Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I have a great love for shows, especially theatre. Having made my career in the industry, producing creatively for mass audiences, I would now like a more personal show of my own.
And I would like you, my dear, to be the main star.
I want to see you as a solo performer on a grand stage, flooded by spotlights while you give me the performance of a lifetime. I’ll be the only member of the audience, and the rest of the venue will be completely empty.
Use whichever toys, and whichever props and aids you require. Create your own dialogue and your own storyline and let those creative juices flow. Just make certain you receive a standing ovation at the end of the show.
Our theatre is of course fully booked up at this time of year, which is why you will need to arrive at 2.am, when the place will be empty. Your performance will begin at 2.30.
Considering the ungodly time, you may bring a chaperone – though he or she must stay out of sight.
Please note, I heard on the grapevine that you have a penchant for stinging nettles. That is something I would really like to see. Grant me that and you will receive a generous bonus.
Proposal duration: 50 minutes, plus a 10 minute encore.
Proposal fee: ￡60,000
Ilegit gasped in shock when the location of this proposal came through.
It’s in the bloody West End, at one of the major theatres.
I went there once when I was a kid to watch Evita with Mum and Dad.
Who’d have ever the fuck thought I’d be up there on that very same stage myself one day.
Especially performing for a bloody producer.
Solo.
I’ll be performing solo.
“He knows about the stinging nettles,” I tell Josh. “A generous bonus if I use them. Maybe he’s a founder – or knows a founder.”
“Anyhow,” Josh says, “I’m pretty sure that stinging nettles die off at this time of year, so that’s a no go. Hang on a sec.” He taps away on his phone. “Google says the nettle foraging season ends in October, and that any frost soon kills them off.”
“And we’ve had a fair few frosty mornings of late.”
“Yep.”
“Damn, I don’t know whether to be happy or sad about that.”
“At least I could come with you as your chaperone. How are your acting skills?” my boyfriend asks.
“Umm… I can’t act for shit. But still – a grand a minute and a chance to perform solo at one of the biggest theatres for a top producer…”
“How could you refuse?”
“Yeah, how could I turn down an offer like that? I need to think about this,” I tell Josh. “I don’t know where to start.”
“There is something,” Josh says. “Heath once told me of his early days, on stage. How different stage acting is to TV acting. He said that working for the camera you had to be subtle, both with the makeup and the performance. But on stage everything had to be accentuated. Shout it out loud, exaggerate every action, every cry, every sob, projecting it out to the audience. And the makeup, pile it on, make it stand out for the crowd.”
“Makes sense,” I say, “but I still can’t act for shit.”
Josh tells me that he doesn’t believe that, that I’ve performed plenty for clients, which is true.
“But I don’t know where to start.”
“YouTube,” he says. “Plenty vids on there that will help, I’m sure. Take a look while I get us some lunch.”
While Josh busies himself in the kitchen, I open up my laptop.
I find myself scrolling through London musicals, looking at the names of producers – age 52.
It could be one of so many people, but that doesn’t really matter.
It’s only the curiosity getting the better of me.
All I need to know is that he’s a very powerful one, and he expects his money’s worth. Which is a lot.
Josh was right about YouTube. So many vids advising on exaggerated stage performance and standout makeup tutorials.
I get to my feet after watching a few vids, throw an arm out and shout “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art though, Romeo!” so loud, I feel it coming from my depths.
“I’m here, babe.” Josh arrives with a plate of ham sandwiches and a mug of coffee. “That sounded pretty good.”
“Really?”
“Yep, really. You projected yourself well.”
“You think I can really do this?”
“Course I do.”
“I’d need a script, and…”
“And what?”
“Umm…”
“You could tell your story,” Josh says. “How Ella the store worker rose to the top of the slutty tree.”
“Yeah, I could. That particular script is already written.”
“You just have to plan it out on paper, make it last for sixty minutes. Easy peasy. And I’ll help with the script.”
“Ok, but what about an encore? Shame about those nettles.”
“Click accept,” Josh says, taking a bite of his sandwich.
“I’m not sure,” I tell him.
“I am,” he says. “I have every confidence in you. Tell you what. Click accept, and then get working on your story. While you’re doing that, I’ll go hunt for some nettles. I might just find some with a bit of sting left in them.”
“You’re a bloody star, you know that, right?”
