by Jane Lambert
CHAPTER NINE
Flying Blind
DRAWING A DEEP BREATH I enter the doors of the drill hall. Think positive, girl! As Lionel always says, this could be the one, the audition that will lead to the lucky break you’ve been waiting for.
I toss my head and stride purposefully ahead, following the clickety-clack sound of tap shoes on wood.
A woman of around fifty, with mad hair and hula-hoop earrings, ticks off my name and takes my picture.
As I emerge through the double doors into the rehearsal room, I find myself in a scene straight from A Chorus Line; swarms of intense, highly trained hoofers in holey, faded dance gear arch their backs and touch their toes, some launching into little routines, spinning like tops, arms outstretched, oblivious to everyone around them. You can almost taste the adrenaline, the passion, the hope, the rivalry. I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror opposite, all startled and skinny-legged, like a prize turkey.
I look around in search of other obvious non-dancers who might be up for the same role, but no one seems to fit that description.
Neville, the spray-tanned, chief choreographer glides into the room, like a ship in full sail.
‘Right, everybody, can I have a bit of hush please? Thank you. I’m going to split you into two groups. Group A will work with me and group B with Trixy here.’ (She of the big hair and earrings.)
‘We’re going to take you through a short and simple routine, which you’ll perform to Peter – the director – and the rest of the choreography team. Those selected for the next stage will then be asked to read from the script. Any questions? Good. So …’
‘Excuse me,’ I say, half raising my hand.
Everyone turns to look at me.
‘Yes?’
‘I think I may be in the wrong place. I’m up for the role of Andy?’
‘No, you’re in the right place, darling. So, I’m going to divide you into two groups …’
I’m seconded to Team Neville with about twenty others, many of whom know one another.
‘Darling! Mwah, mwah. How are you? What have you been doing since Les Mis?’
‘Touring in Joseph – again.’
‘I couldn’t face another six months of Hairspray, so I’ve been resting, having some me time.’
‘Mmm, I know what you mean. I was getting to the stage in Phantom where I was sleepwalking the routines.’
It’s at this point I feel the panic and confusion start to bubble inside me.
‘Now pay attention!’ commands Neville, clapping his hands and striking a dramatic pose. ‘Watch carefully please. Okay, Julian, from the top,’ he says, nodding in the direction of the pianist.
‘Shuffle, hop, step, tap, sliiide, sliiide, kick, turn, cramp roll, shuffle, hop …’
Everyone starts to quietly mirror his steps in intense concentration.
‘Right now, I’ll do it once more, but this time I want you all to shadow me, so form a line behind me …’
‘Excuse me,’ I blurt out, my voice echoing around the hall.
‘Yesss?’ says Neville, reminding me of Kaa, the snake in The Jungle Book.
‘Does Andy do the same dance steps as everyone else?’
‘Does Andy …? Well, of course she does.’ His voice is now caught somewhere between amused and irritated.
‘Thank you, Julian. And five, six, seven, eight … shuffle, hop, step, tap, sliiide, sliiide …’
All too quickly it becomes a blur, as my brain staunchly refuses to cooperate with my body. Shuffle, hop, step, tap, kick, step, no, slide, shuffle, no, turn … aargh!
‘Everyone got it?’
I clear my throat and tentatively put my hand up again, but then the door bursts open and the other group clatter in noisily, practising their little kicks and turns. I detest their serene confidence, their smugness.
I raise my hand once more, but yet again I am upstaged: this time by the arrival of the panel. As they take their seats behind the trestle table, the only sounds to be heard are the shuffling of CVs and photographs, accompanied by the glug-glug of mineral water being poured. Eventually they look up at us grim-faced, as much as if to say, Well, go on then, show us what you’re made of!
‘Okey-dokey, everyone ready?’ calls Neville enthusiastically, flicking his silk scarf over his shoulder and flinging his arms wide.
‘We’ll have Group A first, please. Now remember, try to look as if you’re enjoying it, and don’t forget to give it some razzmatazz!’
