Opening Night - a beginning and an ending.

Diary of a first time playwright Part 5.

I decide to wear a shocking pink dress to the press night in Bath. There is no point in trying to fade into the background as I have asked everyone I know as well as some random strangers I meet in a Bath indoor plant shop. The house is packed, my father, my brother and his wife, two of my sisters and their partners, my husband, my daughters , my daughter’s friends. I even have cousins in the balcony.

We meet in the bar of the Francis Hotel before curtain up, and I inhale a dry martini. I could happily drink five more. The preview nights were painful enough but this really is the moment of judgement.

As the lights go down I vow not to play the odds by laughing hysterically at my own jokes. One of the actors has taken me aside and told that they have to build up trust with the audience. ‘ If you laugh all the time, they get distracted and start thinking it’s that weird woman again.” There could be no clearer warning, but it is hard to sit in the dark silently without giving an encouraging titter or two. Fortunately my brother is sitting behind me and I can hear him chortling at all the right moments. Relief washes over me, if Jason is laughing then I feel all will be well even if I am silent.

The night before had been a bit patchy, but tonight all the cast are magnificent. They not only remember all their lines, but they deliver them with new nuance and flourish. Caroline Quentin does something in her big speech I have never seen her do before and it brings tears to my eyes. I am struck again by how precious the living fabric of performance is. No two audiences will ever see the same show. At a time of infinitely reproducible digital media, this makes the theatre in all its forms more valuable than ever. Growing up I was a movie nut, I would search out obscure black and white films in repertory cinemas ( I was once thrown out of the Mayfair cinema for laughing too loudly in Broadway Melody, a Busby Berkely classic – plus ca change). But now that pretty much every film can be downloaded onto a laptop, it’s the theatre that feels special.

In the interval I notice that my cheeks are exactly the same shade of pink as my dress. Shocking. I am sad that Jasper Conran the creator of the dress is not here to see how well I am matching his work.

Earlier in the day I was stopped by an autograph hunter at the Stage Door. Yes even first time playwrights get asked for their signatures, the real devotees like to have a complete set. This chap was from Canada, and this was the 350 th British production he had seen. “ It’s my only hobby,” he said. I signed his programme on the condition that he would give Anne Reid a standing ovation.

The Canadian was true to his word. As soon as the lights went up on the curtain call, he was up on his feet in the front row, cheering wildly. This gave me and all my friends the opportunity to follow suit. I know that Anne probably can’t see the audience, but I am sure she is feeling the love. As she says, “ the best way to grow old is in showbusiness.” I am twenty seven years younger than her, but I have to say that I haven’t felt so close to my teenage self as I have in the last few weeks. It’s that combination of concentration, excitement, terror and extreme self- consciousness. Harrowing but also thrilling.

At the after party I try to make a speech. It’s more than a little incoherent and I forget to thank the brilliant producer or my fabulous agent, and the two people I do thank Dominic the dishevelled director and my long suffering husband manage to miss it, but I cry at the end when I start talking about the two nonagenarians in my life – my father and Anne Reid, so I am forgiven. My dad is beaming with pride. “ You always give people exactly what they want.” I don’t remind him about the moment when he nodded off in Act One. I have learnt in the last week that having a quick nap in the theatre doesn’t mean that you aren’t paying attention.

Everyone is very kind about the play. My cousin from Bristol who confesses that he doesn’t much like the theatre or the Queen and only came to keep his wife company, is touchingly enthusiastic, “ I actually really enjoyed it.” The actors are surrounded by admirers. Anne Reid is literally holding court.

The next day I am hung over but still feeling the bubbles of last night’s elation. I end up with two of my friends in the Bath Hat Shop. I tell the owner that as a milliner it is her duty to see my play. She takes this well, “ Saturday is my birthday and I don’t have tickets to Robbie Williams, so I might well go the matinee.” Perhaps I don’t have to hand sell every ticket. One of my friends buys seven hats and a pink fascinator which she gives to me as a memento of my achievement. I am very touched.

On the drive home I feel my mood dip. I stop hearing the applause, and instead I fret about the verbal infelicities in my writing. The repetitions and non sequiturs that I should picked up weeks ago – the jokes that don’t land, the sentiments that I should have expressed more precisely. My inner critic who has been so far stifled by sentiment and champagne is back. If I had any self compassion I would be congratulating myself for having made it to the stage at all, but of course all I can think about is how much better I could have made it. I know this but still I flagellate myself with all my shortcomings. I try articulate this to Dominic – who shrugs, “ it’s not for the hipsters,” he says, “ it’s popular entertainment,” and then seeing my face, “ like Shakespeare.”

But self laceration ends when I walk through the door and see that Peanut my senior dog, a fifteen year old Border terrier is on her last legs. Her kidneys are failing and the vet thinks that it is a matter of days. She thumps her tail when I come in and puts up her head for me to stroke. Peanut has been my writing companion , lying at my feet while I type, occasionally trying to nudge my hands away from the laptop with her nose to remind me to feed her or go for a walk. She is the mistress of the reproachful stare which challenges me to write anything more important than playing with her. I have been gallivanting with the theatre folk instead of tending to my dying dog. Is that showbusiness or selfishness? Hard to know.

By Royal Appointment continues its tour around the country till Aug 9^th.