhys that I wasn’t inviting family to the reception. I didn’t give him the whole story. He asked whether there was anyone in particular he should watch for, and I gave him the names.
“I’ll mark wardrobe as private for all three,” he said. “If somebody else invites them to the green room, they stay with that person. A pass doesn’t give them the run of the building, and it doesn’t give them a meeting with you.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded and went back to his call sheet. I was grateful for a rule that did not require him to decide whether my feelings were proportionate.
The rest of the day was consumed by small alterations. I did not mind. The production was beginning to fit together, and there was pleasure in seeing things I had imagined become useful in somebody else’s hands.
During a break, Gwen rang from Manchester.
“I’ve shown them your first sketches,” she said. “They’d like to speak to you.”
I sat down on a stool.
“Really?”
“No, I’m conducting an elaborate practical joke.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Thursday afternoon, if you can manage it. Video call. They want to hear how you’d approach the production, not watch you perform gratitude.”
I laughed because I had already begun preparing exactly that performance.
“Thursday,” I said. “Yes. I can do that.”
After we hung up, I opened the sketches on my laptop. They looked both better and worse than they had when I sent them. I could see the idea clearly; I could also see six places where I had become cautious.
Helen came in while I was looking.
“That’s not for me.”
“No.”
She leaned over the table. “Good.”
I looked up.
“The shape,” she said, tapping the edge of one drawing. “Don’t soften it because somebody might call it difficult.”
“You call things difficult.”
“Frequently. It doesn’t mean you should always listen.”
Then she asked about a hat, and the conversation returned to the work we were already doing. I kept her comment anyway.
That evening, Nick came to my flat with food from the little Thai place near his house. We ate from cartons because I had used the table for drawings and refused to move them.
“I have an interview,” I said between mouthfuls.
“For Manchester?”
I nodded.
His face lit. “That’s excellent.”
“It’s a conversation. Not an offer.”
“I know what an interview is.”
“I was reminding myself.”
He smiled and nudged his knee against mine.
I told him about the production, the ideas, the questions I wanted to ask. He listened, asked one useful thing about the venue, then began suggesting people I could contact about accommodation if the room they offered wasn’t suitable.
“Nick.”
He stopped.
“I haven’t even had the interview.”
“I was only thinking—”
“I know. But let me get there before you furnish it.”
For a second he looked stung. Then he set down his fork.
“Fair.”
I touched his knee. “I do like that you’re pleased.”
“I am.”
He picked up the carton again. “I’ll keep my property expertise to myself.”
“An immense loss.”
He smiled, and we went on eating.
Later, he helped me clear enough space on the table to put the laptop at a sensible height for the call. He asked before moving the sketches, which I noticed without needing to say anything about it. Then he stood behind me while I tested the camera and made such a grave face over my shoulder that I nearly spilled tea on the keyboard.
“You are not attending the interview,” I told him.
“They’d remember you.”
“For the wrong reasons.”
He bent to kiss the side of my neck. I forgot the camera for a moment, then saw both of us on the screen: me laughing, him close behind me, the room full of unfinished work.
I closed the laptop.
“That’s enough rehearsal,” I said.
His hand settled at my waist. “An instruction I can follow.”
I turned toward him and let the rest of the evening remain unplanned.