Lucky Break (8 page)

Nell had to work her way through a crowd of admirers to get to Anish.

‘You were fantastic.' She knelt down beside his chair and emboldened by the rapturous clapping and the glass of lager she'd gulped down, she took hold of his hand.

Anish almost crushed her fingers in his own. ‘Bloody amateurs, did you see David? He messed up a line in the car chase scene, just before the end.'

Nell stared at him. ‘You're mad. Really, it was brilliant.'

‘No.' He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘I'm not mad. I want it to be good.'

‘But it was good!'

He looked at her. ‘You're very kind. But if I haven't done my best, if I know the show isn't as good as it can be, I can't care about anything else. Not really.'

Nell felt her eyes fill with tears. ‘Right,' she said, untangling her fingers. ‘Of course.' And leaving him, she struggled through the crowd to get herself another beer. She pressed the cool bottle against her face. But it
was
good! She looked round at the animated people, enlivened and invigorated by what they'd seen, and she remembered Patrick Bowery telling them how the long-ago actor Henry Irving had sacrificed everything that stood between him and his passion for the theatre, cutting himself off from his disapproving parents, abandoning his wife when she failed to mask her irritation as she waited, pregnant, for him to be done with his repeated curtain calls after the first night of
Hamlet
at the Lyceum. ‘Are you going on making a fool of yourself like this all your life?' she'd asked him, later, in the carriage, and without answering he'd ordered the driver to stop, and gathering his cloak around him, he'd stepped out into the night. From then on Henry Irving had devoted every moment of his life to the theatre, re-popularising Shakespeare, commissioning new plays, overseeing the design of elaborate scenery, taking his company across America, through blizzards and snowstorms, the sets for up to seventeen productions in wagons attached to the actors' train. He'd lived a long and fruitful life, dying finally without ever having seen his wife again, only minutes after performing Becket on a tour of the north of England which his doctor had warned him not to undertake.

It was almost midnight before Nell arrived back at the flat. As she put her key in the door the fireworks began to burst. She ran up the stairs and rushed to the window as a cascade of red and orange petals fell from the sky. Babies crying, she found herself thinking, inexplicably, and she imagined cut glass shooting from their eyes. As the flares melted away, Cath appeared on tiptoe in her Snoopy T-shirt. ‘Hello,' she mouthed, and she disappeared into their shared room. ‘Night.' She blushed as she appeared again, and on pale, bare legs she ran in the direction of Richard's room. Nell turned back to the window. The sky was dark. The night was silent. And then a volley of gold rockets scorched up through the blackness and cracked open the sky.

The Interview

‘You know they're only planning to keep four girls for the third year?' Samantha's eyes were wide with fear as she shuffled along the bench towards Nell.

‘Who said? How do you know?'

‘I heard it from Charlie. But everyone's talking about it. Patrick knows what he wants to direct, apparently, and there are only parts for four girls. The interview times are up, have you seen?'

Nell abandoned her lunch and dashed to the front of the building. Traditionally, information was pinned to a noticeboard inside the main doors, and there it was – one white A4 sheet of paper on which, in two columns, was printed the names of the twenty-two remaining students. Nell traced the list with her finger. She was in the second column. Near the end. She was before Jonathan, and after that freak Eshkol. She felt herself go pale.

‘Look,' Samantha pointed to the list, ‘I'm second.' She laughed nervously and a red flush appeared on her neck.

‘But what does it mean?' Pierre joined them. ‘Why have they put us in that order? It's not alphabetical. It's not by date of birth . . . is it some sort of code, do you think?'

‘Probably,' Nell said gloomily. Instinctively she glanced up at the balcony where, rumour had it, Patrick hovered between the lockers. What could he hear from there? Gossip, exhilaration, bitter grievous tears?

‘Right,' Samantha chewed on an already chewed-up fingernail. ‘Well, they'll obviously keep Charlie. And Hettie? What do you think?'

