Waiting for Callback

by Perdita Cargill

  ‘Get a plate for that. You can’t read the other parts on your own,’ said Mum.

  ‘Yes I can.’ I scooped the cream out of the middle with my finger. The cake was good. She should make more cakes and leave me alone to learn my own lines.

  ‘I want to help.’

  My mother hadn’t had this much to do with my life since primary school. I’d thought I was long done with needing to be picked up in the car and submitting to having my hair brushed and being reminded about my manners – but somehow I seemed to be right back there.

  All that work I’d done, little by little, carving out territory for me and Mum was barging back in. I wasn’t talking about wild, open plains here, just enough space, any space.

  And she loved helping me learn lines. She got so into it, reading every other part with feeling and a wide range of disturbing accents. It annoyed me more than it should have done.

  ‘Seriously, Mum, it’s fine. I’ve got ages and I’ll run them with Moss at lunchtime.’ That wasn’t true.

  ‘You’ve got two days and no you won’t. You’ve got Spanish oral practice at lunchtime.’

  How did she remember this stuff? Why did she remember this stuff? And that wasn’t the real reason I wasn’t going to run lines with Moss. The real reason I wasn’t going to run lines with Moss was that Moss now spent every lunchtime ‘catching up’ with Torr over Snapchat (in case they’d missed some important development in each other’s lives between 8.30 a.m. and 12.30 p.m.).

  ‘I’ve emailed Stella saying no to the Twisted casting,’ she said.

  Well, that was predictable. Stella had asked (as a long shot) if I wanted to go up for the part of Holly in what she described as a ‘harrowing coming-of-age’ drama. I thought it sounded quite interesting. My parents thought it sounded horrible (I think they took the bit about how it would be a ‘transformative experience’ a bit too literally).

  ‘Fine,’ I snapped and Mum’s shoulders went up and she looked hurt and made a big show of patting Digby and calling him a ‘good boy’. I got the point she was making. Digby looked as smug as a Dalmatian can (which is actually quite smug).

  ‘Walkies,’ she offered and was gone before I could say sorry.

  ‘I don’t think you should talk to your mother like that,’ said Dad, looking up from his work. His tone was quite mild, but that was deceptive; he was seriously pissed with me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘I was going to say sorry.’

  ‘She’s only trying to help.’

  ‘But it doesn’t help. It just stresses me out. She makes everything such a big deal.’

  There was one of those horrible pauses when you have enough time to wish you hadn’t said anything and your parent has enough time to think of something that will make you feel as bad about yourself as you should.

  ‘She’s stressed too, Elektra. Have a bit of empathy.’

  ‘You mean because I’m stressing her?’

  ‘Not just you . . .’ There was a pause and we both thought about all the myriad things that could stress out my mum. ‘But yes, running you around to auditions and hanging about waiting for hours isn’t something she chose to do.’

  Fair.

  ‘And she finds it stressful, waiting to hear if you’ve got parts or second auditions.’

  ‘Why is that stressful for her? It’s worse for me.’

  ‘I’m not sure it is. But she worries for you because she loves you,’ he said calmly, rearranging his papers so that they were precisely aligned with the edge of the desk.

  ‘Well, you’re not wasting your time worrying about whether I’m going to get some acting part that I’m probably not going to get.’

  ‘No I’m not, but maybe I don’t need to worry because I know your mum’s worrying about it for both of us. And if she didn’t drive you to these godforsaken locations I suppose I’d have to do it.’

  I suppressed the thought that we’d probably get there and back a lot quicker. ‘You took me to the Fortuneswell audition,’ I said.

  ‘Yes I did, but that was in Central London and it was so boring it gave me new respect for your mother.’

  My phone barked. Text from Archie. I surreptitiously opened it. Hey, Elektra, what are you up to?

  Yay. Not much. What bout you?

  ‘Are you on your phone?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Sorry, yes I was.’ I turned it face down.

  Dad still had things to say. ‘And if you do get parts who do you think will have to sort out the paperwork? You’re too young to do any of that.’

