Chapter 2
‘Lara Francis?’ A voice calls and the sound of stilettos echo in the broad, bright corridor. After I entered the building, I was ushered up to the fifth floor and settled in a surprisingly comfortable chair to wait for my screen test.
This process is a far cry from the usual audition scene. I’m usually crammed into a hot, overcrowded room full of women who look a bit like me. Who I have to make a conscious effort not to compare myself to unfavourably.
But here, there’s no need to worry about any of that. There’s just me and sunlight streaming through a window, a view of London in the distance. It’s peaceful and the lack of distractions gives me enough time to take a few meditative breaths, my eyes fixed on the skyline as the heels approach.
I tear my eyes from the window to find a small, sharply dressed woman about my age holding a clipboard.
Her expression is not unkind, but there’s a steel in her gaze that tells me she means business.
This industry isn’t just brutal for the actors; to make it in any capacity, you have to have unshakeable nerves.
Or a relative in the industry – that always helps.
She leads me down the corridor to a door marked Screen Test Room 1.
I hardly have time to wonder where Room 2 might be – and who might be in it – before she opens the door and shows me through.
I thought I was calm from doing meditation breaths, but I’m not.
Adrenaline pulses through me as the door swings shut and I come face to face with 6ft 2 of messy dark hair, a chiselled jawline and dark brown eyes that used to crease at the edges when I told a bad joke.
Shit.
Just before the nausea hits, I manage to glimpse that he looks a little more slick than he used to. Smooth. Polished. As professional as the handshake he’s now extending to me.
‘Lara,’ he says, his voice turning over my name as if it’s alien to him. As if he hadn’t called it a hundred times across the bar.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he continues.
The nausea deepens, edged with a twinge of anger and hurt.
It makes sense that he’d try to hide the fact that we’ve met before.
He has a new life now – and he made it very clear he didn’t want me in it.
When he kissed me at the party, then told me it was a mistake.
When he left and didn’t come back. Our contact, which was a thread of light in my life, even after he moved to LA, dissipating entirely overnight.
Even still, disappointment and confusion cloud my vision at his words.
I grasp his hand, doing my best to shake it firmly.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Avi,’ I echo. Something flashes in his gaze for a fraction of a second – something that looks like warmth. Familiarity. It throws me completely.
I blink, frozen, my hand still clutching his.
‘Lara, thank you so much for coming in today,’ a voice from my left says, a throat clearing gently, and I realise how stupid I’m being.
The table of producers and casting directors should’ve been my first port of call, but I was so distracted by Avi that I forgot they were there.
I notice the director isn’t present and baulk as I approach.
Alessandro D’Arienzo is a huge deal in Hollywood; he’s known for his wide range, from artistic Italian-language horror films to a credit on one of the most recent DC movies.
His vision is dark and often brilliant. But, before the screen test, I realised that despite knowing his name, I had no idea what he looked like.
So I frantically searched for photos of him online, to avoid introducing myself to the wrong person.
But he’s not here. I take a breath, a light panic rippling through me.
Perhaps he’s in Screen Test Room 2 with another actor. But then Avi Kumar is in here, with me.
Calm down, Lara, I think to myself as I turn away from Avi and cross the room to shake their hands. A row of people who are about to decide my future, but who aren’t registering at all on the Richter scale of my nervous system compared to the man behind me.
‘Alessandro sends his apologies,’ the producer says. ‘He was held up in Italy, so we’ll be handling the screen test today and he’ll be reviewing the tapes.’
I swallow. This footage is all the director will have to make the decision that could impact the rest of my life. I hoped to at least be able to make a good impression in person.
A flash of nerves arrives that’s so overwhelming I almost want to run. This is suddenly feeling incredibly, inescapably real.
‘Right,’ the casting director says, getting up from the table and moving us to our marks. My hand shakes as I take the script from him. ‘We’ll start with our first scene for the day, halfway through their first meeting. Could you please read from page two to page seven?’
I nod, swallowing as I look down at the script and try to focus my gaze.
‘Sure,’ Avi says, his tone smooth. His voice makes me jump and I look up, his eye catching mine. I look quickly back down at the script.
