by Andi Osho
In less than an hour, Simi was sitting in Antonia De Silva’s corridor of doom, staring up at the new Clash of the Crown poster mounted on the wall. She was back on the dreaded casting carousel but at least some things were different. Yes, there was the usual row of actors muttering lines and that one girl who always struck up distractingly loud conversation. All that was the same but what was different was that Sandra Flipping Fabulous wasn’t in the running. It still stung that she’d got the Dorothea role but at least that gave everyone a fighting chance for the role of ‘Cake’, the part Simi was auditioning for that morning. Simi looked at her script page again. She loved creating characters – even though she’d only done it professionally a handful of times. Usually it was with dialogue like, ‘You’re fifteen centimetres dilated,’ or ‘Could you describe the person who assaulted you?’ But with this one page of dialogue in her hand, she really wasn’t sure what to do. And worse, the character Cake only uttered one word… cake. What was she supposed to do with that? At a loss, Simi opened Meagan’s email and scrolled down. Just as she suspected, there they were. After the time, date and details for the audition – Meagan’s notes.
Even after everything that had gone down on Friday, Meagan had still sent her ‘thoughts’. Simi read and reread them, now steeped in uncertainty. No, Simi thought. This was why no one trusted her. She didn’t trust herself, always defaulting to other people’s opinions. She wasn’t going to do Meagan’s notes, she was going to figure this out by herself. She gasped, thrilled at her tiny act of rebellion. Simi looked up and down the corridor again. Either side of her, the other actors seemed to have made clear character choices, several arriving pretty much in costume. Simi looked down at her own clothes, jeans and a chunky knit sweater. What if the problem wasn’t her interpretation? What if the problem was – her? Maybe, success would come if she were like someone more successful… like Sandra. If Antonia and so many other casting directors loved Sandra, that could be the path to a sure-fire win. She glanced down at her one page of dialogue wondering how Sandra would handle Cake, a simple girl who worked in the kitchens and loved… cake. Sandra would probably stride in with a big luxurious swish of her hair. Simi patted her afro which was far from swishable. She would need to try something else. She didn’t have time to buy donuts but maybe she could slather on some quintessential Sandra Scott charm, a suitable sickly-sweet substitute for donuts if ever there was one. She would give toothy smiles and nauseating bonhomie to everyone in a fifty-yard radius. Why hadn’t she thought of all this before? She would ignore Meagan’s idea that Cake was a mole from a neighbouring kingdom pretending to be a simpleton. It wasn’t funny and it didn’t even make sense. Instead, Simi would just be Sandra, she decided, as the casting-room door opened and Gabe peered out.
‘Tolu?’ he said and an actress at the other end of the line followed him in.
‘Good luck!’ Simi beamed with an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Tolu gave her a perplexed look before closing the door behind herself.
How Sandra was that? Simi smirked.
According to the signing-in sheet, Simi was next. She instinctively looked to her phone for Meagan’s usual good-luck message but there was nothing. Simi really hoped their rift would soon pass because she was starting to miss Meagan too. What with one thing or another, things were getting out of kilter between all three of them and Simi didn’t like it one bit. To take her mind of her friendship woes, she practised flashing a Sandra Scott grin. As she hit full-beam, Antonia’s office door opened. Tolu came trotting out, thanking them profusely. Simi watched her pace down the corridor.
‘All the best!’ Simi whispered, waving crossed fingers at her.
Tolu sneered at Simi before disappearing through the double doors.
‘Simi Oladipo,’ an expressionless Gabe called as he poked his gaunt face into the corridor.
Go, go Sandra Mark II, Simi intoned as she swished her imaginary weave and sauntered into the casting room.
‘So,’ said Antonia clapping her hands on her thighs. ‘Bit of a weird one, this.’
‘I love weird!’ Simi simpered as Antonia’s smile hardened.
Wasn’t she loving this second coming of Sandra? Not a problem, Simi decided, ramping things up by randomly throwing her head back and laughing at nothing.
‘Are you okay, Simi?’ Antonia asked.
Simi stopped laughing.
‘Must be a sugar rush from the donut I had. I’ll bring you some next time!’ Simi cawed.
