Chapter 7
Seven
WHEN I FIRST HELD the RLSDA acceptance letter in my hand, I thought showcase would be the ending to my story, the grand finale where everything makes sense, the conclusion to my fairy tale.
The princess meets her prince, the actress meets her agent, and they all skip off into the sunset to live happily ever after.
But it didn’t turn out like that. Not for me, at least. No, instead I had to sit and watch as yet another person from my year proudly announced on Facebook that they were now represented by such and such big-shot agency.
I had to listen as my classmates filled me in on all the wonderful auditions they were going up for and how their big break was just around the corner.
Things were falling into place for them.
Poppy’s management company bagged her a job playing a topless whore in the background of an HBO brothel scene; Lola left school a few weeks after showcase to play a courtier in some billion-dollar movie about the life of Anne Boleyn; Jolly got down to the final round for a West End play about a young WWI soldier struggling with his sexuality, and I sunk deeper in on myself.
Frida scheduled a meeting with me to address my recent lack of participation.
She said she’d grown concerned that I wasn’t taking my studies seriously, that unless I pulled my finger out I’d struggle to graduate.
To be honest, I didn’t have much to say to her – nothing mattered to me by then, not even her once sought-after approval.
After a stilted conversation which didn’t really go anywhere, she changed the subject, asking whether anyone from the industry had been in touch after showcase.
When I said no, she seemed to lose interest and, looking at the clock on the wall, suggested with a wave of her hand that I start some projects.
I didn’t even bother asking her what that meant.
I knew then that she’d filed me away as a failed experiment, not even a has-been but a never-was.
I’d like to tell you that things got better.
I’d like to tell you that I was resilient enough to shake off what had happened at showcase and reinvent myself.
But I can barely even remember my final term at the school.
As the weeks and months flew by, and my last days at RLSDA dwindled to a whimper, I retreated further from the company of my peers.
At the time, it felt like I had little choice.
My failure was a poison. It stopped up my veins and blackened my skin. I felt it rise off me, a rancid ordure so that my only defence was to hide myself away from the others, a theatrical leper.
No one seemed to notice my absence. Jolly was busy all the time now anyway.
He was back together with Terrence and getting new auditions every week.
Obi was still avoiding me too. I couldn’t blame him.
He had managed to get an agent after showcase, but they weren’t getting him seen for much.
I heard from Archie that he was still writing to others in the hope of procuring a better one.
I didn’t speak to Stefano any more either.
This, at least, I was fine with. With Victoria gone, I was finally allowed to hate him freely.
No, everyone was busy. Even the ghost I’d summoned in my madness was appearing less and less with each passing day.
Perhaps she’d grown tired of me. Perhaps in death Victoria had seen me for who I really was: a fake.
In June, our final public performance rolled around and I scuttled through my small role in Blithe Spirit, willing it to be over.
I didn’t care a jot for the important people who might be sitting in the audience and forming an opinion of me, nor even, I’m ashamed to say, my parents, who sat with their overnight bags at their feet, beaming with pride at my lacklustre performance.
That evening, they took me out for dinner at Angus Steakhouse in Leicester Square to celebrate.
‘I don’t know how you learn all those lines,’ Dad said, pouring peppercorn sauce over his slab of sirloin. He looked up. ‘Do they teach you that, how to learn lines?’
‘Yeah – I don’t know – sure.’
Mum leaned over and stole a chip from my plate. ‘And those costumes. You all looked ever so lovely.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I liked your friend, too,’ Dad said, his mouth full.
‘Which one?’
‘You know, your gay friend.’
‘Jolly.’
‘Yes. He was very funny, wasn’t he.’
‘We’re not really speaking to each other right now.’
‘Oh. Well, never mind.’
There was a pause as I watched them both, Dad stabbing meat onto his fork and Mum nibbling on her salad.
‘Do you come here much?’ Dad asked, his mouth full.
‘Where?’
He gestured at our surroundings.
I thought about Victoria and all the glamorous little haunts she was always recommending. I thought about the chef at Godwin. I thought about the food we’d eaten together in Rome, watching the sun set over the city. ‘No.’ I stared at my plate. ‘Not here.’
ON THE LAST DAY of school, as was tradition, everyone gathered for a pint at The Masons across the road.
Inside, the pub was overflowing with students and teachers alike.
I went up to the bar and spied Frida talking to Poppy, Matt and Archie in the corner.
I couldn’t help but notice how different she seemed.
She was softer, more human. She wasn’t a god or a monster.
She was just a normal woman having a friendly catch-up with her students.
I don’t know why, but that made me feel more depressed than anything else that had happened that term.
Obi dragged a table over to join Frida. Jolly gathered more stools.
‘What can I get you, sweetheart?’
More people arrived.
‘Hello?’
They were all so happy, so hopeful.
‘I’ve got people waiting, love.’
Someone told a joke. They all laughed.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, sorry. Erm, nothing, thanks.’
I took one last look at them, at Frida, my classmates, my family of three years. And then I turned around and left.