‘Did you ask him about being in the next film, at least?’ Maisie says.
‘I did,’ Clara replies.
‘And what did he say?’
‘The same as usual,’ she says. ‘Nothing.’
a hopeful
The audition went well, he thinks. They’d smiled, just now, when he’d brought the scene to a close, rounding off his performance with a subtle bow. Their nods had been enthusiastic, like silent applause. He doesn’t want to jinx it, but he believes that this could be the one. No more days spent hawking cheeseburger bao buns from a kiosk in Spitalfields Market. No more nights as the understudy’s understudy in another off-West End project. He’ll be BROTHER #2 in UNTITLED CLARA COWAN PROJECT. From there, anything will be possible.
‘Thank you for your time,’ says the casting director. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
The audition went alright, he thinks. Cowan’s eyes are already looking down at a sheet of paper, scribbling something. Or is she on her phone in her lap? They probably smile at everyone once the audition is finished. He tries to bring to mind the exact emotion, the exact cadence with which he’d delivered that knockout line, the young addict to the older brother who should have been there. ‘Yourbrotherdied years ago; you’re arguing with his ghost.’ ‘Your brother diedyearsago; you’re arguing with his ghost.’ ‘Your brotherdiedyears ago; you’re arguing with hisghost.’
Which version had Cowan wanted? And which had he given her? He lingers for a moment in case she wants to add anything, but each of the four faces at the table in front of him is blank.
‘Next,’ says the reader, slowly, as if she’s simply throwing him another line.
Would they have called ‘next’ this quickly if he’d cried real tears? He’d tried smearing toothpaste beneath his eyes before the audition, but it had only made him blink more than usual. Would they have called ‘next’ so quickly if he’d blinked less? What about if he hadn’t fallen to his knees, or if he’d done the accent he’d been practising in front of his mirror at home? Nothing in the sides or the notes he’d been sent had suggested that the character was Irish, but everything sounds better in a rich Celtic brogue. He’ll never know, because the audition was clearly lacklustre at best, and now four sets of eyes are shepherding him towards a door that is already opening.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ says the man entering. ‘I probably should have booked a slot.’
An audible gasp from the reader. The casting director’s face breaks into a surprised smile. Cowan drops her pen, places both hands flat on the tabletop. And the hopeful lets out a very long exhale, which turns into a string of swear words under his breath. There is no doubt that they’ll let this man audition. Nor is there any doubt that he’ll get the role. Standing in the doorway is one of the most exciting actors of his generation, a name far bigger than the film they’re making, a face they’ve all seen a hundred times and a hundred times more on billboardsand aftershave adverts and videos posted and reposted by millions, clips cut from his shows and his films and his interviews promoting all of the above.
He’s shorter in person, his hair not quite as golden. But the star power doesn’t disappoint. It’s like all the presence has been sucked out of the room so it can make space for his. As if each person’s attention is a spotlight, and they’re all trained on one person and one person alone.
There is a very, very long pause.
‘Jacob,’ says Cowan, finally breaking the silence.
‘Hello, Clara,’ he says, with a smile that seems to carry all the warmth in the world. ‘It’s been a long time.’
The hopeful doesn’t wait around to hear what happens next. The audition went terribly anyway.
a season ticket holder
‘How do you feel about it?’ Nimesh asks.
Seb shakes his head. ‘He’s her ex,’ he says. ‘How do you think I feel about it?’
If ever there’s been a problem with sitting next to these lads, Phil would say it’s that they talk too much. Phil knows Nimesh’s father. Viraj would much rather spend his time watching cricket, so Nimesh has been accompanying Seb and Enzo to games for thirty-odd years, and talking to Seb for the entire ninety minutes of each one.
‘Look at it this way,’ Nimesh says. ‘At least she asked you first.’
Seb rolls the plastic bottle he’s holding between his palms. ‘It was a token ask,’ he says. ‘She’d already decided to cast him.’ The bottle begins to crumple. ‘I’m sick of her pity. I know she only gave me the role because she thinks I need it.’ He crushes the bottle. ‘She can’t fathom that I might not want to do this any more.’
Nimesh makes a face. ‘This?’
Seb catches his eye. ‘Acting.’
‘What about your Blitz film?’
Seb gives him a look which shuts him up, and they stare out over a sea of blue-and-white scarves in silence. It’s mid-January and it’s bitterly cold, but Vardy has already put them one-nil up from the penalty spot, so no one seems to care. A chant picks up, the one about his broken wrist.Jamie Vardy’s magic, he wears a magic cast. He could have played for Arsenal, he didn’t fancy that.Nimesh and Seb talk right through it.
‘The film matters to her, man.’ Nimesh says. ‘And this guy. He’s famous, right?’
Seb’s voice is low and bitter. ‘I guess so.’
