by Mel Sparke
As chief make-up artist for the cast, over the last few weeks she’d been practising on various members, including Cinderella and the Ugly Sisters. Not having had too much experience of theatrical make-up so far on her beauty therapy course, Cat was keen to do a good job and was happy putting in the extra hours after college if it meant she’d get the actors’ individual looks perfect on the night.
Apart from that, being around actors was what Cat wanted to experience: according to her skewed logic, getting into telly and film work through being a make-up artist was a short-cut to getting into acting. Make contacts, get known -and all without the bother of having to study stuff like Shakespeare and Chekhov for years. Or so Cat reckoned.
For someone who was desperate to act, being involved back stage with the pantomime was also a chance for Cat to soak up the atmosphere. She usually hung around after her stint was over, listening to the cast read through their lines, wishing she was Cinderella and not Fran Stevens, who in Cat’s opinion had to be the most inappropriate Cinders she’d ever laid eyes on.
(Since when was Cinderella a six-footer? Cat thought cruelly as she eyed up the gangly Fran one day. She’s going to have to bend her knees under her frock or she’ll tower over Prince Charming…)
Cat swung round as she heard the door open. She was expecting it to be Fran, so was surprised when she saw that it was Jeff Patterson, the college’s Head of English and Drama, and director of the panto. He had a pile of scripts under one arm, his mobile phone and overstuffed briefcase in the other, and a stressed look on his face.
“Hi, Jeff,” Cat smiled. “You’re early. I didn’t expect you for another half an hour.”
He gave her a tense smile in return.
“Got a lot on my mind, Catrina,” he said gruffly. “I needed to get here early to try and sort this damn mess out.”
Hauling his briefcase on to a table top, he dumped the huge wodge of scripts down beside it and began rifling through the case.
“Anything I can help with?” offered Cat. “I’m working on Fran today, but she hasn’t turned up yet so I’m all yours.”
“You’ll have a long wait,” he sighed, running his hand agitatedly through his shock of grey-flecked hair. “She’s the reason we’re in a mess. She phoned earlier; she’s got glandular fever. She’s out of the show.”
“You’re kidding!” Cat gasped, although she knew from his face that he most definitely was not joking. “Well, that’s tough luck for Fran, but what’s the problem? Abigail Whatsername can take over. She’s her understudy…”
“Was her understudy. She chucked the course in a couple of days ago and went back home to Scotland. And call me reckless,” he added with an ironic smile, “but I didn’t think there was the need to have an under-understudy.”
“So what will you do?” asked Cat, a glint creeping into her eyes.
“Haven’t a clue. Getting someone else to learn her lines and songs in this short a time is going to take a miracle.”
Cat gazed at the lecturer as he took off his thick-rimmed glasses and began rubbing his eyes with one hand. She’d come to know him reasonably well over the last few weeks. He was approachable, practical and - at this moment -desperate.
Do it, she told herself sternly.
Without any warning, Cat threw her arms out and began belting out a song from the show at the top of her voice.
Two minutes later, Jeff was still blinking at her in astonishment through spec-free eyes.
“What was that?” he asked, once his slack-jawed mouth had moved back into action.
“Some Day My Prince Will Come. Don’t say you didn’t recognise it!” said Cat slightly huffily. Her singing voice (though only normally let loose in the shower) wasn’t all that bad, she was sure.
“Yes, I know what the song was, Catrina,” he said, still looking at her quizzically. “Maybe what I should have said was ‘why?’”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Erm, no, I’m afraid it isn’t,” Jeff shook his head.
“What about me?”
Jeff slipped his glasses back on and narrowed his eyes, taking in the vision that was Cat: bleached blonde hair with streaks on either side of her face that matched her burgundy lipstick, a crimson, satiny T-shirt that strained alarmingly across her double D-cup chest and a black suede mini that showed an acre of thigh until her legs met her knee-high platform boots.
