AllFreeNovel
Share Us
There was a layer of frost on the ground when I stepped outside. Traffic was already building up on East Heath Road with commuters making their way into town and mums in 4x4s taking their kids to whichever outrageously expensive private school they were at.
I cut down Well Walk, past the beautiful homes that were set back from the road, each of which must have been worth several million, their owners’ Range Rovers parked in the narrow street outside, both sides, so that I imagined it must be impossible to drive along this road without scraping a really expensive vehicle. My favourite house was the one with the fenced-off roof terrace. I imagined myself up there, entertaining all my friends, soaking up the sun while reading my next brilliant script and fielding calls from Chad (or perhaps I’d have got myself a new agent). That’s what life could be like if my class went well today. In a few months’ time, I could be wandering through the streets of Beverly Hills, looking up at palm trees and blue skies instead of craggy treetops and near-freezing temperatures. I’d always thought I’d do better in LA. Even Chad had alluded to the fact I had a good look for the US market. Not that he’d ever done anything about it, mind you. You’d think he might have suggested I go out there if that was the case.
I ducked along Flask Walk, past the flower shop that was just opening up and the place selling antique bric-a-brac and turned right onto the high street for the tube, excited for what lay ahead.
Stuffing my script into my bag, I pushed through the glass door of the Actors Centre on Tower Street. I’d spent the walk up from Leicester Square tube mumbling the lines under my breath, only occasionally glancing down at the page, which I’d been organised enough to photocopy onto coloured paper at Snappy Snaps in the village because it helped with my dyslexia. I’d felt confident last night when I’d done a speed run in the shower, but now when I tried to remember them, I kept getting stuck on one (I thought not particularly well-written) line. Sometimes when I tried to work out the meaning of a line but couldn’t because it made no sense, it was practically impossible for me to remember it. My brain just wouldn’t take it in. I just had to hope that, by some miracle, it would all fall into place when I needed it.
I signed in and made my way to Studio 2, which was downstairs and through the bar. Actors were scattered everywhere, downing cappuccinos, sifting through headshots, making important-looking phone calls in the corner. I shrugged off my coat, already too hot.
When I stepped through the doorway of Studio 2, the barrage of urgent whispers I’d heard from the hallway increased in volume. I felt a prickle of self-doubt; at least a couple of the guys had the kind of look that was perfect for American soaps, where handsome people had affairs with other incredibly attractive people and then it all went badly wrong. What I really wanted was to be cast in projects with integrity, work I really believed in. I could see myself in a Steve McQueen movie, for example, or a big-budget Emmy Award-winning drama like Breaking Bad or Stranger Things. Soaps weren’t really my thing, but there was no way I could afford to be fussy.
‘Jack!’
I looked up, scanning the row of seats running along the far wall. It wasn’t unusual to see someone I knew at these classes; often it was more fun that way. You had someone familiar to chat to at coffee time, for example. Occasionally, though, depending on who it was, my competitive streak kicked in and I spent the entire session comparing my feedback to theirs. No matter how many times I told myself this was pointless and destructive, it didn’t seem to be a habit I could break.
‘Over here!’ said the voice.
My heart sank. Seb was sitting right at the end of the row and there was an empty seat next to him, which he was patting furiously. For god’s sake. What was he doing here? He was like my shadow lately, going up for the same roles, the same classes.
‘Hey!’ I said, shuffling over.
I shoved my coat and bag under my seat and sat down with my script on my knee.
‘Managed to get a day off from the pub, then?’ asked Seb.
I noticed that his biceps were bulging out of the cap sleeve of his Breton-striped T-shirt. He must have been working out hard. I supposed he’d gone all ‘LA’ after his trip out there.
‘Yep,’ I replied lightly. ‘Should be a nice change from pulling pints.’
‘Who do you reckon we’ll be paired up with?’ asked Seb, leaning forward and scanning the row, no doubt working out which attractive but not-too-talented actress would be best placed to showcase his talents.
The piece we’d been given was an intimate scene between a husband and wife. The female character had just found out that her husband was having an affair with her best friend, and there was an intense soap-opera-style showdown.
‘Not sure,’ I said, disinterested.
Who my scene partner might be was the least of my worries. Why couldn’t I remember that bloody fourth line?
The ripple of chatter and laughter subsided as a small man wearing a checked shirt and a cap bounded into view. Everyone stared at him, shifting in their seats with palpable anticipation. In the world of acting, casting directors pretty much had rock star status (and they knew it).
‘Hey guys!’ he said, pulling up a stool and leaping nimbly onto it. ‘My name is Dax Delano and I am the associate casting director on Days of Our Lives.’
There was a chorus of half-hearted hellos.
‘You all got the sides, right?’ asked Dax.
Seb waved his script around enthusiastically, highlighting the fact that, yes, we were all indeed competent enough to open an email and print out a script for a class we’d paid to do.
Dax pulled the peak of his cap off his face. ‘You’ll come up, perform your scene in pairs, and I will give feedback. I’ll then throw it open to the rest of the class. At the end of the session, I’ll name two guys and two girls who, had this been a real audition situation in Los Angeles, I would have called back to read for the producers. Is that clear?’
Seb nudged me hard in the ribs. I wasn’t sure whether this was a sign of solidarity or competitiveness, but either way I was pretty sure I’d have a bruise tomorrow.
‘First up will be … Imogen McKintree and Jack Maxwell.’
Typical. I hated going first and hadn’t even had a chance to have one last surreptitious glance over the script.
‘Let’s get started, guys,’ said Dax, sliding off his stool and taking a seat stage left.
I took a deep breath, shot up and took my place on the floor.
