Chapter 5
Five
THE TRAIN SCREECHED TO a halt. I climbed the stairs and emerged into Piccadilly Circus, the beating heart of the West End.
Turned in circles by taking the wrong exit, I walked towards the fountain to reorientate myself.
Chattering tourists swarmed around me, digital cameras swinging from their arms, pushing me from the frame until they found the perfect picture.
Eros towered above me, his worn arrow pointed at my heart.
I looked out over the sea of heads and spotted the traffic-choked artery I had meant to take, when someone barged past me, knocking my bag to the ground.
I knelt down to grab my things and, glancing up, caught a flash of rust-coloured hair melting into the crowd.
Things had got worse. She was everywhere.
I’d be in the middle of something, washing up or making a packed lunch and feel the overwhelming certainty of her presence somewhere close behind me.
I don’t know if she wanted to hurt me, to scare me.
I don’t even know what she was, if she was a ghost or something else, some elective punishment I’d willed into being.
Whatever she was, I became more careful.
I stopped looking in mirrors, afraid of what might appear behind me.
I gripped the banister when I made my way downstairs.
I avoided steep walkways. I stopped taking baths.
She’d been there that morning. I’d felt her watching me as I got out of bed and stumbled to the loo; as I showered and picked something out of the laundry basket to wear; as I drank coffee, threw on my coat and caught the tube. There. There. There.
I gathered my things from the pavement, re-entered the crowd, and made my way towards the Fortune Theatre.
The school had hired it out for the day because of its proximity to the West End’s most important talent management offices.
The Woman in Black was resident there in the evenings.
Archie said he’d seen the play. When Stefano asked him what he thought of it, Archie laughed and said it wasn’t exactly the best omen for our glittering futures.
I found the stage door and signed my name on the register. Backstage, the theatre was a warren of dark corridors and dead ends. I walked blindly for a few minutes, worried I was lost, before stepping out into the gold-lit auditorium where many of the class were already waiting.
‘Shan, over here,’ Jolly said.
Ever since that evening in my room, Jolly had been different.
It was like some part of him had shut down, like he’d simply decided not to care any more.
Now, Jolly rarely spoke about Victoria or what had happened.
He had his sights fixed on the future and the brilliant career he felt sure was waiting just around the corner for him.
I slid in next to him and a few others. I looked around.
The theatre was smaller than I’d expected, tall rather than wide.
The Woman in Black set was still there from the night before.
A rusty chandelier hung from the rafters.
An ornate sofa had been pushed to the back and a rocking chair waited, unnervingly still, downstage left.
‘This place gives me the creeps,’ Archie murmured.
‘What is the creeps?’ Lola asked.
‘You know’ – Archie shrugged – ‘ghosts and ghouls, spooky shit.’
I stared ahead, refusing to turn and look at what might be sitting in the row behind me.
‘Hey, did you guys see all the stuff out front?’ Stefano asked.
‘What stuff?’ Jolly said. ‘I thought we had to come in through the stage door.’
‘We did, but I sneaked into the lobby for a look. They’ve got sandwiches and champagne and . . .’ Stefano felt inside his pocket before brandishing a glossy document. ‘Showcase booklets.’
‘Ooh, give it here,’ Jolly said, pinching it from his grasp and turning to the first page.
‘Dear Industry Guests,’ he read aloud. ‘We would like to extend a warm welcome to you, blah blah blah, please help yourself to champagne and hors d’oeuvres, blah blah blah, today’s actors represent some of the most talented to have graced the esteemed halls of the Royal London School of Dramatic Farts – gosh, what an unfortunate typo. ’
Lola slapped his chest. ‘It does not say that!’
Jolly smirked and leafed through the booklet. There we were, one page each: headshot, Spotlight PIN, contact details. He flipped to the back and we all froze.
‘Shit,’ Stefano said under his breath. ‘The school must’ve got them printed before . . .’
We gazed in silence at the page. I knew the photo well. She’d had it taken over the summer by a hot-shot photographer friend of hers. She’d made me sit with her one evening as she clicked through all five thousand images on her laptop, looking for the three or four that really screamed Victoria.
What about this one? Or this one? I like my hair here, but I think my eyes look kind of sleepy. Or this one maybe. My boobs look good in this one, but I guess they’ll get cropped out anyway. Never mind. What do you think, Shan?
I’d tried to offer her my objective opinion, to remain neutral. But I wasn’t much help. I thought she looked beautiful in all of them.
Stefano took the booklet from Jolly. ‘You know, it’s weird,’ he said, ‘but I feel like she’s kind of here with us today. Do you know what I mean?’
The others nodded solemnly. I nodded too, trying to ignore the cold stream of air that breathed against my neck.
I FELT SICK. I stood in the wings as the auditorium filled up. I could hear voices, the sound of seats being flipped, colleagues being greeted, laughter and gossip and greedy fingers paging through the brochure, rifling for the next big thing.
Obi and I were opening the show, an honour and a curse.
I closed my eyes and, groaning, buried my face in the black curtain that shielded us from the stage.
Was there time to run to the toilet and throw up?
I shivered and clutched the pimpled chicken skin of my arms. It would all be over soon.