“What about you, Catrina?” the lecturer asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Let me try for the part,” Cat gabbled, finding herself grabbing on to the arm of his grey wool jacket. “Go on, pleeeeeeeease!!”
“But Catrina - you’re not even on the drama course!” protested Jeff.
“Yeah, maybe,” shrugged Cat, determined not to be put off. “But I do know all of Cinderella’s lines; I’ve been listening to Fran practise them for weeks. I’ve even helped her go through them!”
“Cat,” he said gently, “while I admire your confidence, you have to understand that there’s no way I could put you up there on stage in front of a couple of hundred people when you’ve had no acting experience before in your life. Surely you can see that?”
“Actually, no. I can’t,” Cat said defiantly. “What I can see though is a production that’s going to fail - with a capital F - if you don’t do something drastic. And that something is me.”
Good speech, she praised herself, then saw from Jeff’s expression that he still wasn’t convinced. She had to think fast.
“Anyway, you don’t know everything about me. I haue had acting experience; I was involved in several plays at school.”
“Really?” nodded Jeff slowly.
“Really,” Cat nodded back. OK, so there hadn’t been several plays - only one, and the school happened to be primary. But she had made a brilliant angel in her reception class’s production of the Nativity.
Jeff looked from Cat to the pile of stapled pages that lay in front of him, then gave a sigh.
“OK, Catrina - I’ll give it a shot,” he said, tossing her a script. “Let’s have a read-through now.”
Cat tried to subdue the grin of triumph that was threatening to break out over her face.
So, I had to tell a little lie to get his attention, she thought. But isn’t acting all about making stuff up?
CHAPTER 3
DECISIONS, DECISIONS
Sonja was sitting up straight, her hands doing as much talking as her mouth.
On the red vinyl banquette opposite her Kerry sat with her chin in her hands, her elbows slumped on the Formica table and her gaze drifting more often out of the window than towards her friend.
“The thing is, I could do a Media Studies degree, with Public Relations as a module, or I could go for a straight degree in PR. Only I can’t decide which…”
Sonja started flicking once again through the university prospectuses fanned out in front of her. Kerry’s own smaller pile of leaflets and information packs were still in her bag, untouched and unread.
“Well, what’s the point in going for a broader-based degree if you already know that you definitely want to get into PR?” Kerry stirred herself long enough to ask. “I mean, you’ve been saying for the past two years that you want a job in PR, so why bother doing a course that’s less specific?”
“I know,” Sonja nodded, “but I keep wondering whether I’ll be limiting myself in the future if I specialise so early on. I might decide half-way through the degree that I don’t like PR. Then what?”
Kerry frowned.
“It’s not like you to be so indecisive, Son,” she said. “That’s usually what you’re telling me off for. What’s up?”
“Oh, I dunno,” Sonja sighed, slumping down to match Kerry’s pose. “I think I’ve lost a bit of confidence lately.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Well, I sometimes think I can’t trust my own judgement any more. Like with the modelling thing - I tried so hard to convince myself it was going to be such a cool thing to get into; and e
ven when I saw how ropy that agency was, I still nearly found myself in an advertising campaign for the local dog trimmer.”
“OK, so it wasn’t exactly Gucci level stuff, but you got out of it before you ended up posing alongside any poodles!”
Both girls managed a giggle.
“Yeah, but it’s also the uncertainty with Owen. I mean, I know he likes me, and I know I like him, but I don’t really know what I am to him.”
“What, you mean you don’t know if you’re proper girlfriend/boyfriend?” Kerry asked, glad to be off the subject of universities and courses.
“Exactly,” nodded Sonja. “You and Ollie see loads of each other, and know exactly what your relationship is, but we’ve never said. And with Owen living so far away, and me never knowing when I’ll next see him, I still can’t help worrying that I’m just a nice diversion till he meets someone closer at hand.”
