Edgar Pearce stood in the centre of the rehearsal space and looked around optimistically.

‘Very well. Act I, Scene 1. Remember, Bobby, the audience can only hear your side of the conversation. Leave decent pauses, so they can fill in the gaps. And keep moving, this is theatre-in-the-round. Let them get a good look at you, from all angles That’s the essence of this kind of theatre – a collaboration, a negotiation between actors and audience.’

            The rest of the cast sat back in their chairs, forming a loose circle around Bobby. With his right hand, he held a mobile phone to the side of his face. In his left hand, he held a copy of the script. He took a deep breath. The morning of the first read-through was always a defining moment. He began.

            Talk to me

            Oh, gimme a break

            I can’t believe you just said that

            What is it you want from me?

I’m sorry…I can’t do this any more

            The world doesn’t owe you a living

            What part of “No” don’t you understand?

            Bobby threw the prop mobile down to the floor, where it bounced away harmlessly. He turned to the earnest, middle-aged man now sitting in the director’s chair.

            ‘For Christ’s sake, Edgar! Who on earth wrote this rubbish?’

            ‘You know very well who wrote this. And please don’t refer to it as rubbish.’

            ‘But it’s preposterous! Cliché after cliché after cliché! The audience will be falling out of their chairs laughing. That is, if any of them are still there.’

            ‘You knew what you were signing up for, Bobby.’

            ‘Yes. But I was led to believe the play was a serious drama, not a bloody comedy!’

            ‘The play is a serious drama.’

‘But Edgar! Unless it’s a postmodern exercise in irony and misrepresentation – and I’m assuming it’s not – surely you can see how ludicrous it is!’

There were whispers and nods of assent from the dozen or so seated actors, most of whom had met for the first time that morning. With the possibility of a transfer to the West End after the scheduled six-weeks run, there had been intense competition to secure a part in the play and the auditions had been long and strenuous. Now, with the script in their hands, the gulf between what they had been told and what they now faced was increasingly evident.

‘No, Bobby. There’s a division of labour here that we all need to respect. Alfie Adams provided the script. His work is done. Now our work begins. My job is to direct, and your job is to act. I can think of many people who would say how fortunate we are to have been given the opportunity to participate in Mr Adams’ first play. He – and I – firmly believe that this may turn out to be a major theatrical event.’

‘A major theatrical event?!’

‘Yes. A major theatrical event. Given his profile, it’s almost inevitable that it will feature in the lists of potential nominations as the awards season nears. In fact – ’

He noticed one of the admin staff beckoning to him from the open doorway and left the rehearsal space to more murmurings of discontent from the cast. The production of From The Top had already attracted considerable media attention. Six years ago, Alfie Adams was a kitchen porter in one of London’s grandest hotels. He initially found fame after appearing on Restless Spirits, a reality TV show in which an assortment of young men and women were marooned for a week in what was described as Britain’s most haunted house, high on the Yorkshire Moors.

Along with several of the participants, Alfie Adams became something of a minor celebrity and he appeared in a number of TV advertisements, before being invited to present a Saturday morning radio phone-in/chat show. He went on to co-host British coverage of the Eurovision Song Contest, and for the last two years, had been one of the presenters of BBC’s Breakfast TV Show. During that time, he had also produced two children’s books – The Magnificent Mandy Morris and The Wonderful Walter Wilkins – and an adult novel, The Sycamore Tree. All had been huge commercial successes: despite The Sunday Times description of The Sycamore Tree as “utterly pointless, embarrassingly immature, tedious beyond belief,” it had stayed at the top of the best-sellers list for many months. He was a familiar guest on celebrity panel shows, and when it was revealed that he wanted his first play (written in less than two weeks while holidaying in the Seychelles) to be premiered by the repertory theatre company in the small Lancashire town where he was born, it was seen as evidence that he remained a humble man who had not lost touch with his roots.