  Also I’d probably forget everything and then lose it all.

  ‘Your mum does a lot for you, Elektra, and she doesn’t complain.’

  Meaning that I did.

  ‘But Dad, seriously, she’s gone a bit mad. One minute she’s telling me the acting world is a horrible, exploitative industry and I should just be worrying about getting into a good university and the next she’s, like, searching for open auditions on weird momager websites and pressing refresh on my IMDb page.’

  Why? Why did she do that? As if it mattered what my ranking was – there are over four million actors listed on that site, thirty-nine million credits, so it’s kind of hard to stand out. At number one today in the STARmeter is Jennifer Lawrence, up 11,779 (little green arrow) one day, down 41,324 (big red arrow) the next – go figure that nobody’s going be looking me up that isn’t a blood relation. The STARmeter is a real thing – a sort of graph with little emoticons marking things like film releases and Oscar nominations or . . . well, death (kind of sick to give death an emoticon – a cute little tombstone if you were wondering), little peaks and troughs of popularity.

  ‘And she keeps going on about how well the girl in Game of Thrones is doing and I have no idea if she thinks that’s a good thing or a bad thing.’ Watching my parents watch Game of Thrones made me mildly uncomfortable.

  ‘She’s maybe a bit conflicted,’ he said.

  ‘And what about you, Dad? Do you want me to do this?’

  He looked at me. ‘I only want you to do this if you want to do it. It looks to me like it’s not that easy for you right now.’

  ‘Well, you’re the one that always says you have to push through when things are a bit tough. Put the effort in and see rewards, all that stuff.’

  ‘That’s true about geometry. And physics. And pretty much all your subjects except maybe French – definitely not French. But it’s not true about this. Acting is optional. Do it if it makes you happy. If it doesn’t make you happy, then stop. Maybe you’re a bit “conflicted” too?’

  I didn’t know if I were ‘conflicted’ or not. I didn’t really want to think about that. Maybe people thought too much about stuff instead of just doing it. ‘Can I check my phone now?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Expecting an important message?’

  ‘No,’ I said and I blushed (of course I blushed).

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said, laughing at me.

  Archie had texted back; this was now officially a conversation. What you doing this weekend?

  Nothing. Just get the message out that I was 100 per cent available. But wait . . . now he’d think I had no friends and was tragic. Hanging with friends, but nothing definite. Pretty sure he would now think I had no friends and was tragic and was so self-conscious about it that I’d had to double text. What bout you? Be brave, keep the conversation going.

  Got to go see fam in the country. Cows and stuff. Will be a mad one.

  Disappointed expectations. Again.

  ‘Interesting messages?’ asked my dad mildly.

  ‘Do you want tea?’

  ‘You’re changing the subject.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘OK, fair enough. Do you want to come and watch the footy with me and Digby?

  ‘I’d be honoured. Shall I bring cake for you?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You need to eat more; you’re too skinny.’ And he was.

  ‘You sound like your mother.’

  Tha
t wasn’t good.

  From: Stella at the Haden Agency

  Date: 11 May 15:41

  To: Julia James

  Cc: Charlotte at the Haden Agency

  Subject: RE: Elektra and Twisted

  Dear Julia,

  Thank you for getting back to me so quickly on the Twisted casting. For what it’s worth, I think you’re making the right call: the script does deal with a troubling subject matter and there is some very strong language!

  Kind regards,

  Stella

  ‘Sometimes it’s the stuff that makes you uncomfortable that is actually the good drama.’

  Natalie Dormer

  ‘So, why did you say it if you didn’t mean it?’ Moss was seriously annoyed with me.

  ‘I didn’t say anything.’ And I hadn’t, not technically. I hadn’t done anything that bad. Well, maybe I had. I should have known Maia would show Moss our conversation (I think I did know – I’d had a bad feeling since I’d sent the texts).

  ‘So Torr’s “up himself ” and “too cool”?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You pretty much did.’

