Showstopper

Chapter 1

ONE

Olly

Aged six, I discovered that sometimes, the Wicked Witch of the West is a hero ‘Defying Gravity’ and the ‘Popular’ blonde can have way more depth than it first appears.

So even though a dirty alleyway off Covent Garden shouldn’t make me glow from the inside, I can’t help but beam at the peeling blue paintwork of the entrance to Basil Studios ahead.

Stepping onto the cobbled pavement, avoiding what looks like a puddle of piss, all I can think is: I’m home. And bloody hell, there really is no place like it.

Already outside there are teasers of the magic that hides within the unassuming studios.

Boys wearing matching Six the Musical hoodies kiss each other on the cheek and there’s a girl decked out in neon leg warmers, straight out of Fame while three teens perform the full Jellicle Ball from Cats. Who could ask for more?

It’s only my second year of leaving my Yorkshire home 2for a week of the Easter holidays to come to this place, where I fit in.

Back in Halifax, my phone background – a rotating album of Broadway legend Bernadette Peters glamour shots – makes the football loving ‘lads’ I go to school with think I’m a ‘proper weirdo’.

But as a nominee at The Larry Awards (once described as ‘The Oscars for teen musical-theatre performers’ by The Stage newspaper) I get to belong.

Here the only qualification for fitting in is an earnest love of singing, dancing and acting, and an answer to ‘What’s your favourite Sondheim musical?’ that’s not West Side Story (because, you know, he only wrote the lyrics to that one).

‘Olly?’ comes a pingy Scottish cry from behind me. It’s a voice I’d recognise anywhere after our last year of near-nightly calls.

‘Zeb!’ I scream, spinning around to see my diminutive best friend jeté leaping towards me from the main road, his suitcase barely able to keep up with him. He bounds into my arms, his cropped afro nuzzling into my chest, and sings, ‘Everything’s As If We Never Said Goodbye’ from Sunset Boulevard.

‘God, it’s so bloody good to see you!’ I say, depositing him on the ground. ‘Can you believe we’re actually back again?’

‘Oh, for sure,’ he laughs. ‘We would have forced our way in anyway even if they hadn’t nominated us.’3

For both of us to be selected as one of the thirty top teen performers in the UK, for a second year in a row – and in our last year before we age out of the competition – is an incredible feat.

‘Please can we go over and make all our new stagey friends?’

‘Hmm … as long as you don’t let them distract us from our mission goals?’ he mock scolds. ‘Objective One: showcase you in your best light so you can gag, wow and goop anyone watching from your dream drama school.’

‘Objective Two,’ I say, joining in with his silly recitation of the goals we’ve rehearsed since last year. ‘Make sure you let your hair down and have the best last week performing before you allow a medical degree at Cambridge University to suck all the glitter and fun out of you…’

‘Excuse me! Whether I’m on stage or in an operating theatre, I’ll be serving camp and a triple pirouette when I’m done, thank you very much.’

To prove his point, he throws his suitcase to the ground and does a quadruple pirouette, and he’s not wrong.

Removing The Mousetrap from its West End home of well over half a century would be easier than sucking the gay fabulousness out of Zeb, even if he’s pursuing his academic side rather than hoping for a career on stage like me.

‘And what is it imperative that we do if we want to succeed?’ he asks, going up on his tip toes to link my arm 4and lead me towards the studio, his bag trundling noisily over the cobbles behind us.

‘I vow I’m going to rise above Mr Evil Eyes, and any drama he wants to cause,’ I state with a hand on my chest, referring to my one Larrys’ regret from last year.

‘Good! No time for any boys or anything that doesn’t help us achieve our goals this year.’

Closer to the entrance, faces come into focus – most of them are new but familiar, due to me lightly stalking and chatting to the new competitors online since the nominations were announced.

‘Darling! It’s Olly, isn’t it?’ asks the girl in leg warmers, her pale face covered with a liberal coating of crimson blusher and sporting a short, choppy haircut that I’m sure Elaine Paige had during her run of Evita in 1978.

‘Jasmine! Yes, so lovely to meet you in person!’ I say, recognising her from her singing videos online, and wrapping her up in a big hug.

She looks up at me, her mouth agape. ‘Fuck me, you’re tall.’

‘Six foot four,’ Zeb tuts. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

‘No, it’s amazing,’ Jasmine says with a flirtatious shimmy, even though I’m certain she knows I’m gay. ‘Like, perfect leading-man height!’

