The Night I Became a Lady by Mary Mae Lewis
It was a dark, late October night and it was still raining slightly. In the theatre car park, there were still deep puddles after a violent storm the night before.
After zig-zagging around the pools of water, I managed to squeeze my humble Renault Clio into a space between a Rolls and a Mercedes. “There must be some monied folk going to see the ballet tonight,” I commented to my friend Wendy, who responded with a non-committal “hmmmm…”.
I pulled down the sun visor and powered my nose in the mirror, before reapplying my lipstick. Satisfied, I slid out of the car and, and having an umbrella, raced to the main entrance. Wendy caught me up in the Foyer, out of breath, just as I was shaking the raindrops off my coat and hair. I pulled my shoulders back, poised for a grand entrance into reception.
“So kind of you to bring me tonight for my birthday,” Wendy whispered, then almost curtsied to me! I took her arm, regally, and steered her towards the double-doors of the inner sanctuary of the pleasure palace. Then I took the lead, wanting to arrive at the box office first, to collect the tickets. We had been friends for over fifty-five years, having met when we both passed the eleven plus and went on to grammar school. The memory of that first day, in a brand spanking new uniform, flashed through my mind. But then my attention was taken up by a mature gentleman, moving hastily towards us.
“So sorry, ladies,” he called out. “Tonight’s performance has been cancelled!” We looked at each other in disappointment. “The satellite was blown clean off the roof last night; the worst storm in the history of weather forecasting they say!” the gentleman explained.
“So much for global warming!” we said in unison.
I turned to the man. “Oh, what a pity. Romeo and Juliet is my favourite of all Shakespeare’s plays, and to see the Royal Ballet perform it, shown live from Covent Garden, would have been divine; what a great shame!” I was sincere. “I must say, though… The Nutcracker, last month, was stunning.”
The mere mention of the word ballet and I was in another world, the world inhabited by: Paris, Degas, Margot Fonteyn and Nureyev. I felt eighteen again and imagined myself as The Girl from Ipanema striding down the Copacabana Beach in Brazil.
“But, nevertheless, do come in,” the charming fellow indicated, and Wendy and I did not refuse. We walked over to the bar, intent on choosing a consolatory drink. “Your tipple will be on the house, announced our new friend to our delight. … what will it be?”
“A double gin and tonic, please?” I didn’t hesitate. “… pink gin, if that’s possible?” I asked, chancing my luck, as I sat down at a table for three, by the window.
“Most certainly… with ice?”
“Yes, please.”
Wendy ordered the same and the two drinks arrived in enormous, and very expensive, glasses.
I soaked up the dull atmosphere of the theatre’s empty bar, as I savoured the alcohol. “Not many turned up to the performance then?” I asked the kind man, who was still hovering around our table as we supped.
“Well… we did put out a message on the local radio station this morning to say that the performance was cancelled – you must have missed it.”
I looked at Wendy, but she was already staring at me accusingly. After all, it was my suggestion that we come to see the live relay. I had driven us there and had paid for the tickets, so I was presumably responsible for any last-minute changes too.
“Yes, we must have,” I said blithely. “Such is life! But look, let’s say cheers to another day…” and we chinked our glasses.
“Beautiful roses over there,” I said, as I stared admiring at the stems on display in a tall silver glass vase. “Desdemona, by any chance?” The fragrance of their delicate pink flowers was unmistakable.
“You know, I believe they are!” the gentleman seemed very impressed.
“Shakespearian, and just perfect for yet another of the Bard’s productions,” I stated.
The mysterious fellow nodded approval.
“I am so sorry you couldn’t see tonight’s ballet, but you will get a full refund immediately, or you can just book for another performance?” the man suggested with a flourish of his hands.
“We’ll book another performance - right now,” I didn’t miss a beat.
“You like the ballet then?” the man oozed class. I had already marked him as a sophisticate - and a handsome one too - probably from Mediterranean stock.
“I do love it so. It is invigorating and just the thing our city needs!” Oh my, I was talking too much; I felt the blush spread from my neck to my forehead and broke out into a sweat… had I drunk too much?
