Page 8 of The Dramatic Life of Jonah Penrose
Jonah shifted himself from the mirror, allowing Bastien to take a seat so Sherrie could fix his hair and help apply the minimal makeup he needed. He clutched the blue material of his costume in his hands and frowned; hedidn’t feel prepared for new photographs. The old ones were beautiful; they captured gut-wrenching moments in the show, and despite Bastien’s apparently enormous jowls, they looked dazzling. In those images, Jonah could believe he truly was Achilles, his body on loan to the Greek legend while he took over and performed each night. Edward gushed over those pictures. He asked Jonah to sign his program in bed the night he brought it home to show him, then they had sex and basked in each other until the early hours of the morning. On the other end of the scale, his dad called him after he mailed the program to him, his mind still lucid only a year ago, and expressed an unrestrained pride as he swallowed down tears of happiness.
Who would see the evolution of Achilles now? Edward was nothing but a ghost who lived in his kitchen drawer. His father didn’t know who Jonah was, let alone Achilles, and his mum, well, she had bigger things on her plate than new production images to think about. He knew how selfish he seemed; the situation with his parents should bear no reflection on his self-esteem, but his father’s approval, his pride and words of encouragement, meant everything. He wished he could go back and relive the moments they shared, the times when it was just the two of them walking along the beach near the house. Or the afternoons lounging in the garden while his mum peeled carrots in her garden chair while listening to music from her earphones on the Walkman she refused to upgrade.
“You’re special, Jonah, and I’m not just saying that because you’re my son. Though, I’m damn proud to be your dad.”
“You going to get changed, Jonah, babe?” Sherrie asked around a hairpin she’d wedged between her lips.
“Yeah, sorry, my mind ran away with me.” He pulled off his T-shirt and replaced it with Achilles’s first costume. Blue. Like the sea. “Is my hair okay?”
Sherrie sprayed an obscene amount of fixing spray over Bastien’s head before narrowing her eyes at Jonah. “For the first time ever, yes.” She plucked the pin from her mouth and smiled. “You’re pale as fuck, though, babe, let’s give you a bit of color, yeah? You’re not meant to look dead until the end of the show.” She whipped a makeup brush from the bum bag strapped around her waist, then got to work on his face. “I met Dexterearlier,” she said, her face so close to Jonah’s he could practically count her eyelashes. “Absolutely fabulous arse on him.”
Photo shoots for programs were a strange affair. They varied from production to production, but Colbie liked to select a few scenes or songs and have her cast perform them while being photographed by Bennie-with-the-bad-lens. It created a gorgeous illusion of the show, everyone in full costume, acting out the scene as if in front of a full audience. There were occasions, for other shows, where photography happened during a performance, but Jonah preferred this approach; it took away some of the anxiety and allowed the photographer to get in among the cast and gather the best images possible.
The stage had been set for the closing number of the first act: “In the Light of the Morning,” a gorgeous piece weaving the melodies of previous songs to reach a stunning climax to entice the audience into the second half. Jonah adored performing it, the staging and ensemble around him creating a work of sheer perfection. It ended with a passionate kiss between Achilles and Patroclus as Hector wrapped his arms around his wife, Andromache, both couples drenched in white light. The song resembled the calm before the storm, the characters in civilian clothing, no armor to be seen. A stark contrast to the bloodbath of act two.
Jonah made his way to the stage, Bastien by his side, Omari nowhere to be seen, and he readied himself to be blinded by the dazzling beauty of Dexter once again. He didn’t look the same as the night before. His hair, slicked back away from his face, seemed darker, and his eyes lacked the spirit of autumn they held in the yoga studio. Dressed as Hector, in deep shades of red and orange, he appeared to be an entirely different person, as if the Trojan prince took to the stage instead of him.