‘Probably.' Pierre agreed. ‘And Marvella's popular.' Only last week Silvio had praised her ‘inner tranquillity'. Inner docility, more like, Nell thought now, but it was hard for a man, even a gay man, to see beyond those suntanned limbs and the natural wave of her blonde hair.

‘Yes. And . . . and . . . who else?' Samantha's broad shoulders were bent forward, her large oddly bare face, gaunt.

‘They like you,' Nell assured her. ‘They won't throw you out.'

‘Really? Do you think so?' Blood coursed through her, revealing pleasure and a new brief belief. ‘And you!' Politeness overcame her. ‘They'll keep you. They'll have to. You were amazing last term in
Othello
. No one could have done Emilia better.'

‘Really?' Nell felt her stomach sinking. ‘But that makes five.'

‘You know they're only keeping ten boys,' Pierre shook his head. ‘Just think how awful it'll be, for the only one to go.'

Both girls turned to him but neither could summon up the necessary sympathy. ‘It's bloody ridiculous,' Samantha wailed. ‘Most of the boys in our year are useless, everyone knows that.'

‘Yes.' Nell hoped Patrick
was
listening. ‘It's not as if there aren't any plays for women. You just have to look a bit harder. Show some imagination.'

A door slammed and Jemma hurried through the foyer. She kept her head low, as if distracted by the large bright orange tutu cradled in her arms. She pushed against the door on to the street, and stood there for a minute silhouetted against the day, dust mites dancing round her curly head, each strand picked out in sunshine.

‘Does
she
know the list's up?' Pierre mouthed.

Samantha sighed. ‘And what about Tess and Mikita? And Susie? What if they throw Susie out?' Susie was a vegan, moved to tears by the sight of the sausages for sale in the canteen at first break.

Nell turned away. Maybe it wasn't true. Maybe Charlie had made the whole thing up. But why would she? She imagined attending a debate on the likely reasons. Voices were raised. Outrage expressed. Sheer, unparalleled disbelief. ‘We're talking about Charlie Adedayo-Martin,' Nell cut through the rabble. ‘She'd do it – why? Because she can.'

Nell's soup was cold, her bowl of salad wilted, but she set about eating it all the same.

‘Sweetheart,' it was Samantha again, tapping her on the shoulder, a sympathetic tap, she was sure of it, a tap that told her she was number 5. ‘I'm going to walk down to Woolworths to get more glitter. Do you need anything?'

Nell smiled mildly at her. ‘No. Thank you. I'm fine.'

That afternoon was the dress rehearsal for
Grease
. Everywhere girls ran back and forth, assembling costumes, practising dance moves, taking photos, marvelling at their transformations, not the inner transformation they'd been trained to produce, using Silvio's series of instructions, but the revelation of a high pony tail, of hair smoothed back behind a lemon-yellow hair band, of bare brown legs in bobby socks and a tightly belted waist. Nell was playing Sandy – well, some of Sandy, the part was divided between her, Charlie and Marvella, and she had the first song, a duet. ‘Summer lovin', had me a blast,' she sang between mouthfuls of salad, ‘Summer lovin', happened so fast.' It was the first time in her two years here Nell had been given a chance to play a lead. It was a good sign, she'd imagined, but now, of course, she wasn't so sure. And then a thought occurred to her: maybe they hadn't decided. Perhaps this production was the final test. Nell felt the truth of this ring through her. ‘Summer days, drifting away,' she forced herself on, ‘bu-ut oh, those summer nights.'

By three o'clock everyone was dressed. Their director, a diminutive Australian, hired by the school for one term, was giving them a last high-octane talk. ‘OK guys. This is it! Do you hear me? I want focus. Got it? I want energy. Yes?' He clicked his fingers. ‘And I want to see you having some fun. Yes. Fun!' And his muscles bulged in his neat arms as he shimmied his shoulders and boxed the air. What he didn't know was that Patrick Bowery had opened the far door and was approaching from behind. ‘And what
I
want . . .' Patrick's voice was cruel with amusement. ‘Is a quick word.'

