by Suzy K Quinn
My throat has gone all tight. I feel my books slip out of my hands and hear them bump to the floor.
You idiot.
I crouch down, and Marc crouches down with me. ‘First day nerves?’
His face is inches from mine. The lines of his nose and chin are so perfect, and the hollows of his cheeks, so dark. He picks up the books and passes them back. His fingers touch mine, and I feel goose bumps run all over my arms.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ he says, then turns and strides into the classroom.
Everyone follows him into the lecture theatre, but I’m too dazed to move. I feel myself knocked left and right as the other pupils flood past. By the time I’ve got myself together enough to go into the theatre, the only seats left are in the front row.
Oh holy Jesus.
I can feel the other students watching me, but all I can focus on is Marc. He’s striding back and forth, waiting for everyone to take their seats. To put it more accurately, he’s waiting for me to take my seat – the last student to come into the room.
I slide into a seat at the front of the class, noticing Cecile is also in the front row, a few seats away. She’s smoothing down her blonde hair, and has already written: ‘First Marc Blackwell lecture’ on her notepad, and underlined it.
Marc closes the lecture-theatre door. Then he goes to a projection screen with the words ‘Ivy College’ bouncing around on it.
He is only a few feet away, and I feel ... I don’t know, exposed. Although he doesn’t look directly at me, I sense he notices where I’m sitting. I wish I had a mirror so I could see what my hair is doing, and check there’s nothing on my face. He could notice all my imperfections if he wanted to – my small breasts, the slight kink in my nose, the spot growing on my chin.
‘Well, class,’ says Marc, slotting his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers. ‘I imagine you’ve heard all about me in the newspapers. Marc Blackwell, Hollywood actor. Arrogant. Rude. Doesn’t take any nonsense or suffer fools gladly. Likes to get his own way. Let me put you straight. I’m worse than the newspapers would have you believe.’ He gives a little smile. ‘I’m tough. In this class, I expect one hundred percent in everything you do. And if I don’t think you’re trying your hardest, you’ll know all about it.’
The lecture theatre door creaks open, and Tom wheels himself inside, followed by Tanya. They look suitably sheepish, and Tanya squeezes into the only free seat, which happens to be beside me.
Tom wheels himself to the side of the row, and takes his rucksack off the back of his wheelchair. In the silence of the lecture theatre, the sound of him unzipping his bag is loud enough to wake the dead.
‘You two.’ Marc taps his Rolex. ‘I don’t tolerate lateness. Ever. Late again and you’re off the course.’
Tanya’s eyes grow wide. ‘But we had to wash Tom’s wheelchair,’ she says. ‘The grounds were muddy, and it got all over his wheels.’
‘I don’t tolerate excuses, either,’ Marc snaps. ‘Tom. In your audition, you told me you’d been in a wheelchair your whole life.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ says Tom. ‘And it’s never stopped me from doing what other people do.’ I notice his black hat has a peacock feather in it today.
‘Then you should know to leave yourself more time to get to places.’
Tom’s mouth snaps closed, and Tanya whispers to me, ‘Talk about strict.’
‘Let me tell you what else I won’t tolerate,’ says Marc. ‘Insubordination. You do as you’re told in my class, or when I’m directing you on stage. If I ask you to do something, it’s in your best interest. I know what’s good for you. If you can’t take instructions from me, you’re off the course.’
Tanya puts her hand up.
‘Put your hand down,’ Marc barks.
She slides her hand back down.
‘Now,’ Marc continues. ‘I know a lot of lecturers use their first names with students, but my name is Mr Blackwell. Not Marc. I’m your teacher, not your friend. You’ll call me Mr Blackwell. Any questions?’
A few seats along from me, Cecile raises her hand. She looks flushed, and her eyes are shining.
Another silly student with a crush.
‘Yes, Miss Jefferson?’
‘Call me Cecile.’ She smiles at Marc, but he only frowns back.
‘You have a question?’ Marc asks.
‘I heard our first-term mark won’t count. All we have to do is pass this term, and then our marks in the second and third terms will be the ones that count towards our final grade. Is that true?’