I reluctantly drag myself to my feet, then shuffle along the back row until I am safely tucked behind a tall, willowy creature, who doubtless knows what she’s doing.
‘And when you’re ready, Julian, from the top, thank you!’
‘And five, six, seven eight …’
It only takes a couple of bars of ‘Steppin’ Out with My Baby’, before I’m a step behind, and why, oh why do I keep on turning the opposite way to everyone else? Gotta stop looking in the mirror … oops … now I’ve collided with the girl to my left. I duck, narrowly missing an extended arm, belonging to the Phantom dancer in full spin before me. She darts me an icy glare. I now have a stitch in my side and have absolutely no idea what my feet are doing.
Julian ends the piece with a Liberace flourish, and we make way for Group B, who perform the routine with assured ease.
We stand about nervously as the panel scribble notes, then huddle together, whispering and pointing.
I fix my awkward gaze on a frantic bluebottle, buzzing about the windowpane, desperately seeking an escape route. What I’d give to be atop Crinkle Crags now.
‘First of all, I’d like to thank everyone for coming,’ booms the director. ‘It’s a difficult decision and I wish we could take you all …’
Come off it, Peter, let’s be honest, don’t you mean all but the red-faced, toe-tied, middle-aged clodhopper in the back row? I am amongst those called for elimination. Well, there’s a surprise.
‘Thank you very much for coming …’ Blah, blah, blah …
Oh God, get me out of here NOW.
I don’t hang around for the group-hugging, kissing, and sympathetic exchange of words, opting instead to trip out of the door to the changing room as fast as my shiny, new tap shoes will carry me.
Never have the busy streets felt so safe and welcoming. I walk around a bit, savouring my anonymity.
I’m about to pop into Starbucks when I notice The Lamb & Flag pub across the street.
I dive through its doors and order a G&T – a double, knocking it back in one, then slamming down the glass on the bar, like they do in gritty TV dramas.
I tell myself to stay calm. Fuelled by Dutch courage, I dial Lionel’s number.
‘Didn’t I tell you, darling?’ he says breezily, ‘the actress who plays Andy also covers the role of Mavis, the dance teacher?’
‘No, Lionel. You left out that tiny bit of information.’
‘Sorry, darling. Anyway, how did it go?’
If I had another agent fighting for my business then I’d fire him, but I don’t, so we are bound together – unless he fires me first, of course.
On the tube to Richmond I take out the Wish List I wrote after the shopping channel fiasco. I unfold it carefully and make a small amendment:
Find an agent. a better agent.
Do interesting work that fulfils me.
Write and perform my own play.
Learn to live in the moment.
Find inner peace.
Finding a new agent is not as easy as it sounds. They have to see you perform, and without an agent it’s nigh on impossible to get a job. There’s only one thing for it: I will have to take matters into my own hands and follow Faye’s advice by getting my one-woman show on the road. Quite how, where, or when, I haven’t a clue, but it’s no good waiting for something to happen, whingeing about Lionel or the fact that there’s a lack of roles for older actresses. Time to take control.
The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves.
* * *
I collect my bike from the station and puff and pant my way up the hill.
As the green, white, and red awning begins to appear, the anger, stress, and embarrassment of earlier is forgotten.
I peer through the glass and tap on the window. Luigi shuffles over from behind the bar, unlocks the door, and flings it open, sending the brass bell jingling.
‘Benvenuto, cara!’ he says, hugging me tight. ‘We have missed our piccola inglese.’
‘I’ve missed you all too,’ I reply, removing my helmet and kissing his cheeks. ‘Whose is the Vespa parked outside?’
‘This belong to Francesco.’
My heart flutters at the mention of his name.
‘Ah. He’s still here then? What about Sergio?’
‘Ciao!’ says Rosalba, appearing at the top of the stairs, blowing me kisses, hair in rollers.
‘Ciao!’
‘Sergio spend time at his parents’ home in Sicily with Valentina and the kids. Scusi,’ he says, leaning over the counter to answer the phone.
