Close Up and Personal (Spotlight Series)

by JS Taylor

  Chapter One

  I scrabble through my make-up bag, searching for some kind of magic remedy. There must be something in here which will make me look like a real actress.

  My mind is racing on a million things at once. I have an audition in less than an hour with one of the biggest theatre companies in London. And although I graduated from England’s best drama school this year, I majored in script writing. I have only ever acted in a handful of plays.

  The lipstick skids out of my hand and falls to the floor. Damn. Maybe lipstick wasn’t the look anyway. I turn back to face my reflection in the mirror.

  Large frightened grey eyes blink back at me from under a tangle of thick black hair. The best I can hope for is I get through the audition without making a complete fool of myself. I’ll be lucky they don’t laugh me out the door before I get to read my lines.

  Lines. Another panic sets in. At least this I have prepared for. I begin muttering the learned words under my breath, like a mantra to calm my mind.

  It doesn’t work.

  “Jeez Issy. You look a wreck!”

  Lorna, my best friend and roommate breezes into my bedroom room.

  I say best friend. But since she was the one who swung this audition without asking me first, she is currently in my bad books.

  “Lorna, they are going to take one look at me and burst out laughing,” I frown, turning to face her. “It’s obvious to anyone I’m not an actress.”

  Lorna stalks over to the bed, folding her long legs underneath herself as she sits. She’s a model, and manages to make everything she does look like a catwalk pose.

  “Shhh,” she tuts, moving a tuft of hair out of my eyes. “Calm down. You’ll be great. Remember the college play? You rocked the auditorium.”

  “That was at college Lorna. This is the real thing.”

  Lorna cocks her head to one side and smiles. “We went to drama school honey. They don’t let anyone who isn’t destined for greatness act in the final play. Besides, what have you got to lose?”

  My dignity, my ego, my self respect.

  I look back to the mirror, letting out a long sigh.

  Lorna shrugs. “I couldn’t have even got you this audition if you hadn’t shown talent. Berkeley Theatre only lets top actors try out for their plays.”

  The thought spikes me wit a fresh surge of fear.

  Top actors. And me. Great.

  “And you’re perfect for the role,” continues Lorna. “Look at your beautiful dark hair and those great big eyes. You’re a natural Lady Capulet.”

  This is another reason why I’m annoyed with Lorna. She chose the role without asking me. And yet again I’ve been typecast as an evil older woman.

  I give my reflection a rueful smile. Thanks mom. In the few roles I’ve acted my inherited Spanish features always get me cast as villainesses and femme fatales. Ironic since nothing else about me suits those roles. I’ve only had two boyfriends and one of those was in first grade.

  “Just think if you get it,” continued Lorna, her eyes shining. “You could get to meet James Berkeley in person. Or even Madison Ellis!”

  I frown into the mirror. Right now, meeting the famous owner of the Berkeley Theatre company and his actress wife is the last thing on my mind. All I want to do is get through the audition without mangling my lines too badly and leave with my dignity.

  “I just have no idea how I should look,” I sigh. “I never went to those classes about how to ace auditions.”

  “Turn to face me,” instructs Lorna. I obey, and she riffles through my make-up until she has a stack of neutral shades in her palm.

  “It’s just like casting for models,” she says. “You just have to look like you’re not trying too hard, and that you’re naturally beautiful. Which for you,” she adds, sticking an eye pencil between her teeth, “issh the eashieest sshing in the world.”

  I sit still whilst Lorna applies neutral tones of brown and taupe around my pale grey eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, as she gets to work in my face. “I am grateful Lorna. Truly. It’s just that I think I’m way out of my league here.”

  Lorna acknowledges the apology, and switches to a different make-up brush. Under her expert hands my eyes now appear both professionally finished and effortlessly natural.

  “Thanks,” I say, admiring her genius with make-up.

  “Phew,” says Lorna, smudging away at the final layer. “This is tougher than it looks. Even the slightest dash of pencil is going to make you look like a smouldering sex kitten. Not the look,” she adds, leaning back to appraise my face.

  “Ok,” she concludes, “I think we’re going to have to do without mascara. You eyelashes are so long they might end up looking false.”

  “Lorna!” I laugh. I love my friend but her flattery is beyond ridiculous sometimes. It must be her life in the modelling world.

  I look at the pair of us in the mirror. Without a lick of make-up Lorna’s chocolate skin has a perfect golden sheen to it. She looks like she’s been airbrushed and her violet eyes sing out against her tumult of afro hair. Everything about Lorna is vivacious. Full of life. She has got every single modelling job she has ever tried for, and London agents are falling over themselves to represent her. Next to Lorna I look like a ghost.

  “It should be you going to the audition,” I murmur, gazing at her beautiful face “not me.”

  Lorna turns to me sternly.

  “Now you listen to me Isabella Green,” she admonishes, waving a long finger. “You are a superbly talented young actress. And you’re perfect for this role. Don’t you dare waste this opportunity.”

  I smile back at her. “I’ll do my very best,” I say, “I promise.” And I mean it. Lorna’s gone out of her way to land me this chance. The least I can do is put my all into it.

