by Chloe Rayban
Almost immediately I get a reply.
b)
Oh God, I feel so gutted for her. Poor Becky. How’s she going to live with this? I try and think of ways to make her feel better about it.
Send her flowers? Too like a funeral, could make it worse. A big showy card? That’s like she was sick or something …
I’VE GOT IT. A surprise visit! She came to see me, didn’t she? And it’s Saturday too, so no classes. Brilliant. I bet if I bribe Abdul with that second kilo of jelly beans he’ll take me in the limo. I better clear it with Mum first, though.
Mum must really want to be in my good books. She hardly makes any objection.
‘It’ll be nice for you to see your friends again,’ she says sleepily. ‘And the drive will give you time to think …’
‘Sure, Mum. Thanks.’
9.30 a.m., en route in the limo to SotR
I’d made up a hasty comfort pack from everything I could raid from my suite. I’d filled the little basket from the bathroom with loads of free stuff and some of those chocolates the Royal Trocadero leave on your pillow each night which I’d been hoarding. I’d decorated the basket with flowers from my vase and added a mango from the fruit bowl.
All the way I tried to get Abdul to drive faster. The journey seemed to take for ever and I kept thinking of Becky sobbing into her pillow or playing really sad stuff on her violin. But at last we were sweeping through the gates with the big SotR crest on top.
I made Abdul drive round to the back of the building where the kitchen supplies are delivered and the limo drew to a halt without anyone seeming to notice us.
Leaving Abdul peacefully reading his newspaper, I slid past the kitchens. There was a distant clatter and a smell of cooking from the far end, but the only sign of life was the school cat, which came and rubbed itself against my legs and purred in welcome.
I crept up the back stairs to the dormitory floor. No one around here either. Very gently I opened the door of the room I’d shared with Becky. She wasn’t in bed sobbing her heart out. The room was empty. The two beds stood neatly made-up. Someone else’s pyjamas were folded on what had been my pillow. There were someone else’s family photos on the bedside table, someone else’s posters on the wall and a tangle of their clothes on the chair. All signs of my presence had been totally eradicated. As if I’d never been there.
‘You’re going to have new friends now.’ An echo of Mum’s voice ran through my head.
I went and stared out of the window. I could hear familiar sounds of girls’ voices coming from the other dorms. This is what it must be like to be dead, I thought gloomily, and to come back as a ghost and find everything going on without you, totally heartlessly.
That’s when the door was flung open behind me.
‘Holly!’ screamed Becky. ‘I don’t believe it!’
Once we’d sorted out how I’d come, how long I was staying, etc., I composed my face into a suitably sympathetic expression and presented her with the basket.
‘Cool,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Third’s not bad, you know,’ I said comfortingly.
‘Not bad? It’s brilliant!’ she said. ‘The others I was up against were older than me, I didn’t think I stood a chance.’
This was a novel way of looking at things. Quite the opposite of Mum’s ‘not first, you’re nowhere’ philosophy.
‘And I can always try again next year. So it’s good experience.’
‘Umm.’
‘I’ll just have to practise harder, that’s all.’
‘Becky, if you practise harder you’ll wear your violin out.’
12.30 p.m., SotR dining hall
They say your memory only retains the good things. So true. Mine had totally wiped SotR’s lumpy gravy.
A load of us, Me, Becky, Portia, Marie, Candida and Lim-Ju (plus Abdul who is sitting some way off, trying to ignore the fact that he is the only male in this all-female environment) are having a noisy lunch of beefburgers and mash (and gravy).
The hot topic of the day is whether I should or should not audition for Mum’s biopic. Or rather they are discussing it. I’m finding it difficult to get a word in edgeways. In fact, I’m sitting like some vegetable while the discussion rages round me.
‘Of course she should do it. She owes it to her mum,’ says Lim-Ju.
‘No way!’ says Portia. ‘If Holly doesn’t want to do it, it’s her affair.’
‘Gosh, imagine. Holly, you could be really famous!’ says Candida.
‘I don’t want to be famous,’ I chip in. ‘I’m suffering enough from second-hand fame as it is.’
‘She’s right. She’d totally lose her anonymity,’ points out Marie. ‘Once she’s been seen on screen, she’ll never be left in peace.’
‘They should pay you loads to do the part,’ says Portia. ‘Will they?’
‘I bet you haven’t even thought about money,’ says Marie.
‘Surely she can’t expect to be paid for acting the part of her own mother,’ says Lim-Ju.
‘Stop, everyone!’ I interrupt. ‘I think I should be the one to make the decision, don’t you? Now will someone pass me the ketchup, please.’
It was Becky who had the last word. As I was leaving she leaned in through the car window, saying, ‘If you’re not going to get the part anyway, what’s the big deal? Why not do the audition and get it over with?’
Sunday 23rd March, 8.00 a.m.
Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero
I wake up with a strange foreboding feeling. Then I remember Mum’s biopic. Supernova! The very word has brought on a mega-attack of performaphobia.
Imagine, if by some absolute fluke of fate, I get the part. Like every other girl auditioning developed rampant tonsillitis, for instance. Or the set collapsed with everyone on it but me …
I decide to go downstairs and have a soak in the jacuzzi to calm myself down.