Antonia cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I’m trying to get my cholesterol down. So, as I was saying, this role is a bit of a weird one. Obviously, she doesn’t say much so I thought we’d improvise.’
Gabe glared at Simi who had broken out into a cold sweat. Every actor had a fib on their CV like ballet or long-swording and Simi’s was improvisation. She couldn’t improvise her way out of a supermarket car park.
‘Great,’ she lied, stealing a glance at Gabe who had a tiny smirk on his skinny face.
Simi was certain he knew. Gabe dragged the camera tripod back to give Simi more playing space – or room to hang herself. It was time to drop the Sandra imitation, Simi realised. Playing a role to get a role was not going to help. She could do this. Besides, how wrong could it go if all she had to say was ‘Cake!’
‘Don’t look so worried. You don’t just have to say “Cake”. Let it go wherever it wants,’ said Antonia as she limbered up with some gentle neck rolls.
Was this an improv session or a kick-boxing fight, Simi panicked. Whichever, she was going to get battered.
‘Okay, imagine you’re in the kitchen probably baking a cake,’ said Antonia chortling at her joke.
Simi tried to smile back but it manifested as a wide sneer due to her mounting terror. This is ridiculous, she thought. This character is in one scene and says literally the same word over and over again. Why were they improvising?
‘Ready?’ said Antonia rolling up her sleeves.
‘Cake!’ said Simi before crumpling in embarrassment. ‘I mean, cool!’
Simi braced herself. Yes and, is what they taught you in drama school, Simi remembered, quivering on the spot. Gabe started the camera rolling, the smirk spreading across his face like a contagion.
‘What were you doing in her ladyship’s latrine, Cake?’ said Antonia regarding her with suspicion.
Simi’s face contorted as the machinery in her brain shut down. Antonia may as well have been speaking Portuguese backwards.
‘Cake,’ Simi said eventually.
‘I said, what were you doing in there, Cake? You’re supposed to be making our lady’s pudding.’
Simi could almost hear her brain call the emergency engineer only to be told they wouldn’t arrive until Tuesday due to the bank holiday.
‘Cake!’
‘Okay, pause a second,’ Antonia said to Gabe. ‘So remember, you don’t have to just say, “Cake”.’
Gabe, who could barely contain his arch grin, hit record again.
‘And action!’
‘What are you doing in her ladyship’s—’
‘I’M A SPY!’
Simi dragged her swivel chair towards her desk, the insistent ringing phone a welcome distraction from thoughts of her Cake audition that morning. It had replayed in her head on a cringe-creating loop for the past hour.
‘Good afternoon. Ahuja, Cohen and Cooper Surveyors, how may I direct your call?’
Simi punched numbers into her switchboard. She replaced her handset and went back to staring out of the window. Some actors called jobs like this survival jobs but for Simi, it was a lifeline, especially after that audition. Furthermore, she liked working at ACC. She had lovely bosses, they were generous with bonuses and the office was close to the shops. And this was all good because, given how her audition had gone, she would most likely be working here for the rest of her life. It wasn’t so bad. In a decade or ten, she might get promoted to junior assistant office manager and earn enough to buy a boxy studio fla
t in zone sixty.
She thought back to a few hours earlier. After the ‘spy’ interlude, luckily she’d calmed down enough to offer up a passable improvisation. Then again anything was reasonable after trying to turn the character into a medieval, cake-loving 007. As Simi had backed out of the room with thank-yous that were really apologies, one thing had become abundantly clear; she didn’t have what it took. Acting was too tough. She’d been to every type of class, pretending to be a giraffe, a man, a house mat and a baby, all in search of her inner self. She’d shelled out for accent classes, elocution lessons and Alexander Technique training, which just seemed to make her cry. And to cover all this, she’d borrowed hundreds, possibly thousands of pounds from Jemima. She had hoped one day to land a job with a big, fat cheque to pay it back. But there’d been no cheque. Just rejection heaped on rejection. And finally when she’d got into the room for a huge show, she’d blown it. Big style. So yes, this reception desk was as good a place to be, given acting wasn’t where she was going to end up. As self-pity threatened to consume her, the main front door opened and Simi pulled herself up into a vaguely professional posture, pasting on her amiable receptionist smile.