  “Besides,” Lorna looks puzzled for a moment. “I thought you wanted to try out acting.”

  “I did,” I sigh. “But for some small independent theatre company. Somewhere I could be involved in the scripts. I never wanted to try with the biggest theatre company in the country. And for Romeo and Juliet of all the plays!”

  The realisation of what Lorna’s put me up for is starting to hit hard. It’s true that I do want to try some acting in a small way. But not as the centre of attention in some big production. I never saw my name in lights like the other kids at drama school. My place is behind the scenes, in the background. I only want to act a little so I can be a better script-writer.

  “Well there’s no harm in hitting the big time too early. And you owe me.” Lorna gives me an evil grin. “I had to sleep with the choreographer to get you this audition.”

  “You didn’t!” for a moment I think she’s serious. Lorna nearly falls of the bed laughing.

  “Of course not! Honey, I’m bad but I’m not that bad. I told you before. We met at a party. I mentioned your name. He’d caught the last of the college final play and thought you’d be good.”

  “Ok.” I stand. “Clothes.” My heartbeat starts hammering again.

  Lorna selects a pair of tight designer jeans which she insisted I buy in the summer sales, and then runs off to find me a top from her bedroom.

  “Here,” she returns holding a beautiful silk camisole top.

  “I can’t wear that!” I yelp. The top probably costs more than my waitressing salary earns me in a month.

  “Take it, take it,” Lorna waves it at me.

  “It looks like underwear,” I say dubiously, taking the top.

  “That’s the look this season,” says Lorna. “They’ll think you’re beautiful and have your finger on the fashion pulse. What’s not to love?”

  “Ok,” I
take a deep panic-wracked breath as I slide on the silky top. As an after thought I grab my favourite black vintage suit jacket and slip it over the top. Lorna nods in approval.

  “You look great,” she says. “You always could mix in the vintage thing.”

  “I’m good to go.” I say, appraising the new ‘casual-audition-Isabella’ in the mirror.

  Lorna sits on the bed. She looks a little tired suddenly.

  “Did you remember to take your tablets?” I say, suddenly remembering that she came in late last night.

  Lorna has been a diabetic since childhood, but unless I watch her like a hawk she sometimes forgets to take her meds.

  “Of course! Stop worrying about me and concentrate on the audition,” says Lorna.

  She stands and gives me a hug. “You go,” she says “have fun. You look perfect. Really great. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. And if you see that hot Mr James Berkeley you blow him a little kiss from me.”

  I laugh, and feel heartbeat slow just a little. “As if I would! Anyway, Berkeley is only a financial investor Lorna. He doesn’t get involved in the production side. The theatre would be lucky if he even showed up to a premiere.”

  “Well,” says Lorna, “you never know. You might get the part, and then you’ll see him at that premiere when he shows up.”

  Chapter 2

  I emerge from the London underground in the bustle of Covent Garden. Ordinarily I come here with Lorna shopping. And a couple of times we’ve managed to get cheap theatre tickets to West End shows. But I’ve never come here with a real schedule, and the tangle of London streets are confusing.

  Nervously I consult my home-made map. As usual I printed it last minute, only to discover my ancient Epson was running low on ink. Again. The London streets on the map are only half-printed, and the result is difficult to read.

  I realise that one of the huge redbrick Victorian buildings looks familiar

  Have I walked down this street already?

  I check my watch. Damn. The last thing I need is to be the girl who turns up late.

  It must be here somewhere.

  I stare up at the billboards peppering the historic buildings. There are at least ten theatres on this street and it’s hard to tell when one ends and the next begins.

  I check my map again, and look up at a vast façade of ornate stonework.

  My heart rises into my throat. This is the right building and I remember where I’ve seen it before.

  One night when Lorna dragged me to a West End bar we went past this theatre, and the streets were clogged with people queuing to get in for miles back. Then three huge black limos had pulled up and the crowd went crazy.

  “That’s the royal entourage,” said Lorna knowledgably, pointing to a discreet gold crest on one of the doors. “Looks like Princes William and Harry are making a visit to the theatre.”

  At the time we’d both stood and stared, trying to get a glimpse of the Princes. I never imagined I’d have a reason to go inside.

  But here I am. About to audition at a theatre which is the choice of the English Royal family. And on Lorna’s advice I’ve opted for dress-down jeans and a camisole top.

  I approach the plush-looking doors swallowing hard.

  An immaculately-suited doorman complete with top hat steps neatly forward and opens the door for me.

  I step through. The world on the other side is so much more fabulous than I’m used to that it takes my breath away.

  Beneath my feet the plush red carpet feels a mile deep, whilst the elaborate ceilings soar into a wealth of glittering chandeliers and gold-leaf. The walls are decked with images of famous actors, and in between it all is the dark mahogany of the ticket office and the information service.

  Nervously I approach the ticket office, feeling my muscles tighten with nerves.

  A young woman in gold and green liveried suit looks up. Her lipstick is so perfect it makes her mouth look like a magazine cover shoot.

  “Can I help you?” she smiles. I blink, momentarily overwhelmed by her flawless make-up. Surely she must have someone do it for her?

