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28
Jack
I scanned the audition room, relieved that there was no one around I knew. It made it easier if I only had my own performance to concentrate on instead of second-guessing which one of us they were going to prefer.
I sat on the floor because all the chairs were taken. Experience had taught me that this meant I was in for a long wait. That by the time I was called in to read, in about an hour and a half’s time, I’d have zero energy and would have lost the will to live. I massaged my temples, closing my eyes. I had to go in with the right attitude, or it was a waste of a time me being here. The casting was at the Jerwood Space, a modern, vibrant and very arty venue near London Bridge. The show itself, though, was going to be at the Soho Theatre, which was infinitely more impressive than a dusty old church hall in the back end of Bethnal Green, which had been the venue for my first fringe ‘job’.
I pulled the script out of my bag, scanning through my lines, which I thought I knew. There weren’t that many of them, thankfully, since it wasn’t the lead I was reading for. I’d baulked at this, initially, to be honest – couldn’t I even get the lead in a fringe show with no budget? But then I’d realised the lead character was supposed to be sixty-five, so it was out of my hands. It was a new play, written and directed by a guy who’d had a massive hit at the Edinburgh festival last year.
The room was swathed with the sort of industrious silence I was used to: the rustle of scripts, the odd cough, the murmur of actors attempting small talk. I flicked through Instagram, Twitter and TikTok, wondering if I should warn Luke I was probably going to be late for my shift.
‘Hi,’ I said, walking confidently into the room one hour and fifty-seven minutes after my allotted audition time. ‘I’m Jack Maxwell.’
‘Nice to meet you, Jack,’ replied a young guy in ripped jeans and a red T-shirt. He had hair that was shaved at the sides, was wearing a nose ring and looked about twenty-one. ‘I’m Joe and this is my assistant director, Raven,’ he nodded at the girl sitting moodily next to him, who also looked fucked off to be running almost two hours late.
Joe proceeded to tell me a bit about the play, which was about a man with early-onset dementia and how the lines between fantasy and reality were becoming blurred. I was up for the role of his son-in-law, who was, by all accounts, a money-grabbing arsehole. I often got seen for these kinds of roles and wondered if that was how I came across in real life: a dick with a massive ego.
‘Let’s hear you read,’ said Joe, ushering me back.
I dropped my script to my side, confident that I could remember the lines, imagining myself into the suburban living room of my wife’s dad.
Joe began to read and I responded, owning the space and delivering what I thought was a pretty good performance. I thought that because the stakes weren’t so high (there was no money involved, for a start), I was able to give my all and make my own choices without trying to work out what I thought it was they were looking for.
‘That was great,’ said Joe, looking surprised.
I saw him and Raven exchange glances. This was very positive; I’d clearly impressed them.
‘Can we hear you sing?’ he asked. ‘Acapella is fine.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Sing?’
‘That’s right,’ confirmed Joe, looking at me eagerly. ‘There are a couple of musical numbers in the play. Some movement, a few routines. I haven’t asked everyone to sing, so …’ he said, by way of a warning. What he was basically saying was that I’d done well, but that if I seemed difficult to work with, if I was underprepared, then the role would go to somebody else. There would always been somebody waiting to snatch the job right out from underneath you in this business.
‘Um, I haven’t actually prepared anything,’ I said, ‘but sure. No problem.’
If they wanted you to do something like sing, they should give you prior warning, for fuck’s sake. Musical theatre wasn’t something I did: it wasn’t like I had a repertoire of numbers up my sleeve that I could pull out at random for any occasion.
‘We just want to get a sense of your voice,’ explained Joe. ‘Sing anything. A nursery rhyme if you want, I don’t care. We just want to make sure you can hold a tune.’
I’d have to do the number I had learnt at LAMDA, the one I’d been told to practise every now and again because you never knew when you might need it, which, luckily for me, I’d diligently done. I took my place on the floor.
‘I’ll do “One Song Glory” from Rent,’ I said, making some attempt to get into character, running through the lyrics and the melody in my mind. I’d just have to go for it. Anyway, this guy was so young, he’d probably never seen Rent. Hopefully he’d have no idea how it was supposed to sound, I could improvise if I had to.
I took a deep breath.
‘One song glory, one song before I go …’I sang. ‘Glory, one song to leave behind …’
Thankfully the words came. I kept it short, just a few bars, although to tell you the truth, I could have carried on. It was a great song and it was actually very freeing to belt it out at full volume, which I could never do when I was rehearsing at home in my flat because I was too self-conscious about my neighbours hearing me. Although with Ed Sheeran blasting out from above, they probably wouldn’t hear, anyway.
‘Perfect,’ Joe said enthusiastically. ‘Sorry we caught you on the hop there, but it was great, Jack, really.’
I nodded, feeling unusually pleased with myself. Maybe doing some theatre again would be good for me. And Chad was right, the Soho Theatre, plus this hotshot director, would be great incentives for casting directors to come.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Raven, who seemed slightly less sullen than she had when I first walked in. I took that to be a good sign.
Outside, I felt buoyant for the first time in ages. I’d forgotten what it was like to have something go well. High on life, I walked past a couple stumbling out of a bar under the arches. They were talking loudly, probably drunk, and kept stopping to kiss passionately right in the middle of the pavement. I tutted, about to navigate my way around them when I did a double-take: it was my brother. And that was not his girlfriend, Theresa.
I stopped, not sure what to do, and almost caused a pile-up in the street in the process. Shit, what was he doing? Should I pretend I hadn’t noticed and walk on past? But then, why should I? Was it bad that I wanted to see him try to worm his way out of this one? Plus, I actually felt some sense of loyalty to Theresa – she was lovely and I’d always secretly thought she was too good for him. According to Mum, they were the perfect couple. Yin and yang. His life was complete with her in it, that’s the impression he’d given us all. Clearly all was not as it seemed.
