by Jane Lambert
As I enter the green room, there’s Prue from Production pacing up and down, one hand on her hip, the other clasping her mobile to her ear.
‘What happened, Emily?’ she says tetchily, snapping the phone shut and ushering me into the ladies’ dressing room. My stomach clenches. ‘I accept things go wrong sometimes, but we expect our presenters to carry on regardless, not freeze up.’
‘You’re absolutely right, Prue. In fact I’ve decided that …’
‘Sales were very poor, I’m afraid. The client’s been on the phone already. He’s not very happy, as you can well imagine.’
‘Of course. I really feel that I’m not …’
‘We can’t run the risk of losing valuable business in this way.’
‘Quite. I’m just not cut out …’
‘I’m sorry, I know it’s short notice, but I’ve decided to take you off the Turbo Steam Cleaner slot – in fact, I won’t be assigning you to any more presentations in the future.’ Voice softening, she continues, ‘Many actors find they simply aren’t suited to this type of work, so don’t lose any sleep over it, will you?’
Oh no, Prue, I won’t. In fact, had you come up for air and listened to what I had to say for just one moment, I would have told you that I’d already decided that you’d have to find someone else to promote your turbo steam cleaners, rotary choppers, and electrical foot warmers because I QUIT!
The glass lift delivers me to the steel atrium of Homeworld TV. I sign out and return my pass to the uniformed receptionist, with a self-assured air, head held high.
As I stride along Southwark Street, it starts to rain. I don’t have an umbrella, but I don’t care. And I don’t care that I’ve just been fired either, because I feel free, free to carry on looking for what it is I really want. Okay, so the presentation was a bit of a train crash, but it’s given me a TV credit for my CV, it’s paid off my Visa bill, and they say failure is the key to success, right?
The old me would have skulked back to Beryl’s, retreated to the sofa in my pj’s, and binged on chocolate and old episodes of Friends. The new me sweeps into Carluccio’s, orders spaghetti carbonara, a glass of house red, and toasts the future.
The old me wouldn’t have eaten alone in a restaurant, because people would think I was lonely and sad. The new me doesn’t care what people think and is happy to be alone.
I order a macchiato, grab my pen and notebook, and begin to write. Faye lent me a book called Write It Down, Make It Happen, which shows you how writing down your goals can focus your mind and help you achieve them.
Had I written my Wish List a couple of years ago, it would have read something like this:
Marry Nigel.
Live in a big house with a garden and pool.
Have kids.
Get a dog.
Be happy.
Today it reads:
Find an agent.
Do interesting work that fulfils me.
Write and perform my own play.
Learn to live in the moment.
Find inner peace.
I have no idea how long it will take the universe to get back to me, so in the meantime I will clear my head of negative thoughts, sign up for yoga, practise meditation, begin writing my play, and relieve financial stress by finding a bread-and-butter job while waiting for THE CALL.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Italian Effect
May
TODAY IS THE DAY I will find a job. Any job.
I scan the parade of shops as I pedal by – heaps of possibilities: there’s the bakery, off-licence, newsagent’s, cut-price bargain store, chemist, the kebab shop – then a hazy memory of Wendy’s birthday, and being served a dodgy doner on the way home by someone resembling Hannibal Lecter’s brother seeps through my brain. Maybe not.
Panting like a bloodhound, I arrive at the top of Richmond Hill and notice the dry cleaners, which has been closed for months, now boasts a green, white, and red awning with Il Mulino and a windmill emblazoned across it.
I peer through the window, and spying someone inside, tap on the door. It is opened by a small man with a weatherworn face and crinkly-kind eyes, a stripey apron accentuating his barrel-like girth.
‘Sì?’
‘Buongiorno! Do you have any vacancies for waiting staff?’
‘Do you have experience?’ he asks in his thick accent. I nod.
‘Prego,’ he smiles, raising his heavy eyebrows and beckoning me inside.
I am immediately transported to some little corner of Italy. The spine-tingling tones of Pavarotti percolate through the coffee-filled air. The rustic furniture is covered with red and white gingham tablecloths, and behind the bar sits one of those old, 1950s’ Gaggia espresso machines.
‘Coffee?’ Luigi asks, tipping beans into the grinder.