The aroma of fresh coffee, the sounds of Andrea Bocelli singing quietly in the background, the red gingham tablecloths, the terracotta pots of rosemary, the Italian movie posters: Il Postino, Cinema Paradiso, and La Dolce Vita, all so reassuringly familiar. I run my hand along the back of one of the rustic chairs, happy to be home.
I hang up my jacket and helmet, change my shoes, put on some lippy, check my hair, and drawing a deep breath, I enter the kitchen, heart hammering.
Francesco has his back to me, head bent over the sink.
‘Francesco. Ciao. Come stai?’
He swings round to face me, holding a giant sea bass.
‘E-milee!’
My insides do a loop-the-loop as he kisses my cheek, the smell of Dolce & Gabbana mixed with fish wafting up my nose.
I fall back into the role of waitress with ease. I know my way around here, am sure of my lines, and feel valued, nurtured, and safe.
Over the next few weeks, Francesco and I meet every day at Costa’s. The Italian lessons have been put on hold while I rehearse lines for my play.
Poor Francesco. It must be driving him crazy, listening to me repeating the same dialogue over and over, like Talky Tabitha, the scary talking doll I had when I was ten. He feeds me the lines and prompts me whenever I have a senior moment.
‘But I like to listen to you,’ he always retorts earnestly, in that severely seductive accent of his, making it more difficult for me to focus.
I often wonder if this is all a waste of time, as so far I haven’t found a suitable venue that doesn’t charge extortionate insurance and staffing costs. Even if I find somewhere, how many agents and casting directors will turn up? I sent forty invitations to Three Sisters and not one came, let alone replied.
‘I have an idea. Un momento,’ Francesco says one afternoon, heading for the counter to buy us more coffee.
I let out a sigh and gaze out of the window, cheered up by the sight of a yelping Jack Russell springing up and down on the spot, trying to catch late autumn leaves as they float down towards the pavement.
A phone vibrates. I dive under the table for my bag, then realise it’s Francesco’s and it’s inching its way to the edge, about to fall on the floor. As I make a grab for it, my eyes flicker across the illuminated screen. A name flashes before me: ISABELLA ISABELLA ISABELLA.
My heart does a nose dive. Who’s Isabella? Maybe he does have a wife and five bambini back in old Napoli after all. What business is it of mine anyway? He’s not my boyfriend. One almost kiss and a bit of flirtatious banter do not equal “a relationship”.
I realise in that instant that I know so very little about him. Do I tell him he had a missed call and watch closely for his reaction as he checks his phone? Alternatively, do I jump straight in with ‘Who’s Isabella?’ or ‘By the way, I think your wife rang?’
‘Allora, cara,’ he says setting down the coffees. ‘Here is my idea. Teatro a cena!’
‘Theatre? Dinner?’
‘Sì.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He tells me about this wonderful little restaurant in Florence where a play or recital is performed while the audience is served dinner.
‘Do you think Luigi will agree?’
‘Why no? Maybe is good for the restaurant.’
‘You, Francesco, are a genius!’ I say, high-fiving him. We lock fingers for a moment then pull away.
‘I know,’ he says, shrugging his shoulders in his typically Latin way.
‘Eh, maybe one day I show you Florence, sì?’
‘I’d like that,’ I say, taking a restorative gulp of coffee.
* * *
‘Luigi,’ I venture that evening when I arrive for my shift.
‘Sì, cara?’
‘You once said if I needed anything to just ask.’
‘Sì.’
‘Well, there is something. It’s just a crazy idea and you don’t have to agree, but I thought it was worth asking …’
‘Al punto, per favore! Get to the point, please!’ he says, chalk in hand as he writes the specials of the day on the blackboard.
I put the idea of Teatro a Cena to him, he checks the bookings diary, and that night – after the last customers have left – we toast Il Mulino’s first Dinner Theatre Experience to welcome in the New Year on January 5th. Heelp!
