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‘How was your acting class the other day, then?’ she asked.
I tapped my fingertips on the base of the glass. ‘Not bad. Didn’t get the impression the casting director was blown away by my performance or anything, but I got his card, so you never know.’
She’d nearly finished her wine and her eyes looked brighter than they had when she’d first come up the stairs. I wanted to ask her if anything was wrong, but I didn’t feel like I knew her well enough yet.
‘I’m sure it was fine,’ she said. ‘I bet you’re just being critical of yourself.’
I laughed softly to myself, self-conscious, suddenly. ‘I dunno. I struggle sometimes, in auditions.’
‘Do you?’ she asked.
I probably seemed very confident to her, everyone said that when they first met me. And I usually let them carry on believing that, because what was the alternative? Admit to being anxious a lot of the time? I didn’t think people had much sympathy for actors in the first place; they probably thought I should stop moaning and go and get a proper job like everyone else.
‘I’m dyslexic,’ I said, surprising myself. I didn’t usually volunteer this particular nugget of information, especially so soon after meeting somebody. ‘So it takes me ages to learn my lines. And then sometimes, what they do is they ask you to add lines in, or move scenes around, and it messes with my brain.’
She picked up the wine bottle from the doorway and topped up my glass.
‘That sounds really tough.’
I shrugged. ‘It can be, yeah.’
‘If you ever need any help running lines, give me a shout,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ I replied, burying my nose in my glass to hide the fact that I was actually quite touched. Nobody had ever offered to help me like that before. ‘I’m getting notes of cinnamon and blackberries, see? You try,’ I said, nodding at her glass.
She stuck her nose inside the rim, sniffing delicately.
‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed, her eyes wide. ‘I’d never have picked up on that if you hadn’t said.’
I smiled. ‘At least my dad’s good for something.’
She looked at my quizzically. ‘You don’t get on?’
I took a sip of my wine. ‘Not really.’
For some reason, I felt bad saying it, as though I was betraying my dad by admitting how difficult things were between us. I knew that he was doing as much as he was capable of and also that some people had it a lot worse.
‘Shame,’ she said.
‘Yeah. It is.’
‘Right,’ said Rebecca. ‘Better go and get some dinner on.’
I didn’t know why I’d mentioned my dad, it was a bit of a mood kill. No wonder she was keen to get away.
I handed her my empty glass. ‘What are you having?’
She looked embarrassed. ‘A ready meal. Thai green curry, I think.’
‘Nothing wrong with a microwaveable meal once in a while.’
She was probably knackered after work and couldn’t be bothered to cook; we’d all been there.
‘I suppose,’ she said, backing away. ‘See you around, then.’
I nodded enthusiastically. ‘Sure. And thanks for the wine.’
She smiled and closed the door behind her.
