The Grand Scheme of Things, page 23
At that point, the last place I wanted to be was in the middle of Northern Italy. I wanted to be at home. My home, not yours. I wanted to be with Blue; Arianna could kick fucking rocks for all I cared. I wanted nothing to do with you. But because of our pact, I still needed you. Nothing in this world was more agonizing than needing the one person you so desperately wished to wash your hands of.
That night before bed, I decided to call Nick. I kept the conversation short and sweet, stripping the holiday down to its bare bones and trimming out all the shambles. I tried my utmost to hide any hint of desolation in my voice, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he could still detect it. If there was one thing I could be truthful about, it was the beauty of the world I had found myself in. I relayed this to him, telling him how beautiful the water was here, and how much he’d love it.
HUGO
xix A Romantic Tragedy
September 2018
With near-comical timing, a cacophonous boom of music blasted through the walls of the house. The few seconds that it took me to realize that the bass thumping along the floors was in fact not a violent ambush, and that danger wasn’t imminent, felt painfully long. I sighed, apologetically holding a finger up to the webcam before dashing out of the study. I popped my head into the room from where the source of the nightmarishly loud sounds had emanated, and I silently and impatiently signaled that I was in the middle of a call. An eye roll later, the music was turned down but not switched off completely. I sighed, pulling my head out of the room and gliding back to the study.
“I’m so sorry about that, Helen. It’s a common occurrence at this point. I should have warned beforehand that I had a meeting,” I said as I sat down, slightly flustered.
“Oh, no worries! Think of this as more of a chitchat than a meeting. Nothing too formal.”
“Ahhh, okay. Gotcha. Still, apologies for the interruption. Living with a younger sibling comes with its obvious challenges.”
Helen sat forwards. “I didn’t know you had a younger sibling. That’s interesting. I always took you for an only child.”
“I might as well be.” I chuckled. “I’m a middle child. I have a brother, but he’s nearly twenty years older than me. My sister’s from Hong Kong. Well, she’s half Hong Kongese. She’s always lived there, but she moved in with me last month. She got into… I think it’s Central Saint Martins, for fashion. She’s been making the most of living here, as you can tell.”
“Indeed, I can. It might be a nice bonding experience for you. Especially if you don’t see her often. Family is everything,” she remarked.
I nodded slowly, then quickly. “Sure. I mean, I don’t think we’ll be best friends anytime soon, but it’s worth a try. It might be nice to have the company, too.”
“Of course. How’s Eddie, by the way? Is everything all good on that front?”
“Oh, uhhh… it’s fine. But we did break up recently. She moved out of my house a while back.”
“Goodness! That’s a shame; you two were a great pair. Do you mind me asking why?” She spoke with a level of seemingly artificial curiosity. It was hard to tell if she actually cared, or just wanted to seem like she did. She was a hard one to read.
“No reason in particular. It was an amicable split. We’ve both just been so busy. Her more than me. It wasn’t working out schedule-wise.”
“It happens, I suppose,” she sighed, shrugging. Then she narrowed her eyes and looked intently at me through the screen, raising an eyebrow. “I can keep a secret. Was it really amicable?”
“Yes, of course. She recently got promoted at BABBLE and wanted to focus on her job a bit more. She’s also actually just finished the script for a new play. It’s her first project since leaving uni. So we just didn’t have as much time together. All’s well that ends well, though.”
“All’s Well That Ends Well. Shakespeare. So, this isn’t a romantic tragedy, then?”
I shifted in my seat. “Not at all. No hard feelings. We’re… good. Great. Fine.”
“Okay. That’s good to know.” She smiled, staring long enough for me to think that the laptop screen had frozen. I blinked, waiting for reanimation. Eventually, it came. She leaned on her elbows on the desk in front of her, resting her chin on clasped hands. “Now, back to why I even called you in the first place. I’ve got some amazing news, Hugo. The agency is currently in talks to take Great Belonging on tour around the country!” She beamed. “Great Belonging does Great Britain. We’re thinking Bristol, Swansea, Birmingham, Manchester, and Edinburgh, all over the next year or so. How marvelous is that!”
“Oh. Wow! That sounds… that sounds… yeah. Wow.” I did something with my head that was a mix between shaking it and nodding.
Her smile stayed frozen in place, but she furrowed her eyebrows. “That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. Where’s the excitement?”
“I’m… just taking it in, I guess. It’s all still quite daunting.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You don’t need to be as involved this time around. I know the Regium was a huge commitment. The agency will be sorting everything out. You should just keep yourself busy. Maybe start on something new? That’ll surely do the trick.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively.
I shrugged. “I wish I could. I’ve had writer’s block since I won the MBG, to be quite frank. Nothing’s coming out of me anymore. It feels like… like I never wrote Great Belonging in the first place, you know? It feels like a fluke. I don’t think I’m capable of ever writing anything that good again.”
Helen shook her head. “What did I tell you, Hugo? Trust and believe in yourself. You got here through you and you alone. You’re amazingly talented. Don’t doubt yourself. You’re robbing the world of great things.”
