50 Ways to Find a Lover (10 page)

Sometimes I have to read some very boring lines when I go to auditions. Today is a case in point.

The problem with these lines is that when I say them I bore myself. Therefore it shall be very difficult for whoever has to hear them not to lapse into a coma. So I have decided that Woman 2 is scared for her son. When people are scared they often develop stutters. Woman 2 shall therefore have a slight stutter. Slight stutters are marvellous for small parts as they mean more time on camera. Also Woman 2 fancies the receptionist. That is why she says, ‘I hope you’re right’ rather than screaming, ‘See to my son NOW before he bleeds to death’ and head-butting the receptionist. Woman 2 looks at the receptionist and smiles sultrily. Then she bites her lip lightly and speaks volumes with her eyes.

I am sitting in a small room at the BBC. It is 2.14. My audition was supposed to be at 2. There are no windows in the room. Rooms without natural light make me yawn. When I yawn my eyes water. I may well have to play Woman 2 in tears if they keep me waiting any longer. I had thought tears would be too much with the stutter and the flirting and the huge scabby lump on my head but I may not have a choice. I came to in the early hours of this morning with a large gaping swollen wound in my head, three new shelves on my wall and a note from Simon saying,
Put up some shelfs. Somewhere to put you’re mess. Mind you’re head!
I have a nasty feeling that God misheard me when I said, ‘Please let me get the
Casualty
job’ and thought I said, ‘Please make me look like a casualty.’ The only way I can hide the scabby lump on my head is to sweep the hair across my face and tilt my head to the side to hold the hair in place. This I had managed to do until three minutes ago when I felt shooting pains up my neck. Fearful of life-threatening neck paralysis, I am now holding my head as nature intended and revealing the hideous open wound.

I am alone in the room except for one other auditionee who came in two minutes ago. I have become quite fascinated by her. Sometimes I can’t help looking at attractive women, not because I want to do lesbian things with them but because they represent something that I am not and I can’t help comparing myself to them. This woman is interesting because she doesn’t look much older than me but whereas I generally look like a scruffy girl she most definitely looks like a proper woman. She looks like a woman who goes to beauty salons for expensive treatments and takes cocaine with a little silver snorter and has a man who lavishes necklaces upon her. She is very, very slim. If she was a piece of chicken she would be disappointing to eat. She is so slim she is wearing black skinny jeans. I once tried on a pair of skinny jeans in Topshop and it looked as though someone had wrapped a haggis in denim. She is wearing a tight black T-shirt and although I can’t stare too much I suspect that her breasts aren’t real as they are popping out of her ribs like sink plungers. I am fascinated by her but she has not once looked at me, mainly because she is playing with two items, which I am coveting: 1) her iPod, and 2) her BlackBerry. She has dyed blonde hair and a fake tan. She looks very familiar so I suspect I’ve seen her a lot on the telly.

I am just wondering how small her breasts were before the work was done to them when she suddenly throws her BlackBerry on the floor and shouts the word ‘Fuck!’ Her voice is Marlboro Light husky, as I had expected. She is cross. Her BlackBerry is now under the coffee table in the middle of the room. I jump on to my knees, lie on my side and push my forearm under the table. I move my fingers about until I feel a corner of the BlackBerry. I make waving motions with my arm like a turtle until the BlackBerry finally appears from beneath the table. I am rather pleased with myself. As I lift my body off the ground I hear a very loud clunk and feel an agonizing pain on the top of my head.

‘Wank. Wank. Wank,’ I holler at the pain. I sit wincing on the floor with my head in my hands.

‘Are you all right? I would have just picked the table up and got the BlackBerry,’ she says coolly.

I cannot respond because I am currently seeing stars.

‘Sarah Sargeant,’ she says slowly. Then she gathers momentum, ‘Sarah bloody Sargeant. Do you remember me? From the convent.’

I look at her for a few seconds before whispering, ‘Oh my God, Rachel bloody Bird!’ I wanted to be Rachel Bird at school. She was two years older than me, pretty, popular, in the netball team and always got the female leads in the school play. As we went to an all-girls convent school there was generally only ever one good girl part and everybody else had to play boys or comedy old people. Every year I had talcum powder in my hair and a cheap stick-on moustache in order to play some senile old man while Rachel Bird got to wear a pretty dress and lipstick. You always hope to bump into people from your past at an awards ceremony where you are picking up a prize or maybe coming out of The Ivy and they are walking past on the way to Subway. Not like this. Not crawling bleeding on the floor of the BBC.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asks me.

‘I’m up for a small part in
Casualty
. What about you?’

‘Same, yeah, just a small part this time. I’m off to LA next week.’

‘Wow! Have you got an agent over there?’ I sigh.

‘Not yet. I’ve got a producer friend who’s going to do the rounds with me so that I can get one.’

‘Wow! God, I’d love to go out there and do an episode of
24
,’ I sigh.

Rachel Bird starts to laugh, as though I’ve made a joke.

