Page 3 of The Dramatic Life of Jonah Penrose
Perhaps he was still drunk from the ceremony on Sunday, and his eyes were playing tricks on him. He spent most of Monday fumbling around his house in tears made worse by the tequila still lingering in his bloodstream, then ate an entire loaf of bread after Edward made a swift visit and collected the small amount of stuff he’d left there. His key still sat on the kitchen table. Jonah didn’t want to touch it; if he did then it would make the breakup real. For as long as the key sat undisturbed by the fruit bowl, he could pretend Edward just forgot it. He’d return and slip it back into his pocket, then they’d find their way to bed and Jonah wouldn’t haveto wake alone. Several hours were consumed on Monday with cycles of vomiting and self-depreciation until he forced himself to his evening yoga class, looking just short of death as he shuffled into the studio. He then returned home and cried over the phone to Sherrie while he consumed a bunch of bananas.
Yet there Dexter’s name sat now, perfect pixels on a screen, a ghost of Achilles past come to haunt him. Was Dexter going to come in and steal the show?
Jonah tried to think of the departing cast members and the roles they were leaving to be picked up by others. Priam, no, way too old for Dexter. Odysseus, maybe, but the role seemed too small, no major solos, not something the great Dexter Ellis would deem worthy of his time. Which left Hector. But why would he want to play Hector after playing Achilles? Oh God, what if he was coming in to be Jonah’s alternate? The comparisons between them would not be able to be ignored. Jonah would never be able to take a holiday again or be ill and risk Dexter going on his place, he would have to be onstage forever until the day he died, he would—
Fuck. The final stage call sounded from the speakers in the dressing room and a hurried knock reverberated from Jonah’s door throughout the room. He turned to see Evie, the stage manager, standing there, headset on, clipboard in hand, face the color of beetroot. She took her role seriously, overseeing every aspect of the production with a permanent flush to the face and endless sighs that echoed throughout the dressing rooms. Jonah sometimes wondered why she didn’t delegate more, but the woman seemed intent on giving herself a stress-induced heart attack.
“Jonah fucking Penrose what are you still doing in here?” she seethed, dark brown eyes burrowing into Jonah’s core. “Are you a diva now that you’ve won an Olivier? Lounging in your dressing room full of flowers?” Despite the apparent anger in her words and tone Jonah could sense a warmth there too.
“Just one sec.” He smiled at her as Evie rolled her eyes and stormed away.
Jonah placed his phone back onto the table in front of his illuminated mirror. He studied his reflection; his body glistened beneath deep-bluecotton and soft folds of material the color of seaweed. His skin, pale as always, contrasted with his brown curls, and he thought of Dexter Ellis standing in front of a mirror preparing himself to take down the city of Troy. He’d done it first, after all. He’d recorded the mixtape and he’d sung Achilles’s sweeping melodies to audiences long before Jonah ever did. Dexter introduced the world of theatre to the tragic hero and his heartbreaking romance with Patroclus. Jonah may have won the award, but Dexter paved the way for him, and now he was returning to the show, a return which would no doubt shine even more scrutiny on Jonah and the role he still believed was never meant for him. No. Dexter wouldn’t be coming to be an understudy; he was too big for that, his name far too important. He was going to take the stage and Jonah would have to stand idly by and watch him stealThe Wooden Horseright from under his feet.
An electricity ran through the audience. They held their gaze on the company, on Jonah, and every move he made. He could feel the tears they struggled to hold back as he held Bastien, his Patroclus, in his arms, his death the most pivotal moment in the production, and they suspended their breaths as he sang to him of his regrets. The phrase “you could hear a pin drop” never seemed more fitting. As the stage revolved and the middle ring lowered, slowly taking both him and Bastien down below it, away from the sight of the audience, he sucked in a breath and tried to hold back his own tears. Bastien looked at him, moving again now he no longer needed to be seen as dead, and frowned, but no words could be spoken, not when the epic story above them continued to unfold.