  ‘No, Maia said that. I just said “LOL”.’ I shouldn’t have said “LOL”. Not just because nobody should ever say “LOL”, there is no excuse, but because I should have defended Torr. Don’t mention the other text. Please don’t mention the other text.

  ‘You said I was boring when I was with him.’ Moss mentioned the other text. Of course she did. The other text was the biggest problem.

  ‘I didn’t say that. I just sort of agreed with Maia. And why aren’t you angry with her?’

  ‘Because she’s not supposed to be my best friend.’

  ‘No, just your informant.’

  ‘She felt bad about it. That’s why she told me.’

  ‘You know that’s not true.’

  ‘Also she met up with some of Torr’s friends in Starbucks and oddly enough they don’t think he’s up himself.’

  Oh, right. So Maia fancied one of Torr’s friends. And now she was going to majorly suck up to Moss in the hope of getting better access to him. This was making more sense every second.

  ‘You obviously think my boyfriend’s weird.’ Moss wasn’t going to drop it.

  ‘I don’t.’ The temptation to mock the way she said ‘my boyfriend’ instead of just Torr was quite strong, but I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Did you just say it for LOLs then?’

  ‘I was just being lazy. I wasn’t being mean.’

  ‘Sure, just lazy. That’s why you replied. Several times.’

  ‘I like Torr,’ I said, but it sounded kind of weak and Moss did that shrug thing to let me know that she thought I was lying. But I wasn’t really. I don’t know very many sixteen-year-old guys who are capable of being boyfriends full stop. He deserves a lot of points for that. But Moss was so totally into him that I missed her. She was practically at the poetry stage (and I mean proper written-just-for-the-beloved, dedicated odes and sonnets) and we’d promised each other that we would never, ever be at the poetry stage. She never sat in a chair any more when she could sit on his knee and she whispered things in his ear which pretty much excluded everyone else (me) from the conversation and when she wasn’t with him (which wasn’t very often) she wanted to talk about him.

  And it was always what Torr wanted. Moss’s Moss-yness had sort of dissolved. She went to see things she didn’t want to see, she went to cafes that didn’t sell cake and she spent a lot of time (when they weren’t making out) listening to Torr talking about things that she had no interest in. She went to gigs. And she was so loved up that there wasn’t even any beef. Talking about Torr didn’t mean complaining about him, it just meant going on about how sweet/cute/hot/clever/indie/into her/ supportive, etc. he was. Honestly, it was boring and sometimes it was boring and awkward (I am not cool with public displays of affection).

  ‘Maybe everyone’s not as obsessed with Torr as you are.’ Honest but not really an apology.

  ‘I don’t want you to be as obsessed with him as I am.’ Moss wasn’t even looking at me now.

  ‘So you admit you’re obsessed with him?’

  ‘Why do I have to admit it? Why are you being so horrible?’

  ‘I’m not being horrible.’ I was and I knew it, but now I’d started I couldn’t stop.

  ‘You don’t have to love him, Elektra, you don’t even have to like him, but it would just be nice if you didn’t go behind my back and talk about him.’ I could see that she was nearly crying.

  ‘That’s not fair . . . Look, I miss us hanging out.’

  ‘Half the time you’re busy with all your acting stuff and I don’t moan about that, and anyway we do still hang out loads.’

  ‘Er, no we don’t.’ My acting stuff took up way less time than her love life, but I wasn’t going to get into that.

  ‘We’re hanging out now.’

  ‘Having an argument outside the school loos doesn’t really count as quality hanging-out time.’

  ‘What about last Saturday?’

  ‘I’m not sure awkwardly watching half a retro movie round at your house while you and Torr make out really counts either.’ I would never know if Bridget Jones got with Mark Darcy or not (although I could guess). Bridget Jones wasn’t Torr’s kind of film. ‘We don’t even hang out virtually.’ I missed our stupid Snapchats and texts.

  ‘You sound jealous.’

  I was but not for the reason she thought. ‘Not everyone wants to spend their every moment in some exclusive Disney relationship.’

