by Holly Smale
Then, with a wave of inspiration, I text:
Po, EMERGENCY. Need IDEAS FOR NOAH ANNIVERSARY PRESSIE. Pls send ASAP!
Cheesier the better! xxx
Then I frown and add:
I don’t mean ‘cheesy’ I mean ‘romantic’. Obvs xxx
If there’s one person who knows romance, it’s Hope.
‘Right,’ I say, feeling infinitely calmer with my love life safely in my little sister’s hands, ‘let’s get this show on the road.’
Did you hear about the actor who fell through the floorboards?
He was just going through a stage.
OK, I am prepared.
The script is engraved in my brain, etched on the back of my eyeballs. In decades to come, I’ll still have random lines screeching through my head in the middle of the night, whether I get the role or not.
And yes – my character seems incredibly passive, bordering on empty space in female form – but, if blank is what Teddy Winthrop, casting director extraordinaire, wants, that’s what I’ll give him.
I mean, it worked last time, right?
‘Hi again!’ The receptionist looks up and beams at me. ‘Faith! I just knew you’d get this job. I could feel it in my bones!’ She leans forward. ‘I’m kind of spoooooky like that, you know? Get it?! Hahaha!’
I really hate people saying get it? after a joke.
No, I want to scream. Stop asking me.
‘Oh, I totally get it!’ I laugh brightly. ‘Is there anything I need to know before I go in?’
‘Don’t think so!’ She grins. ‘Pretty much a formality. Hop right in! They’re waiting!’
With a deep breath, I push through the door.
There are even more people here today, sitting on one side of the room, waiting and watching. My eyes skitter round with a pulse of panic. The lady in tortoiseshell glasses, Teddy Winthrop and a younger man I don’t recognise are standing near the front.
One look at Teddy’s face and I know he’s not the reason I’m here. He’s rigid with fury.
‘Faith Valentine!’ The man I don’t know steps forward. Black T-shirt, jeans, silvery hair – oh, got it – standard director’s outfit. ‘I’m Christian Ellis, director of the show, for my sins.’ Told you. ‘I’m thrilled you could make it.’
I glance at Teddy. His lips are a tight, thin line.
‘Joy,’ he says flatly.
‘No, it’s Faith! Haha! I watched your first audition,’ the director continues with a generous smile. ‘There’s so much to work with, you know?’
‘So much work to do,’ Teddy agrees drily.
‘We’re hoping you can bring some Valentine magic here today,’ Christian says and points me towards one of two chairs facing the crowd.
‘Of course.’ I smile sweetly and sit down, confusion escalating. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’
Umm, what is going on? The casting director is looking at me like I slid in on my stomach and vomited on his feet. So – why am I here?
‘We’re just waiting for the other actress to show up,’ Christian concludes. ‘And then we can get started.’
I stare at him blankly. What other actress?
‘I’M HERE!’ The door smashes open and makes a large dent in the wall. ‘I’m here, I’m here! Oh ship it. Did I do that? So there was this dude on the train and he had his legs out wide, and I’m like dude, stop manspreading on me, and he’s like what are you talking about, and I’m like what are you protecting, the blue diamond off Titanic? And he’s like what did you just say to me, you jumped-up little—’ Laugh. ‘Anyway, long story short, I got thrown off the train at the next stop by the conductor. Hence – late.’
Door Girl holds her hands out and bows, ta-da!
Then she looks up at me from under her bleached crop-fringe, green cat-eyes shining.
‘Oh,’ she says flatly. ‘It’s you. Shocker.’
‘Everyone!’ the director says excitedly. ‘Meet Scarlett Bell, a huge new talent, nominated for Most Promising Newcomer at this year’s Olivier awards. We’re pretty excited to have her confirmed in the role of Frankie.’
‘I didn’t win,’ she tells the room loudly. ‘Which is good because nobody knows who I am yet and that’s way more fun.’
She snaps her fingers at a guy in the back row.
‘Oy. Wake up, mate. It wasn’t the Most Promising New Coma award. That’s nowhere near as influential.’
Then she breaks into peeling laughter at her own bad joke, uncomfortably loud and a little bit snorty.
My brain is spinning on one tiptoe in a single spotlight.
‘Frankie? You’re playing … Frankie?’