  “I’m here to audition,” I say, adding, “Lorna Green arranged it.”

  The woman’s face twists in confusion.

  “They sent you up here?” she says. “You usually need to go to the stage door.”

  Of course I should have gone to the stage door! It’s as much as I can do not to slap my hand against my forehead. What a complete idiot to think I could just walk into the main theatre.

  “It’s back outside and round the corner,” she adds, kindly catering to my obvious idiocy.

  I nod. “Thanks. Um. Thank you.”

  “They probably haven’t put the right signs up,” adds the woman. “It’s absolute chaos today.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “James Berkeley has flown in from LA unannounced, and everyone is running around like a headless chicken!”

  “I… I thought he was only a financer,” I say, curiosity getting the better of me. James Berkeley is James Berkeley after all. In the movie world he is one of the biggest directors and producers out there. Not to mention he is seriously hot.

  The woman smiles, obviously sharing my interest.

  “Usually he doesn’t get involved. But he’s interested in nurturing young talent. So sometimes he flies in to see how the rehearsals are going. It’s a real honour for the actors,” she adds.

  I give a half smile in reply before turning on my heel and heading the way I’ve just come.

  It surprises me that the woman speaks so warmly of Berkeley. In the movie world he’s known for his take-no-prisoners approach to filming, and has a reputation for working staff to the brink of exhaustion. Maybe he has a different approach to theatre.

  I make my way out of the plush doors, and eventually find the considerably less glamorous stage door round the back of the theatre.

  Maybe James Berkeley arriving is a blessing in disguise, I think. Perhaps everyone will be too distracted to notice I’m a few minutes late.

  I knock and after a moment someone buzzes me in. I enter and am confronted with a grouchy-looking woman behind a glass panel. She must be in her mid-fifties and looks as though she’s been here since the theatre was built.

  “I.. Um.. I’m here for an audition,” I manage.

  She glowers at me and looks at her watch meaningfully.

  The clock behind her head reads a few minutes past the hour.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I add, “I went to the wrong place.”

  The woman raises her eyebrows.

  “Name?”

  “Isabella Green.” She consults her list for what feels like an age. Then just when I think she’s going to find a reason to send me away she points a coral-painted fingernail along the dark corridor.

  “That way,” she says. “Third door left.”

  I nod gratefully. She leans forward.

  “Do. Not,” she says, pronouncing every word, “go running around into different rooms. Mr Berkeley is here to watch the rehearsals today and the last thing he needs is some love-struck young performer interrupting him.”

  As if I would blow my audition to go act the dumb fan! I am outraged. James Berkeley may be a famous director, but I’m not about to go running around trying to catch a glimpse of him.

  Temper, temper. Keep yourself I check.

  I bite back a tart reply, reminding myself to keep my hot-headedness under control.

  I’ve learned the hard way that having my mother’s Spanish temperament can be less than helpful in professional situations.

  So I choose to ignore the comment, and turn away from her, stalking off down the corridor.

  I’m still letting the annoyance subside as I find the door marked ‘auditions’. I take a moment outside to steel myself.

  Lorna has told me all about the casting director. She’s a formidable woman, and unforgiving of slip-ups. I feel the nerves begin to build again.

  I’ve learned all my lines. I remind mysel
f. At least she can’t be angry at me for that.

  Slightly calmer I raise my hand and knock on the door.

  “Come in!”

  To my surprise it’s not a female voice, but a male who calls from inside.

  Perhaps she has an assistant. Or a bevy of other people in to help her watch the casting. I don’t know how big theatres work, but this makes sense.

  I push down the handle and walk in.

  But in the room is only one person. And as the familiar face turns to me I feel my heart drop into my shoes.

  I can’t believe it.

  James Berkeley himself is conducting the audition.

  Chapter 3

  For a long moment my feet won’t move forward, and it’s all I can do to keep my mouth dropping open in amazement.

  Then my resolve kicks in and I force my legs to move across the room.

  The audition space is small, with just a single chair in which Berkeley sits, and a mock stage taped out in white tape.

  Easy Isabella. I say to myself. Just one step at a time.

  I have no idea how I’m going to get my lines out.

  I take in the taped out stage area. It’s about ten fifteen foot square. Bigger than I was expecting. Somewhere in my panic frozen brain I mentally scale up some of my acted movements to fill the area.

  “You’re late,” says Berkeley, as I approach the taped out area in front of his director’s chair.

  “And you’re not who I was expecting,” I mutter. My rising fear is mixing with a feeling of aggravation. What a stunt to pull! Surely even a seasoned professional would be intimidated to find a world-famous director conducting their audition instead of the usual casting director?

  Or perhaps this is just a mean trick to weed out the less experienced actors. In my case, it’s bound to work.

  “You are not who I was expecting either,” he says in a low voice. The way he speaks seems to have an extra resonance, and his words rumble around the small room.

  My legs manage to carry me into the designated acting area. Berkeley stares into my face as I stand in the acting area and turn to him. We are about six feet apart, but for some reason the distance feels a lot closer. The atmosphere is almost intimate. I feel my cheeks begin to heat and pray I’m not blushing.