‘Good afternoon. How may I help?’ she said as a young man approached her desk.
‘Simi?’ he said.
‘Yes…’ she replied sitting even more upright.
‘Todd,’ Todd said resting a hand on his chest.
Simi gawped at his tailored navy suit, fitted shirt, strong hands, and chiselled features.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said suddenly tensing.
As lenient as her bosses were, one thing they never allowed were personal visitors. She looked down the corridor towards the partners’ offices.
‘And how did you find me?’ she whispered, panicking about getting caught while simultaneously drinking in Todd’s handsomeness.
Meagan had painted him as this hairy, human bindweed, slowly wrapping itself around her but the guy in front of Simi was like a luscious ivy, luxurious and strong.
‘Meagan mentioned you. Said you worked at a surveyor’s in the area and I…’
God, even his voice was like a sunset stroll in a glade, Simi fawned.
Down the corridor she heard Paul, the senior partner, locking up his office. Immediately, Simi snapped herself out of her Todd love-in. Once Paul had said his goodnights and grabbed his pre-commute cup of water he would pass through reception and he absolutely could not see Todd.
‘Thing is, I’m not supposed—’ Simi murmured.
‘It’s Meagan,’ Todd interrupted. ‘Well really, it’s me. I think I might have to let her go but I can’t shake the feeling she wants more but won’t let herself. How do I convince her without becoming some kind of stalker?’
‘That doesn’t make you a stalker… does it?’ Simi asked.
‘Well, if they’re not reciprocating…’
‘Reciprocation is open to interpretation…’ Simi argued distracted by the glug, glug, glug of the water cooler at the end of the corridor.
Todd shrugged. ‘All I know is, I’ve tried everything, including pretty much whatever she wants to do in the bedroom and had things done to me that—’
‘Yeah, okay,’ Simi said raising a hand.
Some things were best left between a girl and her fuck buddy.
‘Four years we’ve been doing this and we had a good thing but lately, she’s been acting weird. Ghosting me one minute. Texting me pictures of her on a date the next.’
‘Okay. Idea!’ blustered Simi as she heard Paul heading towards reception. ‘Why don’t we talk about it – over a drink, perhaps after six?’
‘I mean, we make each other laugh, we have fun, the sex is… mind blowing.’
‘And I bet that’s not all that gets blown,’ Simi blathered as Paul’s footsteps advanced.
‘I just miss my mate,’ Todd said propping himself on Simi’s glass-topped reception desk, ‘and I know she misses me too, otherwise why the texts? What do you think she wants deep down? Is it to feel wanted, needed, safe? I can give her all that.’
Wait, safe? thought Simi. Isn’t that what had come up at the painting party? She knew it. Todd was what Meagan needed!
‘She doesn’t know what she wants. You need to catch her unawares. Surprise her,’ she gabbled.
As Todd was about to reply, Simi’s boss rounded the corner.
‘Look, I’ve told you, we have a franking machine!’ Simi yapped in Todd’s confused face.
Paul hovered for a second. He looked Todd up and down as though trying to sniff out any personal connection. Finally satisfied he nodded a good night to Simi and headed for the exit. Simi listened as the heavy door clicked shut then collapsed onto her desk.
‘You okay?’ asked Todd.
‘Fine thanks,’ she wheezed. ‘Just resting my face.’
Chapter 32
Jemima
Jemima slipped the to-go cup from her morning coffee run with Simi into the recycling. In her heart, she had hoped Chance might have materialised at Nostromo but perhaps it was best he hadn’t. What with the book and the game, life already felt like a tangled web without him and Simi crossing paths. And LA was yet another thread in Jemima’s ball of confusion. She’d been playing email ping pong with Rebecca for several days, teasing herself with the prospect of a clean break. Though she hadn’t made her final decision, it was feeling more and more real. The knots of Jemima’s confused life were becoming tighter. The one good thing was, if LA was her only escape from the mess she’d created, it meant her conversations with Miles couldn’t make things any worse.
