Ms. Fleming’s wig had gone missing. The whole costume team ran from one place to another with panic stricken faces. Ms. Fleming herself was on the brink of a nervous collapse. Her assistant fanned her with a folded script as she sat pale faced on the dressing room couch. Through the thin walls, one could already hear a crowd of muffled voices and moving chairs as the audience took their places. The curtains would go up in no more than twenty minutes. Anne Fleming shook the thought away but it ate at her insides cramping her abdomen.
‘What a disaster!’ she moaned with her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
‘Everything will be alright Ms. Fleming. Your wig will be found in no time. You’ll see.’
Abigail knew this was no consolation but she felt inclined to try to comfort Ms. Fleming anyway. She had been Fleming’s assistant for more than a decade and this was probably the worst theatrical disaster she had witnessed. The missing wig was no common wig and was hardly replaceable. ‘Medusa’ had exactly 72 carefully crafted and hand painted stuffed snakes and Fleming was playing the leading role. There was no way they could pull the character off without it.
‘Let me just kill myself, Abigail. I want to die. Call the bloody Director. I’ll slit my wrists in front of him so he can witness the horror he has put me through. Stop fanning me! You are blowing dust and making my eyes cry! You’ll ruin my make up. Make yourself useful instead of torturing me. Get me my bloody wig! I want my bloody wiiiiiiig!’
The door burst open. Adam Johnson stood there with lost eyes. He looked like a ghost. He opened his mouth as if to talk and then just mumbled something unintelligible and pressed his palm to his forehead. Of all the possible nightmares, this had been the least expected. Today was not only opening night but his debut as a director as well. Every detail had been accounted for but this. Johnson considered calling off the night under some excuse and his blood froze at the thought. What would the critics say? What would his producers say? He was a dead man.
‘You are an idiot and an amateur, Johnson! I swear to God my reputation won’t be stained by your incompetence. Every single soul will know that it was you who ruined the show. You are a bloody incompetent!
Johnson’s face was suddenly taken over by tremors and his eyes twitched. He raised his finger and glared at Fleming but remained silent.
‘Well? You dumb imbecile?’
Johnson just pointed towards the couch and struggled as the words worked their way up his throat. Abigail looked in that direction and her face turned pale. Finally, Fleming herself looked down and was horror struck when she saw a snake’s head squeezing out from under her dress.
‘What a disaster!’ she moaned with her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
‘Everything will be alright Ms. Fleming. Your wig will be found in no time. You’ll see.’
Abigail knew this was no consolation but she felt inclined to try to comfort Ms. Fleming anyway. She had been Fleming’s assistant for more than a decade and this was probably the worst theatrical disaster she had witnessed. The missing wig was no common wig and was hardly replaceable. ‘Medusa’ had exactly 72 carefully crafted and hand painted stuffed snakes and Fleming was playing the leading role. There was no way they could pull the character off without it.
‘Let me just kill myself, Abigail. I want to die. Call the bloody Director. I’ll slit my wrists in front of him so he can witness the horror he has put me through. Stop fanning me! You are blowing dust and making my eyes cry! You’ll ruin my make up. Make yourself useful instead of torturing me. Get me my bloody wig! I want my bloody wiiiiiiig!’
The door burst open. Adam Johnson stood there with lost eyes. He looked like a ghost. He opened his mouth as if to talk and then just mumbled something unintelligible and pressed his palm to his forehead. Of all the possible nightmares, this had been the least expected. Today was not only opening night but his debut as a director as well. Every detail had been accounted for but this. Johnson considered calling off the night under some excuse and his blood froze at the thought. What would the critics say? What would his producers say? He was a dead man.
‘You are an idiot and an amateur, Johnson! I swear to God my reputation won’t be stained by your incompetence. Every single soul will know that it was you who ruined the show. You are a bloody incompetent!
Johnson’s face was suddenly taken over by tremors and his eyes twitched. He raised his finger and glared at Fleming but remained silent.
‘Well? You dumb imbecile?’
Johnson just pointed towards the couch and struggled as the words worked their way up his throat. Abigail looked in that direction and her face turned pale. Finally, Fleming herself looked down and was horror struck when she saw a snake’s head squeezing out from under her dress.
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