Faking Friends

by Jane Fallon

  ‘Hold on,’ I say, turning my back on the house.

  ‘Okay, they’re getting in their car’ – Kat gives me a running commentary – ‘and … they’ve gone.’

  Inside, I make a fuss of Oscar while Kat settles down in front of Mel’s laptop. She clicks through her emails.

  ‘Ooh, look, she’s been talking to Sam.’ She leans in and concentrates. Even with her glasses on, Kat always reads everything from about an inch away. ‘Blah blah, she’s getting defensive saying, yes, she is organizing the sale, and he’s basically accusing her of dragging her heels.’

  She goes back to concentrating while I riffle through a neat pile of mail on the desk. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  ‘So …’ Kat says eventually. ‘She’s made contact with two agents, Barkers and Goldborne Friedman, asking them to come and give her a valuation. The first one is on Saturday.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘We can get in there first.’

  Kat peers at me over the top of the laptop. ‘We?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she says, slamming it shut. Then she takes a long breath in, pushes her glasses up her nose. ‘Okay. Fuck it. Bring it on.’

  15

  I pretend I’m not listening in as Kat makes the call, busy myself trying to find a jacket I particularly like in the cramped corner of the wardrobe my clothes once again occupy now Mel is back, but Kat has that small-human, big-voice thing going on, as if she had to shout to be heard from a young age.

  I know she’s calling on the office number because, if her name came up on Mel’s mobile, no way would she answer, and we both know Mel’s not senior enough at work to have anyone screening her calls.

  ‘Mel! Hi! It’s Kat.’

  There’s silence, where I assume Mel says something like ‘I’m too busy to talk to you’, because Kat launches straight into her rehearsed spiel.

  ‘I’ll only be a second. Listen, I heard on the grapevine from a friend of mine at Goldborne Friedman that you were selling your flat and I just wanted to check whether you’d signed any kind of exclusivity deal with them yet, because I have a couple of people who might be interested. It would save you having to pay fees, which, you know, can end up being a fortune …’

  She pauses for a reaction and I find myself standing statue-like, holding my breath. Oscar looks up at me and meows loudly, so I pick him up and flip him on to his back and he starts purring like a steam train.

  ‘Exactly …’ Kat says. ‘And, if you’re looking to buy somewhere else, that money’s going to come in handy. Are you looking to buy somewhere else?’

  Even though I’m curious to hear the answer, I just want Kat to stick to the script and achieve her objective.

  ‘Right … yes, I know what you mean … and do you know what you’re putting it on for? … No … right …’

  It’s like listening to half a radio play and all the important stuff is happening off air.

  ‘Well, assuming you haven’t made any drastic alterations since I was last there, I’d say you must be looking at late eight hundreds, maybe even nine. I’d have to have another look, though, because it’s been years … Okay, good plan. I’ll pop round tonight. And then if neither of the couples I have in mind think it’s right for them, you can still go ahead and put it on with an agent and you won’t have lost anything … Great … See you then. Bye, Mel.’

  I wait until I’m sure she’s ended the call. ‘Well done. Jesus. I couldn’t have pulled that off.’

  ‘I’m going over there later. Luckily, she’s so uninterested in me that she’s never cottoned on to the fact I only do the really high-end stuff these days.’

  I hadn’t really thought beyond the fact that having Kat spend time with Mel might be enlightening, but now another thought pops into my head.

  ‘Make sure you get her spare keys.’

  Kat rolls her eyes as if this is the most obvious thing anyone has ever said.

  ‘Obviously. I’m going to tell her my clients can only view on weekdays because they go away every weekend. And they have kids, so they don’t want to do evenings, so unless she wants to keep taking the day off work and having to spend more time with me she’ll have to give them to me.’