8.30 a.m., The Royal Trocadero jacuzzi (the prime bubbly bit)
I have the jacuzzi all to myself so I’m lying with my eyes closed concentrating hard on slow breathing to stop my heart pumping from panic.
The hot water is bubbling all around me with a comforting ‘globble-globble-globble’ sound. I am just getting back my composure when: SPLASH!
Some totally inconsiderate person has jumped in.
I open my eyes to protest and come face to face with SHUG.
‘Hi! Fancy meeting you here,’ he says.
I close my eyes again with dignity.
‘You still hanging around?’
‘Uh-huh. Bit moody today, are we?’
‘I was just enjoying a little peace, that’s all.’
‘OK. I’ll keep to my side.’ He squeezes himself up as small as possible against the far wall of the jacuzzi and sits staring at me.
I can feel myself going hot and bothered under his gaze.
‘How’s your dad?’ I ask, trying to deflect his attention from my least impressive measurement.
‘He’s still in the States. Unlike you and your mum we’re not attached at the hip.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘After his lucky escape, you mean?’
I ignore this. ‘So what are you doing with yourself all on your own?’
‘I’m here to record a new song, as it happens.’
‘Oh, is your brilliant recording career taking off? Or is your dad paying for this one?’
This gets to him. I have the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.
‘I don’t see you doing so brilliantly.’
‘Oh no? I’ve just had an offer of a part in a film, actually. The lead.’
‘The lead! What’s the film? Godzilla’s Child?’
‘Ha ha, very funny.’
He is silent for a moment, swishing water round with his toes. Then he asks, ‘So when d’you start filming?’
‘I haven’t decided if I’ll accept it yet.’
‘Oh, wow! Too many other offers to consider?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What, then?’
‘For your information, I don’t necessarily want a brilliant career in show business. I might do something more worthwhile.’
‘Oh, spare me the sermon … Like what?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking of becoming a vet.’
Shug laughs so much he practically chokes. Then he goes under the surface and comes up again spouting water out of his mouth.
‘That’s rich. I really like that one. Florence Nightingale to all our furry friends!’
I think at this point that I’ve had enough of being insulted and start to climb out.
‘You know what I think?’ says Shug.
‘What?’
‘I don’t think you’ve got the guts for show business.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘No. I think you’re chickening out because you’re too damn scared.’
‘It’s only acting, not sky-diving.’
‘You haven’t got the courage to stand up in front of people and perform.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘Prove it then.’
‘I just might do that,’ I snap, wrapping a towel round me. I make for the changing rooms.
I stand under the shower thinking about what he said. The truth stings. He’s right. I’m scared. I’m scared stiff of being a failure.
Once I’d dried off I went back upstairs to ring Mum.
I stared at the phone for a long time before I picked up the receiver.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve made up my mind.’
‘Ye-es?’
‘I’ll do it. I’ll do the audition.’
‘Hollywood, babes. I knew you wouldn’t let your mama down.’
Monday 24th March
Suite 6003
Vix has just told me that a date has been set for the Supernova castings. It’s next Monday. The very thought makes my stomach kind of turn over with a thump and brings on a mega-attack of performaphobia.
How does Mum go out in front of all those millions of people and sing?
But there’s no going back now. I’ve said I’ll do it, so I’ll have to go through with it. It’ll only take a few minutes before they realise I’m rubbish. I can just shoot in, do my bit and be off. But every minute being rubbish is hard to take.
I send Becky a text:
How do I get through this audition without
a) Drying up?
b) Tripping up?
c) Lousing up?
I get a text back almost immediately:
a) practise
b) practise
c) practise
She’s right. I have to work harder. I mean, I kind of thought either I had to be a mega success like Mum, or I was rubbish. Now I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am somewhere in between. And that if I work hard enough I can improve.
SO.
Monday 24th March through to
Monday 31st March
a) I have been practising my scales
b) I have been doing my breathing exercises
c) I have even been studying my music theory
d) I have gone over and over the songs till I can sing them in my sleep.
As for dance:
e) I have stretched every sinew of my body (Now my SO NOT fallen arches are totally like Roman Arches staying there of their own accord)
f) I have practised and practised and practised each dance routine
g) I have even mapped out the moves on a piece of maths exercise paper so that I can’t forget them
The good thing is I only have to perfect one piece for the audition.
Monday 31st March!!!!!!!!
I’m in the limo with Mum, Abdul and Sid heading irretrievably closer and closer to the scene of my total and complete humiliation. Naturally, I am feeling sick with apprehension.
I pass the time by trying to rate on a kind of Richter scale of misery how bad I feel. As bad as being taken to the dentist? No, much much worse. As bad as being driven to the guillotine in one of those tumbrel-thingies? The guillotine was meant to be instant, my suffering is going to last agonising minutes … As bad as … Oh my God, I think we’ve arrived!!!
Mum is peering out of the window complaining, ‘This can’t be it. It all looks so run-down.’