‘Yup.’ She grins at me with pink cheeks. Her mouth is incredibly wide and slightly sharp and evil in the corners, like the Joker in Batman. ‘Frankie. The Frankster. Franko. Frankenstein the franking machine. That’s me.’
But— ‘So that means I’m auditioning for …’
‘Whatever you want, mate.’ Scarlett flops herself on the chair opposite mine and leans back with her arms over her head. ‘A pineapple? A fisherman? New member of the latest boy band? Take your pick.’
I stare at her.
‘I’m joking,’ she sighs. ‘Cat on a pink bicycle. Where did you find Famous Girl? Wait, I think I know.’ She starts humming. ‘Aren’t you the fish in a shoal? No – wait. You’re the song in a heart. Oooh, haven’t you read Descartes?’
My face is suddenly on fire. Thanks, Noah.
‘Faith –’ Director Christian smiles amiably – ‘you’re auditioning for the role of Agatha. I thought that was clear in the details we sent over.’
And … I’ve just spent twenty-four hours learning somebody else’s lines.
No no no no no no—
‘No problem!’ I smile as serenely as possible. ‘I can absolutely play Agatha! Just let me find my …’ Sanity, contents of my stomach, will to live. ‘Lipgloss. I’m going to need shiny lips to … really harness the character.’
With a swoop of panic, I dive into my handbag and try to quickly scan my script. My hands are shaking so badly I can’t even turn the pages.
Scarlett stares at my trembling fingers for a few seconds, then at my face. Her expression softens.
‘On-page is OK, right?’ she calls out much more gently. ‘Mr Ellis, can Faith have her script out? I mean, she’s been thrown a left hook here. Let her read her lines.’
‘Course she can!’ Christian chuckles. ‘No worries! I’m not a monster like Teddy-boy over here.’
Teddy-boy – easily in his seventies – glowers.
‘Yes,’ he says flatly. ‘Expecting actresses to know a handful of lines in order to obtain prestigious acting jobs in which they will recite said lines is clearly outrageous. What a brute I am.’
Giving Scarlett a grateful grimace, I pull my script out.
I do kind of know Agatha’s lines, but I’ve no idea what sort of character she is. I also can’t help being surprised that the livewire sitting next to me is going to play wishy-washy Frankie.
Scarlett just seems too … there.
‘Come on, then!’ As if she can hear me, she claps her hands. Huge lights click on and the camera starts running. ‘I’ve got more shouting at offensive strangers to do and my remaining sixty years are running out.’
She winks at me and clears her throat.
And it’s like magic: her freckled face abruptly shifts, becoming something else entirely. Her mouth is suddenly sweeter and more delicate; her almond eyes lose their cheeky sparkle and become luminous, pure, innocent.
‘Pretend you’re driving,’ she whispers as I stare at her, totally mesmerised. How did she just do that?
I blink. ‘Huh?’
‘Pretend. You’re. Driving.’ A tiny eyebrow quirk. ‘In this scene, you’re driving a car, remember?’
‘Oh! Yes! Umm.’ Awkwardly, I put my right hand out in a fist and wiggle my left hand at my thigh. I look like I’m holding on to a really tiny cow. ‘Here we … go.’
&
nbsp; Scarlett glances down, then somehow Frankie glances back up with a quivering mouth.
‘We’ve left Fred behind.’
And, for the first time, I actually feel the impact of that line. We’ve left the boyfriend she loves in the middle of nowhere, screaming for help, and we’ve just … gone.
‘Yes,’ I say, checking my script. ‘We didn’t have a choice!’
‘There’s always a choice.’ There’s strength in her jawline, and suddenly Frankie isn’t weak – she’s defiant, resilient. ‘We made a choice to save ourselves.’
‘To save yourself,’ I say, but in comparison I sound flat so – in a wave of inspiration – I reach over and grab my co-star by the T-shirt, shaking her. ‘NOT ME. JUST YOU.’
‘You’re still driving,’ she whispers. ‘Steering wheel. Gearstick. Accelerator. Eyes on the road, please.’
‘Oh!’ I let go of her T-shirt, embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’
‘We made a choice to save ourselves,’ she prompts as I take back control of our imaginary vehicle.
‘To save yourself. Not me. JUST YOU.’