  I spend half the afternoon in Homebase on Finchley Road, stocking up on industrial-strength cleaning products and a couple of pots of paint (a chalky white and a light sagey green which, if Farrow and Ball made it, would probably be called Ear Wax or Toe Jam), some brushes, a roller-and-paint-tray set and some tape. I add bin bags, rubber gloves and then sandpaper, because I have this big idea that I’m going to repaint the woodwork. Then I drag it all on to the bus, already regretting that I picked up so much in one trip before I even make it out of the car park.

  It’s only the second time I’ve been to the flat on my own. When we left after taking out all the furniture, I’d propped two windows open, one at the front and one at the back, figuring it didn’t really matter at this point if someone broke in, so the smell is a little less intense than it was. There’s still a mountain of crap in here, lying about everywhere you look, so I set down the takeaway coffee I bought in the corner café, having first dumped my booty in the hallway, don the rubber gloves and start loading everything into bin bags.

  I’m loading up my fifth when my mobile rings. It’s such an event that my agent rings me that I almost rip the gloves trying to pull them off so I don’t miss her.

  ‘Hi!’

  ‘Amy! How are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve been better,’ I say, and then I think I don’t want her to start dreading calling me because she’s going to have to listen to a litany of my woes every time, so I add, ‘Things are turning round, though. I’m just decorating my new flat.’

  She asks me for the address and I give it to her, but mostly I’m just thinking, Get to the point: why have you phoned?

  ‘So,’ she says eventually, ‘are you free tomorrow morning for an audition?’

  ‘Definitely.’ More than anything, I want to be able to hold off going back to the call centre. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Don’t get excited. It’s one scene. Death by Numbers. Filming in Brighton the week after next.’

  ‘What’s the part?’ I say, clinging on to the hope that this might be some kind of a break.

  ‘Woman in Park. Thirty-five. That’s all it says.’

  I try not to let my disappointment sound in my voice. ‘I can do that.’

  ‘It’s for Sky, so the money’s not bad.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘It’ll get better after Murder in Manhattan starts airing here,’ she says. ‘I’ll be able to flog you to death while it’s on.’

  I realized I wanted to act almost as soon as I tried it for the first time. It was pure chance. A boy I had my eye on at uni was a dedicated member of the Drama Society so I decided to go along to see if they needed help with lighting or set building – but really so that I could bask in his intoxicating presence. I wasn’t a natural joiner but I had made a rule for myself when I went to university that I was going to force myself out of my comfort zone. Make friends on my own instead of hiding behind Mel, nodding and smiling while she effortlessly won people over.

  Mel was shocked at first that I wasn’t coming home every weekend but I knew that, if I was going to fit in, I had to throw myself headlong into everything. She had an open invitation to come and stay in my room in halls whenever she wanted, and she often did, but she never really liked any of my new friends. She said she felt uncomfortable around them because they all thought she must be some kind of thicko because she left school at sixteen. I couldn’t see it but, whenever she came up, we increasingly just hung out together. Above all, I didn’t want her to stop coming.

  So far, I had tried the Photography Society, the Fine Art Club and the Literary Society, looking for a tribe I could join. Even though I’d met some fun people, I didn’t feel entirely at home anywhere. But I couldn’t conjure up a passion where there was none. So, when I found out Kieron spen
t all his time in the little college theatre space the Drama Society called home I decided to give it a try.

  There’s nothing quite so intimidating as walking into a self-proclaimed exclusive club unannounced. It’s not that I was shy, I just wasn’t one of those ‘Look at me, aren’t I fabulous?’ people like Mel. I tended to lurk, feeling out the possibilities rather than tap-dancing into the spotlight. That day, I walked into the centre of a heated row. Five people – three men (one of them Kieron) and two women – were standing in the centre of the room, shouting at each other. I was about to turn around and walk straight out again when they all stopped arguing and turned and looked at me.

  ‘Can I help you?’ one of the women said. It sounded more unfriendly than I think it was meant to.

  I stood there blushing, uncomfortable with five pairs of eyes focused on me.

  ‘Um … I was … well, I was wondering if you needed any help but, I mean, I can see this isn’t a good time …’

  ‘She looks just like Lucy,’ one of the others said, and that made me blush more, even though I had no idea what they were on about.

