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Jem agreed he could, and learned how, and had his reward in the gasps of horror from the audience every night, their scene eliciting almost as much tension as Iachimo’s prowl around the sleeping Imogen.
That, for Jem, was the play’s finest moment. Iachimo had himself smuggled into Imogen’s bedchamber, creeping up to the helpless woman as she slept. Nicky moved in a soft-footed prowl, circling Prue on the bed, eyes intent. The menace was sexual and palpable; Jem watched in rehearsals, feeling slightly nauseated and at the same time lost in admiration.Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.
It was, Jem thought, the best part in the play, and it was notable that Iachimo, alone of the characters, was never ludicrous. Nicky would not have consented to play Cloten; he did not ever choose to make a fool of himself.
Aaron, who only agreed to take part under intense pressure, proved to be without question the worst actor Jem had ever seen. His deep, resonant voice went hopelessly flat when tasked with reciting other men’s words. Toby insisted on his participation, saying it wouldn’t be the same without him, and he was given the part of Jupiter, who had twenty-one lines. Ella coached him over and over, the two of them pacing up and down the gardens outside Summoner Quad as Jem sat on Nicky’s window ledge and watched.
‘It won’t matter,’ Nicky said. ‘He’ll look divine, in every sense, in a white toga with a gold wreath. Give him some firecrackers to throw and nobody will listen to a word he says.’
He was right. Ella made up some remarkable firecrackers that went off with coloured smoke, and encouraged the stagehands to wobble their thundersheets with volume, and even Aaron admitted that the experience might be worth the cold night sweats.
They were all good. They were marvellous. Lewis and his cronies sarcastically dubbed them the ‘Seven Wonders of StAnselm’s’ when the college boat coxed by Jem swept all before it at the Eights Week regatta. The nickname was meant to be insulting in its extravagant flattery; Toby shouted with laughter and repeated it everywhere. Why not? Theywerewonders, and the first night was triumphant. Toby brought out champagne afterwards, as students and dons crowded around to offer congratulations.Awfully good. Rook really is alarming. Wonderful fighting. The Imogen girl was superb. Is that your sister, Feynsham?
Jem loved it, every second. It was a hot, clear June, the skies endlessly blue; he’d taken his boat to Head of the River, a sporting success that would be written forever in the college’s history; his friends were together, and around him everything was perfect.
Until the last night.
The problem was, Iachimo disappeared from the play between the second and the fifth acts. That left Nicky with nothing to do for a long time, and Jem’s mother always said that idle hands were the devil’s workshop.
He was already sozzled when they started, that last evening. Jem could see it: the sheen in his eyes, the slightly distant expression. He held his drink as well as anyone Jem knew, and he knew a lot of heavy drinkers, but Nicky had nevertheless been quite obviously bending the elbow.
He caught Nicky’s arm when he came offstage after the second act. ‘Good work, but for heaven’s sake lay off the sheep dip, will you?’
‘The hell’s it to you?’ Nicky enquired with cold, careful precision, and a little too loudly.
‘Ssh. You’re sodden. Go have some water and splash your face.’
Nicky grabbed his chin, forcing it up. ‘Oh, my dear provincial Jeremy, always responsible. You’ll never shed that tight little Presbyterian shell around your soul, will you? Have some fun, for once.’
His eyes were too bright, his fingers too tight, hot on Jem’s skin. ‘We can have fun after the performance,’ Jem said, placatory. ‘Wouldn’t that be better?’
Nicky’s lips curved nastily. ‘Oh, darling. I thought you’d never ask.’
There were people around them. He had to get back on stage. ‘Stop it,’ Jem said urgently.
‘I thought you said fun.’ Nicky’s voice was slurred. ‘Any time, Jeremy. Ready when you are.’
Jem jerked his face away, hating the ugly flash in Nicky’s eyes, telling himself,He’s drunk, only drunk. ‘Just sober up a little, will you?’
By the interval, Nicky was nowhere to be found. Jem went to Aaron, as the sensible one. ‘Have you seen Nicky?’
‘I saw him on stage. He’s drunk.’
‘He’s drunker than that,’ Jem said. ‘Extremely drunk. I don’t think he knew what he was saying to me.’
Aaron screwed his face up, a gesture that in another man would have translated to a lungful of profanity. ‘Curse the fellow. No, I haven’t seen him. Toby’s not around either. Maybe he’s talking some sense into Nicky.’
‘You think so?’
‘Anything’s possible,’ Aaron said without much conviction.
Toby reappeared just before the play was to restart, looking rather flushed and exuberant—tiddly, Jem diagnosed, but not juiced. He brushed off Jem’s efforts to ask about Nicky, hurrying on stage, and, by the time he came off, Jem had to be on the other side of the wings to go on. He told himself the director would handle it.And anyway, of course Nicky won’t make a fool of himself. He never does.
He did.
Act Five included the swordfight between Posthumus and Iachimo. It was a highlight of the performance, drawing shrieks of applause as Nicky and Hugo battled it out across the stage. It wasn’t proper fencing, of course; it was all wild sweeps and dramatic clashes, with Nicky at one point hanging off the tree in the corner off the quad as Hugo slashed at him from below. Pure play-fighting, Hugo called it, with a disapproving shake of the head undermined by his obvious glee. It looked marvellous and had won them cheers every night.
Nicky managed to get on stage, but that was it. Hugo did his best, but there was no way to hold a dramatic fight against a man so drunk he dropped his sword three times. Hugo managed a few half-hearted exchanges in which he was mostly using his blade to keep Nicky’s up, put his sword to Nicky’s throat with a convincing look of murderous rage, and left the stage, grimacing at Jem, who watched with horror from the wings.
