Spencer closed his eyes a beat, a vision of Clem Crossley appearing in his mind. Even though she had a cafe to run, two little girls to raise, and she’d made no bones about her opinion of the reality TV program, he could see more of a future with her than the Loxton orchardist who had made it clear he only had a future with her if he stepped into a full-time farming role.
Clem wasn’t sure who was more nervous—her or Harriet—and when the Sunday of the auditions finally dawned, she was up at sparrows to ensure everything was set for Kev, Sebastian and Selina to run the cafe in her absence.
‘You’re a worrywart,’ said Kev, shooing her away from the stainless-steel island bench, where she was mashing avocado for their top-selling spring bagel combination. ‘Sebby and I can handle that, you go and make sure our little actress is all sorted for today. At least if she decides to swap the rollerblades for the stage, she’s got a lot less chance of injuring herself. I haven’t seen her outside half as often.’
Kev was right—the rollerblades had taken a back seat to learning lines—though Clem suspected a bad case of stage fright and wounded pride would prove harder to fix than a broken bone.
Harriet was showered and dressed when she got back to the house, and after wrangling Indi into leggings and a jumperinstead of the princess costume she’d chosen, they were at the hall ahead of the ten am session.
‘What if I fluff my lines, Mum?’ Harriet took another nervous sip from her water bottle, looking at the three empty chairs in front of the stage in Penwarra’s tiny town hall. It was a postwar building, made with limestone and paddock rock, filled with framed photographs of lost soldiers, and honour boards remembering those who served. Clem looked away, trying not to think of her father, whose name surely graced one of those boards in a hall somewhere near his Adelaide hometown, though there were no photos of him as a war hero, felled in the midst of battle.
While his death hadn’t actually taken place on the battlefields, it was undoubtedly linked to the ghosts that had followed him home from the conflict. She’d been on the cusp of high school when he took his life, and ANZAC Day had felt every bit as painful as Father’s Day long after his death.
‘Mum, look, we’re seventh in line. Do you think everyone will be watching my audition too?’
Clem jolted back to the present, chasing away the memories as her daughter counted the hopefuls who had arrived ahead of them. Clem saw a few of her customers among them, and familiar faces from the community, and she was more than a little curious to see how they’d go on stage.
They watched several locals go through the audition process, reading from texts as varied as their ages. It was a relief to see that Harriet wouldn’t be the only one reading from a book, instead of a theatre script.
Finally it was their turn. Louisa Brealy beckoned Clem’s daughter to the stage.
‘Harriet, we’re ready if you are?’
Clem crouched down until she was level with her daughter and tweaked her chin. ‘You are going to crush this, Harri.You’ve practised, you know your lines, plus you’re already a superstar in my eyes. Go show them what you’ve got.’
Harriet took one last sip of water, opened her book and strode forward. Indi lay sprawled on the floor by the stage, immersed in her new sticker book, while Clem watched from the seats, tears welling as she watched Harriet deliver a near-flawless performance as Anne Shirley, the plucky young character who had stolen a place in her and Harriet’s heart over the last few weeks.
‘Look at her go,’ a voice whispered, and Clem turned to see Spencer beside her. They watched together, both laughing at Harriet’s triumphant little fist-pump when she finished her audition. Clem’s shoulders sagged with relief and she realised she’d been sitting on the edge of her chair. She shuffled back, getting comfortable as the next hopeful moved into place under the spotlight.
‘I’m not sure who was more nervous then, Harri or me. But she aced it, didn’t she?’
Spencer’s soft chuckle landed near her ear. ‘She absolutely did.’
Harriet turned at the base of the stairs and gave them a big thumbs up before being ushered off to group activities.
‘How long does today’s session go for?’
‘Half an hour at least. Once they’ve all done their auditions, Louisa runs them through a few exercises to help them loosen up, then walks them through the timelines, character list and expectations for the production. Everyone who auditions gets a role of some sort, we’ll work out exactly who plays what character in the coming weeks.’
Clem’s gaze darted to his broad chest. He was dressed in the same shirt he’d worn the day she’d seen him in the hospital, and she found herself recalling how soft it had felt when he’d comforted her, and how soothing it had been to be wrapped in his arms. It was an effort to drag her eyes back up to meet his.
‘And what about the script? Are there enough characters to suit this size cast?’
Spencer’s face lit up as he explained the premise. ‘Pirates, murder and romance on the high seas. The beauty of writing the script ourselves is the ability to stretch and contract the story to fit the cast. It’s more about fun than a Broadway-level production.’
‘I’ve always wanted to write,’ she found herself admitting. ‘It’ll probably never happen, but wouldn’t it be cool to go into a library and see your books sitting on the shelves, your name on the spine, your photo on the inside back cover. Does it feel like that when you see your plays performed?’
Clem wasn’t sure she’d ever considered scriptwriting or acting a turn-on, but the idea of the quiet widower co-writing a play with his mother-in-law, creating something from nothing but his imagination, added an extra layer of appeal to his already too-appealing status.
He shook his head slowly. ‘It’s mostly Louisa’s work, I come in after she’s done the hard yards and zhoosh it up a little, add a character here and there, look at the overall story arc. I’ve heard fiction writing’s a talent that gets better with age, unlike sport. You could be the next JK Rowling, writing bestsellers between customers.’
She laughed. ‘Maybe in another life, when I’ve got a little more free time.’ And though she waved away the suggestion, it wasn’t lost on her that he hadn’t laughed and dismissed the idea with a flippant, ‘everyone thinks they’ve got a book in them’.
She smoothed her hair, fiddled with the ribbon she’d tied around her ponytail that morning and tried to get a read on the situation.
So you’re attracted to him … big whoop. He’s got a type, and you’re nothing like the blondes he chose for the TV show.
And there’s still the unknown Emily factor.