‘Well, good luck with it all.’ I smile. I pretend to start reading my script again.

‘Here, take my card. I’m going to document the LA experience in my blog. The address is on there.’

‘Oh my God! I’ve got a blog!’ I pant like I’m peaking. ‘I’ve never met another blogger! What’s yours about?’

‘Oh, you know, it’s a bit like
Sex and the City
, stuff about my career and sex life.’ She shrugs casually. ‘What about yours?’

‘Er, hmm,’ I mutter, ‘not really
Sex and the City
, more like Not a Sniff of Sex in the City. It’s all about my lack of sex and lack of career.’

‘Right.’ She nods uninterestedly. ‘How many hits do you get?’

‘Sorry?’

‘How many hits do you get?’

‘Dunno. But I’ve had two comments,’ I say proudly. Rachel Bird laughs so I decide not to tell her that they are both from the same person. I am very proud of my two comments though. I received this one this morning:

‘Why, do you get loads of comments, then?’

‘Go on my blog and see, darling,’ she tells me smugly.

‘OK.’

‘You need to get yourself a site meter. It tells you how many people click on your blog each day and how they find you.’

‘Fuck me! That sounds awesome. How do I get one?’

‘Go on to my blog, click on my button that says Site Meter and it’ll tell you.’

I realize that I’m still holding Rachel Bird’s BlackBerry. I pass it back to her.

‘Here’s your BlackBerry. It’s chipped slightly.’

‘Hmm. Yeah. Well, I was pissed off. I didn’t win the Bloggie this year, some bloody gay hairdresser did.’

I look at her and am just about to ask what a Bloggie is when she says, ‘It’s an award for the best blog. Sarah, you don’t know much about blogging yet, do you?’

‘Obviously,’ I mutter, still sitting on the hard grey floor. I am imagining myself winning a Bloggie next year when Selina Gutteridge, my favourite casting director, pops her head round the door and says, ‘Sarah, you’re in next, sorry about the wait.’

‘Oh, not to worry,’ I say, smiling and getting up. But she’s not looking at me, she’s glaring at Rachel Bird. These are good evils. They make my own Goneril stare-of-disdain look as though Geoffrey is mildly disgruntled with Bungle. Unsurprisingly, Rachel Bird looks terrified. Selina Gutteridge walks purposefully over to Rachel Bird and stands over her. Rachel Bird attempts to speak but is silenced by a loud slap administered to her cheek. I gasp. I have never seen a proper slap. I must remember it in case I need to do any slapping in plays. Rachel Bird clutches her cheek and slowly puts her iPod and BlackBerry in her bag and starts to shuffle out of the room.

‘Um, bye, Rachel, I’ll um, have a look at your blog,’ I mumble. Suddenly Selina spins around and glares at me. I make a yelping sound, thinking that she’s going to slap me.

‘I wouldn’t bother. It’s disgusting. Torrid tales of sleeping with other people’s boyfriends.’ She spits the words out as though she’s got a hair stuck down her throat.

‘Oh,’ I whimper, fearing what acts of passion Selina will do next, but she just goes limp. Her shoulders slump and her head drops and I expect her to start crying.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask softly.

She looks at the floor and shakes her head. Then she takes a deep breath and starts to compose herself. She raises her head slowly. I wait for her to say something sadly profound. She doesn’t.

‘What the hell happened to your head, Sarah?’

‘Oh, I head-butted some shelves,’ I reply. My head is really sore. I touch it lightly and feel fresh blood on my fingers.

‘Hang on, there’s something in there,’ she says, holding me still and squinting into my cut. ‘Here, let me get it. It’s a small piece of plastic.’

She finds a tissue in her bag. And I stand there in agony as Selina Gutteridge extricates a small piece of Rachel Bird’s BlackBerry from the gaping wound in my head. This definitely has never been mentioned in any audition technique books I have read.

‘Oh well, Sarah, it looks like you’ve got the part,’ she says, smiling. ‘Your competition has left the building. You may as well go home.’

ten

‘Shall we read a bit more of your friend’s filthy blog?’ asks Julia, excitedly dunking a croissant in her cappuccino.

‘OK,’ I say through a mouthful of Marmite on toast.

‘It’s fucking brilliant!’

‘Julia!’

‘What?’

‘Stop swearing. There are children present.’

‘You’re a bit grumpy today, Sare.’

‘I’m not!’

‘Yes you are. It’s because I didn’t read your bloody blog, isn’t it?’

‘No!’

‘It is. I know it is. Sarah, I speak to you every day, therefore I know what’s going on in your life. Why do I need to read about it as well?’

‘Well, you don’t actually need to read it, just click on it a lot, when you’ve got nothing to do, then I’ll have lots of hits on my site meter. I’ve only had forty-two.’

‘Sarah! You’re fucking warped!’

‘Julia!’

‘Come on, let’s read this bit about masturbation.’

‘Julia!’

‘What?’

‘Well, you keep saying “fuck” and now you’ve said “masturbation” and we’re in a café full of children.’