Chapter 9 #2
The casting director came to the girl opposite me. ‘Err, now you, please.’
‘Hello everyone, I’m Octavia.’ The girl gave a small wave. ‘First, I just want to say a big thank you to Pamela for giving us this opportunity. I’ve found this session so helpful so far, so thank you.’
A couple of people grinned and nodded enthusiastically, no doubt kicking themselves for not thinking to say thank you before their stories.
The girl continued, ‘So basically, and I’m sorry if this makes anyone feel uncomfortable, but my story is about the time I was raped.’
The casting director’s eyes lit up. She scribbled something in her notebook and a ripple of electricity went around the room.
The girl went on to describe how her brother’s friend had raped her at her mum’s birthday party when she was fourteen years old.
The girl was clear and confident as she spoke, with only the faintest tremble in her voice.
She spared no detail, describing what she was wearing, how he’d cornered her in the downstairs bathroom, how he’d pushed her up against the cistern, how she could hear her family, just metres away from where the terrible act was taking place, and the off-key strains of ‘Happy Birthday’ floating through the open window, how at the time she decided to bury her feelings from that day, to lock them down deep inside herself, but how occasionally, every so often, the pain bubbled up inside her like a well, erupting with anger, grief and unparalleled despair.
As she spoke, a single tear slid down her cheek.
She wiped it away. I watched the casting director’s rapt expression as she listened, her laser-point focus as she absorbed every beat of the girl’s story.
It was terrible; it was traumatic; it was frustratingly mesmerizing.
The girl finished and dabbed at her mascara with her sleeve.
‘Thank you, err . . . what was your name again?’ the casting director asked, consulting her notes.
‘Octavia,’ the girl replied. ‘Octavia Lewis.’
‘Well, thank you, Octavia. Yes, thank you.’ The casting director tucked a stray lock of silvery hair behind her ear. ‘Now you, please,’ she said, gesturing to the next person.
By the time my turn came, there were only four minutes left until the end of the workshop. The boy to my right had taken a full ten minutes to tell the group about the day he’d crashed his bike into a brick wall outside Waitrose.
‘You next, please,’ Pamela said, gesturing to me with her fountain pen.
‘Right, well, my name is Shannon Bell, and thank you for taking the time to . . .’ The casting director’s eyes strayed to her watch.
‘Well, anyway, thank you for this session. So my story is about . . .’ She put the lid on her pen and folded the notebook shut.
‘My story is about my best friend. Well, I didn’t know – I wasn’t totally sure – that we were best friends really until the end .
. .’ She nodded and slid her notebook inside her bag.
‘Because, well, she died and like, it was really unexpected, and we were up on the moors near my grandma’s home and .
. .’ She nodded again; her eyes darted around the room.
‘There was a storm and we were hungover – oh, I forgot to say it was New Year’s Day, and .
. .’ Taking their cue from the casting director, a couple of attendees began zipping their belongings into their rucksacks.
‘And we’d drunk a lot the night before and not had much to eat, because, well, my friend had a hamper from Fortnum the girl beside her put on her coat and tiptoed from the room.
Sorry, train, she mouthed. A handful of people waved.
‘The point is that we were really tired and really hungover, and we went for a walk and my friend, she went the wrong way, I lost sight of her and—’
‘Err, I’m so sorry, Sharon.’
‘Shannon.’
‘Shannon, sorry, but I’m going to have to stop you there.
Thank you for sharing.’ The woman stood and put on her coat.
‘I’ve got to catch a train so I’m going to have to shoot off.
Thank you all for coming today. If you have any questions you can always email my team, they’ll be happy to answer.
You can find all the details on my website, Pamela Swift Casting.
’ She lifted her laptop bag over her shoulder.
‘If you want to leave a review for the organizers, err, Backstage Casting Workshops, then that’d be great.
It helps others find out about the sessions. OK, thank you, bye.’
She swept from the room and everyone got up to gather their things. A couple of people hurried after her, probably hoping for a private audience as they oh-so-casually bumped into her on the walk to the tube.
I shut the untouched page of my notebook and dropped it inside my bag. I looked up and accidentally caught the girl opposite – the rape girl’s – eye. She wandered over. ‘Have we met before?’ she asked.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Didn’t you audition for The Good Person of Szechwan like a month ago?’
‘No. I just have one of those faces.’
She paused. ‘Hey, I’m sorry you didn’t get to tell your story in full. That sounded awful about your friend.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said. I picked up my still-damp coat. ‘Yeah, it was a pretty tough time.’ I cleared my throat. ‘And you, with your story. I mean, that sounded terrible. I’m so sorry that happened to you.’
The girl shrugged and looked over her shoulder. She watched as the last person exited the room, then leaned in and whispered, ‘To be honest, it never happened.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My brother’s friend never raped me. I made it up.’ Her eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘I don’t even have a brother.’
‘Oh,’ I said, struggling to piece together what she was saying, why she was saying it, why anyone would make up something so awful. ‘Why did you—’
‘My godmother works at ITV, and she told me Pamela Swift was casting a new drama about this trainee police officer who rapes and murders a young woman, and’ – the girl shrugged again – ‘I figured if we weren’t going to get to do our monologues—’
‘So you just . . . made it up?’
‘Sure. She’s never going to look up if my imaginary brother’s friend’s a sex pest or not, so who cares?’
I stared at her uncertainly.
‘Look,’ she said, smiling, ‘these people, they’ve got no imagination. If you really want a role, you literally have to offer it up to them on a plate. I mean, look at you, I’m sure you’re a good actor – where did you train?’
‘RLSDA.’
‘Ah nice, I was LAMDA – but I’ve been out for two years now and I’m just like done with trying to be myself.
These people, they don’t care. They don’t give a shit if you can act or transform or whatever.
They just want you to turn up as the finished product.
So I figured ta-da’ – the girl did a little flourish with her hands – ‘an oven-ready rape victim.’
I swallowed. In a weird way, what she was saying made sense. ‘I didn’t know,’ I replied.
‘Well, now you do. Fake it till you make it. Isn’t that what they say?’ She smiled. ‘Look, it was nice to meet you – sorry, what was it? Shannon?’
I nodded.
‘I’ll see you around.’
‘Yeah, you too.’
She left and I slowly gathered my things. I didn’t want to run into her again outside or on the tube platform. Her naked ambition scared me. It reminded me of V.
A year later, a billboard went up outside the cafe advertising a brand-new ITV crime drama, Our Little Secret. Every day I walked past it. Every day I avoided Octavia Lewis’s stricken gaze.