Being a Girl (12 page)

From what I had gathered listening to the girls chatting in the office, this was a regular ordeal, a test of stamina as much as talent. They had all been to drama school and since leaving had spent weeks and months visiting photographers for head shots which they duly sent to theatrical agents before setting out on the eternal pilgrimage to auditions for parts on stage, in short films, feature films, TV soaps and corporate videos, the cattle market they called it, and it occurred to me that the way to get film roles, the way to get what you want, is to go about it in any
way except the normal way, that you are more likely to get it right if you get it wrong.

Does that make sense?

Like wearing blue shoes with a green dress: blue and green should never be seen. So, get it wrong and you get noticed. Better than going to drama school, get your bottom tanned by a casting agent. Arrive early. Arrive late. But don't get there on time. Be contrary. But be open. Jean-Luc Cartier had opened my mind as well as spanked my bottom. I didn't know these things at school and I'm sure if I had done I would have been the head girl.

We had learned in Art History that when Salvador Dali went to New York with his paintings for the first time he had the baker on board ship bake a twenty-foot loaf of bread with a hat-sized hole in the centre. When the boat docked, Dali walked down the gangplank wearing the largest baguette in the world and everyone said he was a genius. He had a weird sex life, but that's another story. Dali knew how to get noticed. The eight girls waiting in that stuffy room with their breasts on display could have been gingerbread girls all stamped out from the same cookie cutter, a dance troupe, not the star; they were all at least twenty, a few of them must have been edging towards twenty-five, and all had the same desperate darting eyes as the teary girl with hennaed hair.

I was the odd one out, an unknown quantity, too young for the part, at least as far as the other girls were concerned, and I wasn't looking sexy. Quite the reverse. I was wearing a high-collared maroon velvet suit with trousers tight at the knees and black patent shoes more suitable for a funeral or an interview at the library. I also happened to be carrying my script
in a pink folder with the name
Agence Jean-Luc Cartier printed on the front.

‘Good luck,' one of the girls said.

‘Oh, thank you,' I replied.

Sister Theresa at school had a habit of rapping her knuckles on the desk and saying: Knock and the door shall be opened.

I knocked.

I waited.

And Dudley opened the door.

David Trevellick, the writer/director, came to his feet and smiled.

‘Camilla?'

‘Milly.'

‘David.'

‘How do you do?'

I put out my hand and glanced away as he shook it. He smiled. I didn't. He bobbed about for a couple of seconds looking bashful and then we both sat. While Dudley was adjusting the camera focus and Daniel, the soundman, fiddled about with the dials on a machine with blinking green lights, David explained the story, which I didn't really think needed to be explained. I had picked up the script from Monsieur Cartier's office and learned it by heart. It was pretty clever, with some neat twists and quite sexy, although not quite sexy enough. A ten-minute short film gives a director the opportunity to show his range, his skills, his vision, and
Cheats
still lacked, as Jean-Luc had said, a certain oo la la!

Well-known actors had been cast in the roles of Ricky and Older Amanda, lending their time for the noble but poorly paid cause of the short film. David was looking for a ‘fresh young face' for the part of
Young Amanda – the Girl. He had already done castings with ‘dozens' of contenders but only I had come recommended by a famous casting agent.

‘He said you have a special gift,' he added, and I turned positively pink with embarrassment.

‘Did he say what?' I asked.

He shrugged. ‘No, he said I'd find out soon enough,' he replied.

Oh, yes, I forgot to mention, David was about 23 and totally dishy. He read all the parts, except mine, of course. The sessions were filmed for David to show the producer – ‘Hermann Mann from the Film Council,' he said in awe, not that it meant a thing to me.

His brow fluted.

‘OK. Rain beats against the bar windows. The Girl enters from an interior door wearing a pink satin jacket and a low-cut white dress. Cool and sexy. Take One. The Bar.'

THE GIRL
glances at the clock behind the bar, then down at her watch. She stares directly and angrily at
RICKY SIMMONS
.

 

I stared into David's eyes and kept staring until he felt uncomfortable. I took a breath through my nose and hissed loudly through my teeth.

It was quite well written. The Girl was super sexy with her talk of lesbian films and Ricky Simmons was confidently seductive with his name-dropping and sly humour:
She's doing Kevin Spacey's new film. He's even older in real life.

We recorded the second reading, then I was put on the spot having to read that scene from
Magnolia
where Julianne Moore is buying drugs in the pharmacy and goes
ape
. That was it. Someone would call me. When I left the office the hopefuls with their little tits and short skirts glared at me.

‘How was it?' one of them asked.

‘A nightmare,' I replied. ‘I was awful. I'll never get the part.'

It's nice to make people happy, I thought, and went straight to Jean-Luc's office. He admired my suit, I kept my clothes on, and came away with David's mobile phone number. Although I believe in discipline, it's fun, there comes a time when a girl has to take the initiative. I called David later that day. I told him I thought his script was
totally
brilliant and was thrilled my agent
had sent me to the audition.

‘I have some ideas for the last scene, something . . . sexy,' I said.

‘Sounds interesting.'

‘Are you free?' I asked.

‘I have a meeting with Hermann . . .'

‘The man from the Film Council?'

‘Yes,' he said breathlessly. ‘Then I have to look at today's auditions . . . you were really good, by the way.'

‘Do you do that at home?'

‘Yeah . . .'

‘Shall I pop round? About nine, or something?'

‘. . . er, yeah, OK, why not?'