But it is. There’s a guy behind a security grille who’s asking for I.D. When Abdul points out Mum in the car, the guy lets the barrier up and salutes.
‘Lot 32,’ he says. ‘Fifth building down.’
‘Hmm,’ says Mum. ‘I should think so too.’
We drive round to Lot 32. It looks like a factory. There’s a queue of girls of about my age waiting in line to go in. Most seem to have come with their mums.
‘Just drop us at the front,’ says Mum to Abdul. ‘Holly can come in with me.’
‘Mu-um? Aren’t I meant to queue like the others?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Hollywood, you can’t be expected to stand outside. It’s starting to rain.’
‘But they are.’
‘Yes, Hollywood. They are.’
‘But that’s not fair.’
‘Maybe Holly’s got a point,’ agrees Sid.
‘Life’s not fair,’ snaps Mum. ‘If life was fair, we’d all be stars.’
‘Well, I am not going to get special treatment,’ I say. ‘Let me out now.’
I won the argument in the end. I even got them to drive to the far side of the building so no one would see me get out of the limo. Mum went in at the front entrance. Apparently she was on the selection committee.
By the time Sid and I joined the queue, it was raining quite hard. Sid looked pretty fed up about it. But I decided to ignore him, fair was fair.
There was a small skinny girl in front of me with red hair and freckles and a big wide grin. She was with her mum, who was one of those big cosy kind of mums carrying a bulging plastic bag that looked as if it was about to burst.
‘Hi,’ said the girl. ‘Didn’t I see you at the Geraldi casting last week?’
I shook my head. ‘No, that wasn’t me.’
‘My name’s Gina. What’s yours?’
‘Holly.’
‘Hi, Holly. Funny, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere. Maybe you were at The Nutcracker?’
I shook my head again. ‘No, not me.’
‘You at stage school?’
‘No. I just came along to like try. Are you?’
‘I’m at the Arts Educational. Is that your dad with you?’
‘Erm, no.’ (And then I realised I could hardly say he was my bodyguard.) ‘He’s my step-dad.’
‘Nice of him to come with you. Couldn’t your mum come?’
‘Errm, no. She’s busy right now.’
‘She at work?’
‘Kind of.’
‘There are loads of people. This is going to take hours. Haven’t you brought your lunch?’
‘I didn’t think.’
‘You can have some of ours. Can’t she, Mum?’
Her mum looked at us sympathetically. ‘Oh my. Haven’t they got anything at all?’
I shook my head.
‘Oh, you poor dears. Of course you can.’
The queue was dribbling in, in ones and twos. As we entered there was a girl at a desk who took our names and addresses and handed each of us a number. I gave Gi-Gi’s address. Well, I could hardly say I was staying at the Royal Trocadero. Then we had to have our photo taken holding our number, like prisoners do when they’re admitted into jail. I was number sixty, so you can see how many people there were.
Once inside, the mums and all the others who were accompanying people were sent to sit at the back of the set. We were taken to a side room and shown where we could hang up our coats and change into our dance shoes. There was a bathroom alongside and I lingered there because I’d really started to feel sick again. In fact while I was at the basins combing my hair, I thought I might actually be sick.
Gina was beside me tying up her hair in a ponytail band. She loo
ked at my reflection curiously in the mirror.
‘This is your first time, isn’t it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You look kind of green.’
‘I feel it. On the way here, I was trying to think of all the things that would be worse than coming here.’
‘So? What was the worst?’
I shrugged.
‘Go on. Imagine! Having your legs sawn off,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Being slowly boiled in oil! Sizzle!!!!’
I giggled.
‘See, it could be a lot worse!’
Groups of girls were being taken on to the set ten at a time. I was relieved to find that Gina was in my group. We waited for what felt like ages. I managed to calm down some, so that my heart stopped doing wobbly-jittery things. But then it did a double somersault. A woman was reading our names from a list.
‘58 Francesca Simmonds … 59 Gina Locardi … 60 Holly Winterman …’ This was it.
We had to form a line and then we were marched down the corridor. I supposed I might have felt worse if I’d known there was an electric chair up ahead. Marginally.
As we paused in the doorway, I whispered to Gina, ‘I’ve just thought of it.’
‘What?’
‘The very worst thing that could happen to me.’
‘What is it?’
‘Getting the part. I don’t think I could do it.’
‘Then you won’t,’ said Gina. ‘So you can relax.’ And she gave me one of her big wide grins. ‘Break a leg.’
‘You too.’
The set was just a big empty space with loads of scaffolding and electric wires snaking everywhere. An area of the floor had been marked out with strips of bright yellow tape, to show people where to stand. And there was a bank of lights and cameras between us and the rest of the space, so you couldn’t really see who was watching. I thought I could make out Fiona’s legs in the distance and what could be Mum beside her, her hair just catching the light.
A girl with a clipboard seemed to be in charge. And there was a guy with a headset who kept asking for silence.
We were sent to sit on a row of chairs and then, one by one, each girl was called up in front of the cameras. My goosebumps calmed down somewhat as I watched the girl ahead of us. She wasn’t bad. But she wasn’t a patch on what followed.