Channel it, Lara, I say to myself as the producer returns to his table. He is just any other actor. You know these lines. You know this part. You are Amelia.
You’ve got this.
At the book’s opening, Amelia comes into some inheritance money, decides to start her own detective agency and receives her first case from one of the victim’s sisters.
Realising there might be a connection with the upper echelons of society, Amelia drafts in Jackson Whitfield – an American socialite who formerly courted her – to help her infiltrate the secret society without arousing suspicion.
This dialogue, where she tries to persuade him to help her, is their first conversation.
‘Okay, and go,’ the producer says and my head snaps upwards again.
‘Amelia.’ Avi starts the scene.
Miraculously, a calm washes over me as I take my cue. ‘Jackson, I have a proposal for you…’
For the length of a scene, I’m able to detach myself entirely from the fact that I’m currently in the room with Avi and disappear into the character.
The feeling is comforting and familiar, the edges of myself blurring into the background as I sink into Amelia.
This is what I’ve always loved about acting: its detachment from reality.
The possibilities it opens up to live a thousand lives other than your own.
The possibilities it’s opening up, in this moment, to pretend the man in front of me doesn’t make me want to run out of this room and never come back.
And there’s a comfort in doing this with Avi. Our rapport is smooth, trading lines like we’ve been doing it for years, falling back into our old rhythm when we’d practise for auditions in the empty theatre above the pub after closing time. It’s… easy.
Alarmingly easy.
The feeling comes out of nowhere and jolts me out of character briefly. Avi falters, watching as I grasp for the next line. The perfection of his performance slipping for the first time since I entered this room. His expression replaced by concern, which only serves to rattle me further.
‘Sorry,’ I murmur, glancing over at the table that feels suddenly like a courtroom jury, before returning my gaze to the script as a blush of mortification creeps across my cheeks.
‘That’s okay,’ one of the casting directors says, standing up, and for one horrible second I think I might’ve messed it all up.
But he stays where he is, folding his arms and looking between Avi and me with some interest.
‘I’d like to move on to one of our later scenes now,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘The one in the pub.’
Oh, shit. Avi’s eyes flash to mine and I can see he’s caught the meaning too: a romantic scene, in a pub.
Avi’s character and mine are arguing, then they almost kiss – pressed together, lingering for a few moments.
Its setting and context are so ironic it would almost be funny if I didn’t already feel like I might vomit. I swallow, my throat suddenly bone dry.
The casting director’s eyes flick to the clock above the door. ‘If you’re not comfortable—’
‘I am.’ I avoid Avi’s gaze. ‘It’s fine.’
The casting director says nothing, just gestures for us to start, and we flick through our scripts to the right page, the silence almost unbearable.
Once we’ve oriented ourselves, we start the scene.
‘You’re so thick-headed,’ I say, my voice breaking a little – but it works, for the scene. Amelia has reached a point of despair with Jackson, which pretty much reflects what I’m feeling right now. ‘You always act before you think.’
I look up at Avi; his eyes are trained on me. There’s a question in them, and I can’t tell if it’s the part he’s playing or if it’s the real him coming through (if I even know who that is any more). Checking I’m okay with this.
My heart kicks.
‘You know you’ve always liked that about me, Amelia,’ he says.
A rush of feeling warms my skin and I nod, infinitesimally.
‘Fine,’ I say, dropping my hand that’s holding the script. Surrendering to the scene, to the moment. ‘I can’t deny that your impulsiveness intrigues me.’ I take a breath, stemming the tide that’s telling me that the man in front of me is not his character, but someone else.
He takes a tentative step towards me and a shiver runs down my spine.
Shit. This is happening. This is actually happening.
He winds his arm around my waist, my skin coming alive at his touch. His hand clenches around the fabric of my shirt and it’s a struggle not to gasp aloud. Because this isn’t the first time he’s touched me like this. And the last time he did…
But I can’t think about that right now.
He leans down and delivers his next line, his voice low.
‘I know you, Amelia Blackthorn,’ he says, and my breath catches in my throat.
For a moment, I almost forget myself.
The line comes out stuttering, half-garbled.
‘D-do you?’ I ask.