Chapter 19
Nineteen
I glowered at Frida as she led the movement warm-up.
I knew I was being irrational, that Frida was our teacher and it was her job to promote everyone on the course, whether she thought they were any good or not, and – despite her comedic shortcomings – Victoria really was very good.
I knew it was Frida’s duty to prepare students for the industry so that their successes might shine a light back onto the school, sustain its esteemed reputation and nourish its parasitic biorhythm.
But still, ever since she’d called my performance magic, I’d harboured the stupid belief that I was her favourite, that I, for some reason, had been chosen, that I would be the only one to succeed, and everyone else, all my classmates, would eventually become deadweight, driftwood, flotsam in my wake.
Letting Victoria audition in second year hurt, too, because it dispelled the great myth of the school: that our learning was paramount.
All throughout our time there, we were reminded of the importance of craft, of our duties as artists, of how success couldn’t be measured by the industry, that the industry was fickle, shallow, a changeable beast, that only through creative exploration and rigorous learning could we triumph.
These tenets were sacred, immovable. Bullshit.
Lies. All it took was a little industry flirtation for these lofty principles to crumble.
It made me sick, seeing Frida throw her ideals to the wind.
We were never allowed to miss rehearsals, never.
Funerals were the only exception. Yet here was Frida, allowing Victoria to walk out, to take the whole day for herself, even saying she could graduate without completing her final year if she wanted to.
What did it matter? Sure, whatever, take the degree.
Wipe your arse with it, in fact. No worries, no bother.
‘Shannon?’ Frida was clicking her fingers at me. ‘Did you hear what I said?’
I blinked, returning to the room. ‘I’m sorry.’ I shook my head. ‘I didn’t catch that. I . . . I didn’t get much sleep.’
Frida pursed her lips. ‘Obi, please partner with Shannon. Perhaps your charms will be enough to keep her awake.’
VICTORIA WAS WAITING FOR us after school.
She had an iced coffee in one hand and was smoking a roll-up with the other.
She looked impossibly cool waiting there, leaning against the iron railings, one foot up off the ground, Ray-Bans balanced on the edge of her nose, hair tumbling over her shoulders, lit like flames in the fading afternoon light.
‘Hey V, we’re over here!’ Jolly hollered.
She glanced over and gave us a tinkling wave.
‘How did it go?’ Obi yelled.
She shrugged and, holding the cup to her breast, gave an awkward thumbs up. Obi and Jolly jogged over. When I caught up with them, she was already mid-flow.
‘There were five of them on the panel. I think two of them had flown in from New York this morning.’
‘How were they?’ Obi asked.
‘Super nice. They just asked me to read the scene a few times, gave me a bit of direction, then asked me to wait. I had like an hour, so I looked around Carnaby Street and when I came back they had the guy in who they’ve cast as Robert Dudley.’
‘Oh my God, I’ve seen rumours online. Go on, go on, tell us who,’ Jolly said.
Victoria flashed us a coy smile. ‘I’m not allowed to tell you.’ She paused. ‘But I will say he was a really good kisser.’
Jolly squealed. ‘Oh my God, V, you’re definitely going to get it. I can feel it in my waters.’
‘Don’t say that.’ She shook her head. ‘There were still two or three other girls there, so, you know, I shouldn’t get my hopes up.’
‘So what? You’re Victoria Parker-Tilley. You’re a star.’
Victoria smirked and nudged Jolly’s shoulder. ‘Shush now, stop it.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘OK, OK, enough about me. How was your day?’
Jolly filled her in on what she’d missed, but there wasn’t much. As we walked, I stared at the back of her neck, watching her nod and make little noises of interest, watching her pretend to listen, watching her pretend to care.
OUR SONNET ASSESSMENT WAS scheduled for Monday morning.
It was our last of the term, of the year in fact.
I was doing a vocal warm-up in the corner when Victoria walked in.
Her eyes were red and sore, her mascara smudged.
Jolly tried to give her a hug, but she shrugged him off.
Obi stayed at the far end of the room. No one dared ask. We all already knew.
When Victoria got up to do her sonnet, I found myself willing her to fail.
I was sick of watching her drift from assessment to assessment, from rehearsal to rehearsal, never really trying but nearly always succeeding, rolling in each morning late, hungover, still starry-eyed from some premiere or party, while some days I struggled to believe I even deserved a place at the school.
Victoria walked to centre stage. The room quieted. Casper gave her the nod, and she began.
‘As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart,
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay
O’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.’
And despite it all, she was still magnificent.
After, when we were packing up our stuff, Jolly, Obi and a few other classmates crowded around her.
I overheard them say how good she was, that the HBO lot didn’t know what they were missing, that she was destined for great things, that this was just a minor blip, that the next big thing would be along soon.
She nodded and accepted their condolences, gradually perking up and agreeing with them.
I, meanwhile, went into the girls’ bathroom, held my rucksack over my face, and screamed into the lining as hard as I could.
I screamed until my throat was raw—
—until I could taste the metallic tang of blood—
—until I let the violence out.
But then I heard footsteps in the corridor, someone’s voice outside the door. ‘Hello, is everything OK in there?’
I flushed the loo and ran the tap. When I emerged, I gave the concerned student waiting in the hallway a bland smile. I walked down the corridor, an automaton. I believe I may even have whistled.