“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. Youprojectedyourself 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.”