I swallowed. “Potentially. You know… I… I think you’re putting too much faith in me, Helen. If you’re expecting a new project, it’ll probably be a while. But I do have a suggestion. Actually, it’s more of a request. You see, I was hoping you, or the agency, would… be open to having a look at Eddie’s new script. No pressure, of course—I’m just throwing it out there.”
She stayed silent for a moment, her expression impenetrable. Then she smiled. “Hugo: the Wentworth Agency prides itself on finding talent through fair and accessible avenues. We have so many writers and creatives here, all part of the theater world, who also have budding playwright friends. So it’s a bit of a slippery slope if we start some sort of… internal referral system. Our culture will lose range; it will turn into an echo chamber. I’m sure Eddie is very talented, but I would encourage her to take the usual avenue of submitting an inquiry letter and her script to a chosen agent. We’ll eventually get to it.”
I nodded, heart stammering. “I—I completely get what you mean. Of course you don’t want to create a stale environment, and I do appreciate that. But I can assure you that Eddie’s work would definitely not do that. In fact, it would do the opposite. I think it could potentially breathe new life into the agency. Not that it’s dying, per se. I just mean, in terms of the diversity of ideas, you know?”
“First off, I’d like to point out how Great Belonging is one of the most diverse and broad-thinking productions we’ve birthed in years. Celeste Adebayo won an MBG for Best New Actress this year, which definitely means something. The entire cast was a beautiful mishmash of creeds and cultures. This play has put a female director of color on the map. You’ve managed to capture the cultural consciousness in a fascinating way. You don’t shy away from intersectional discussions of class, race, immigration, and so on. It’s commendable. You’re selling yourself short.
“My second point is that… Eddie is probably more sought-after than she might imagine. What’s important is that she continues to work on her craft and cast her net far and wide. The Wentworth Agency might not be the perfect fit for her, just as her work may not necessarily fit in with what our agents are currently looking for. It’s a Goldilocks situation, you see—it’s all about finding the right home for her work, not the most accessible home. Nepotism can only take you so far, I’m afraid.”
I creased my eyebrows instinctively. “Helen, again, I completely understand what you’re saying. But don’t you think that two things can be true at once—that the right home could be the most opportunistic one? Don’t you think that maybe her work should speak for itself? And that… that the agency’s current roster of playwrights is a little… stale—not necessarily in its diversity of ideas, but… you know… background-wise?” I started off timid, like a shy child asking their mother for a later curfew. But I was becoming more of an impatient one who dared to ask, But why not?
“What I’m saying, Hugo, is exactly that. Her work will speak for itself. Neither you, nor anyone else, can speak for it. That’s all.” She shrugged matter-of-factly. I could tell she was trying to shut down the conversation, or at the least, take back control of it. I slowly nodded again, looking down at my desk. “We don’t just choose people purely because they’re minorities. That would be even more insulting. This isn’t the United Nations. We’re trying our best to take steps in the right direction, however, and I appreciate that it’s something you care about. I assume it’s because of your association with someone like Eddie. But, you know… I feel that you’re unusually obsessed with her. It almost seems… slightly compensatory.”
My eyes shot back up at the screen. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You want to give her a platform, I get that. But this… it’s all a bit too much. There’s something afoot here. There’s a reason you’re going to great lengths for her, isn’t there?”
“Not at all. I admire and respect her. I want the best for her.”
She shot me a look so subtle, yet so loud. “Hugo, I believe there’s something you’re not telling me. Whatever it is, it has clearly left you indebted to your… now-ex-partner. It’s getting in the way of your professionalism, and I want you to stay on track. I can only hope that the two of you are at the least on good terms.”
“You believe there’s something I’m not telling you? Could you elaborate?” I felt the skin on the back of my neck and under my arms heat and prickle.
“If I think it’s important enough to tell you, I will. It could also just be me and my suspicions, who knows? It would be irresponsible for me to open up a can of worms so… unnecessarily.” Oh, the irony. I could practically see the worms writhing around in front of her. “Ultimately, the Wentworth Agency has to act and appear impartial. We can’t look like we have favorites. The theater world is small, yet big. I can understand that you want to support Eddie, and she is more than welcome to send her script over. If she’s talented enough, she will easily find success in no time, whether here or elsewhere. I can assure you of that. Like you said, all’s well that ends well.”
“All right, Helen.” I chuckled anxiously. “I’m not sure how we ended up here. I just wanted to help enrich the agency’s roster by putting in a good word for someone who I know is extremely talented. I don’t appreciate you talking in riddles, if I’m being honest.”
“That’s not my aim at all! I just don’t want you to let any potential guilt you’ve harbored from any decisions you might have made eat you up. Sometimes, when you make your bed, you just have to lie in it. We live and learn and we move on. Most importantly, we keep the agency’s reputation in mind at all times.” She plastered on a tight-lipped smile. “Well, would you look at the time! I have another meeting in ten minutes I need to prepare for, and I can’t do that without another Americano. Long day. We’ll have to wrap up now.” She frowned. “I’ll be in touch with more information about the tour, all right? I’ll add another meeting to the calendar.”