  ‘Do you act?’ This from Kieron.

  ‘I was thinking more sets or lighting or something –’

  ‘We don’t need that,’ he snapped. ‘What we need is someone to replace Lucy in the play. She’s decided it’s more important to go home on the weekend we open because it’s her parents’ anniversary.’

  ‘I keep telling you, it’s their twenty-fifth …’ wailed a girl I assumed was Lucy. And, actually, she did look a bit like me. In that we were both dark and female.

  ‘So you shouldn’t have taken the part then.’ I was starting to realize Kieron was in fact a bit arsey, but in a way that my eighteen-year-old self found strangely appealing.

  ‘I didn’t know they’d have the party that weekend, did I? I thought it’d be the one before, because that’s nearer the actual date …’

  I stood there while they all fired off again.

  ‘Well, you should have checked …’

  ‘I’ll be back for the Sunday night, anyway …’

  ‘No way. You can’t miss the opening night and then expect to still be in it …’ This from the other girl. Tiny, dark-haired, sallow-skinned and stunning.

  ‘And don’t tell me you only just found out now, with a week and a half to go,’ one of the other boys chipped in. A tall, skinny, floppy-haired fop.

  I began to edge back towards the door. Kieron spotted me.

  ‘Wait. So, do you act or not? It’s hardly a difficult question.’

  I looked at the floor. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Floppy-haired fop said.

  Kieron strode over and took my arm. My knees and everything else went a bit weak. ‘You’d really be helping us out. Just give it a go. You never know, you might be brilliant. And if you’re not, we’ll just have to set up more auditions. And that’ll lose us another few days, even assuming we find someone. So, no pressure.’

  I laughed, and I was gratified to see he did, too. ‘No, no pressure.’

  ‘Give her your script, Lucy.’

  Lucy more or less hurled a sheaf of paper in my direction, turned on her heels and flounced out.

  Anyway, to cut a long story short, they gave me the script and let me look at it for about thirty seconds before they asked me to read aloud. I can’t even remember what the play was. Some godawful thing written by one of our fellow students who thought they were a playwright. Overwrought and self-indulgent. By this point, I just wanted to get out of there. I’d never have to speak to any of these people again so long as I kept my eyes peeled and turned a corner if I ever spotted one of them coming.

  The first time I read it, with the stunning dark-haired girl, Pia, reading the other parts, I stumbled and stuttered. Floppy-haired fop, who turned out to be called Alistair, actually gave me a few quite helpful pointers, and in a calm and supportive tone that helped soothe my nerves. By the third read, they had all convinced themselves I was the one.

  Kieron beamed at me. ‘Thank God you walked in when you did.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can do it,’ I said, not wanting to break the moment but equally not wanting to put myself in a position where I’d make a massive arse of myself.

  He’d put his arm around me. ‘Of course you can. You’ll be brilliant.’

  Obviously, I agreed, and I threw myself into the best few weeks I’d ever had in my life. I loved every single second of every part of it, even including the vomiting with nerves backstage on the first night of the play’s one-week run. At the risk of sounding like a pretentious twat, I’d found my calling.

  For some reason, I didn’t tell Mel. I just, I don’t know, felt as if she might think I was trying to muscle into her chosen niche or something. That she would think it was ridiculous, the whole idea of me performing. That wasn’t who I was. And this was in the days before social media, thankfully – I don’t think I’d ever even met anyone who had a mobile phone at this point – so I didn’t have to worry about her spotting photos of me strutting my stuff. I remember she did wonder why I told her she couldn’t come and visit two weekends in a row, but I just claimed I had too much coursework. I felt bad. In so far as I knew, we had never kept a secret from one another. But I also knew it was better for me to keep it to myself. And because I’d probably make such a fool of myself, it would never happen again, so I told myself, what’s the harm?

