3rd Prize - Short Story Competition 2015

"Exit, Pursued by a Bear"
by Tracey Glasspool

"I'm not sure about this, Sarah."

"It'll be a laugh, Amy - you love Shakespeare!"

"Yes - but reading him, watching him, not playing a part myself."

Sarah plays her trump card. "Michael Evans is auditioning."

Michael Evans - he of the ebony hair and liquid chocolate eyes. My imagination kicks in; his Florizel to my Perdita, his arms around me, his lips coming ever closer to mine...

"Come on then," I call as I race towards the theatre. "What are you waiting for?"

There's a queue outside of students shivering in sub-zero temperatures. Professor Turner has eschewed the traditional University pantomime and is going for 'The Winter's Tale'. By the size of the crowd it's certainly proving popular.

"Hi Amy." It's Jack Lewis. He's nice, but not Michael Evans nice. "What part are you hoping for?"

I shrug. "I don't mind - it would just be good to be in it. What about you?"

A flush rises up his neck. "Oh, I don't want to be on the stage, far too nerve-racking. I'd quite like to help out backstage though. I thought I might..."

I don't hear any more. Michael has come out, a grin on his gorgeous face. I feel a dig in my ribs and turn to see Sarah smirking.

She goes in first and when she comes out her eyes are bright and her face flushed. "Okay?" I say and she gives me a thumbs-up.

I take a deep breath and go inside. It's dark and I trip as I head towards the stage.  I almost turn and run, but Michael's face floats in front of me. I see us in full costume; the final night curtain call; Michael declaring his undying love... It's too perfect.

Unfortunately my audition isn't.

Professor Turner tries to put me at ease. "We just need you to read a few lines, Amy."

But it's as if I've never read a word of Shakespeare in my life. The words trip up as they come out of my mouth - garbled and wooden, the life sucked out of them. In the end Professor Turner stands and claps his hands together. He's obviously heard enough.

"Well, Amy, thank you for coming along. We'll be announcing the parts tomorrow."

I stagger to my feet. "Thank you," I manage. "I just wanted to say how much I'd love to be in the play. I've always enjoyed The Winter's Tale and -"

He cuts me off and ushers me towards the door. "We'll let you know tomorrow."

Jack's waiting for me. "How was it?"

I shrug. "Not so good."

He smiles. "Rubbish. I bet you were great." He clears his throat. "Amy, I wondered if perhaps-"

But Sarah's at my side, sweeping me along on a wave of enthusiasm. "I'm so excited!" she shrieks. "I can't wait until tomorrow."

When I look back, Jack has gone.

Professor Turner starts with the smaller roles, those who get them trying to look pleased, as if they didn't really want a major part anyway. Finally he gets to Florizel and Perdita. Michael Evans is of course Florizel and then I notice it's just me and Sarah left. Could I have been okay? Did they see some star quality under all the stumbling and stuttering?

"And our Perdita will be..."

Oh for goodness' sake - it's not the X-Factor.

"Sarah Jones."

There's a smattering of applause, most of it coming from Michael Evans. I don't miss the coy look Sarah gives him, the duplicitous cow.

Then I realise - I haven't got a part at all.

I turn to leave, but Professor Turner calls me back. "Amy, I was hoping you would help me out backstage. I could use some help with staging and interpretation."

I nod, horrified to feel tears thick in the back of my throat. "Of course," I say, going for light-hearted, but I'm an even worse actress than I thought.

"I realise you'd have preferred an on-stage role." Professor Turner looks genuinely sorry. He hesitates, then seems to come to a decision. "There is one part. It's not speaking, but I think it's an important part of the play."

"Anything," I say, surprised at how much I want to be in it. "Really, anything."

"A bear?" Sarah is finding it hard to keep a straight face.

"It's an important part."

"But a bear?" Michael is even less successful at hiding his mirth. And I don't miss the fact that he's holding Sarah's hand. Maybe they're just getting into character.

Jack comes to my rescue. "'Exit, pursued by a bear' - it's one of Shakespeare's most famous stage directions. It's become part of stage lore. It's pivotal really."

Pivotal. I couldn't have put it better myself. But I almost have second thoughts when I see the costume. It's a moth-eaten leftover from an earlier year's production of The Jungle Book and for some reason it smells strongly of cabbages. I hope they remembered to wash it.

Rehearsals go well, despite the fact that everywhere I go I seem to run into Sarah and Michael locked in a passionate embrace. I get that they need to practice, but really! In the middle of lunch?

But Professor Turner seems to appreciate my efforts both as bear and script advisor and with Jack's help I think we've really tapped into the play. We see off early attempts to set it in the 1920s, the Wild West or outer space, and go traditional. And even though it hurts to say it, Sarah and Michael are very good together.

Final dress rehearsal is on Friday evening. It's been freezing for the last few days and I have to slip and slide my way over a thin sheet of ice on my way to the theatre. I'm actually looking forward to donning Baloo for once, just to get some warmth.

But disaster strikes.

"Sarah's in hospital," Michael says as he stumbles in. "She slipped on the ice -  they think she might have broken her ankle."

There's a chorus of groans and "what do we dos?" before Professor Turner takes charge.

"Well, we can't cancel - all the tickets have been sold. We'll just have to use a stand-in."

We all look around. Most of the cast have too big a part to play two. And then I hear Jack's voice.

"Amy could do it. She knows Perdita inside out."

I Look at him in disbelief and I can see that Professor Turner looks equally horrified. For some reason it ignites a hot little flame of defiance inside me.

"It's true," I say. "I really do know all the lines. Who else is there at such short notice?"

Perhaps it's the pressure. Perhaps it's being so close to Michael Evans. Perhaps it's the relief of not smelling of cabbage. Whatever it is I rise to the occasion. I don't stutter or stumble or fluff and by the end of it there's admiration in Professor Turner's eyes. And as I gaze into those dark brown eyes of Michael's I realise that it was inevitable. Thwarted until the final scenes I, as heroine, would of course triumph in the end.

I float home and wake up on Saturday, performance day, with a rainforest of butterflies in my stomach.

I'm still floating as I reach the theatre, ready to slip into both my costume and my rightful place in Michael's arms. Then reality crashes back in with the smiling, walking, unbroken-ankled vision of Sarah.

"Just a sprain," she says, wincing slightly and leaning on Michael. He smiles down at her with puppy-dog worship and I feel my bubble of inevitability burst with a flat, damp, pop.

The show is a huge success. Sarah and Michael take their third curtain call where, to the joy of the audience, he gives her a tender kiss. I haven't even bothered to get out of my bear costume - it's as good a place as any to hide. I sit in the wings while everyone mills around congratulating each other. Finally they start to leave and I find myself alone at last. Well almost.

"Amy?" It's Jack. "I wanted to say, I thought you would have made a brilliant Perdita. Professor Turner wants to do another play in the summer. I told him you'd be great as Juliet."

Jack's eyes are grey as a winter sky. How did I never notice that before? And how did I not notice how broad his shoulders are, or how his hair curls into his neck like that? I drift away. My Juliet to Jack's Romeo, our final curtain, me sinking into his arms...

When I come to, I see that he's almost off the other side of the stage. He must have taken my silence for indifference. I stagger to my feet and start to run, bear suit flapping about me as I pursue him into the wings.

"Jack!" I shout. "Wait!"

I hope he doesn't mind the smell of cabbages.

– The End –