‘It’s a lot to take in . . .’ Archie looked properly distraught (which I – sorry, which A – found borderline offensive).
Then Brian laughed.
‘Feel it!’ I carried on. Christian started cackling too and one or two others joined in. The corner of Archie’s mouth twitched as he came nearer and stroked my ‘pregnant belly’ (which was looking depressingly realistic thanks to my earlier cake consumption).
‘OK and let’s pause,’ said Lens because the only tension left was the sort that comes from trying not to laugh. ‘Very good, very good. I believed in you as a couple in that situation.’
‘A couple’? Thanks, Lens – that killed any hope of more eye contact.
‘Right, ideas for different ways of playing it. Issam?’
Issam shrugged. ‘Dunno. Maybe Archie could have looked a bit more scared from the beginning? I mean it’s, like, terrifying.’
Well, yes.
‘Yes, even more fear from the outset, that would change the scene. Other ideas for how our couple could have done things differently?’
Brian muttered something under his breath that had more to do with A and B’s life choices than any stage direction. Lens stared him down. More laughter. I went red (redder). I don’t know how Archie was reacting because I wasn’t looking at him. I’d probably never look at him again.
‘Maybe Archie could make the hold at the end more tender?’ suggested Daisy.
Noooooo. Daisy was meant to be my ally.
‘Yes! Good suggestion. Why don’t you come up behind Elektra this time, Archie, and put your hands round her stomach that way? So you’re holding her? Tenderly. Yes, Daisy, I like this.’
Oh, God, now Lens was in full swing. I also had a bad feeling that this was being snapchatted to half of London.
‘We are no longer friends,’ I said to Daisy when Lens finally switched up the parts of A and B (to Issam and Christian which was going to be interesting). ‘Seriously, you deserve to be paired with Brian for doing that.’
‘Ha, I gifted you that. You LOVED it.’
‘I did n—’ I started.
‘Don’t even try to deny it. Archie looked like he was also very much enjoying it.’ We both looked over at Archie, who was having a very self-conscious, banterous conversation with some of the guys. In fact, I could stare as much as I wanted because I was pretty sure he was not going to look in my direction. Ever.
‘He’s just a brilliant actor,’ I said.
‘That too,’ said Daisy. And then we couldn’t talk about it any more because Christian had got to the ‘I’m pregnant’ line and, I’m not going to lie, it was really hard not to laugh.
‘I don’t really want to be an actor.’
Asa Butterfield (2008)
‘I don’t want to let acting dominate my life, not until I’m about twenty.’
Asa Butterfield (2011)
‘I’ll take her,’ said my dad in the same way someone would have said, ‘I’ll dig that grave,’ or, ‘I’d love to pay that tax bill.’
‘Can’t I go on my own?’ I asked. ‘It’s only, like, four stops on the Tube.’ The Fortuneswell auditions were being held above a church hall on Tottenham Court Road (this acting business was getting me into a surprising number of religious locations).
‘No, under sixteen you’re meant to be accompanied,’ said my mother who by now was a bit of an expert on this whole auditioning thing.
‘They’re not going to know. I’ll just attach myself to some random adult.’
‘That sort of comment is why you can’t go on your own,’ said Mum, who was in a filthy mood (which probably had something to do with the washing machine having so thoroughly flooded the kitchen that this was like a conversation in a lifeboat). ‘Either you go or,’ she looked at Dad, ‘you stay and deal with the repair man.’
‘Let’s go, Elektra,’ said Dad.
Daisy had already gone in by the time I got there. The waiting room was really cold, but then I suppose if the people looking after the church had had money to spare on heating they wouldn’t have been renting out its rooms for show business. It was the right place for it though, dispensing sermons on the American dream alongside providing audition space for the Hollywood dream. You could tell who was going in for auditions and who was going to church: the actors were the ones who really looked like they were praying. Plus, it was conveniently close to the London Scientology headquarters so if Tom Cruise was thinking about casting you in his movie and you were really desperate you could sign up for a billion years there and then.
By the time Daisy came out, I’d abandoned the waiting room for the corridor. There were more girls in the waiting room than there were chairs (and because they were all so pretty I was getting insecure and wanted to sit as far from them as I could). The minute they’d told us they were running late, Dad had gone for a ‘little walk’ (i.e. he’d gone to sit in a decent cafe and check his phone and do some work). Daisy came right past me and it was obvious even in my distracted state that she was upset.
‘Hey, Daisy. Are you all right? Were they mean to you?’
She shook her head, but she was close to tears.
‘Let’s go outside for a bit. They just told me that I’ve got at least half an hour before I’m called.’
We went outside, shooed away some filthy pigeons and sat on a low wall. A couple of other girls stared at us before they went inside, trying to work out which parts we were up for. It was a bit hostile. We ignored them. Daisy was just sitting there, looking blank and miserable and scuffing the toe of her shoe against the ground like a five-year-old. Daisy was always very neat and very sweet so something was very wrong.
‘What’s up?’ I asked her. ‘Was it a total fail?’ That sounds mean, but it wasn’t meant that way and she knew it. It was empathy.