“Wait, hold on—”
“I really do have to go, Hugo, sorry. I can’t overrun. You know what, tell Eddie to send her little passion project over. I’ll put it at the top of the pile, just for her. We only take on the best of the best, so nothing’s guaranteed. But if this is what she’s asked of you, it doesn’t hurt to give her a chance, I suppose. Chat later!”
When the screen went blank, I was staring back at my dumbfounded reflection. What on earth had just happened? Why was she dancing around the topic like a floor gymnast? Why did she think I felt indebted to you, or that I was harboring guilt? Did she know the truth? Maybe she did, but if that was the case, she wouldn’t have been gushing excitedly to me about the play going on tour if she knew it wasn’t my play to begin with. She wouldn’t have been telling me that I got to where I was through me and me alone—unless that was her point. Perhaps she wanted me to know that she knew I hadn’t, that she was one step ahead.
But then, if she had an inkling that you were the original author, why would she be so hesitant to take you on? Why would she act like she didn’t know what you were capable of? Did she actually care about what she purported to care about? None of it made any sense. Just when I thought I knew what she knew, I felt that I didn’t. I was dizzy with confusion, subdued into discomposure. All I wanted to do was slowly back away from Great Belonging. I was feeling more and more out of my element. All the questions, the demands, the press and publicity, it was a beast that kept growing bigger, that was harder to wrangle and contain. I could no longer handle being celebrated for being someone else. I could no longer have what I didn’t deserve.
I stepped out of the study, sighing loudly. My thoughts were everywhere, bouncing around my head like ricocheting bullets. My heart was racing at a million miles an hour. The inside of my mouth was dry and my tongue felt like rubber, so I ambled downstairs to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. I glugged it ferociously, and then poured myself another one. I drank the second glass until it was half-empty, and then I stood there, holding on to it as I tried to gather my thoughts. Instantaneously, the cacophonous music from Luna’s bedroom started blaring again, causing me to flinch. The glass slid right out of my hand and onto the tiled floor below me, smashing into pieces. I looked down at the mess I’d made and stared at it for at least ten seconds. Then, all I could do was laugh. At this point it was either a clumsy coincidence or something of an omen.
* * *
I called you a few days later. It had been months since you and I had held a proper conversation that didn’t just consist of terse text messages or read receipts. It was a quiet Sunday morning; Luna was out somewhere, most likely exploring the city with new uni friends. I wavered somewhere between savoring the silence and hating it. On any other day, I don’t think I’d have bothered clicking on the phone icon next to your name, but on this day, it felt like the right course of action. I sat in the back garden, counting each phone ring as they echoed in my ear. A part of me expected you not to answer. But then the rings stopped, and there was a fuzzy silence.
“Hello?” you muttered, voice hoarse. I guessed I must have been your alarm clock.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Eddie… happy birthday to you.” I was shamefully out of tune, but when I heard your dispersed chuckles, I knew my mission had been accomplished.
“God. Cringe. Thank you, though,” you said, yawning. “I’m half-asleep right now, sorry if I sound dead. I really do appreciate that.”
“It had to be done. How does it feel being one year older?”
“It feels a lot like being one day older. Fuck, I’m so hungover.”
“I bet. I saw you had a party last night. It looked like a time. Clearly it was,” I said. I hoped I didn’t sound sarcastic or wounded. I hoped it didn’t feel like I was drawing more attention to the fact that you didn’t invite me to the party, or even tell me you were having one.
It was like you read my mind. “The BABBLE lot organized it for me. It felt more like a work function, to be honest. Also, it was a very No Boys Allowed kind of vibe. It was basically a femme and nonbinary orgy. I don’t think you’d have enjoyed it.”
“An orgy, was it?”
“In the most platonic sense, of course. No actual shagging. A couple of snogs, though. A lot of drinking games. I’m paying the price now.”
“See, that’s the thing about alcohol. It’s just consequence wrapped in a bow.”
“Preach, brother.”
“Speaking of things wrapped in bows: I have a gift for you,” I said, segueing us into a new topic.
“You do?”
“Actually, it’s a metaphorical bow. I got two tickets to Light as a Ton of Feathers. You know—that play that’s on at the Regium until the end of October.”
“Oh. Wow. You did?”
“Yup. I booked the showing that’s a couple of weeks from now. I thought it would interest you. Got the seats with the best view, too.”
“Hu. That’s so kind of you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course I did. I knew you’d probably want to see it.” The playwright, Zayani Chimbalanga, was a poet and English literature graduate who had spent years frequenting London’s slam poetry scene and writing script after script until she hit the jackpot. Her latest play had been scooped up by Sonder Words, a less-established agency on the rise with promising new talent. Light as a Ton of Feathers was one of the few productions that had made it inside the Regium’s walls without going through one of the usual agencies, Wentworth included. I’d seen her at some panels and talks in the theater world over the last year, so it was great that she was finally making a splash. I knew there was no way you’d not have known about her new play. I’d hoped it meant something to you.
“You were right, I did want to see it. So I went, like, four days ago. Ugh. Now I feel like shit.”
My heart dropped. I was surprised at how visceral my disappointment felt. “Oh, wow. Great minds think alike, I guess.” I chuckled. “Absolutely no worries. I can find someone else to go with, or whatever. It’s fine.”