He moved then, from the lowered platform to the steps leading back up to the stage where his next entrance awaited him. Bastien watched him move, then reached out his hand to touch his shoulder, a simple show of support despite not having the words to convey anything further. Sometimes Jonah wished he could love Bastien the same way Achilles loved Patroclus; they played out their love night after night, the end always the same, always horribly tragic for them both, but their bond lived on long after their deaths. Bastien sang like a nightingale; he spoke with a lyrical flair and always brushed his teeth before a show, something hisfirst cover, Lucian, never did. Offstage, Bastien always brightened a room, he illuminated it with his smile alone, and more than once Jonah hung onto his every word like a puppy dog, only to snap himself out of it to remind himself Bastien had a rather lovely boyfriend who he’d been with for six years. Which is why, when Jonah met Edward, he hoped he might find the love he felt he needed in him. Maybe he, too, could have what Bastien had.
He didn’t want to admit to himself the ache in his chest came not from Edward leaving, but more the reason behind it.For someone else.He thought of the comment section beneath his headshot announcing his casting as Achilles and recalled the words written there:
Who is he?
He’s fucking ugly, he can’t be Achilles.
Why isn’t Dexter Ellis playing Achilles?
He looks like a twat.
Bet he can’t sing.
The social media manager turned off the comments. They tried to protect him from the keyboard warriors and members of the Dexter Ellis fan club, and when previews started, he showed them he was worthy of the role. But now, even with the Olivier Award with his name on it and the six other awards spread across the company, the familiar stirrings of inadequacy reared their ugly head again.
He’d been chosen to play Achilles. The casting team picked him out of God only knew how many other actors and handed him the leading role on a silver platter. No one mentioned Dexter or the stunning reviews he received before the show found its way to the West End. But Edward offered himself to Jonah, too, or, more accurately, Jonah laid himself outbare to him, told him about his life back home and the anxiety that liked to knock at his door in the middle of the night. Edward didn’t run back then, he wrapped Jonah in his arms and kissed him and made him believe they could be something. A quiet and safe corner in the loud and intrusive city of London. But now he’d thrown Jonah out into the cold without giving him so much as an inkling their relationship was crumbling. So why wouldn’t Colbie do the same? She ruled the production with an iron fist, her words cutting with a stone-turning stare. If she believed Jonah was being upstaged, she would pull Achilles out from under him once his contract ended and lock the theatre door.
As the cast took their final bows, Omari to his left, Bastien to his right, Jonah looked out to the audience and forced himself to smile. A standing ovation, something they received often, cheered in front of him, and for a moment he allowed the applause to take over his senses; it numbed the anxiety and all thoughts of Edward and Dexter. As they left the stage, the roar of the audience continued, an overwhelming show of support for them all, and Bastien took Jonah’s hand into his as they walked to their dressing rooms.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, always the empath, always sensing the slightest change in Jonah’s demeanor, the complete opposite to Omari, who would notice his mood then talk about skin peels.
“They released the new cast names by email earlier,” Jonah said, as they stopped in front of their dressing room doors. He saw Bastien’s expression fall, the usual dimples in his cheeks fading to leave behind an expression not usually worn by the man.
“Oh shit, really? Anyone we know?”
“A few I recognize. Dexter Ellis’s name sticks out the most, though.”
Bastien’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of the name. “What? Really? He didn’t mention it when I bumped into him at the Olivier Awards.”
“He was at the Oliviers?”
Bastien shrugged slightly. “Yeah, came over and introduced himself to me. Didn’t mention he’d been working on the production again. Did the email say the roles?”
“Are you talking about the email from Colbie?” Omari asked, seemingly appearing out of nowhere to insert himself into the conversation.
“Yeah,” Bastien said, smiling at Omari, who looked as fresh as someone who’d just come from a spa day despite performing onstage for two and a half hours.
“We’re getting Dexter Ellis!” Omari grinned. “I can’t wait to see that man stretching before me in warm-ups.”
Jonah couldn’t help the scowl pulling at the edge of his lips. “We don’t need to know about your stretching desires, Omari.”
“Hey,” the taller man said seriously. “I’m dance captain, I take stretchingveryseriously.” He emphasized his words by reaching his hands up above his head, exposing his biceps from his costume almost intimidatingly. “I will see you babes later,” he said as he dropped his arms and yawned. “Need to get myself changed and home for my beauty sleep.” He kissed them both on the cheeks then left them in the corridor after disappearing into the dressing room he shared with other members of the ensemble.