Marc’s lips pull tight, and the hollows in his cheeks ripple. ‘Not at my college. My students are marked at all times. Every essay and performance will count, and those not getting the grades won’t stay long.’
‘So, you’ll be marking our performances from the very first term?’ Cecile asks.
‘Oh, yes.’ A smile plays on Marc’s lips. ‘Don’t think you’ll escape being graded, just because you’re all new. I expect the very best at all times.’
‘You’ll get it, Mr Blackwell,’ says Cecile.
Marc turns to the projection screen. ‘Let me tell you about classes this year. You’ll be doing three performances, all of which will be marked. I will be in charge of choosing which parts you perform. I will do this based on what I think you need most to grow as actors.
‘I made notes at your auditions, and I already have parts lined up for your first performances – which will be this week. If, at the end of that performance, I don’t think you have what it takes ...’ He runs a hand across the screen. ‘You don’t go through to the second term. My college is like the real world. If you don’t perform well at all times, pack your bags.’
‘Which is why getting a certificate from this college opens so many doors,’ Cecile pipes up. ‘That’s why I’m here Mr Blackwell, to get the best drama qualification in the country.’
‘I don’t believe I asked for your comment, Miss Jefferson,’ says Marc. ‘And unless I ask for it, I don’t want to hear it. If you have a question, raise your hand and I’ll decide if it’s worth answering or not.’
Cecile looks furious at being told off, but she’s clever enough not to complain.
‘So.’ Marc picks up a pointer and smacks it on the projection screen. ‘Your performances will prove to me you have what it takes to stay on this course. You will be performing in front of me, one-on-one. We start this week.’
Chapter 13
Marc picks up a remote control from the lecturer podium and clicks away the Ivy College screen. In its place are lists of names and plays. I watch his strong fingers grip the pointer, and he smacks it on the screen again.
‘I’ve assigned each of you a part and pages for your first performance.’
I stare at the lists of names and realise they’re our names, followed by the name of a character, play and page numbers for the script. I scan the list for my name. Beside me, Tanya takes heavy-rimmed black glasses from her bag and slides them on.
‘Make a note of which part you’re playing, and start practising,’ says Marc. ‘I have a library of scripts in the stationery cupboard.’ He waves the pointer at a door beside the projection screen. ‘You can go get your script at the end of class.’
I squint at the screen, and finally see my name, right at the bottom. My play is: Call of the Night, and my character is the lead, Jennifer Jones. I blink and stare. Oh my god. Jennifer Jones is a ballet dancer who seduces her theatre director. The part has been played by some amazing actresses. Nicole Kidman. Meryl Streep. There’s no nudity, but the role is very femme fatale.
Beside me, Tanya groans.
‘Who did you get?’ I ask.
‘Bianca, from The Taming of the Shrew,’ she says. ‘About as different from the parts I usually play as you could get.’
‘Quiet now,’ says Marc, silencing the grumblings in the room. ‘The point of these parts is to stretch you as actors. To take you into territories you haven’t been before. I want you to go away and pract
ise. Then, each of you will come and see me in the theatre room and perform. If you pass the performance, you get to stay on the course and try out for the next one. It’s that simple. Got it?’
I see nervous nods around me, and feel myself nodding too.
‘For those of you performing scenes with two people, I’ll be performing the other part. Some of you just have monologues. So.’ Marc strides along the front row, and I hold my breath. ‘Any complaints about my teaching methods?’
There is silence.
Marc stops right in front of me. ‘Good. Because have no doubt. If you don’t like the way I do things, you’ve got one option. Leave.’
I grab my pen and start twiddling it. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can play the part of Jennifer Jones in front of anyone, let alone Marc Blackwell. It’s too ... I don’t know. Jennifer Jones is supposed to be really attractive and sexy, and I don’t see myself that way.
Marc opens the cupboard beside the projection screen, and waves his hand to welcome us into it. ‘The scripts are all in there. Help yourselves. And remember. The mark of a good actor is their ability to take on any role and make it their own. I hope you’re ready to impress me.’