‘Mmm, please.’ I smile, squinting at a sepia photograph of a little urchin boy standing next to an old windmill.
‘Do they have windmills in Italy?’ I ask.
‘Sì,’ he replies. ‘No many. This windmill, it is in Sicily. Allora, you want to work in my restaurant …’
One cappuccino later, I’ve got a job starting tomorrow. Luigi prefers to employ native Italians, but I manage to persuade him by promising to learn a little of the language (at least enough to enable me to pronounce the names of the dishes correctly, like talliatelli and not tagliatelli, which caused Luigi to crack up when he asked me to read the menu aloud).
I believed my waitressing days were well behind me, but needs must; it’s either this or the dole queue, and the hours will fit in with my busy audition schedule. Now, there’s positive thinking for you.
* * *
Tonight is my debut at Il Mulino, and the restaurant’s first preview night, ahead of the official opening next month. Luigi introduces me to Rosalba, his daughter, a soprano singer, who’s helping out her father in between classes and auditions. With her jet-black hair, flashing eyes, and hourglass figure, she was born to play Carmen.
(Sound like I’m some opera buff, don’t I? But I’m only familiar with Carmen and Madame Butterfly: the former, because in 1982, I was dragged along to see my Aunty Ailsa perform the title role in Glenderran Amateur Operatic Society’s production – that’s how she met my Uncle Jim – and the latter, because Miss Saigon, which is based on the Puccini opera, used to be my favourite musical; I saw the original touring production twelve times, because back then I worked as a Saturday usherette at our local theatre. The story left a huge impression on me, not least because I had a major crush on the guy playing Chris, the American GI.)
‘Come with me, cara, I show you the kitchen,’ says Rosalba, sweeping through the double doors, hips swaying like a pendulum.
She and the chef exchange some words in Italian, then with sleight of hand, he tosses fresh herbs and brightly coloured peppers from a giant, sizzling pan, high into the air, like a conjurer, performing his very own brand of magic.
‘Bravo!’ I cry, and immediately wish I hadn’t. He grunts something tetchy under his breath and angrily sloshes more red wine into the sauce. Not a good start.
‘Don’t mind Sergio,’ says Rosalba over the hiss. ‘He just likes everyone to know he’s the capo – the boss. And this … is Nonna Maria,’ she says fondly. A bird-like lady all in black sits on a stool in the corner, long ribbons of potato peel falling from her knife into a huge, dented, aluminium pot on the floor. Her face creases into a wrinkle-etched smile. ‘Ciao.’
Luigi enters, and they all start babbling at once, their voices becoming louder and higher, their gestures more vehement. There’s soon enough passion and melodrama unfolding to rival any opera, and I half expect a brawl to break out amongst the colanders and carving knives. Every word is fuelled with passion and sounds to me like the Italian equivalent of Eh, whaddayamean, you sonofabitch? Showa soma respect. Youworka for this family now – forget Don Cannelloni.
‘What was all that about?’ I ask Rosalba as we head back to the dining room.
‘Allora, m
y father,’ she says with a careless shrug of her shoulders, ‘he just wanna know why Sergio put cannelloni on the specials menu again. Benvenuti!’ she calls, breaking away as six more customers materialise through the door.
The bell rings furiously. ‘Via la quattro! Adesso!’
I spin around full circle and then back again. Rosalba’s busy taking coats and Luigi is deep in conversation with a customer. Oh, well, I can’t hang around looking like a nun at an Ann Summers party, so taking a deep breath, I head towards the kitchen. Sergio darts me a surly glare and nods towards the counter. I scoop up the two plates of steaming minestrone soup, then pirouette back out through the swing doors.
As I approach table four, the lady in the group is in mid-conversation, gesticulating wildly. I stand there patiently waiting for her to finish, but I’m invisible.
‘Scusi,’ I whisper, fingers now burning. I attempt to navigate my way around and aim for the empty space in front of her. But just as the plate is about to make contact with its target, she waves her arms again, and it smashes to the floor, the warm roll shooting across the table, hot minestrone soup flying everywhere: over her, me, the tablecloth, the wall. ‘Scusi,’ I say, grabbing her napkin, frantically plucking cubes of celery and carrot from her doubtless designer suit.