‘I … don’t understand.’
And it looks like she really doesn’t. Frankie appears so genuinely bewildered that I actually want to stop the scene, hold out my script and go, Look. Look, it’s all in here. Line nine. I don’t really get it, either.
‘It’s too late for ME,’ I say stiffly, scanning line ten. ‘It was too late for me six weeks ago.’
Hang on. What?
‘Are you … are you saying …’ Frankie’s expression becomes horrified, a muscle in her cheek twitches and she shivers with the tiniest ripple of repulsion. ‘No. I don’t believe you.’
You’re the only character alive.
Teddy literally told me that at the last casting; how did I not notice that Frankie was being driven away by a zombie?
‘Why did you help me?’ Frankie’s eyes fill with real water: how? Then she flashes with anger. ‘Why didn’t you just let me stay with Fred? What are you going to do to me? How does this end?’
My mouth opens.
‘ANDDDDD … CUTTTTT!!’
I blink. How does it end?
‘Good, good,’ Scarlett says – herself again – jumping up. ‘Nice to meet you, Valentine. I’m gonna go get some pizza – I’m freaking starving. Call me when the next Agatha comes in, yeah, Mr Ellis? My bum hurts – those chairs are the worst. Laters!’
And she’s gone.
I did it.
I stare at the hole in the wall made by Scarlett’s entrance, my whole body slowly relaxing.
At last, I’m ready to pick up the Valentine baton, run forward and live up to the family name. To follow in the footsteps of my mother, of my grandmother, of my great-grandmother. It might even be fun: wearing costumes, hanging out with co-stars, learning lines, getting to play—
‘See what I mean?’ Teddy explodes. ‘Now are you listening, Chris? This is my job. It’s been my job for fifty years. I know what I’m talking about.’
‘Ted. Keep your voice down.’
‘I will not! I am employed to cast this show, and then you override my decisions, undermine my authority and call my professionalism into question—’
‘This is not the time or the place—’
‘And all for a little free publicity! To get the show in the papers … You knew this attention-seeking, talentless family heirloom would get it for you!’
Attention-seeking, talentless family heirloom?
Wait a minute, are they talking about me?
Surely not. I mean, I’m standing right here.
‘But you can see it too, yes? I don’t care how pretty she is or who her parents are or how powerful her grandmother is or the fact that she’s stepping out with Noddy Whatshisface. We absolutely cannot cast her!’
‘Theodore.’ The woman in tortoiseshell is loud and sharp. ‘Enough.’
I look down at my hands. I am still here, right?
Teddy Winthrop seems to abruptly come to his senses, suddenly registering that I’m totally equipped with every one of my auditory functions.
‘I’m sorry you had to hear that,’ he says as if waiting for me to leave the room was not an option. ‘I’m sure you’re a very nice girl.’ He says nice as if it’s poisonous. ‘But this is the real world, Faith. I want to make a good show. A great show. Not a … nepotistic pat on the back for the Valentine family.’
‘I was a publicity stunt?’ I step forward. ‘You gave me a second shot and leaked my name just so that the papers would write about the show?’
‘No!’ Christian Ellis cries emphatically. ‘No! Not at all! Well, yes. Yes, I did. But I did also genuinely hope you would be … you know.’
‘Capable of playing a dead person?’
‘Exactly!’ He nods. ‘Except …’
‘I’m not.’
‘… No. Shame,’ he adds with a small shrug. ‘I thought we could get something workable, but … I don’t think it’s there.’
Something inside me crumbles. So I take a deep breath and arrange my features into their prettiest, sweetest expression. I am calm, I am graceful, I am together.
Composure is easy. All you have to do is take your internal screaming and bury it so deep that nobody even knows it’s there. With enough practice, anyone can do it. I’ve been honing the art for years.
‘I completely understand,’ I smile, firmly shaking Director Ellis’s hand. ‘Thank you for your candour. I very much enjoyed meeting you anyway.’
Then I turn to Teddy Winthrop. ‘I appreciate your honesty.’ Dimple.
To the woman in glasses: ‘Thank you for giving me a chance.’ Dimple. ‘Perhaps you’ll consider me again when I’ve developed my craft further.’ Dimple dimple dimple.
And exit.
