Do You Want to Know a Secret? (23 page)

Barbara, I can’t help noticing, by now is starting to get very glowy (meaning: sweaty), but, to be honest, the protracted silence actually isn’t bothering me nearly as much as I thought it would. In fact, I’ve done far scarier pitches, and some still inner voice is telling me to just stay very cool and calm and that all will be well.

Eventually, Serena puts the folder down, putting her glasses on top, very authoritatively.

‘I gotta question,’ she says.

‘Of course. Please ask anything.’

But we’re interrupted by fingernail waitress who bounces back over to us and launches into what I can only describe as a stand-up routine about the day’s specials, I’m assuming solely for Serena’s benefit. She certainly addresses her and only her, completely blanking Barbara and me. If the whole situation wasn’t so surreal it would be comical: it’s like the girl is doing an
audition
piece, except with dialogue like, ‘pan-roasted chicken’, and ‘sautéed skate Grenobloise’, her flashy long fingernails all over the place. Honest to God, by the time she’s finished, I’m not sure whether to order or give her a round of applause.

Serena, however, is obviously well used to inspiring this kind of reaction, she just calmly orders the carbonara and calmly waits for fingernail girl to leave. Which she eventually does, but only after topping up Serena’s glass with mineral water, beaming brightly and telling her for about the fifth time that if there’s anything else she needs, absolutely ANYTHING, she’ll be right here. Hovering about two feet away, to be precise.

Bloody hell, at a time like this, I’m so delighted
not
to be famous.

‘There’s something I need to clear up,’ Serena says, when we eventually do get a bit of peace.

‘Yes, of course, go ahead,’ I say, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Barbara’s hands are trembling, as she almost knocks over a glass and just saves it from spilling all over the colouredy folder.

‘Ordinarily,’ Serena goes on in her measured, even tones, ‘I take approximately one year to mind-map a performance. I work slow. I like to experiment, improvise, use the text as a springboard, not as an end result. But if we want this to happen this summer, the pressure is already on. I’m gonna need to see the venue, speak to
my
costume and set designers, all of this takes time – and time, ladies, is not on our side. Most important of all, however . . .’

‘Yes?’ I say expectantly, although I’ve a fair idea of what’s coming.

‘. . . is casting. Getting that right is half my job.’

‘I completely understand, and of course, you must have absolute control over that. But . . .’ I shoot a do-you-want-to-jump-in-here imploring glance to Barbara, who just looks back at me ashen-faced. Right, nothing for it then but to go it alone. ‘We had envisaged that the performance would be a showcase for my friend here, who is classically trained and we feel, perfect for the show.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
has so many terrific women’s parts . . .’

‘Oh, you’re an actor? Where did you train?’ Serena turns to Barbara, and puts the specs back on, I notice, heightening her scariness quota by about five levels.

I’m nearly on the edge of my seat, willing Barbara to blow her own trumpet a bit, how she won a scholarship to drama school and graduated with the gold medal, but God love her, she looks like a rabbit caught in the headlamps and just about manages to stammer a reply.

‘Emm . . . well, you see . . . I haven’t worked in a long time . . . and I’m such a big fan of yours . . .’

‘What’s the last job you did?’

‘I trained at . . . emm . . . the Central School of
Speech
and Drama,’ she eventually says, looking relieved that she is actually able to answer something, even if it is the wrong question.

‘And what classical theatre roles have you played?’

‘I was there from, emm . . .’93 to ’97.’

‘Who were your tutors?’

‘Two radio plays in January and a Benecol ad last year,’ she says. Then adds, ‘Emm, that’s, emm, this stuff you take for . . . ehh . . . lowering cholesterol.’

Oh my God, my bowels are withering up I’m so embarrassed for her; it’s like watching the worst job interview in history. Note to self: next task on project Barbara is to work on her presentation skills for about, I dunno, the next ten years or so. I’ve no choice but to jump in. No kidding, this is what rescuing a drowning person must feel like.

‘Barbara is very much a part of this project,’ I say slowly and firmly. ‘And I can guarantee you she will shine in whatever role you choose to cast her in.’

‘Well, you got one thing going for you,’ Serena eventually says, shrugging. ‘You’re not a star. I hate working with stars. Give me a passionate actor – with fire in their belly and willing to take any risk I can and
will
throw at them – any day, over a star.’

It’s the first time that Barbara visibly relaxes.