She shrugged. ‘It was OK, I suppose. They said I was “great”, but hey, we all know that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘But that’s good, isn’t it? Well, it’s not bad anyway.’
‘I suppose.’
There was a long pause and I wished I had chocolate or something because whatever she said she obviously needed cheering up. Her eyes were welling with tears and the tip of her nose was suspiciously red. Even her blonde curls looked sort of flatter and sadder than usual.
‘The thing is, Elektra . . . I hate it.’
‘Hate what? Auditioning? Everyone hates auditioning. There’s nothing to like about auditions. We’ll just have to get so famous we don’t have to bother any more. Give it a few years and we’ll only turn up for “courtesy meetings” and Scorsese will be begging us to appear in his movies.’ I was hoping to make her laugh, but Daisy was crying for real now in that silent, apologetic, desperate way of someone who doesn’t like to make a fuss.
‘No, you don’t understand, I hate it all. I hate the auditions and learning the lines and forgetting lines and worrying about being late and everybody being nervous. I hate not getting callbacks, but I hate getting callbacks too. I hate worrying about getting a spot before filming or putting on weight and standing in the wrong place and saying the wrong thing and . . . oh, I don’t know . . . just being . . . disappointing.’
I didn’t know what to say. Daisy was so good at all this; how could she feel so bad.
Also she was very slim and never got spots.
I put my arm round her; she was all sweaty from crying so hard. I had a crumpled tissue in my pocket, hopefully not snotty, so I gave it to her and just sort of hugged her.
Another girl walked past and looked smug to see Daisy upset. She probably thought it was one less girl for her to compete with.
‘But Daisy, you’re really good. You’re the best girl in our ACT class by miles; everyone says so.’
‘I don’t really mind the acting,’ she sniffled. ‘It’s the rest of it. I hate it, I really do. It feels like it’s taken over my life and it’s just not fun any more.’ She started the silent sobbing again.
‘But you’re always getting
jobs and casting people love you. You’re like a total professional.’
She looked at me sadly. ‘I do voice-overs for frozen-food adverts and cleaning products, and training videos for companies and way too many videos for parenting channels. I’m always working, but the jobs I get are pretty rubbish.’
I hadn’t thought about that. All I’d noticed was that she got work. I’d been kind of jealous. I hadn’t stopped to think what the jobs were.
‘Well, you get to miss lots of school,’ I offered.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s true. And that’s why I’m in the bottom sets for maths and science.’
‘Then stop,’ I said simply.
She looked at me as if I were mad.
‘I mean it. Do something else. You could be a dancer or a singer or – I don’t know – even a model.’ Maybe not a model. she was probably way too short, but I found that telling girls they could be a model usually had a cheering effect.
‘But that’s it, Elektra, I don’t want to do “something else” – “something else” will just be another thing with schedules and classes and having to be better than other people at “something else” or at least look better than them. I just want to hang out and do ordinary stuff.’
I was confused.
Part of me thought that she was simply mad. Daisy was getting parts so why did she just want to do the ordinary stuff? How boring would that be?
And how could Daisy bear not to do the acting stuff? I was still high from being part of Ed’s student short film and that had been weeks ago. But it was horrible that she was so sad. (Although I couldn’t help thinking that if the casting director could see Daisy now they’d book her on the spot for the ‘Sophie/Beth’ character because she looked really pretty when she cried.)
No, not helpful, Elektra. I pulled myself together. ‘Then stop,’ I said again.
‘My parents would freak out,’ she shuddered. ‘They’ve spent so much money on this. Headshots that cost a fortune and all the acting classes and singing classes and dancing classes and even the travel and stuff. I’m only just starting to make money from this by taking those rubbish jobs.’
I felt ashamed then. Because I hadn’t thought about the money at all. For an uncomfortable moment, I wondered how Daisy saw me – me in my big house with my architect dad (even if he’s mostly just doing kitchens) and my shopping-addicted (even if she denies it), stay-at-home mum and my occasional piece of designer clothing (even if it is bought for me by a mad French step-grandmother). I’d never have to miss school to do a training video or a dog-food commercial to earn some money. Well, probably not ever. I gave Daisy another hug, a bit to cheer her up and a bit so that if she thought I was spoiled at least she would think I was spoiled and nice.
‘You should go,’ said Daisy. ‘Your half-hour’s nearly up.’ Classic Daisy; she’d never be late. Although I felt guilty leaving her in such a state, I was on my feet and in that building in seconds.
I was red and rushed when I got into the taping room. I didn’t even have the pages of script they’d sent me with my lines (‘sides’ they’re called) with me. I knew them by heart, but felt a bit naked not having them in my hand like a little comfort blanket. I didn’t know which of the two women in the room was Sally Upton (the casting director) so I just gave them both my best, ‘hire me, I’m really nice to work with’ smile. I don’t think they even noticed; they were making notes and whispering – obviously, the girl before me had given them something to talk about. I prayed she’d been up for a different role.
‘OK, shall we just get on with it?’ said the older of the women, finally looking up.