* * *
I eventually climb into bed at 2 a.m., having made numerous lists of things to do in the next two months.
I’ve come up with a cunning plan of how to lure agents and casting directors to my play: the invitation will include a welcome drink, set menu, and a bottle of wine. Call it bribery – I don’t care. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
8 tables x 2 covers per table @ £50.00 = £800.00 Yikes.
There’s an obvious solution to this financial conundrum: find a daytime job for a few weeks …
* * *
I scrutinise the giant custard blob staring back at me in the full-length mirror and give a little start. I am wearing green tights with matching pixie boots, a yellow, hooped tunic with latticework design, complemented by a green tuft strapped to my head.
The changing room curtains swish open.
‘Perfect fit,’ says Sadie, the wardrobe supervisor at Peach Promotions, looking me up and down. ‘Could have been made for you.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ I say, the half-smile on my face disintegrating into a look of disgust.
Desperation has led me to join a promotions agency paying £12 an hour.
£12 x 6 hours x 6 days = £300.00 per week approximately after NI and tax. Three weeks and boom, dinner money sorted.
While other women my age are dashing for trains in business suits, lip gloss, and high heels on their way to important meetings, I have rolled up at Waterloo station this morning dressed as a pineapple to promote a new brand of fruit juice.
I take up position on the concourse, waiting for battle to commence. I peer up at the clock: 7.05. I lower my gaze and wave to the orange and the strawberry, loitering by Lush. There’s an apple reading a newspaper by WHSmith, and I realise things could have been much, much worse, as I spy the one in the banana costume pacing up and down outside Accessorize.
God, I hope no one I know passes by.
The station is starting to fill up now. I pick up my tray of Caribbean Crush from the tropical-coloured stand and brace myself.
‘Good morning! I’m Pattie Pineapple. Would you like to taste a glass of Caribbean Crush to set you up for the day? It has all the vitamins you need …’
As the rush hour gains momentum, the gentle flow of sedate travellers turns into an ugly stampede. As fast as I can replenish my tray, the samples are snatched by a sea of greedy, clamouring commuters, sprinting full-pelt for ready-to-depart trains.
I soon abandon my carefully learned spiel, realising I might just as well be saying,
Would you like to taste a
glass of extra strong laxative? Guaranteed to make you go ten times a day.
The bulbous design of the costume makes me rather unsteady, so when I’m struck by a briefcase at high speed, I topple over, my green-clad legs flailing in the air, Caribbean Crush all over the concourse. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and prepare to be trampled to death. What a way to go, dressed as a piece of fruit. I’d always had something a little more glamorous in mind.
‘Here, hold on to me,’ comes a deep, cultured voice at my side. My eyes focus on a pair of shiny, black, lace-up, city-slicker shoes, attached to pinstriped legs. The stranger slides his strong hands under my armpits, and I sag against him, knees buckling. Slowly, steadily, I am raised from the ground, like a sunken ship.
‘Are you okay?’ he says, coming round to face me, firmly gripping my shoulders.
My eyes lock into his cobalt blue gaze, heart going pitter-patter, knees about to give way again.
No, I think I may faint. Please take me home with you.
THE TALL, DARK STRANGER SCOOPS PATTIE PINEAPPLE UP IN HIS ARMS AND WHISKS HER AWAY ON THE 0810 TO ASCOT.
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you,’ I mumble, coming to my senses, nails digging into my palms in acute embarrassment.
‘Take care.’ He smiles, handing me my sticky tray. I blush the colour of Caribbean Crush.
‘Thank you, I will. This isn’t my normal job … I don’t usually go around …’
‘Gotta dash,’ he says, stealing a sideways glance at the departure board.
‘ … dressed like this. Bye.’
I bribe the lady who works at the Currency Exchange kiosk with Caribbean Crush, and she allows me to prop myself up there during busy periods to avoid any further mishaps. I’ve also cunningly hidden the wire to my earphones in my costume, so that I can listen to my lines while handing out samples.