Waiting for Callback (7 page)

‘I have, but it’s probably too late.’ And now I felt paranoid that not only would he think I’d ‘liked’ his photo, he would also think I’d
‘unliked’ it. So I would look weird, desperate
and
indecisive.

‘But you need to let him know you’re interested. He’s not going to just realize, it’s not like you give out “come and talk to me” vibes.’

‘I do!’

‘I love you, Elektra, but you are seriously a long way along the sarcastic spectrum which doesn’t always make you the most approachable person.’

She sounded like my mum. And my dad. And quite a few other people now I came to think about it.

‘Archie did hold me in his manly arms last week.’

‘Whaaaaaat!’

‘It was only because we were partners in the Trust Game.’

‘What’s the Trust Game? And can I play it with Archie too?’

‘We all stand in pairs and you have to close your eyes and fall back and trust the other person to catch you. And no you can’t.’ It’s been known to go horribly wrong. But
it hadn’t that time and the Trust Game was now my absolutely favourite drama game.

‘Was there any . . . tension?’

‘Not enough. But I sometimes think he’s watching me in class.’

‘That’s definitely a good sign. He’s probably a little bit obsessed with you.’

‘Or maybe I’m just a little bit obsessed with him and super aware of his every glance.’

Moss grimaced; that was possible.

Actually, that was true.

‘Maybe you should take up smoking and then you can go outside and smoke together on your break and get close.’ Moss waggled her eyebrows in a frankly disturbing way.
‘That’s how Aba got with Rob on their cello course.’

‘Yep, I can totally see how that would work . . . except I don’t think he smokes . . . Also we don’t get breaks . . . Also I’m not taking up smoking for a guy; even the
smell makes me sick so I’d probably throw up which would not be smooth . . . Also my mum would kill me.’

‘All good points. So maybe not my best idea?’

‘Maybe not. Anyway, he’s probably got a girlfriend,’ I said, examining my hair for split ends.

‘He probably doesn’t. Most guys don’t. Not if they can get a girl without committing.’ Moss read a lot of advice columns, but not much of it translated to our lives.
‘Maybe he’ll be at the social. Can you wait that long?’

The social was the annual party run by the PTA for our year and up and boys from St John’s (the closest boys’ school) were invited (i.e. made to come). It wasn’t until after
the Christmas holidays and the fact that we were already talking about it was a tragic reflection on our social lives. But it was the only exception to our school’s strict ‘No
Boys’ policy (well, except for a smuggling incident involving a girl in the sixth form, her boyfriend and the changing rooms, but nobody would give us any details and that was Never Going to
Happen Again).

‘How is that possible? Archie doesn’t even go to St John’s.’

Moss shrugged. ‘It’s probably for the best.’

It probably was. The classy venue for the social was the sports hall.

Nothing good has ever happened to me in a sports hall.

‘Elektra!’ I spun round to see my mother striding towards the gates, waving a hairbrush in a manic fashion to get my attention. Like I/anyone could have missed her; I’m pretty
sure they heard her in the staffroom.

‘Aaaaw, look, everyone, Elektra’s mummy’s come to pick her up in her little car. That’s
so
sweet,’ Flissy said, calling a black cab on her iPhone, applying
lipgloss and embarrassing me all at the same time. Which was impressive multitasking. But as soon as my mum got within hearing distance the charm offensive was turned on. ‘Hello, Mrs
Jones,’ she said.

‘James,’ I corrected, but they both ignored me. Moss was miming being sick behind Flissy’s back. I loved Moss.

‘I adore your bag.’ Flissy was literally talking down to her. My (short) mum looked pathetically pleased by the attention. She hadn’t noticed that Flissy was carrying the
newer, shinier version of the same bag.

‘I do hope Elektra isn’t too upset.’
What the?
Flissy had a weird expression on her face. I think it was meant to be concern, but that was obviously an unfamiliar
emotion for her.

‘Upset? Elektra, what happened?’

‘Nothing,’ I said, trying to steer Mum towards the car (which was a perfectly ordinary size).

‘About the biology test? Oh, she didn’t tell you her mark? Eeek, sorry, Elektra!’ Sure, she was really sorry. ‘I probably wouldn’t have told my mum either –
wouldn’t have wanted her to
worry
.’ Flissy smiled ‘sweetly’. ‘Must go, my taxi’s here. So nice to talk to you, Mrs Jones.’

On the one hand, Flissy had just admired my mother’s handbag and told the truth. On the other hand, she was toxic.

I hugged Moss and hurried my mother away from the gates and into the car before anyone else could say anything to her and before she could say anything about anything in front of anybody.
Luckily, she was distracted.

‘Darling! Your agent called!’

Thank God she hadn’t said that in front of Flissy.

‘And?’ I tried to sound casual, but I’m not sure I managed it.

‘You’ve got an audition! Seat belt, seat belt.’

‘What for? What? Really? When?’ I was buckling and babbling.

‘Well, in about . . .’ she looked at her watch while reversing very dangerously out of the car park, ‘fifty minutes.’

It wasn’t meant to happen like this. Somehow I was meant to feel prepared and ready to be cast. I didn’t. I was going in there metaphorically naked. I needed time to prepare –
dramatically (I’d planned on begging Lens to give me lots of one-to-one tuition before every audition), physically (I had a spot lurking in my left eyebrow) and emotionally (I was so not
calm).