  ‘I don’t have a Disney relationship with Torr. If you’d ever actually had a relationship with any guy, you’d know that.’

  Brutal.

  ‘Anyway, how would you feel if I started bitching behind your back?’ Moss was pulling at a loose thread on her tights. She’d been doing it the whole time we were talking and her tights were more shred than fabric.

  Her voice was getting louder and louder and a gaggle of girls were gathering round us like Roman citizens at a small and exclusive gladiatorial bout.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, I Did Not Bitch about you behind your back. Why are you making such a big deal about this? Everyone gossips. You do it too. Don’t be a hypocrite. Anyway, I hardly said anything and I didn’t mean it.’ I know that my argument wasn’t entirely logical, but I was under pressure. Also I was getting defensive because the more upset she got, the guiltier I felt and the guiltier I felt, the angrier I got. ‘Stop being so whiny and self-righteous. It’s a miracle any guy – even a weird one – can put up with you.’

  There was a gasp from the ever-growing audience. Moss looked shocked for a moment then set her jaw and drew herself up to her full and not very imposing height. She was almost shaking with anger. This wasn’t good. Less gladiatorial private show than throwing Christians to the lions – I was the Christian.

  ‘You know what, Elektra,’ (amazing how much disdain she loaded into the word Elektra), ‘it’s fine. Totally fine.’ She spat out each consonant. ‘No, really, I get it. It’s not your fault that your life is so boring that you have to moan behind my back and create drama out of my happiness because your own drama stuff’s not working out and so you have something to talk about when you’ve exhausted everything you can say about your tragic little crush on Archie.’ She drew breath. ‘I’m sure if my life was as sad and dull I’d do the same. By the way, just a piece of friendly advice – it’s obvious that Archie isn’t into you so stop being desperate and save what’s left of your dignity.’

  There was more of course because there were lots of different and increasingly mean ways to say the same thing and make (multiple) snide comments about people changing and growing up and apart.

  Somehow we both managed not to cry; it was colder than that. Bitter, like how two people who don’t like each other would speak to each other.

  I wish I hadn’t sent those texts.

  ‘I like burgers, but do I want to see my face all over the burger cart
ons? Not really.’

  Kristen Stewart

  So Daisy’s bug wasn’t really a bug. No surprise there. She still hadn’t turned up to ACT and she hadn’t answered my last ten ‘are you all right?’ texts.

  Hey, Elektra. Soz for not replying. Want to meet for coffee on Saturday?

  We met in Pret. It was warm enough to sit outside.

  ‘Daisy . . . you look amaaazing!’

  ‘You like it?’ She did a sort of awkward little twirl; she obviously wasn’t sure herself.

  She’d cut her hair to within a few centimetres of her scalp. All the ringlets were gone and most of the blonde (I’d never even guessed she’d been dyeing her hair) and there was nothing bonnet and bodice about her any more. She looked seriously good.

  ‘I love it!’

  ‘You really like it? You’re not just saying that to be nice to me.’

  ‘Really. So . . . either you just got cast in some sci-fi or prison drama thing and they cut your hair off or you’re halfway through a hard-core production of Les Mis or . . .’

  ‘Or . . . I’ve quit.’

  ‘For real? What made you do it?’

  ‘A little bit you saying “ just stop” that day we were at the Fortuneswell casting, but mostly because my mum started to talk about LA and pilot season and Oakwood.’

  ‘Not Oakwood,’ I said in the tone of horror that most teenage girls would reserve for discovering that Robert Pattinson and Daniel Booth were married to each other.

  Oakwood Toluca Hills is this apartment complex in LA where all the drama kids and their momagers go and stay for pilot season (or, in the case of some desperate souls, years). Look, some of my best friends are actors (weird defensive statement right there), Archie is an actor, but I couldn’t think of anything worse than being holed up in some complex with a bunch of desperate kids and (worse) their mothers with everybody talking about auditions and callbacks and competition and making money and motivational mantras and disappointment. Hell.