I feel every pair of diner’s eyes drilling through me. A concerned Luigi emerges from behind the bar.
‘Mamma mia, va bene?’
I’ve poured countless glasses of red wine and cups of hot drinks through tropical storms and clear air turbulence without spilling a drop, but I am to learn that there’s a certain knack to negotiating one’s way around the arms of excitable, gesticulating Italians.
Luigi rescues the situation by offering the table complimentary wine and an invitation to the opening.
My proud ego is telling me to run out of the door, never to return. Mindful me is telling me to let go of who I used to be: the super-efficient, confident purser, in charge of a 747 cabin. The rules are different here, and I must give it time and be open to learning new skills.
* * *
The final customers gone, and the tables cleared. Nonna Maria shuffles in from the kitchen, bearing a huge casserole dish, and beckons for me to sit down. Luigi opens a bottle of red wine, and Rosalba places a basket of warm bread on the table.
Sergio sits scowling in the corner, long legs crossed, chewing on a cocktail stick.
‘Mangia, mangia! Eat!’ says Nonna Maria, nodding to me as she drizzles olive oil onto the bread; and more and more food keeps appearing.
Rosalba recalls that Nonna Maria used to make the main dish every Sunday for the family when Luigi was a little boy living in Naples. The Agnello All’Albertone is the best lamb I have ever tasted, and the Montepulciano slides down deliciously, making me feel all warm and cosy inside.
As air crew I’d wolf down my food, standing up in the galley, eye on the clock, frequently interrupted by demanding passengers. Tonight I savour the flavour of each mouthful, happy to be here, in this moment – even if I don’t understand most of what’s being said, or that the chef has taken an instant dislike to me.
Pedalling home, I stop on the bridge and look out over the river, the moon and the lights from the bars and hotels reflected on the glassy water. I breathe in the cool air. A train rumbles in the distance, a flock of Canada geese honks as they fly low over the river, disappearing into the black distance.
For the second time tonight I’m aware I’m living in the present, appreciating what’s going on around me, instead of allowing things to pass me by unnoticed, because my mind is tied up elsewhere. Could this be the effect of the Montepulciano, or am I at last learning to slow down and let go of the past?
* * *
Now with some cash to spare, I invest in new publicity photographs, a showreel, a voice demo, and the latest edition of Contacts. I make calls and send e-mails every day to agents and casting directors. Replies are rare and mostly negative: too old, too young, too tall, too short, too fair, not famous enough. It’s pointless griping about the situation; frown lines are ageing, and besides, no one’s listening. So I immerse myself in writing my play, practising yoga every day, and chant I am opening myself to new possibilities whenever I am out of earshot.
I now know my conchiglie from my tortellini, and when I’m waiting to take orders, I’m honing those all-important character observation skills, which Portia taught us are crucial to becoming a truthful actor.
When the mood takes him, the ice-cold Sergio is starting to thaw a little now and manages to crack the odd smile. To be honest, he’s becoming a tad too friendly these days. There’s an outdoor, walk-in fridge, and when I go to fetch the butter and the ice he sometimes creeps up behind me and kisses the back of my neck. His breath reeks of garlic and nicotine.
‘Reeeelax, cucciolo,’ (puppy dog – eek!) he says, massaging my shoulders. ‘You are verrrrry tense.’ I’ve learned a few choice words like basta! (enough!) and finiscila! (bog off!), which I deploy with as much firmness as I can muster, but it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference, even when accompanied by emphatic sign language; in fact my attempt at acting Italian encourages Sergio to tease me even more.
What can I do? He’s married to Valentina, Luigi’s youngest daughter, so I can hardly go running to him, can I? I have to deal with this on my own. I don’t want the situation to be blown out of proportion. No, definitely best to keep this under wraps. Godfather-like blood feuds to be avoided at all costs.
My favourite part of the night is when the last customer has left – my cue to flip over the CHIUSO/CLOSED sign. Luigi calls, ‘A cena!’ and we gather around the table.