He winks. “I know.”
“Alrighty, then.” I click on accept.
Josh grabs a plastic bag and some gloves and heads off out and I open up a Word doc and start with my script – starting with my shitty work at the store.
I never figured I was much of a creative until the ideas start flowing and the scenes start springing up into my mind.
The hours disappear as I type, coming up with page after page of notes and potential plot lines.
He wants me to be authentic, so I’m going to be authentic, and it won’t get any more authentic than this.
In the performance, I’m going to be me, Ella, struggling for enough money to live on.
A shell of a girl, fighting her way through mindless days.
Then, along comes The Agency, and Ella begins her journey.
Through the boredom of going missionary with a guy looking to get his rocks off for a few hundred quid, to the flagellation and the tit bondage required by some of my more hardcore clients.
I want to get that standing ovation and come back for the encore. It’s a personal mission that gives me a rush of ambition.
I’m wondering where the hell Josh has got to when he walks through the door with a big grin on his face, hiding something behind his back.
“Local nettles were shot to shit,” he says. “They were soggy as fuck and most had turned brown. I managed to pick a few that were still green but they looked shit. So I asked Google again. And I got a good hit – a farm shop with nettle soup on their menu. It was an hour’s drive but so worth it.”
“Go on,” I tell him, my heart and pussy already thrumming at the thought of taking nettles again.
“After a chat with the farm shop’s manager, a delightful lady called Jessica, she showed me their greenhouse where they grow nettles all year round.” He produces his plastic bag from behind his bag that’s bulging full. “She filled my bag for free.”
“I bet she did,” I say. “Did you fill her bag, too?”
He laughs. “No, but I did try the nettle soup, which was delicious. And I left a generous tip for their upcoming Christmas grotto charity event for kids.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Sure is. How’s your script going?”
“Really good. The client wants me to be an authentic actress, and I’ll be one. I bet he already knows who the main character is, because she’s me, Ella. And you can’t tell me that a man like him isn’t going to have sought me out for a reason. He’ll have been hunting me down like Vinnie.”
“With a venue that size, he must have been. Those kind of places don’t come cheap.”
“Or easy.”
Josh helps me as I run through my ideas, telling him all about the scenes I’m planning. He adds some suggestions, and we list out some of the activities, and pile up a collection of props I’m going to need.
It’s exciting. Soul baring. Deep and meaningful and surprisingly emotional to be baring my life story to a stranger under the bright lights of the West End.
It feels utterly bizarre when I dig out my old supermarket uniform from the bottom of a bag of old clothes, taking me right back in time. I make sure it’s washed and ironed. Pristine like it would have been when I was wearing it for real.
I remember the way I was treated, like I was worth nothing.
Working my ass off stacking shelves and taking the brunt of a whole load of unfair criticism on minimum wage.
Then I go through my other outfits. Latex, and posh eveningwear.
A college girl outfit, and a bodice and suspenders, and a satin slip for some nightwear.
For the next few days, I practice my lines – my exaggerated performance – with Josh’s help.
And then the day is upon us.
“You’ve totally got this, baby,” Josh says as I pack my toys.
Big vibrators. Beads, clamps, canes and whips. A fist shaped dildo and the bag full of stinging nettles, along with a big pot of cooling after-care cream.
We set off at 1.30 in the morning, guessing it might take a while to find a parking spot. But we needn’t have worried. We’re almost there when a message pings through.
Our private parking spaces are down the side of the theatre. You may park there. A guard will be waiting for you.
“Excellent,” Josh says. “He’s thought of everything.”
Sure enough, there’s a big beefy guy dressed in black waiting for us, guiding us into one of the five parking spots. There’s one car parked there – a silver Merc. I guess that’s the producer’s car.
We park up and grab my cases from the boot.
Arrived, I click on the app.
My client pings straight back.
The guard will show you the way. You’ll soon spot your dressing room. The lights will come on at the allotted time. Make your appearance and give the performance of your life.
No pressure, then.
The guard shows us to a green door. ‘Stage door’ says the sign on top.
“I’ll be right here,” the guard says as we step inside and the door closes behind us.
My heart is racing as we walk along with my two cases, soon arriving at a row of dressing rooms.
The very first one has a big golden star on it, and fuck, it has my name on it. ‘HOLLY’