I looked really good in Laurence Fishburne’s jacket. I was also wearing Sydney Poitier’s sunglasses. I looked good in those too.
I was working at the Aldwych Theatre in London in the mid-90s. I floated between the box office selling tickets, the bar selling drinks and showing people to their seats. I had a sideline in letting people who worked at other theatres in through the side door to watch the show for free. In return they would do the same for me. In the autumn and winter of 96/97 I saw almost every show on the West End without paying a cent. I eased my moral centre with the excuse that it made up for the lousy pay I was getting or some such flimflam. If I’m completely candid I was fairly morally flexible around the whole issue.
The show running at the Aldwych was a revival of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? It was an excellent show starring the great Diana Rigg and David Suchet, most famous for his portrayal of Hercule Poirot. It also starred my almost namesake Claire Holman. (For those of you who don’t want to check the byline my name is Ter, as in tear or rip a piece of paper, Hollmann.) If we had have got married and if she had of kept her own surname it would have confused the hell out of everyone. My version of Hollmann having two l’s and two n’s and hers having only one of each. This was the source of some amusement amongst the front of house staff. She did in fact marry the director of the play, Howard Davies, so no confusion there. The show was well reviewed and the houses were often full. (A little fuller during the Wednesday matinees thanks to me.) Its success meant that it attracted a number of celebrities over its run. I showed Goldie Hawn to her seat. I sold ice cream to Julia Ormond. I told Anthony Shaw what I thought of his acting. I may have been a little gushy. I bumped into Mikhail Baryshnikov. He was less than forgiving. Kevin Spacey came in late and left early. The show was even attended by a couple who had gained notoriety by having sex during the performance of a number of different shows across the city. The lights had barely dimmed before they were going at each other. An eagle-eyed usher, I forget his name, but he was the kind of guy who got an award for a complete attendance record at school, intervened and banished them from the theatre. I also checked Morpheus’s coat, although he was still three years away from playing that part. He has presence does Mr Fishburne. You know he is there.
While he wasn’t there though we had fun with his clothes. We, myself and two other aspiring actors Rory and David, pranced around the coatroom striking poses and looking cool. It was a knee length jacket but I can’t even remember the colour or design now. If I was pushed I would say houndstooth and wayfarer Ray-Bans. In the mid-nineties no one had a mobile phone let alone a smart phone but if we did we would have had at least a dozen photos and an Instagram account called @celebrityjackets. The silliness lasted for about five minutes and then we grew tired of our game and went downstairs to the bar and talked shit and flirted with the girls. During the intermission Laurence and Sydney ordered coffee, looked cool and then went back to their seats.
The rest of the show passed without event. As the cast were taking their encore I made my way up to the coatroom. I put on the jacket one more time. It wasn’t a good fit. I took it and put it near the counter. Moments later the audience came pouring out of the theatre. Little pieces of paper with numbers were thrust at us and in return we delivered coats and jackets. Laurence emerged from the stalls door and made his way towards us. He handed me his ticket. I took it with smile. I reached for his coat and handed it to him. “Nice jacket, Mr Fishburne,” I said. He gave brief smile.
“Thanks.” And then he was gone.
To date Laurence’s jacket is the only celebrity item of clothing I have worn but I like to think that all over the world other people in other cloakrooms are wearing Laurence Fishburne’s jackets. I hope they all look as cool as I did.