‘Have I got any lines to learn?’ I asked Mum, looking at my watch, but hardly able to read the time I was so stressy.

‘No,’ said my mother, narrowly missing running over my maths teacher (wasted opportunity), ‘but don’t worry. Stella’s filled me in on everything you need to know.
They’re looking for a dead girl – well, to be accurate, a good actress who can convincingly portray a dead girl.’ She was obviously parroting Stella.

‘A dead girl? How hard can that be?’ I was crushed. At first sight, it didn’t sound like the role had a lot of potential.

‘Well, Stella said they were looking for a strong actress.’

‘She was just trying to be nice. What if this is my first audition because she thinks that’s all I can do – be dead.’

My mother looked at me carefully.

‘Keep your eyes on the road, Mum, or I
will
be a dead child.’

She didn’t say anything, just handed me a tube of spot concealer.

Now I came to think about it (and now that I only had about twenty-five minutes to go) maybe convincingly portraying a dead girl
did
require talent. I mean, what exactly did dead girls
look like?

What do dead girls look like?
It was an emergency so I texted Moss.

???????????

Audition!!!!!!!!

Oh. My. God.
And then,
How dead?

‘How dead am I?’ I asked my mum.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, like, have I just drawn my last breath or am I practically decomposing? Do I have a tinge of blue about the lips or am I at the maggots stage?’

My mother shuddered. ‘I don’t know, Elektra. Stella just said dead.’

‘You didn’t
ask
?’ I wailed.

‘She sounded busy.’

I don’t know how dead I am
, I texted Moss, wishing there were an emoticon for despair (there probably was, but not on my ancient phone).

I meant how did you die? Disease? Knife? Poison? Gunshot wound to the head? Or sleep?
She was right on it.

‘Mum, did you ask how I died?’ I asked, wondering how you could die of sleep.

She shook her head. It didn’t seem to have occurred to her to find out anything useful at all.

Mosssss, nightmare. I don’t know how I died.

I think it will make a difference. Not sure what Google images to look at.

Yep, presumably, dead girls who’d just gone through something very violent – or worse – would look different to girls who’d just quietly stopped breathing. Maybe it was a
period drama and I had been carried away by consumption or whatever it was that carried teenage girls away in period dramas – although I wasn’t sure I was thin enough to carry off death
by consumption. Maybe it was a ghost thing – then the character
would
have potential. Cool but unlikely.

Google pics of dead girls are gross and prob not very helpful. Suggest you go with the flow. You will be a beautiful corpse.

I won’t be a beautiful corpse. I am wearing school uniform

Even Moss couldn’t think of an upbeat reply to that one.

‘Mum, have I got time to go home and get changed? I can’t go like this.’

‘We’ve hardly got time to get there full stop. Don’t worry. Stella said your school uniform would be perfect.’

‘But it’s
purple
. I can’t die in
purple
.’ I was prepared to do my very best, even in these difficult circumstances, but how good could I be wearing purple
polyester?

‘The colour brings out your eyes,’ Mum said (lied), but nothing was going to reconcile me to looking like an aubergine. Also my skirt (bought ‘to last’) was at least
three sizes too big. I was a tragic, droopy, nervous aubergine with mud-brown eyes. Maybe I was going to die of shame.

I tried calling Lens, but he didn’t pick up. Then I tried Daisy . . . Nope, she wasn’t picking up either. What if she was my competition? Daisy would be a beautiful corpse. Eulalie
didn’t answer either. I needed her to tell me how
super/sensationnelle/craquante
I was.

What I didn’t need to do was sit in the car with my stressy mum.

The audition was somewhere in Soho and usually I’d have been fascinated by all the gay bars and sex shops (
what
or
who
was behind those weird beaded curtain
things? Did I even want to know? Yes.) But I was too busy getting really freaked out about being late for the audition and not knowing how to be dead so we could have been anywhere. We ended up
parking on a single yellow line and Mum started trying to clean me up like I was a toddler, still rubbing away at some ink marks on my arms with a saliva-damp tissue as we ran to the address that
Stella had given her.

I’d expected some flashy media offices with multiple screens in reception and those arty bottles of Coca-Cola lined up like a gallery display; instead, it was just some rented rooms in a
run-down old building.

There was a typed notice sellotaped to the door:

Even without that, we’d have known that we were in the right place by the two girls in school uniform, pretty much the same age as me, coming out as we were going in.
They looked at me and I looked at them: everyone sizing up the competition (predictably they had more flattering uniforms).

Even my mum was quiet on the way upstairs. There was a narrow landing and at the end of it, standing guard in front of a closed door, a pale young man wearing a lilac pashmina.

‘Name?’ he asked so listlessly that he could have been near death himself.

‘Elek—’ Mum began.

‘Elektra James,’ I cut across her because I knew my own name.

Mr Pashmina ticked me off without even looking up and gestured up at a tatty half-landing. ‘First door to the right and take a seat. They’ll see you in a mo.’

Six other ‘dead schoolgirl’ hopefuls were sitting on narrow hard-backed chairs in a tiny waiting room. None of them were Daisy (thankfully). I was on my own, Stella’s only
hope. The room was stuffy. It was like a dentist’s waiting room, but without the weird smell (good) or the trashy magazines (bad). Five of the girls were accompanied by anxious-looking women
(I’m guessing their mums); one girl was with an even more stressed-out-looking man (definitely her dad: they looked practically identical). There was an extra mother pacing by the barred
window.