The Australian blushed and, half bowing, moved to one side. Patrick took his place. Come on then, Nell thought, let's hear it, but Patrick remained silent. Instead, he surveyed them from on high, raising his eyebrows at the slicked quiffs of the boys, finally handsome in white T-shirts and jeans, the girls, in pastel cardigans done up with one button, their bras pushing their blouses out in peaks.

‘So,' Patrick began, quietly, ominous. ‘There's been an awful lot of talk recently about people being Thrown Out, and I would like to assure you, before this goes any further, that no one is being Thrown Out.' There was an audible sigh of relief. Jemma clutched hold of Dan's arm, Samantha spun around and stared triumphantly at Nell. ‘But I would like to remind you of the contents of the prospectus, which I'm sure all of you read before choosing to enrol at Drama Arts. In the prospectus it clearly states that not everyone will be suited to the rigours of the third year, and that some of you, for various reasons, will be more suited to setting off on different paths.' Twenty-two pairs of eyes dropped to the floor. ‘And it has come to our attention that some pupils, as predicted, have nothing left to learn from us, and will therefore be released from their obligation to keep studying the art of acting, and will instead be free, as from next week, to wend their eventful ways out into the world.'

No one spoke. They'd learnt from bitter experience that questions or comments were rarely welcome. So we
are
being thrown out, Nell thought, and it was no easier to bear the second time round. She remembered reading that clause in the prospectus and knowing absolutely that it would never, ever, apply to her. It was for people who were late, or unable to learn their lines, who crashed into furniture, or questioned the validity of what they were being taught. There was no one in the room like that. Those students had barely lasted the first term.

‘Right.' Even the Australian looked subdued. ‘So remember, kids. Have fun.' And they wandered off to take up their positions for the start of the show.

 

The interviews were scheduled for the following Tuesday. There were no lessons for their year that day, although the year below were still busy, taking ballet class in the studio with Olinka, running through Stanislavsky's method exercises with Babette in the hall. The third year were preparing for their final production, open to the public, where their friends and family, agents and casting directors could come and speed them on their way. Only the music room was free to wait in. It was a mirrored room, that doubled as a stage make-up and dressing room, and it was opposite Patrick's office.

There were three students waiting there when Nell arrived. ‘What's happening?' she said, glancing at her watch, and Jonathan looked up and whispered, ‘It's Pierre, he's been in there for bloody hours. You can hear him, if you listen, pleading and begging.' They all did listen. A high, hysterical murmur drifted through the door. ‘You're wrong, please, come on . . . if you give me one more chance, one term . . . I worked so hard . . .' But he was drowned out by low, stern words, and the fluting fluttery tones of Silvio. If they throw me out, Nell thought, I won't beg or plead. I won't give them the satisfaction. I'll just walk away. She felt herself go icy cold, and eggy pools of sweat collected under her arms. Just then Hettie appeared in the doorway. ‘Hey,' Nell patted the seat beside her. ‘What's the news? Did you hear, is Samantha in?'

Hettie nodded, and Nell nodded too, to keep her lip from trembling.

‘But it's so awful,' Hettie was close to tears. ‘Susie's out, and Tess and Mikita. They're all in the pub. Dan's in, of course, but he's threatening to leave because of Jemma.' Nell glanced at her watch. ‘What time are you?'

Just then the door opened, and Pierre drifted across the hall. ‘They wouldnae listen,' he said, and he fell on Nell's shoulder.

Eshkol, his green lenses glinting, his face swathed in foundation, swept past them. ‘If they keep that weirdo I'll kill myself,' Pierre wept. ‘Oh God, what will I tell my parents? They've paid for two years of this place and I have nothing to show for it. No agent. No photograph in
Spotlight
. No contacts. It's as if I was never here.'

Hettie hugged him. ‘Babe,' she said. ‘I know this might not sound very helpful, but loads of the third year are leaving and they don't have any agents or contacts either.'

‘Yes,' he sobbed, ‘but at least their mums and dads had an excuse to come to London. Got to see them. Got to clap and read their name in a photocopied programme.' Nell and Hettie laughed, and through his tears Pierre did too. ‘Oh, the dreams, the glamour.'