Great, a bad-tempered, bored casting director was all I needed. I wondered how many teenage girls she’d already seen. Plainly too many.
‘Can you make your accent a bit more neutral, please?’ said Mrs Upton when I was halfway through.
What did that mean? How could I possibly sound too posh for an upstairs role in an English period drama? What did that leave me? Biopics of eighteenth-century princesses? Bit niche. ‘Would you like me to start over?’
‘No, just pick up from where you were.’
I could feel that I was still all red and my neck was worryingly itchy so, as well as sounding wrong, I suspect I wasn’t looking my best. I tried to remember where I’d broken off, but I was all over the place. I was pretty sure Daisy never made this sort of mess of an audition and she was the one crying outside. ‘Um . . . sorry, could I just look at the script for a second?’
The woman handed it over. ‘When you’re ready.’
Clearly, whatever I did, she would just like me to do it quickly so I could leave, she could see the remaining girls and get some coffee or vodka or whatever it was she needed to get her through the rest of the day.
I began again.
MARY
(throwing aside her embroidery) But Mama, I’m bored. You don’t allow me to read any more and I’m not one to lounge and lark around. I must and I shall be useful. There must be something I can do for someone and if that someone is happy to give me money for being useful to them then that is surely a good thing, not a shaming thing . . .
OK, that was what I was meant to say. What I actually said was something more like:
But Mama, I’m bored. You don’t allow me to read any more and I’m not one to lark and . . . lark and . . .
I started over, got that bit right and then,
I must and I shall be . . . happy? No, erm . . . useful?
I started over again and got all the way to the end of that bit. I was pretty sure I had a sweat moustache.
Mrs Upton was reading the mother’s part for me (in a voice so neutral that it was beige).
MAMA
You shall spoil your eyesight and need spectacles like that unfortunate girl Rebecca.
MARY
(muttering under her breath) At least Rebecca has something to do all day long . . .
I bet if I looked hard enough I could probably find the actual page in Little Women that they’d ripped that scene off from.
I didn’t think I was doing anything different and I was pretty confident that at least Mary’s irritation was going to come over as genuine, but she didn’t interrupt again. It was over in a couple of minutes.
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Upton in the very same colourless voice and went back to her note-taking.
The other woman, who hadn’t said a word, smiled warmly at me as I left. A pity smile.
Daisy had gone and Dad wasn’t in the waiting room.
Where are you? I texted him.
Across the road in the cafe. Are you done?
Yes. I waited for him to launch into the whole ‘how did it go’ line of questioning.
Good. About time. I am dying of boredom.
He was a really poor chaperone. Perfect.
From: Stella at the Haden Agency
Date: 17 March 18:04
To: Julia James
Cc: Charlotte at the Haden Agency
Subject: OmniNut voice-over
Attachments: Draft agreement between E. J. and OmniNut Ltd. doc; map.jpeg
Dear Julia,
OmniNut Ltd liked the voice clips we sent over and would love to book Elektra for the voice work for their upcoming commercial on Tuesday 24 March. You’ll see from the attachments that this sort of work is well paid (!) and we’re sure Elektra will enjoy it too. The agreement is in standard terms so if you’re happy just sign it and send it back. The studio is a little out of the way so we’ve enclosed a map. As this is a school day, we’ll need a permission letter from Elektra’s school.
Kind regards,
Stella
P.S. So pleased you’re over that flu, Julia.
From: Mrs Haroun, Head Teacher, Berkeley Academy
Date: 18 March 16:13
To: Julia James
Subject: Elektra James’s absence from school, Tuesday 24 March
Attachments: Permission letter.doc
Dear Mrs James,
Further to our conversation, I attach a letter on the school’s headed notepaper in the form we discussed authorizing Elektra’s absence from lessons on Tuesday 24 March.
Whilst on this occasion I am happy to grant permission, can I please stress that it would be helpful to have more advance notice next time (should there be a next time). Whilst we are of course happy to support all our girls in their fulfilling out-of-school activities and whilst we value the dramatic arts, we do take our absence policy very seriously.
Kind regards,
Maryam Haroun
Head Teacher, Berkeley Academy
P.S. Good Luck, Elektra, and let us know how it goes!
Berkeley Academy: Believing and Achieving since 1964
‘You can just be the condiment. It’s really kind of freeing, just being a sidekick weirdo.’
Alex Pettyfer
‘Did you ask Moss to take notes for you in lessons today?’ asked Mum.
‘Mmmm,’ I said. No. I’d forgotten and anyway Moss’s notes would be a bit useless (she has a very good memory and writes nothing down). I’d copy off Maia if I had to.
‘And what about homework?’
‘What about it?’
‘Will Moss let you know what needs to be handed in for tomorrow?’
‘Sure,’ I said. No. One of the best things about having a Tuesday off school to voice a squirrel was that nobody (except for my mum and maybe Madame Verte) would expect me to hand in homework on Wednesday.
You around, Moss? I texted. No answer. I’m on my way to be the new voice of nuts. It’s taking AGES to get there. No answer.
‘Have you had the results back of that biology test?’
Waiting for Callback Page 10