My spoken Italian may not be up to much, but I’m learning to eat like one: i.e. slowly and a lot. So how come the majority of Italians stay healthy and trim? Those time-tested recipes from nonna’s kitchen contain more wisdom than any fad diet, that’s why. The courses may be many, but the portions are smaller, tastier, and leave you wanting more. No mounds of soggy spaghetti, topped with sauce from a jar and a shake of Italian-style cheese powder here, but home-made pasta cooked al dente, served with sauces made from sweet, buffalo tomatoes, rosemary, basil, ricotta, aubergines, and oregano, sprinkled with shavings of fresh parmesan.
* * *
OPERA CABARET JUNE 16th
JOIN US AT IL MULINO FOR WINE,
SONG & HOME-COOKED, TRADITIONAL FOOD.
A TASTE OF THE WARM SOUTH BROUGHT TO
RICHMOND-UPON-THAMES.
Luigi beams. ‘Perfetto!’ he says, smoothing the local newspaper out on the table. ‘Allora, is everything ready for tomorrow? Sergio, I need your final shopping list by the end of tonight, d’accordo?’ Sergio loosens the collar of his chef’s jacket and gives a bad-tempered shrug.
‘Rosalba, the piano tuner will arrive at five o’clock. Have you made a final decision about the music?’
‘Sì, babo.’ She sighs, her long, curling lashes almost touching her eyebrows as she looks up to the ceiling.
Rosalba and her fiancé, Luke, a dentist (they met and fell in love three years ago, when he serenaded her during painful root canal treatment), have been rehearsing tirelessly at the community centre, putting together an eclectic programme of popular Italian songs and various arias from well-known operas; nothing too high-brow, just something to complement the Italian dining experience, and to hopefully set Il Mulino apart from the many other, well-established restaurants in Richmond. If this goes well, it could also provide the duo with the ideal platform to showcase their musical talents.
‘Allora,’ says Luigi, rising, ‘the flowers and wine will arrive in the morning. If there are no questions, then ci vediamo stasera! Until this evening!’
* * *
I’m in the changing room at H&M during my break, trying on black dresses for the opening, when my phone rings.
‘Emily? Lionel of LB Management.’
‘Sorry? Who’s this?’
‘Lionel. Susannah’s agent. We met at Three Si
sters a few months ago.’
‘Hi. Yes, I remember now,’ I say, heart quickening.
‘I realise this is short notice, but I’ve got a free slot for a commercial casting. A client let me down at the last minute, so I was wondering if you’d like to go in her place?’
‘Er, sure. When?’
‘This afternoon at three.’
‘Erm, but it’s one o’clock now.’
‘Up to you. Just thought I’d run it by you. It’s for a pasta sauce commercial and the fee, minus my commission, is two and a half grand.’
Two and a half … that’s the equivalent of … around fifty shifts at the restaurant. I glance at my watch again.
‘Where is the casting?’
‘Dean Street, Soho.’
‘Okay, I’ll do it!’
‘Great! Give me your e-mail address and I’ll send you the details.’
* * *
It’s bang on three by the time I reach Alpha Advertising in rain-washed Dean Street.
‘I’m here for the tomato sauce casting,’ I pant, a puddle forming around my feet.
The receptionist scrutinises me with her oh-I’m-so-bored expression, and mumbles through her Angelina pout, ‘Fill in this form and take a seat.’
‘Where’s the ladies’?’
‘Emily Forsyth and Ninian Moncrieff!’ calls a shrill voice from the corridor.
A middle-aged, Bertie-Wooster type in cords, checked shirt, and squeaky, Church’s brogues places The Times under his arm, scrapes a comb through his slicked-back, greying hair, and swaggers over to the young woman with headphones slung around her neck.
‘Emily Fors…!’
‘Just coming!’ I cry, nervously unbuttoning my dripping-wet mac.
The studio door slams shut. At the far end is a long, leather sofa, crammed with young, trendy, advertising executives, sipping their takeaway Starbucks.
‘This is Ninian and Emily,’ says the woman with the headphones.
‘Okay, you’ve read the blurb,’ says a man with a goatee beard and small crucifix dangling from his left ear. I’m about to explain I haven’t yet had the opportunity to read the blurb, on account of being late, due to signal failure on the District Line (again) and not being able to run very fast in my new wedge shoes, but he ploughs on without pausing for breath.