  But I had a new passion, one that I never in a million years would have imagined I’d have. From that point on, all my spare time was spent in the dusty little theatre, or sitting in Pia’s tiny room in halls, eating Pot Noodles with Kieron, Alistair and Tom, a lanky, puppyish-looking boy, the other witness to my impromptu audition, reading through plays, hunting for our next project. And laughing. When I think of those times, I remember a lot of laughing.

  Of course, Kieron turned out to be gay, as did half the boys I fancied at college. In the end, I was glad. I needed like-minded friends much more than I needed a boyfriend.

  The auditions are being held in an old church on Tottenham Court Road that has a warren of rooms they let out for rehearsals and castings. I’m used to the drill. ‘Woman in Park’ doesn’t give much away in terms of the image I should present, so I go for neutral. A cute summer dress with boots and a denim jacket. In my head, I look like Stevie Nicks but I’m probably giving off something more like ‘got dressed in the dark and couldn’t find her shoes’. I wear my hair down and minimal make-up.

  I’ve met the casting director, Angie, a few times over the years and her assistant, Sally, recognizes me when I walk in. There are two other women waiting (mid-forties, short hair, plump; and early thirties, blonde ponytail, skinny, so obviously no one really knows or cares what Woman in Park looks like).

  ‘Hi!’ Sally greets me with a smile as she ticks my name off a list. I can see there are at least ten other potential Women in Parks on there, because each actor has the name of the character they’re reading for next to their name. ‘How have you been?’

  Rule number one of casting club: never give them the idea there are any problems in your life that might get in the way of you doing a good job.

  ‘Great, thanks. Just got back from the States.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  We chat for a second and I can see Blonde Ponytail looking me over surreptitiously as she hears about my big-time US job. Always good to rattle the competition.

  ‘Here’s your sides,’ Sally says eventually. ‘They’re running about five minutes late.’

  I take the pages from the script she hands me and sit next to Plump Short Hair, who smiles as she moves her bag out of the way. We all sit there in silence, studying the highlighted lines. Woman in Park, it seems, has witnessed some kind of crime and she’s nervously reporting what she saw to the police, clutching her five-year-old child close. It’s the kind of procedural dialogue that merely requires you not to fuck up and to make sure the audience pick up any relevant
information. Less is more, as they say. It’s not exactly Lady Macbeth.

  Plump Short Hair goes in and comes out less than five minutes later. That doesn’t signify anything. When the part has only nine lines, there’s not much to say. They call Blonde Ponytail next, just as someone else arrives – I assume for a different part, because it’s an elderly man. Or else Woman in Park has hidden depths I’m unaware of.

  Four or so minutes later, it’s my turn. Same old same old. Angie greets me warmly, introduces me to the director and producer, neither of whom I’ve met before, tells them briefly about my recent work, and then I’m reading for them, Angie playing all the other parts.

  It’s over in a flash. Joanne, the director, asks me to read it a second time (this is par for the course and means nothing, I’ve learned). There are no notes, from which I deduce either I was absolutely perfect and couldn’t be improved upon (unlikely), so bad there’s no point (again, I feel, unlikely) or the part is so small their hearts aren’t really in it and pretty much anyone who vaguely fits the bill and who can walk and talk at the same time will do (bingo!).

  And that’s it. I walk out into the spring sunshine. With most of these small roles, you don’t even hear if you haven’t got it. You just wait and wait until eventually your agent picks up on the grapevine that an offer has gone out to someone else. I’ve learned to forget about them the minute the audition is over. Not that I don’t care, I do. I really want this job, and not just for the money. I want to be working, I want to keep reminding people – casting directors, producers, directors, writers – that I’m out there. More than anything, I want to spend a day acting, because it’s what I love doing.

  On the way to the Tube I call Kat, who, since I’ve been staying with her, seems to have taken on the role of anxious stage mother. She insisted I let her know how the audition had gone, even though I explained a hundred times that it wasn’t a big deal. She’s probably feeling guilty that she’s found me a flat I might not be able to afford to live in for long.