By finally taking his call, her longing for a connection with someone had opened a door and Miles had amiably strolled right through. The first time they spoke, Jemima had let him carry the conversation, absolving herself of responsibility. She listened, remembering how much she liked his voice with its rogue northern vowels that occasionally pushed through his London accent. She shivered at what Meagan would say if she knew. Simi wouldn’t be too chuffed either, which is probably why Jemima had retreated to her room, under the guise of work, to speak to him. However, now four days and several conversations later she was not only responsible but culpable even. She scrolled though her recent calls and dialled his number. This was new. She was calling him. ‘Hey you,’ she said.
Definitely culpable. Definitely wrong.
‘Hey, gorgeous. How’s tricks? So, I was passing Nostromo. Don’t worry, I didn’t go in,’ he said, reassuring her. ‘How long have they had those airplane seats?’
‘A year? I like them – a lot,’ Jemima replied.
‘They look fun I suppose but you could get a whole table in that space. More cashola,’ said Miles.
Jemima’s ears pricked up as she heard Simi’s key in the front door.
‘Hiya, Jem!’ Simi called from the hallway.
She was back from work. Was it that late already? Jemima looked at her closed bedroom door praying Simi wouldn’t come in. ‘Hey, Sim.’
‘Fancy a glass of vino?’
Jemima hesitated. ‘Maybe later.’
‘Simi’s living with you? Blimey, I thought she was all over the place when we were together,’ said Miles.
Jemima glared at the phone willing herself to hang up. That’s what she should do. Tell him, ‘Good luck with everything,’ which was British for I have no intention of seeing how your life turns out, and ending the call but she didn’t.
‘It’s just temporary,’ said Jemima.
‘Sure, we’ll see in a year’s time. Anyway, I’m glad you called. I wanted to ask, have you, perchance, got a plus one for Hudson Hicks’s spring party?’
Jemima sank into her pillows with a hollow laugh. Miles was always hustling for something and this time it was to get his hands on the hot ticket in town. Though they were a relatively boutique publisher, one thing Hudson’s did well was throw a party. Authors, agents, publicists and marketing people all wanted to be on the guest list and Miles was no exception.
‘I always take the girls, Miles. To be honest, I’m surprised Eve even invited me this year,’ Jemima murmured.
‘Ah yes, I heard all about your saucy draft,’ Miles laughed.
‘What? How?’ Jemima panicked, almost dropping the phone.
‘Darling, you know what the lit biz is like. Everyone knows someone who knows someone who likes to chatter,’ said Miles.
‘Shaheena,’ said Jemima through clenched teeth.
‘Sounds like you rocked Eve’s world though. If thrillers don’t work out, you’ll have an illustrious career in erotica,’ Miles chortled.
‘It was a political gesture,’ said Jemima correcting him.
She held the phone away from her ear as his tinny laughter seeped through the speaker.
‘You and your politics, sweetness,’ said Miles. ‘There’s always something.’
Jemima’s grip tightened around her phone. At least she had a stand point. She’d met 5-year-olds more politically engaged than Miles. The only parties he ever supported were the ones serving canapés.
‘Shaheena shouldn’t have told you about that,’ said Jemima trying to rein in her annoyance.
‘Shaheena couldn’t keep a secret if it was by court order. Don’t worry. Mum’s the word. But I have to say, Jem-Jem, how come you weren’t this naughty when we were together?’
Jemima looked at her open window wanting to hurl her phone through it. She wanted to tell him to piss right off using a maps app to get there but still she didn’t. He was as annoying as junk flyers but as much as he got under her skin, he also made her feel… alive – another paradox that drove Jemima insane. Yes, he made her feel alive yet when they broke up two years earlier, something inside her had died. That night would always be fresh in her memory. She and Miles had been at the premiere of a film he had tenuous links with having sold the book rights to the production company. Halfway through the movie Jemima had felt a god-awful pain in her abdomen. When the pain became unbearable, she’d set social niceties aside and excuse-me’d her way out of the auditorium. Fifteen minutes later a flustered Miles arrived in the foyer trying to coax Jemima back inside.