“Who can say for sure?” Kerry smiled reassuringly at her best mate. “Maybe you’ll be together for ages and maybe you won’t. But take it from a girl who worries too much: stop wasting your time stressing out and just enjoy what you’ve got. Owen’s great, you’re great; you’re happy when you talk to each other and see each other. That’s pretty good going, isn’t it?”
“Thanks, Kez, that’s really sweet,” Sonja beamed at her friend.
She glanced down at the prospectuses in front of her and sighed. “Yes, I should appreciate what I’ve already got with Owen and just concentrate on getting this right. It’s kind of weird to think that possibly the rest of my working life could be decided in the next few weeks. That whatever I decide to put down on my UCAS form will map out my future career. It’s kind of scary when you look at it like that, isn’t it?”
“I… er, I guess so,” faltered Kerry, disappointed that the conversation had swung back this way again.
“You don’t sound too sure,” Sonja pressed. “You’re not having second thoughts about getting into primary teaching, are you?”
“Oh, no,” Kerry shuffled uneasily in her seat. “Or at least, not really.”
“Kerry, either you are or you’re not.”
“It’s cool. I’ll get it sorted,” Kerry waffled, unwilling to mention to Sonja the thoughts that were going on in her head. Not till she was sure what they were herself.
“But Kez, these forms are supposed to be in soon…”
“I know. It’s fine.”
Kerry stifled a yawn and stretched her hands above her head lazily as though to emphasise the lack of urgency she felt towards the matter.
Sonja shook her head resignedly. “I don’t know how you can be so laid-back about it all. These are our futures we’re talking about. Aren’t you interested?”
‘“Course,” Kerry shrugged.
“Hmmm…”
Being as ambitious as she was, Sonja couldn’t see how anyone could be so non-committal about their future. Especially when Sonja herself was champing at the bit to get on with it.
OK, so she was dithering a little over exactly which type of course to take, but she knew pretty much where she wanted to be in five years time. Namely, in a good media job in some big city, with a company car, nice flat and loads of disposable income.
She found Kerry’s ‘wait and see’ attitude irritating, but instead of pressing the issue, she stuck her nose into her pile of prospectuses and said no more on the subject.
Kerry, meanwhile, stared vacantly out of the window once again. What Sonja didn’t understand was that the last thing she wanted to think about was upping sticks and leaving Winstead and, more importantly, Ollie. The thought of going away tore her heart out.
Suddenly, Kerry’s attention was caught by the sight of Matt and Gabrielle heading towards the café through the late afternoon gloom. She studied their faces.
Matt’s was animated, all bright and smiley as he gesticulated with his arms as though trying to put across a point. Gabrielle, on the other hand, looked uncertain, her face troubled, her eyes studying the pavement as she walked. They made a weird picture, Kerry thought, like a couple at odds, rather than in love.
They came into the café and slipped into the seats next to Kerry and Sonja.
“You two looked deep in conversation when you were coming along the road…” said Kerry tentatively.
“I’ve been trying to persuade Gabrielle to come to the golf club dinner dance next Saturday. My old man’s helped to organise it,” Matt said brightly.
Sonja pulled a face. “And, understandably, Gabrielle has thought of some important reasons not to - like she’s cutting her toenails that night, or watching her hair grow.”
“Er… something like that,” Gabrielle grimaced at her. “I mean, I’m sure it’ll be a really posh do, I just think it sounds like the sort of thing old people go to.”
“Too right, Gaby,” Sonja shot her a sympathetic look. “What are you doing, Matt -trying to bore her to death?”
Matt looked hurt.
“It won’t be so bad,” he shrugged. “I’ve got to do the music—”
“Hip-hop and drum’n’bass, is it?” Sonja interrupted.
“The golden sounds of the sixties, actually,” Matt corrected her, aware that he was being teased horribly. “It’s just that it would be brilliant if Gaby could keep me company.”
The girls looked unconvinced.
“But couldn’t you take her along when you’re DJing at something a bit more trendy, Matt?” Kerry suggested.
