First Night

Text 1: The Cue, by Naomi Vale

An original novel extract.

Behind the curtain, the theatre was all elbows and whispers. Dressers hurried past with pins between their lips. A man in a powdered wig searched the floor for his spectacles. Somewhere above, a rope creaked, and a painted moon rose slowly into the darkness.

Mara stood in the wings wearing a dress made for someone taller. Its collar pressed against her throat. She had rehearsed the part in empty rooms, speaking to rows of folded chairs, but she had never expected the illness, the hurried knock on her door, the words: you are going on tonight. Through a gap in the curtain, she could see hundreds of faces turned towards the stage. They seemed to form one pale, watchful face.

The stage manager raised three fingers.

On stage, the leading actor began the speech before Mara’s entrance. His voice travelled calmly towards her while her own lines scattered. She caught one, lost it, caught another. Two fingers. The orchestra softened. One finger. Mara tried to swallow, but her throat had forgotten how.

Her cue came: a burst of laughter from the audience. It rolled through the floorboards and struck the soles of her shoes. The stage manager touched her shoulder and whispered, ‘Go.’

For a moment, Mara remained behind the curtain’s black edge. Then it lifted from her face. The stage opened before her, enormous and brilliantly lit, and her first line was nowhere to be found.