Opposites by J.E. Mountney
Watching the BBC series based on Hollinghurst’s ‘The Line of Beauty’, they’d known at once that it was the ideal subject for their end of year production. All the third-year drama students loved it. Some liked the way a gay tragedy had gone mainstream almost in advance of Brokeback Mountain. Some liked the subtle but provocative exploration of English politics. Some liked the strong, quirky character studies. (Quite a lot just liked the actors).
So Carrie wrote a script that would work on the stage, and then had one of her
panics. It was left to Kate to contact the BBC and clear the performance with
them. It probably helped that the only people likely to see it were other students
(fairly 'arty' ones, at that), and that entrance was free. Carrie heaved a sigh
of relief. After all, they all hoped that some of the TV casting people would
come. That was the fundamental reason for the tradition in the first place.
Carrie said the devil had been in their own casting meeting because Toby was
played by Gerald and Gerald by Toby, which gave plenty of room for confusion,
especially on the part of the producer. Catherine was played by Kate and everyone
had a tendency to call her Kate on stage, which would not, Carrie kept pointing
out, do.
There were smothered giggles at the fact that arrow-straight Toby was being
played by a guy who went straight from rehearsals to Canal Street, and one or
two sniggers at Leo being played by Leighton, who said he would put aside his
Baptist principles for the sake of his art and that it was probably OK because
none of his family or friends would darken the doors of the theatre anyway,
and already thought he was damned, just for acting.
Sam just felt wildly fortunate to have landed the part of Nick. He'd never be
offstage but it was only a three-night run and he could collapse afterwards.
He felt doubly fortunate to be playing opposite Gil as Wani. The end of their
time at University was all too near. He had adored Gil since freshers' week,
three years ago. He still knew little or nothing about him but could at least
be quite close to his idol for the duration of the play. He felt uplifted.
Gil was an enigma. Tall, slim, dark, with the grace and beauty of his partly
Lebanese heritage, he fitted the description of the part-Lebanese Wani perfectly.
There was even the oddity of his name; nobody knew what Gil stood for - Giles,
Gilbert, or maybe something French? Even Arabic names held possibilities although
Gil's family was Lebanese Christian and his mother was as English as Carrie
or Kate. They knew that much. But the mystery of his name resonated with the
mystery of Wani's name, which only turned out to be a childhood effort at Antoine
quite late in the story.
Sam, looking in the mirror at his own pink cheeks and mouse-brown hair, the
epitome of Anglo-Saxon freshness and solidity, sighed. He admired Gil. He would
also like to be like Gil, exuding romance and ‘Middle Eastern promise’.
Or something.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the others come into the cloakroom that
served as a dressing room for male members of the cast. The constant unannounced
invasions by costume or make-up had led to an unspoken agreement not to use
the urinals. This meant the queue for the cubicles was as bad as the one the
girls always complained of, and also that he couldn't sneak a look at Gil. Nevertheless,
he got some pleasure from the crowded conditions.
Gerald raised perfectly groomed eyebrows.
“You're early, darling,” he said. Sam wasn't sure whether he was
practising for the West End, or alluding to having seen him in Canal Street
on Saturday night. He hoped Gil would think Gerald called everybody 'darling'.
He gave what he hoped was an inscrutable smile and backed away to let Leighton
use the mirror. He still felt uncomfortable about the sex scenes with Leighton
and wondered whether the audience would feel hostile vibes across the footlights.
Having been first to arrive, he was first to be ready and stood watching the
others change. While Ruth, a very earnest make-up artist, tried her best to
alter Gil's perfection for a perfection that would show up under spotlights,
Sam wondered again about Gil's sexuality; no-one he knew had ever seen him with
anyone. It was too much to hope... And yet all that wanton beauty was too good
to waste...
Gerald was ready now, and standing beside him, speaking in a whisper, a real
whisper, not a stage one.
“Saw our Mediterranean lovely in town on Sunday.” Sensing he had
Sam's attention he went on, “Wrapped round a bit of rough outside the
pub on the corner of The Street.” His whisper capitalised the location.
“Sharing a joint, too, by the look of them.” Sam swallowed. So his
fantasies had some basis? He could dream without feeling crazy?
Then he thought again. How much of Wani was there in Gil? The looks, the name,
the mannerisms that hardly demanded any acting on the young man's part - those
were a given. What about the rest? Was Gil as careless of his own safety as
Wani? 'Rough' and 'joint' hovered in the air and left with the actors for the
wings.
Sam, everything Nick was not, worked hard getting into the character of someone
who took risks, drugs and unprotected sex for granted. His love of the world
was as unconditional as Nick's, but he lived in a time when he could ensure,
by his own choices, that his love would live and grow old.
Gil would remain in his memory, intertwined with the course and the production.
Then he would fade. It was safer that way.