It was just pretending, just a scene, a confluence of moments, words following words following words. It would all be over soon.
I felt someone come up behind me. I flinched and turned around, but it was only Obi.
‘Hey, Shan,’ he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. He paused and narrowed his eyes at me, concerned. ‘Are you OK? You’re freezing.’
I nodded, trying to still the trembling in my bones.
‘You know we’ve got this, right?’
I smiled weakly and let him pull me into a hug. He patted my back, a brotherly gesture, a quick reminder not to get any ideas. ‘So, have you seen who’s out there?’
‘Not yet,’ I mumbled.
‘It’s insane. Frida says this is the most industry guests they’ve ever got in for showcase. Archie says Ivor Callaghan from Precision is in the front row next to Shelley Haart.’
‘Who?’ I felt black shadows press at the corners of my vision, the glass start its descent.
‘You know, the casting director.’
‘Oh yeah, right,’ I said, grabbing the guardrail to stop myself from swooning.
‘And Toby Close is here, Martin Drake, Nigel Burton – oh, and Sarah Hayward-Knight’s sitting a few rows back, too.’
‘Great.’
‘Tiff says she thinks she saw Michael Cahill out there as well. I wrote to him specifically,’ he said, grinning with excitement.
‘That’s great, Obi,’ I said, swallowing back the urge to puke.
‘Yeah, well, fingers crossed.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure you’re OK, Shannon? You look sort of pale. Have you eaten anything today?’
Jolly brushed past us. ‘Good luck, guys, you’ll smash it.’
‘That’s beginners,’ someone announced.
‘Never mind,’ Obi whispered. He jumped up and down on the spot like a boxer about to enter the ring. The lights darkened and the chatter dimmed. ‘Break legs.’
THERE’S THIS MOMENT, ABOUT thirty minutes before the show. They call it ‘the half’.
No, that’s wrong. All wrong.
These things have an order. A beginning, a middle and an end. You know that.
Your skin turns cold, then hot. Your insides twist. Your mouth feels dry. Your legs shake.
You’ve been here before.
Butterflies, they say. You don’t have butterflies. Your stomach is a swarm of thick hairy moths.
Time ticks away.
Your scene partner stares at you.
Use your breath. Think with your breath.
You can’t breathe.
He stares at you, panic leaking from his eyes. Move, speak, he seems to say.
A calm descends. You don’t feel calm. You feel . . . nothing.
Are you behind the glass, Shannon?
You look down at your hands, your knuckles white, gripping the folds of your dress; then at your feet, two blocks of ice, pale and inert.
It’s like those dreams, you think. No, not dreams: nightmares.
The actor’s nightmare. You’re standing alone onstage and you don’t know your line.
Everyone else knows. Everyone else is prepared.
They’ve been preparing their whole lives for this moment, but you, you don’t know what to say.
Sometimes you’re naked in the dream. Sometimes it’s the audience who’s naked.
Usually you wake up in a cold sweat. It was just a dream. But not this time.
You squint out into the auditorium. The house lights are up. The school didn’t want to shell out on a technician for the day. Hundreds of faces stare back at you, blank, bored, irritable.
Time starts to slow, to bend like taffy in a machine.
You look at your scene partner. He glares back at you. His mouth moves strangely, twitching. You wonder what he’s doing. You realize he’s trying to give you the line. You smile at the gesture.
Kind sweet Obi.
Obi loves you.
You are in love.
No, wait. That was before.
He’s not being kind. He’s trying to save his own skin. Every man for himself. You’re messing things up for him too.
Laughter bubbles up inside you, madness. You hide it with a cough.
Your scene partner raises his eyebrows. You notice your classmates in the wings, waving their hands in the air, miming the intricacies of Shakespearean verse in a futile game of charades.
You notice sideways looks in the front row, embarrassed smirks.
Wake up, you say to yourself, pinching your forearm. Wake up.
Your scene partner inches towards you. He’s openly mouthing the line now. He glowers at you like the mad bitch you are.
Still, you say nothing.
You think about the picture of your friend, the absent beauty on page twelve. You think about how she should be here standing on this stage, not you.
The audience loom at the corner of your vision, a restless squirming mass.
You wish she was here. You shut your eyes and will her to appear.
We’re sisters, you and I.
You pray to her, asking her, begging her to tell you what to do, to shake you, to wake you, to take you.
You hear whispers, disgruntled murmurs. You notice someone get up from the front row.
Now would be a good time to wake up.
You think about her, what she would do. You think about her smile, about how she’d shrug off the embarrassment of this moment, somehow making it her strength.
You acted like Victoria.
You close your eyes and become very still.
You think about her, every inch of her. You think about her pale skin, the pattern of freckles across her nose; you think about the soft red of her hair, her breath, spearmint and cigarettes.
You start to breathe as her, to become her.
You let her take control, like a puppeteer untangling threadbare strings, like a sculptor cupping a cold lump of clay; you let her turn you and twist you, shaping you into a better version of yourself; someone more.
Colour bleeds into the scene. Colour and light.
You open your eyes.
You stand up straight.
You look at your scene partner, and you deliver the line.