We get up from our seats, and crowd towards the stationery cupboard. I hold back. When the scrum is over, I go into the cupboard and find Call of the Night beside a pile of Oscar Wilde plays.
When we take our seats again, Marc is standing behind the lecturer’s podium.
‘Go away and rehearse,’ he says, ‘and I’ll see your performances this afternoon, and tomorrow morning. I’ll put times up on the notice board outside in one hour.’
‘Today and tomorrow?’ Cecile asks. ‘How are we going to learn our lines in that time?’
Marc glares at her. ‘It’s only a few pages. Enough for you to get a feel for the part. I don’t expect you to follow the script exactly. A good actor understands the character, and improvises when necessary.’
‘But it’s so soon,’ says Cecile.
Marc frowns. ‘You’ll find the real world of acting isn’t as precise and organised as you might like it to be. Auditions come out of the blue. Think of this as experiencing a little of what that’s like. You want control? Then become a teacher.’ He checks his watch. ‘I’ll see some of you later today, in Queen’s Theatre.’ With that, he strides out of the room, leaving all the students chattering nervously.
We file out of the classroom, and Cecile waits for me by the door. ‘That was a clever little stunt,’ she says. ‘Dropping your books like that.’
‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ I say.
‘I’ll bet.’ She walks off.
Chapter 14
Tanya appears beside me, smiling. ‘You want to get a coffee while we wait for the times to go up? Practise our parts?’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Have we got some news about our new teacher.’ She waves at Tom, who is wheeling himself out of the theatre. ‘Coffee?’
‘Oh my word, that’s exactly what I need,’ says Tom, putting a hand to his head. ‘This hangover is monumental.’
‘News?’ I ask. ‘About Marc?’
‘Well. Scandal really. So? Fancy a coffee? Or would you rather go rehearse on your own?’
‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘I’d love to have a coffee with you.’
‘He’s a bit on the strict side, don’t you think?’ Tanya whispers,’ looking over my shoulder as if Marc might magically appear. ‘I mean, today was like ... whoa! If we step out of line, just a tiny bit, we’re off the course.’
‘He’s ... intriguing,’ I admit. ‘He comes across as so cold, but at the same time I get the feeling he really does care about us.’
‘He’s deep alright,’ says Tanya. She grins. ‘Aren’t all the best actors?’
We head to the college cafeteria, where I see trays of eggs and bacon laid out, left over from this morning’s breakfast.
‘I’m starving,’ I tell Tanya, picking up a plate. ‘I was too nervous to eat anything this morning.’
‘Me and Tom were too hung over,’ says Tanya.
‘Do you guys want any breakfast?’ I ask, picking up a tray.
‘Not for me, darling,’ says Tom. ‘Delicate goods today.’
‘Just coffee for me,’ says Tanya.
I pile up the plate with eggs, bacon, tomato, hash brown and toast. We all get coffees and take a table by the window. There’s a fir tree outside, magpies hopping between its branches.
‘So,’ I say, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. ‘What’s the news?’
Tom pulls the Daily Mail from his khaki rucksack. ‘Check out page four.’
I flick the pages, and see a headline: Blackwell Sister Deals Drugs
The pictures are all grainy black and white, but I see the outline of two silhouettes on a dark street – one small and female, appearing to hand something to a taller figure.
I scan the article, and read that Marc’s sister, Annabel, was caught selling heroin, and faced a prison sentence. Marc hired one of the best solicitors in the country to keep her out of jail, and told the court he was committed to her continued drug rehabilitation.
‘Poor Marc,’ I murmur. ‘It must be awful to have someone you care about wrecking their life like that.’
‘She’s lucky to have a brother like him,’ says Tanya, looking over my shoulder. ‘Plenty of famous people wouldn’t want to be associated with a family member who’s a drug addict. It’s pretty brave to go to court in person, too. He must have known it would go to the press.’
‘Not quite as cold as he seems then, ladies?’ Tom says, with a light smile. ‘I’m telling you, there’s more to him than meets the eye. I’m an excellent reader of people.’
At the end of the article, I read:
‘This fresh Blackwell scandal comes after recent speculations about the star’s sex life.’