“It’s good to see such enthusiasm,” the gentleman said, laughing. “I am Bruce, by the way, forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. Bruce MacDonald, Chairman of the Board of Directors here.” Bruce was suitably dressed in smart black trousers, a starched white shirt and slate grey designer bow tie; his ensemble perfectly complemented his silver hair. “And you are?”
“Marjorie Brown, but not very posh I am afraid!”
Bruce roared with laughter.
“And this is my friend, Wendy Williams. We’re both from Tunstall, real Potteries girls; Clayheads as they say!” Wendy kicked me under the table! I could have slapped my own face… why did I keep telling everyone where I was from and running myself down? I hiccoughed. “Oh dear, it must be the drink,” I apologised. “Anyway… what I was trying to say was… it’s a very nice theatre, Mr MacDonald.”
“Thank you, but, err…. it’s Sir, actually, Sir Bruce.”
“My apologies, Sir…” I tried to make amends. Bruce smiled.
“We have been here a lot, Wendy and I. Especially since you opened again last year. I followed the renovation process closely you know. Three years in the making, wasn’t it? The Sentinel did a good job reporting on progress.”
Sir Bruce nodded.
“I presume that becoming director of the theatre was a new job for you?”
“Yes, I was brought out of retirement from academia, to do this.”
“And what a lovely job you have made of it all!” I really meant it.
“Well, ladies, I am at your service! When you have finished your drinks, I’ll take you on a tour of the place.” He clicked his heels and stood to attention as he finished speaking.
Wendy gulped down the last of her gin and I did the same.
“Shall we go now?” I suggested, as I gathered up my handbag and coat. “We don’t want to keep you hanging around all night.”
“Wonderful. This way ladies.”
Wendy and I followed the spellbinding man like teenage groupies at a pop concert.
“We can now accommodate six-hundred people in the audience and the stage area has been adapted to take a full orchestra.” Sir Bruce was in his element, describing the refurbishments in the auditorium.
“And new red velvet seats, too!” I breathed in the scent of the luxury fabric, savouring their lush pile with my hands. “It’s a pity we weren’t sitting on them tonight, though! Technology, eh?” I rolled my eyes.
“Yes, it’s sometimes unreliable. You never know when it will let you down, and we couldn’t get anyone out to reinstall the equipment today. I expect we are not the only folk needing telecommunication technicians right now. The storm even uprooted trees in Hanley Park, blew the Angel off the top of Burslem town Hall and whisked a woman under a bus in Longton.” We looked at him, suitably astonished.
Bruce then led us back to the reception and the longed-for box office. “Give the ladies each a programme for our forthcoming events, and two open tickets to come and see anything they want.”
“Wow! You are showing Phantom of the Opera next month, live from London…” I couldn’t contain my excitement. “We’ll come to that, won’t we, Wendy?” I didn’t need to hear her answer. “My all-time favourite! I saw it live there some years ago and I still have the DVD. I often sing the songs myself.” I sighed. My stomach dropped, my heart thumped, my head whirled, my skin tingled. I was Christine, Bruce was my Phantom, the dramatic pulsating lyrics pounded in my brain, the orchestra in full flow, the echoing, the cavernous stage set, that swinging chandelier, the wild extravagance … I was transfixed. For how long I don’t know, but I was away in that other, mesmerising world!
“‘You’re clearly a woman who has the most precious of all faculties – the power to feel intensely – the mark of a real lady!’ That’s what Arnold Bennett wrote about Hilda Lessways, in his book These Twain, part of the Cayhanger Triology.” explained Bruce.
I coloured up at the compliment and, after pinching myself, landed back on terra firma with an arm across my back, guiding me out of the building.
“It has been a joy to meet you, Lady Marjorie - and your friend…” Sir Bruce stressed the word ‘Lady.’ I took it as a huge compliment. He certainly made me feel like a Lady. “I sincerely hope that we will repeat that pleasure again soon.”
Sir Bruce bowed as Wendy and I walked down the steps towards my car. I even saw him waving as I drove away from the theatre, still beaming.
“Well, Wendy, what a birthday treat – spending the evening in the company of Sir Bruce - and we’re going to see Phantom soon – wait till we tell everyone… Wendy?”
But she’d already fallen asleep. The excitement had been too much for her - that, or the pink gin!
