Chapter 1
Hester | London, present day
I am a bad vampire. I lied to my coven about the audition.
I stood there, blinking gormlessly at the two expectant faces at the side of the stage, who were ready to be wowed the instant I opened my mouth. But Viola’s scene, the one I’d practised diligently at Tim’s house, fled from my brain; and I couldn’t remember the lines.
‘Any time you’re ready, Hester,’ called Giles, the casting director.
When I didn’t move or speak a word, the young female producer seated next to him, Sasha, raised her thick straight eyebrows and made some notes on her phone.
Fuck. I knew I was losing my chance. So I panicked and compelled them right then and there into thinking I was giving the most amazing performance they’d ever seen.
While all I really did was walk around silently and wave my arms a bit.
At the end, they gave me a standing ovation and clapped .
.. and I bowed. I’m cringing even thinking about it.
So they’ve given the part of Viola to me. What a joke. I’m a freaking fraud.
All because I wanted to be in Twelfth Night with Will.
To be near him, to soak in his loveliness, and, of course, to appreciate his superior acting skills and hope they rub off on me.
But my knee-jerk reaction has backfired.
Now I have to act, for real, here at the Globe for three months in front of a live audience and interact with HIM.
And Viola appears in two-thirds of the play’s scenes . .. Fuck. I’m in deep kitty litter!
Wondering what the hell I’m going to do, I stumble out of the stage door, hissing as late-afternoon sunlight blasts my retinas.
Damn, it would have to be nice weather. I can’t even lick my wounds and wallow in London’s winter gloom.
Shielding my eyes with my arm, I slink over to a quiet tree-lined spot where I can sit in the shade and try to figure out a solution.
Rehearsals start next week, so there isn’t much time.
Maybe I should get Damian to hypnotise me?
I was half joking in my text to Floss about him doing that, but it worked for Sadie finding Elliott.
It may be my only hope of getting through this nightmare unscathed.
A vision of me continually saying ‘Line’ and the prompter rolling their eyes offstage and the audience booing and laughing has me shaking in my Doc Martens.
At least I won’t be pelted with oranges like in 1752 . .. Hopefully.
The stage door flings open. A petite woman in a pink coat with black curls tumbling around her shoulders emerges.
Camilla St Clair, my biggest competition.
She’s a graduate of the Royal Welsh College of Music & Drama and has acted in a lot of theatre productions in London’s West End.
Of the three of us up for Viola, she was touted as the most likely to get it.
Despite her not being tall or having an English accent.
Oblivious to me, she wanders over to the riverside railing, clenches her fists, tilts her head back, and lets out a strangled yowl. Her thought comes through loud and clear: Fuck fuck fuck—that utter bitch!
Shit, she must’ve found out she didn’t get the part, and I’m the ‘utter bitch’!
I move behind a nearby rubbish bin, not wanting Camilla to know I’m witnessing her dramatic devastation.
It’s got to hurt. I knew she really wanted it.
Thanks to my supersensitive hearing, I zeroed in on her yesterday having a private discussion with Giles and sucking up to him.
She can say she adores Shakespeare and wants to be a part of his legacy, but I know she was looking forward to spending time with Will.
Her thoughts were quite clear on that matter.
She was going to suggest some one-to-one rehearsing and ask him to dinner afterwards, during which she was going to flirt outrageously to break down his defences, then seduce him.
She would’ve had her work cut out for her.
I’ve been observing Will for a while now, and he takes the acting profession and his reputation very seriously.
He’s not just going to lie down and let Camilla St Clair fuck him.
In the two years since I’ve been attending drama classes in Edinburgh, he hasn’t once laid a finger on any of the pretty actresses.
And I would know, as I surreptitiously read the minds of the ones who were lusting after him.
They were always surprised and disappointed that he didn’t respond to their flirting and ask them out.
Then it morphed into annoyance and a ‘his loss’ attitude, and they moved on.
Will’s a hot enigma. I can’t figure him out, and that’s part of the reason I’m lusting after him myself. I want to crack his code, find out what makes him tick. Perhaps I should take a leaf out of Camilla’s book and ask him for a one-to-one rehearsal too now that I’m Viola ...
The stage door opens again, and the tall athletic form of Will Knight comes strolling out.
Along with a pair of sunglasses, he’s wearing a black T-shirt and dark-blue jeans.
A burnished leather jacket is slung over one shoulder.
My lip quivers, and my loins clench at the sight of him.
But he doesn’t notice me hanging out over here with the rubbish. The story of my life.
Will glances up at the sky and scrubs his free hand over his buzz cut, no doubt thinking something profound, then jams it in his pocket. He saunters along, whistling, and passes by Camilla, oblivious to her drama. But she steps out in front of him with a ‘Will!’ so he has no choice but to stop.
I shift further behind the rubbish bin and peer around it, watching them. The conversation reaches my ears, though they’re situated over by the riverbank.
‘Hey, Camilla,’ Will greets her politely. ‘Gorgeous afternoon!’
‘I didn’t get the part,’ Camilla launches in tearfully, gazing up at him as if she expects him to do something about it.
‘Oh, sorry to hear that,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Better luck next time.’ He takes a step to the side, but Camilla moves too.
‘It’s ridiculous that I wasn’t chosen!’ She swipes furiously at her eyes.
‘Ah, well, you are Welsh, Camilla. They were looking for a Viola with an English accent,’ he says pragmatically.
I smile to myself. This is a typical Will response. Ignore the histrionics and smooth things over with a dose of ‘get real’.
‘But I put on an English accent! Why the hell does it matter anyway? Why can’t Viola be Welsh?’ she whinges liltingly.
Will shrugs. ‘Dunno. Maybe they thought it slipped a bit too much. You do sound pretty Welsh to me.’
I smirk at the look on Camilla’s face. If she’s expecting sympathy from him, she’s not getting it.
‘Who is Hester Everill anyway?’ sniffs Camilla. ‘I mean, what’s she even acted in? Nothing! She’s a nobody.’
I can’t see Will’s face as he’s slightly turned away from me, but there’s a steely edge to his voice when he replies.
‘Hester’s not a nobody. She’s a great actress. The best I’ve seen. It’s bad form to piss on the hopes and dreams of another actor coz you’ve got sour grapes. You know how this works, Camilla, so don’t be a bitch. There’ll be other auditions.’
With that parting shot, Will strides off along South Bank, leaving Camilla gaping after him.
I’m equally as shocked.
What the fuck? Will stood up for me!
I can’t help giving the rubbish bin a punch of delight, which leaves a small dent.
Camilla’s annoyed expression is photoworthy. She gives a garbled squawk, hefts her tote, and stalks off in the opposite direction.
Resting my forehead against the rubbish bin, I replay Will’s words: Hester’s not a nobody. She’s a great actress. The best I’ve seen.
If I had a working heart, it would be beating fast for him right now. That’s the first compliment he’s ever given me. Pity I had to hear it by eavesdropping, but still, it’s thrilling that he’s noticed me and has an opinion about me.
Yet self-doubt creeps in. Will’s never actually seen me act. I only take notes or listen in class. And I never participate in any workshop scenes. If I do, it’s only in the background or if they need an animal character.
However, Will isn’t the type of guy to straight up lie about something like this.
I’ve seen him reduce actors, even staunch male ones, to tears when they ask for his critique.
So he’s not afraid to tell it like it is.
No, I believe he means every word he’s saying. So what the fuck is he going on about?