Maxwell's Mask by M.J. Trow Page B

having a good evening. And if she didn’t, nobody else did either. Like a whirlwind in the trees, like a deluge on the dykes, she tore up the central aisle, script in one hand, soul in the other.
    â€˜Mr Mushnik,’ she turned to the hapless fat lad playing the flower shop proprietor. ‘What are you?’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    She looked into his dark, slightly mystified eyes. ‘Apart from being a talentless little shit, of course.’
    Mr Mushnik was actually Dominic Reynolds. He had been the only lad in Year Nine who had auditioned for Willy Wonka, so, almost by default, he had become a male lead in every one of Leighford High’s productions since. Anyway, Dominic had a quiet sense of pride. If you’re doingA-level Theatre Studies, you should put your money where your mouth is. Get up on stage and act. And that, deep down, was all Deena was asking him to do.
    Even so, the lesson came hard and the lad stood there, jaw open. Mrs Carmichael had never spoken to him like this.
    â€˜You are a Jewish shopkeeper in downtown Nowheresville. You only have a tiny coterie of clients – Mrs Shiva is one such – and you have yet to fully grasp the enormity of Audrey II’s money-making capacity. You’re…what…fifty-five? Sixty? Your parents came over, before you were born, to Ellis Island, from some ghastly Eastern European existence. Let’s try some method here, can we, and forget we’re from a bog-standard comprehensive in Leighford? OK with you?’
    Before Mr Mushnik had time to forget anything, Deena had wheeled to Seymour. She narrowed her eyes, hands on hips, bristling with attitude. ‘There are nerds,’ she growled, ‘and there are nerds. At the moment, Seymour dear, you have all the believability of that bloody cardboard flower.’
    â€˜But in the film…’
    â€˜We’re not doing the fucking film!’ she screamed at him. ‘And Rick Moranis you ain’t.’
    No, he wasn’t Rick Moranis. He was Alan Eldridge, an up-himself ex-private schoolboy whose parents had fallen on hard times and been forced to send him to that sink of mediocrity that wasLeighford High. He could do a pretty good Bronx while carrying a tune in a bucket and Mrs Carmichael was running out of options.
    â€˜Boys and girls!’ The familiar voice made them all turn. A silhouette in cycle clips filled the doorway that led to the auditorium. The light was behind him, but the hat, the scarf, the presence . Who else could it be? The Cavalry had arrived. There was a warmth in that voice, a comfort. Sally Spall as Audrey I nearly burst into tears. But then, she’d been doing that since Year Seven. Sally was a tiny flower of a thing with freckles, a lisp and a little, pointed chin. She could have been born to play the downtrodden, single-braincelled florist kicked around by her mad psycho dentist boyfriend. No problems for Angela Carmichael there.
    â€˜Mr Maxwell,’ Deena’s smile was serene from centre stage. ‘Lovely. Come on, then, people.’ She clapped her hands around the script. ‘From the top. We have an audience tonight.’
    He waited until she reached the back row then hauled off his hat and scarf and sat beside her in the darkened theatre. ‘Problems?’ he asked, as the cast went through their paces, improvising with cardboard boxes as furniture.
    â€˜No,’ she trilled. ‘ Au contraire . They’re very good, aren’t they?’
    â€˜I think so. How’s Dominic settling in?’
    â€˜Dominic?’
    â€˜Mr Mushnik.’
    â€˜Oh, excellent,’ she said quickly. ‘Bags of motivation.’
    â€˜Angela Carmichael was a bit worried about him. Rather flat, apparently.’
    â€˜No, not at all,’ Deena assured him. ‘I was just congratulating him on his delivery.’
    â€˜Fine. Benny?’ Maxwell had the skill of all teachers – conducting an apparently innocuous