Before Bennie called them into positions, Jonah made the rounds and introduced himself to the new cast members, all of them charming, all of them beaming in their costumes for the first time. They spoke with enthusiasm for the show, a genuine passion for the production, and Jonah felt a buzz drumming through his skin at the excitement of working with them. He forgot how easily a theatre family came together, how bonds formed so seamlessly; the company became a rock, a solid foundation who supportedone another without question or consequence. As he moved he saw Sherrie to the side of the stage, needle and thread in hand, multitalented, as she knelt beside a woman with long black hair, adjusting the hem of her dress. Sherrie laughed happily, dark eyes glancing up behind even darker lashes and a slight blush decorating her cheeks. Sherrie Cimino, serial flirt.
Despite donning his social butterfly cape to make the best possible impression on the new people in the theatre, Jonah knew his attention wasn’t fully on them. He couldn’t stop himself from repeatedly glancing over at Dexter. Dexter moved around the cast as if they were there for him and him alone. His hands touched elbows and pulled others into warm embraces, all while smiling and pouting with his ludicrous lips. When he finally came to Jonah and Bastien, his face appeared flushed from excitement, forehead damp, a tragedy given he would be photographed and each bead of perspiration would be there in ultrahigh definition for all to see, but he didn’t seem to care.
“Bastien Andrews!” he exclaimed and clapped Bastien jovially on the shoulder. “It issogood to see you again, everyone here talks so highly of you.”
Bastien absently raised his hand to rub the skin Dexter touched. “Really? Most people think I’m a diva,” he said with a smile.
“I doubt that.” Dexter smiled back at him, his teeth glistening, white, far too white. He then looked at Jonah, finally, and his smile faltered for a flash of a second before fixing itself back into place. “And you must be Jonah Penrose?” Instead of the friendly slap or hug he offered everyone else, Dexter held out his hand for Jonah to shake. Jonah took his hand into his, and yet again prayed his palms refrained from sweating profusely all over him.
“Yeah. We’ve met before,” Jonah said, daring himself to look Dexter directly in the eyes. He showed no sign of recognition.
“We have?” His smile dropped again, something akin to concern creeping across his face in its place.
Jonah narrowed his eyes at him. “Yesterday. At yoga?”
Dexter shook his head slowly. “I don’t recall—”
“You kicked me in the dick?”
Bastien turned away from them both with a snort then inserted himself into another conversation to remove himself from the interaction entirely. The traitor.
“You were at the yoga class?” Dexter’s expression remained neutral, and Jonah couldn’t help but wonder if he was going fucking insane and he imagined the guy at yoga the night before. But no, the pain he experienced when Dexter’s heel connected with his crotch was undeniably real.
“We paired up. You seriously have a mind-blank on that?”
A small smirk found its way to Dexter’s face as something clicked into place in his head. “You know it really is amazing how different a bit of photo editing can make someone look.” He let his eyes wander up and down Jonah’s body. “I didn’t know it was you last night! You should have said something, I’m so excited to perform with an Olivier winner. And it’s going to be interesting to see how you’ve taken the role, given I know it like the back of my hand. Achilles is a dream, isn’t he?”
Jonah didn’t know what to say; Dexter was toying with him, he’d gained the upper hand by simply dismissing their encounter the day before as something totally flippant and turned it into a not-so-thinly veiled insult regarding Jonah’s appearance.
“An award-winning dream,” he settled on saying in a tone far more spiteful than he intended.
Dexter nodded and swiped his tongue over his bottom lip as he glanced down at his feet. “It’s a shame, really, that I’m here to show that an Olivier really doesn’t mean all that much.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You’ll see.” He raised his eyes to Jonah’s again then turned from him, any words Jonah could say in response ignored as he made his way over to Colbie, who stood with Bennie-with-the-bad-lens and Sherrie by the other side of the stage.
Dexter might just have well screamed “Macbeth” in his face. His words a threat, a curse, a promise of a takedown. Jonah could feel his hands trembling as he watched him, the words they spoke to each other tumbling together in his head repeatedly until distaste burned at the back of his tongue.
For Dexter was the Trojan horse, and any hope of salvation would be futile.