I shrug, bashful at her saying everything I’ve ever hoped could be true about myself: that I could have what 5it takes to lead a company of actors, to be the hero that the audience root for. ‘Thanks! I’ll take that as consolation for constantly having to look out for door frames.’

‘Babe, bless you!’ Jasmine trills in her plummy accent. ‘I knew I’d love you from the welcome message you sent – you really put my mind at ease.’

‘For me too!’ says a wiry, pale, ginger boy, putting out his hand. ‘Andrew.’

Shaking his proffered hand while giving a curtsey, because I don’t want this to feel too bro-y, I smile.

‘Hey! It’s the least I could do! I had the best week at the Larrys last year, and I want us to have as much fun as possible.

Yes, we’re all competing, but we’re still an ensemble.

It’s so much better when you’re not feeling nervous. ’

‘There’s a reason they call you the BFG,’ grumbles Zeb, acting as if me messaging him incessantly before last year’s competition wasn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He adds in a whisper, ‘Remember you’re here to win.’

I roll my eyes at him, playful like we always are.

I want to do my best, and show myself off in front of all the industry professionals who will be at the final on Saturday, but what’s the point if I’m not also making a whole new bunch of like-minded friends?

There aren’t many chances to do that back home.

‘Shall we head inside?’ I ask, and the gaggle that has 6formed around me, like the musical-theatre totem pole that I am, nod eagerly.

We pick up our bags and hurry inside to a small balcony, which has a distinctive smell of hard work (also known as sweat).

It’s a scent that brings memories of arriving at the rehearsal studios for the first time last year flooding back: nervous (but excited) butterflies doing somersaults in my tummy. This time I’m just excited.

There’s a staircase to get down to the foyer and looming over it I don’t feel like plain old me.

I’m a grand diva of the stage playing Dolly Gallagher Levi and triumphantly returning to the Harmonia Gardens in a red gown, even though I’m actually wearing shorts and a vintage t-shirt from the infamous five-performance run of Carrie on Broadway.

Any moment, an ensemble of dancing waiters could appear to sing Hello, Olly to me – and by God, it’s nice to be back where I belong.

Tarun

‘How many times does my belly need to flip over itself before you’d be worried?’ I ask my mum as we stand at the end of an alleyway – about a hundred metres away from the rehearsal studios.

‘If we were talking literally Tarun, I’d say that any more 7than once would be something of a medical miracle and we should get you to A&E pronto,’ Mum says.

She raises an eyebrow in the way that she gets to about all things medical, given her career as a GP.

‘But I assume you’re talking metaphorically?

As I think that’s a common way to describe how it feels to be a little bit excited and a little bit scared… ’

I nod, as she’s pretty much nailed what it is I’m feeling inside.

This is all so new to me. Unlike anything I’ve ever done before.

Glancing around for the hundredth time at the queue forming to get into Basil Studios, where there’s a girl stretching a leg above her head and someone else doing singing warm-ups at the top of their voice that echo around the alleyway, it’s easy to be reminded that these are all the country’s most confident fifteen-to-eighteen-year-old performers.

And then there’s me.

The boy who only did his first musical a year ago. Who played his first lead role two months ago. Now nominated for The Larry Awards. Anyone in my shoes would be intimidated, right?

‘Sohna, any update from your friend?’ Mum asks, using one of her affectionate Punjabi nicknames for me. She thinks calling me ‘handsome’ will soften the fact she’s teasing me about the boy she is well aware I have a crush on.8

My cheeks burn, shifting the strap of my guitar case that’s slung over my shoulder. ‘He’s not my friend, he was just … in the show with me.’

‘And shared a kiss with you at the closing-night party!’

‘I can’t believe a few WKDs was all it took for me to share that with you on the way home…’

‘Another reason to advocate for not participating in underage drinking!’ she says, prodding me on the shoulder. ‘You both being nominated will be a great opportunity to see if there’s something more there than one drunken kiss…’

It’s a shame we’re standing on cobbles, because if we were near sand, I’d bury my head in it. ‘We’ve barely spoken since then! Who knows what he’s thinking now that we’re both sober. All we’ve chatted about is meeting here at quarter to.’

‘Oh, the communication of teenage boys.’ She chuckles, checking her watch. ‘And it’s ten-to now. Hopefully he’ll have better time-keeping when he walks down the aisle with you in a few years.’

‘Mum! You can’t say things like that! He’ll be here any second, and who knows who might hear you.’