Sweating it out
‘No notes today,’ says Boss Lucy, struggling to raise her voice above the fan that whirrs furiously on her desk. ‘I haven’t had any messages to say that anyone’s off. But it’s very hot, so take it easy. Don’t push yourselves, drink plenty of water and let me know if you’re not feeling well. Have a great show!’
The stage crew are still setting the stage, and red DO NOT ENTER tapes are pulled across the entry door, meaning we cannot pre-set our quick-changes backstage. Apparently Rinaldo had been rehearsing on stage this morning, and the crew are struggling to switch everything over to the mammoth Magic Flute on time. When they first tried this change-over, it took them seven hours. So far today, they’ve been at it for four, which is a bit ominous. If the show runs late, rumour has it that Glyndebourne will pay Southern Rail something in the region of £100,000 a minute to hold the London train at Lewes station until the patrons are on board. So, the pressure is on — but in the end, the curtain is only fifteen minutes late going up. I have to rush around and set my changes once the show has already started, and even then, the crew are still flinging things into place with slightly mad looking eyes.
I squirrel myself away in the Opposite-Promt quick-change booth, waiting for the puppeteers’ first change. My face is aglow in the light from my Kindle as I suck up Stephen King’s The Green Mile, while The Magic Flute thunders along on the other side of the black felt curtain.
After the interval, I hover in the wings so that I can listen to the Queen of the Night’s famous aria. Standing in a glittering purple dress, Caroline Wettergreen is belting out some shockingly high notes, and I imagine champagne glasses exploding all over the lawns. I’ve heard from her dresser how nervous she has been, but there’s no sign of any cracks on stage tonight. As she sweeps off the stage for a grand exit, three pyrotechnic detonations blaze flashes of light into the wings. I had forgotten that they happen, and I am laughing with shock, my hands plastered over my face.
The next day, the temperature outside climbs perilously high, and the hillsides are turning brown in the baking heat. On Cendrillon, the air backstage feels heavy, like it’s literally permeated with sweat. While I’m doing the ladies’ chorus quick change, their bodies are slimy and wet. The costumes are sopping, and I feel I could almost wring them out. When I pull my head torch up onto my forehead, it slips back down my shiny face, bumping my nose on the way. There’s no time to reposition it but luckily Claire steps in and shines the beam of her own torch onto the fastenings of my costumes for me.
When I go upstairs to the green room for the dinner break, the heat makes it feel as though we’re in another country, like Jakarta. Bodies are draped over the sofas and armchairs, and no one’s got the energy for conversation. I find a chair near Alison, and we sit by an open window that has no breeze coming through it. I’m mindlessly scrolling through Instagram on my phone when I become aware of a presence crouching beside me — it’s Boss Lucy. She tells me that Gemma has had to go home, and wants to know if I can cover her plot, which is with the male dancers. So I hurry back down to my post outside the ladies’ chorus with the show’s master plot, and start to wade through the pages to see what the male dancers will be getting up to. But soon Claire appears and says the plan has been changed — Angela will be looking after the dancers and I am to take care of the Step Mother’s quick-change. My heart is doing a quick-change as I gallop up to the Principals on the Circle Level and find Agnes, who plays Cinderella’s step-mother. I knock on her door and sidle into the room.
‘Hellooo,’ says Agnes in an accent I can’t place. She’s standing with her legs astride in an A-formation with her hands planted on her hips, like some kind of extraordinary superhero. She’s wearing an enormous pair of pants with suspenders, and a bra that looks like it might have been pinched from Madonna.
‘Hi,’ I say, ‘I’m going to be doing your quick-change today.’
‘Ah, okaay,’ says Agnes. ‘Is fine, we have the time.’ And she waves her hands, batting away any concerns. ‘I show you.’ Her bright blue eyeshadow sparkles as she gives me a poker-faced wink, and I give her a nod and a double thumbs-up.
After the second half has launched, I check my watch multiple times for fear of missing the change, but I show up at the quick-change booth in plenty of time. Soon enough, Agnes comes striding in. She’s already in her underwear as she kicks off a pair of glittery gold shoes and then points to a corset. ‘This first.’ And then I’m grappling with unfamiliar fastenings that twist in ways I don’t expect. It’ll be fine, it always is, I tell myself, and it is. Next the skirt. Then she sits in a chair in front of the mirror for her wig and makeup changes, while I fasten on a gaudy necklace, and hand her her rings and bracelets. She slips her own feet into a new pair of shoes. And we’re done. I give her another thumbs-up in the mirror, and she gives me a grin of thanks.
Back downstairs at the end of the show, I strip the chorus girls out of their costumes. They apologise for being so sweaty but I implore them not to worry, it’s all part of the job. Years of ripping out pit-pads and handling sweat-soaked costumes have rendered me completely un-squeamish but even so, at the end of the night, I am standing over the kitchen sink on the Circle Level, soaping my arms up to my elbows. Ahhh! Living the dream.