“Well, there’s more to it than that. I just thought it would be a good time for Gabrielle to meet my dad properly. You know, get to know him a bit better,” Matt tried to explain. “They’ve only ever said hello in passing.”
“Ooh, scary,” Sonja joked. “Sounds serious to me.”
“Don’t listen to them,” Matt cajoled a dubious-looking Gabrielle. “Say you’ll come. For me.”
He. looked pleadingly down at her and gave her a little kiss on the forehead.
“Oh, OK then,” Gabrielle smiled back at him. “But if one person tries to speak to me about golf, you’ve got to rescue me straightaway - or you’re chucked.”
“That’s my girl,” Matt grinned, kissing her again.
He couldn’t have looked any happier if she’d just agreed to marry him.
CHAPTER 4
SWEET CINDERS
Cat unwrapped the pink towel from her head and moved a little closer to her dressing table mirror. She peered at the results of her hard work.
Hmmm, not a bad effort, she thought to herself as she pulled a comb through her hair.
She took her hairdryer from the top drawer and blow-dried her now muted blonde hair (from brassy to subtle, and minus the burgundy streaks) straight and neat and girlish. She was glad she hadn’t had it cut in a while: it now fell down past her shoulders, and for some reason looked longer still when she swept it back with the blue velvet Alice band she’d just bought.
Cat studied her face and got ready to apply the ‘no make-up’ look. She’d practised it on plenty of people at college - just never on herself. With just a dash of mascara and eyeliner, and lips painted in Nearly Natural, she felt strangely naked, not having worn so little on her face in years.
Unable to resist a second coat of lipstick, Cat reapplied it to make the colour slightly more intense, then stood up and assessed the whole picture.
Definitely not me, she thought, which is good, I suppose, if I’m trying to get into the part.
Leaning towards the mirror with the most sweetly innocent expression on her face, she murmured, “Don’t worry, Cinders, you shall go to the ball,” then turned and left her room.
Cat was super-confident about landing the lead role in the panto. The Nativity play aside, she knew she could act - she sometimes felt that her whole life was one big performance. She was always adopting different personae depending on what situation she was in at the time, and she often wondered who the real Catrina Osgood was.
All she had to do for this part was psych herself up for the ro
le of the gushingly good Cinderella, even though the character was so far removed from her own as to be a joke. But Cat knew she could pull it off.
Well, Jeff was impressed with my reading, she reassured herself, remembering the look of surprise on the lecturer’s face as she’d breezed through the lines. Now if I can just show the other lead actors in this rehearsal tonight that I can cut it, the part’ll be mine…
As she headed through town to the college, her mind was so focused on the task ahead that she didn’t notice Sonja and Kerry approaching. Not until they were standing in front of her blocking her path.
“Cat! What’s wrong?” Kerry asked, her brow furrowed with concern. “Are you feeling OK?”
“Huh?” Cat retorted, jerking her head up from the pavement she was staring intently at. “Oh, hi, guys. Uh… I feel fine. What d’you mean?”
“You look completely washed out,” commented Sonja. “Drained, even.”
Then the penny dropped. The others weren’t used to seeing Cat with anything less than the entire Boots 17 make-up range caked on her face. No wonder they thought she looked sick.
“Oh, this,” she exclaimed, raising her hand to her face and lightly touching her skin. “It’s just something I’m trying out for Cinderella’s make-up in the panto. What do you think?”
“Urn, nice,” Sonja said dubiously. “But aren’t you taking your job too seriously? You’re meant to put the make-up on the actress playing the part, not yourself!”
“Oh, ha ha, very funny. Actually…”
Cat stopped herself from saying any more. She suddenly realised she didn’t want the others to know what she was up to. Not if there was the chance she might end up with a huge box of eggs liberally splattered over her face.
No, best she keep quiet about this little adventure; anyway, they’d only rib her if she did let on. She thought fast.
“…uh, what I mean is, the girl playing Cinderella can’t make rehearsals tonight, so I’m helping out by reading her part.”