‘Mmm,’ Teddy mutters as I glide quietly towards the door. ‘I feel rather bad now.’
‘Well,’ snaps tortoiseshell lady, ‘maybe you should.’
My fingers touch the door handle and I hang on tightly for a few seconds while my throat tightens and my chest hurts and my smile threatens to break like a piece of string pulled too tight. No. No. No. No.
‘Have a great day, everyone!’ I call over my shoulder. ‘Weather looks like it’s going to be extraordinary!’ Blindly, I let myself out.
No.
Then I close the door behind me and shut my eyes for a few seconds while the room spins and my heart jitters and thumps and panic strobes across my brain. NO NO NO NO NO NO. NONONONONONONO—
When I finally open them again, I see a scrap of paper on the floor, so I pick it up crossly – what kind of person litters a reception? – glance at it briefly and stick it in my handbag. My phone vibrates as I pull it out.
MISSED CALL: Noah
MISSED CALL: Noah
MISSED CALL: Noah
MISSED CALL: Noah
MISSED CALL: Noah
He’s such a sweetheart, but I’m not ready to talk about what just happened. Not quite yet. Maybe not quite ever.
Quickly, I text back:
Audition ongoing. Speak later xx
‘Sooooo!’ The receptionist beams at me. ‘Bet you blew them away! I knew you’d be perfect.’ She whispers shyly. ‘They let me read the scripts sometimes, you know. That’s what I’m doing this stupid receptionist’s job for. It’s my way into the industry!’
I smile even though I can’t feel my mouth. ‘Good luck!’ My face feels like solid plastic. ‘Here’s hoping! See you later!’
All out of fake exclamation marks, I hold my crossed fingers high in the air and swish out of the building, back into the waiting silver limousine, where I sit, poised, elegant and contained.
Because Valentines Always Act With Class.
Even. If. They. Can’t. Act. At. All.
Why do we tell actors to ‘break a leg’?
So they end up in a cast.
‘Da-da-da-DA-DA! Close-up on Faith Valentine! Trumpets!’
‘Red carpet! Rose petals! Lights!’
> ‘Open the envelope!’
‘Aaaannnd here she is, ladies and not-so-gentlemen, the great middle Valentine sister, all-time icon of British cinema! Faith! Tell us, who is your inspiration, where is that dress from, how do you walk in those heels? Impart your secrets, lovely lady! We’re not worthy to bask in your goddess-like glow!’
A genuine Oscar is shoved into my hands.
‘The first of many! Wait, hang on, we need to polish it – it’s been in the downstairs loo for, like, a decade.’
‘Eww, there’s bog roll stuck to it. Someone’s getting fired.’
I blink at the golden award. Then at my siblings standing on the front steps of our house. They’ve laid out a pink fluffy bath mat over the doormat. Damp potpourri is being thrown at my head by Mercy, Hope is waving a tattered old envelope in the air, and Max is holding the hall lamp out so it shines directly into my face.
‘Speechless! Like all true superstars! And now she thanks her parents, her grandmother, the industry, her sisters, but most of all her handsome and charming brother, without whom none of this would be possible!’
Max jumps to the side and bows at himself.
‘Why thank you, ridiculously good-looking Max! Yes, it has been my honour to gently guide this lovable monkey through her runny-nosed pre-adolescent years and to see her blossom into the lanky, obsessively athletic weirdo we see before us.’
Mercy throws more potpourri.
‘And the winner is …’ Hope ostentatiously opens a gas bill and pretends to study it. ‘Rihanna! Wait … wrong one. Whoops, awkward. Faith Valentine!’
A giggle pops out of my nose.
‘How did it go?’ Po rips the gas bill in half. ‘Tell us everything! We’re on tender hooks!’
‘Tenterhooks,’ Max grins. ‘They’re not hooks that are feeling super affectionate.’
I bite my lip.
‘I think maybe it’s …’ I glance round at their optimistic faces. ‘Ahh … too soon to know for sure yet …’ – we absolutely cannot cast her – ‘… I guess we’ll just wait for an email from Persephone!’
I’m never checking my inbox ever again.
‘Oh, please,’ Mer says, patting my arm unexpectedly. ‘Come on, Eff. They’d be insane not to plaster your perfect face all over every bus in London.’
