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Lights flickered in the darkness, further enhancing the action on stage, the tension of the battle and the anger on his face before he vanished in the darkness of the roof. Then, for a second, everything fell silent; silent enough for her to hear her own breath slowly leaving her mouth in a meagre attempt to calm herself. A shiver ran through her body as he re-entered the stage to her left, his hair and face covered in blood, which, though fake, did not miss its effect on the audience. His muscles flexed under his shirt, his toned torso only barely restrained by his leather armour. He had trained hard, and still did, to be in shape like this, to believably play the ”lean, mean killing machine” as the Telegraph had called him.
He didn’t know she was in the audience that night, didn’t know that months prior she had booked her seat, managed to purchase one of the highly coveted tickets before everything was sold out within minutes. He also didn’t know that she had secretly read the play, that she had borrowed the worn out copy from the little library within his office to familiarise herself with the world of Coriolanus. He hadn’t been allowed to talk much about the production in an attempt to keep it as secret as possible. Though knowing how much it meant to him to be back on stage, not least in a production of a Shakespeare play, she had pretended it was just another job of his. Nothing extraordinary. But of course she wanted to see him, in his element, on stage. It almost appeared to be his natural habitat and the flourished language of the Shakespearian play flowed natural from his tongue.
It was a very political play, very tactical, and each character always looked for the best way to achieve the outcome he or she desired. And yet it was still, or maybe even because of that, so full of emotion, full of passion and desire. While she had almost dreaded seeing him kiss another woman on stage and yet she found herself suffering with Virgilia, sharing her grief and desperation. And his mother, such a determined, manipulative, strong-headed woman - it was a delight to see Deborah Findlay roam the stage like a lioness sending her cub out into the wild to hunt its first prey.
She couldn’t take her eyes off Tom as he strutted over the stage, funny and witty in one moment, suffering and proud in another. Had there been any armrests, she would have gripped them with all her might, fighting the urge to hold him as he showered and tended to his wounds. With every passing minute, with every scene depicted on stage in front of her, she understood more and more why he loved the theatre so much, why he craved the honesty, the rawness, the emotions, the rush of energy running through the actors right into the veins of the audience. No one was left unmoved by Volumnia’s tears, no one was left untouched by Menenius’ desperation at being turned away. And while he played a husband and son, a ruthless warrior and a failed poitician, he first and foremost played a man unable to appraise the consequences of his actions.
A single, lonely tear rolled slowly down her cheek as the blood from his throat trickled on the grey, smooth stage while the gasps leaving his mouth grew quieter and quieter. It was the end of Coriolanus, the end of a life lived too fast, too irrational, too proud, and too reckless.
Not long after, she jumped up from her seat with the rest of the audience as the actors bowed and smiled before they ran off stage, releasing the house back into the cold, wet, and particularly modern world of the English capital outside. Their eyes had met briefly as he had turned towards her side of the floor although she couldn’t tell whether he had recognised her in the dimmed light and amongst all the other unfamiliar faces. With shaking fingers and a beating heart she typed a short message for him, hoping he’d have his phone with him backstage, while the other audience members left the auditorium.
She bit her lip with a nervous smile as the familiar beeping of his phone chimed through the empty space just a few metres behind her and slowly, she turned around. His confident yet careful footsteps echoed on the linoleum floor as he walked towards her, his face and clothes still covered in fake blood.
"You came." A smile played around his lips as he uttered this obvious statement and she nodded shyly.
"Of course." Her eyes shimmered in the pale light coming from the rafters as she climbed up on the low stage to place her hand in his offered, gloved hand.
"Thank you." It was barely a whisper against her lips, the smell of strawberry syrup and chocolate wafting past her nose, the sticky mix still spread all over his face.
She didn’t know how to reply, what words would be appropriate to express what she felt in that very moment. It was stronger than pride and mixed with so much love and admiration that she was sure a word had yet to be found to determine exactly what it was. But then again she didn’t need a word. Not then. Not when his hands, strong and soft at the same time, cupped her cheeks so gently as if he was afraid she would crumble under his touch. She didn’t need a word for as his lips touched hers, promising and thankful alike, everything was said that needed to be expressed in that very moment.
Looking back at that night at the Donmar she was sure that it was this very moment, the moment that Coriolanus turned back into Tom, that they found the language which would be the basis of their love for all those weeks and months and years to come. It was in this very moment, when her hands, covered in fake blood, were buried in his hair and his arms, lean and muscular, were wrapped around her waist, that she knew she could finally give him her all, without any fears or worries, without any nightmares about her past.
Maybe it had been seeing Coriolanus as a soldier, wielding his sword, fighting like a warrior, fierce and fearless, that made her realise how soft and gentle and protective Tom was of her and that he would never be able to hurt her like she had been hurt before. Maybe it had been Coriolanus’ tears that had touched her in the deepest, most hidden and protected core of her heart because they reminded her of the tears he had shed for her every time he thought she couldn’t hear him. Maybe it had been Coriolanus’ helplessness in the face of manipulation and expectation that had reminded her so much of herself in her darkest, loneliest hours. But whatever it was, she was glad about the effect it had and when they left the theatre together to step into the cold and windy night, she already looked forward to the intimate moments to come.