Edgar Pearce came back into the room and asked for the actors’ attention.

‘I have news,’ he said. ‘Mr Adams intends to visit us here this afternoon.’

‘Is that good news or bad news, Edgar?’

‘I’ll ignore that remark. He’ll be with us immediately after lunch.’

‘Let me guess. With a camera crew and a posse of photographers.’

‘There may well be a media presence,’ Edgar acknowledged. ‘Publicity is always welcome. And I trust,’ he added, looking at Bobby, ‘that we’ll be courteous and complimentary.’

Alfie Adams asked to hear the cast in rehearsal.

            ‘To see if they understand what it’s all about,’ he explained to Edgar.

            ‘To see if they understand?’

            ‘Oh, yeah. It’s a very intense play, you know what I mean, an emotional roller-coaster. It’s got to be big, brave, in-your-face. No holds barred. Go for the jugular. But at the same time, it’s very nuanced, very sensitive. There are moments of sadness, tragedy, scenes that are absolutely heartbreaking – even to me, and I wrote it! The actors have got to get it just right, or else it won’t work. They may need some pointers. That’s what I’m here to give them.’

            ‘That’s normally my job,’ said Edgar, slowly. ‘And with all due respect, I’m not sure the actors would welcome your advice. Authors doesn’t usually sit in on rehearsals, you know. They trust the director.’

            ‘No way,’ laughed Alfie. ‘You might need some pointers yourself!’

            ‘Can I ask, Mr Adams, if you’ve seen any of my work?’

            ‘Well, I don’t know. I don’t have a lot of time to go to the theatre. Tell me some of the stuff you’ve done.’

            ‘My stuff? I see…well, the most recent play I’ve directed was Brecht’s Mother Courage; last year, I did Accidental Death Of An Anarchist by Dario Fo; also a contemporary reworking of Ibsen’s The Wild Duck; before that, there was Rosencrantz And Guildenstern Are Dead, The Norman Conquests, Noises Off, She Stoops To – ’

            ‘No, none of them!’ interrupted Adams. ‘I’ve been busy with my TV work just lately. But my manager tells me you’re a competent enough director, and what she says is good enough for me. Anyway, I’m here to help. Shall we say, ten minutes?’

            Edgar called the cast together.

            ‘You’re right, Bobby,’ he said. ‘The man’s an idiot. I’ve rarely met a more stupid person. He insists on sitting in. OK, here’s what we do. Treat it like a pantomime. Assume different accents. Trish: Scarlett O’Hara. Mike: German commandant, cruel as you like. Jack: Mexican peasant. Bobby: Schwarzenegger. Kevin: I’ve heard your Peter Sellers Indian doctor voice. It’s very good. Use that. Judy: Australian outback, the broader the better. Steve: Charlie Chan. All of you: use your imaginations!’

            ‘But Edgar,’ asked Bobby. ‘Courteous and complimentary?’

            ‘That was before he said I might need some help. Twenty-five years of directing, and he might have some pointers for me.’

Alfie Adams listened to the read-through in silence, concentration etched on his face. As the cast reached the end of Act I and put their scripts to one side, he approached the director, hands outstretched, shaking his head in undisguised admiration.

‘Edgar, that was great. Absolutely great. You all understood exactly what I wanted.’

            ‘Did we? Oh, well, thank you, Alfie,’ said Edgar, who had been bracing himself for an angry confrontation. ‘I’m glad you approve. That means a lot.’

            ‘I hadn’t realized it was an international production. That’s a clever touch – attract foreign tourists, help to sell the overseas rights. This is going to be a big success. Edgar, let’s get this show on the road! Give the actors a big thank-you from me. I owe you one.’

            ‘No, no…just doing my job, Alfie. The quality’s in the writing. I’m just helping to bring it out.’

            As Alfie Adams and his entourage left the theatre, Edgar clapped his hands.

            ‘OK, everybody. Back to reality. Bobby…from the top.’