‘What speculations?’ I ask Tanya.
‘Oh, that,’ says Tanya. ‘Rumour is, our Mr Blackwell likes to be in charge in every way. The Celeb Focus website says he uses ropes and paddles in the bedroom.’
‘Everything on Celeb Focus is unsubstantiated,’ says Tom. ‘Anyway, what he does in his private life is his own business. Don’t we all have our sexual preferences?’ He wiggles his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure you girls have got up to plenty of things.’
‘Not me,’ I say. ‘I’m twenty two and haven’t done anything more than sex in a double bed with the lights off.’
‘No!’ Tom laughs. ‘A lovely thing like you? It doesn’t seem right. You need to get out more.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But there was so much to do at home. Cleaning, looking after my dad and my little brother. And working. I didn’t have time for anything much.’
‘Hopefully you’ll meet some handsome young man here who shows you a great many variations,’ says Tom. ‘And if you can’t find a handsome one, I’m always willing to step in.’
‘You are handsome,’ I tell Tom. And I mean it. Okay, he’s a little overweight, but he has lovely green eyes, dark black hair and tanned skin, and his personality is as large as the cafeteria.
I think about Marc taking care of his sister like that. Hearing about this side of him, this protective side, makes me feel a surge of warmth. Then I think of what Tanya said, about Celeb Focus and Marc being in charge, and my skin feels like it doesn’t fit my body quite right.
‘So does he have a girlfriend, or something?’ I ask, feeling like a stupid, jealous schoolgirl.
‘He doesn’t have girlfriends, does he?’ says Tanya. ‘Isn’t that what the magazines always say? He’s photographed with different women all the time, but he never dates anyone for long.’
Chapter 15
When the paper goes up on the notice board, it’s immediately surrounded by jostling students.
I wait at the back, trying to stay calm. Will my performance be today or tomorrow? It almost doesn’t matter. Whether it’s sooner or later, I just don’t know if I can perform this part, especially in suc
h close proximity to Marc.
Tom waits with me, but Tanya manages to squeeze through.
I hear Cecile say, ‘Oh great,’ and push through the crowds in a huff. When she reaches me she hisses, ‘I have my own books to drop, you know. Don’t think you’ve won.’
‘I’m not trying to win anything,’ I say.
‘Well, I’m going to be spending time alone with Marc in the theatre this afternoon, and I intend to make every second count.’ She storms off.
I move closer to the board. ‘Oh shit, shit, shit.’ My name is right at the top. I’m first. I’m performing at one o’clock today.
Tanya appears beside me. ‘I was trying to find you,’ she says. ‘Sorry for the bad news. But at least you get it over with. Me and Tom are today too. Not long after you. What did Cecile just say?’
‘Oh, she thinks I dropped my books on purpose earlier. I dropped my books and Marc, I mean, Mr Blackwell picked them up. But it was an accident.’
‘She’s an idiot,’ Tanya snorts.
‘I’m first,’ I murmur to myself, blinking in disbelief. I look again, just in case I’ve misread it, but there I am. Sophia Rose. Right at the top. I’m seeing Marc in less than two hours. ‘Oh shit. I’d better start practising. See you later.’
I hurry back to my room, where the roses are perky and beautiful by the window. The card is still propped beside them.
I look over my copy of Call of the Night, and flick to my scene. We checked over our scenes while we were having coffee, and I was relieved to find mine isn’t too bad. It’s the scene where Jennifer talks to her theatre director about giving her the role. Just talking. It doesn’t escape my attention that I’ll be talking to Marc, but as Tanya said, it’s still easier than a monologue.
I power up my laptop, and look up a plot precise for Call of the Night online. I’m familiar with the story, but not that familiar. I haven’t looked at this particular play since school.
I find a website that summarises Call of the Night:
Jennifer Jones, a young ballerina, is desperate to succeed at any cost. To win the lead in The Nutcracker, she seduces her elderly theatre director and gets the role. However, the public don’t warm to her, and when she is booed off stage, Jennifer commits suicide. The play explores issues of age gaps in relationships and female empowerment.
