Things We Do For Love

One Lucie

One

LUCIE

‘L ucie Hart?’

‘That’s me, with an i-e!’ I say, instantly kicking myself for the enthusiasm. This is an audition for Shakespeare, not CBeebies. My reply is so bright and jolly I’m one step away from jazz-hands. Don’t be too eager , I remind myself, a mantra I’ve yet to pay attention to in the eight years I’ve been a jobbing actor. Don’t look like a desperate thesp …

‘On the stage, please,’ intones the bored stagehand with the completely unnecessary clipboard-and-headset combo. Did he only agree to the job if they gave him props? I wonder how many too-enthusiastic, definitely desperate thesps he’s had to corral today. It’s 3.45 p.m. and the auditions began at 9.30 a.m., so I’m guessing lots .

But he hasn’t had to deal with me yet.

I’m going to walk on that stage and blow them away. This time Iris, a relatively small part in The Tempest ; next time who knows?

My inner bravado lasts exactly thirty seconds before reality nudges back.

I am a desperate thesp.

I love my life, I adore being in Stratford-upon-Avon and I get by – just. But if I’m really honest, it’s getting harder to love the early starts, long days, late nights and currently three-slash-four jobs I’m working in order to survive here.

I just need a break. Just one.

‘The stage?’ Mr Clipboard-and-Headset stares pointedly at me.

‘Yes, right, thanks, dude,’ I rush as I hurry onstage.

Dude ? Seriously?

I skid to a halt centre-stage; my brightest and most definitely not desperate-thesp smile in place, the director hidden from view by the dazzle of a single white spotlight.

And then, it hits me.

I’m on the stage. Centre-stage in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s Swan Theatre, blinking out at the rising galleries and seats that I can’t see, but I know are there. And even though I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve stood here for an audition, the magic remains.

This is what it’s all about. All the jobs and the hours and the precarious living arrangements: it all makes this possible. It’s what drives me on, what keeps me dreaming, what …

‘Back again, Luce?’

My heart sinks to my too-bright trainers .

Crap.

‘Dunc, hey. I didn’t know you were directing.’

‘I’m not. Assistant director this time, but Greg’s flight was delayed, so …’

I can’t see him, but I don’t need to. Duncan Harrow will be smirking in his seat, loving every minute of my squirming.

The absolute last person I needed to be here today: my ex – the person who has made it his life mission to scupper me at every turn since we broke up. He was the one who cheated on me, making a mockery of the two years we were together, but despite my very public dumping of him and continual stating of the fact that I’ll never take him back, he still thinks he’s got some kind of mystical hold over me. Which he hasn’t. But he’s my constant curse: the gatekeeper who stands between me and my dream casting in an RSC production.

‘Great, okay. Shall I start?’

‘Whenever you’re ready.’

I force the smile that’s slipped from my face back to where it should be and take a deep breath. Remember where I am. Centre my character. Prepare to dazzle …

‘… You nymphs, call’d Naiads, of the windring brooks,

With your sedged crowns and ever-harmless looks,

Leave your crisp channels and on this green land

Answer your summons …’

‘Yep, great, thanks, Luce.’

I peer into the shadow around the spotlight. ‘But I haven’t finished …’

It’s a point of principle. If I’m honest, I don’t want to be Iris, the goddess of the rainbow. It isn’t the part I’d choose in The Tempest . I want to be Miranda, Prospero’s daughter. Or even Prospero himself. If Dame Helen Mirren can be Prospero, Lucie Hart can damn well be.

But Iris would be a start. Heck, Iris would be the biggest part I’ve scored in years. And more than anything right now I want to be able to finish Iris’s lines in this audition.

‘Seen enough, thanks. Great, though, Luce. I’m impressed you’re still slogging away – I mean most people would have jacked it in by now. But great effort. So …’

I hate that so . I know he’ll be making the wind-it-up sign in the darkness, all smug and full of his own importance.

‘Okay.’

‘You know the drill. We’ll …’

… be in touch , I finish for him, not waiting another moment for Duncan Harrow to deal his deathly blow. Another audition scuppered. More pieces of my shattered heart left on The Swan’s glorious stage …