‘But of course,’ Serena continues, taking the specs off again, ‘you’ll have to audition, same as everyone else.’

An hour later, we’re saying goodbye to her under the canopy outside.

‘So, we’ll talk?’ she says to me.

‘Yes, of course, I’ll be in touch,’ I smile back.

‘I’m in France for the next few weeks, but you can reach me on my cell.’

‘Thank you so much for your time. We’re so grateful,’ I say, just as her taxi pulls up. Then a sudden bolt of inspiration. ‘And I know the Children’s Hospital will be, too.’

A tiny hint of a half-smile as she gets into her cab. Then whaddya know, fingernail waitress is hot on her heels, bounding out of the restaurant, still with her apron tied around her waist. ‘Miss Stroheim? Miss Stroheim?’ she calls out as Serena lowers down the passenger window. Oh shit, I’m thinking, please don’t let this be what I think it is . . .

‘Just to let you know, Miss Stroheim, I’m a huge fan of your work, and if you’re going to be in town, I’m currently appearing in
The Threepenny Opera
at the moment, playing Polly Peachum, the lead role. Because as well as acting, I sing and dance, too, and, well, if you wanted to come along to see me, I’d be happy to organize complimentary tickets for you.’ Then, and I really wish I were joking here, she produces a flier and shoves it through the car window. Serena says nothing, just takes the flier, rolls up the window and off she goes.

‘The
Times
called my performance a tour de force!’ is fingernail girl’s parting shot, as the taxi disappears from view. Then she turns to Barbara and me and I swear you can practically see her weighing up whether or not we could be useful to her in her career.

‘You’re both very welcome to come along and see my show as well,’ she beams, mistakenly thinking we’re either producers or directors, too. ‘Here, have a flier.’

I mutter thanks out of politeness more than anything else, and shove it in my handbag. Barbara and I are just about to head off when she calls after us, ‘Excuse me, ladies? I don’t suppose you happen to know where Serena Stroheim is staying when she’s in town, do you?’

Chapter Fourteen

I HAVE, AHEM
, another appointment not too far from here, so, as it’s temporarily stopped raining, Barbara walks me there, so we can do a post-mortem. And it’s not pleasant.

‘OK, Vick, as my oldest, closest friend, I need you to tell me the truth and nothing but. Just exactly how bad was I in there?’

‘Well . . .’ I break off, not having the first clue how to be tactful here. And, to put it mildly, she’s vulnerable right now. This could well turn out to be one of those instances where honesty
isn’t
refreshing.

‘Come on, Vicky, tell me. Because the whole time we were sitting there, it was like, I could almost feel myself fucking-up invisibly.’

I say nothing, just walk on in silence. Mainly because her self-assessment may sound critical, but it’s not too far off the mark either.

‘She kept asking me all those questions,’ Barbara goes on, still torturing herself, God love her. ‘You know, about where I’d trained and what I’d done, all of that. And on the inside, I just felt like that Edvard Munch painting,
The Scream
. There was so much on the tip of my tongue, and it just wouldn’t come out. Story of my bloody life. Before an interview, I’m OK, after an interview, I’m OK, during the interview, I just fall apart. Please Vick, tell me honestly, how did I come across? If you were her, would you want to hire me? Come on, I’m a big girl and I can take it. Promise.’

I glance over at her, but it’s hard to make out her expression because she’s shoved her big, face-covering shades on. On probably one of the darkest, coldest days we’ve had in ages. She stops for a second to fish a cigarette out of the depths of her bag, and attempts to light up. Which is easier said than done as her hands are still shaking, and people keep bumping into her. And she doesn’t even tell them to piss off like she normally would. Which is unlike her. Worryingly unlike her.

We walk on and I make a decision. In her shoes, I would want the feedback, wouldn’t I? Course I would. It’s absolutely no different from me with fellas, is my reasoning: until I figure out where I’ve been going wrong all this time, how can I ever hope to get it right?

‘OK then, honey, it’s like this,’ I eventually say, picking
my
words carefully. ‘You’re a fabulous actress, no question about that. But . . .’

‘I was waiting for the but.’

‘. . . As they say in marketing, the product isn’t the problem, we need to work on selling
you
. Barbara, I don’t mean to rub salt in, but you walked into that restaurant with the job in the bag and you walked out without it. That waitress did a better job of selling herself. Yes, she was pushy, yes she was annoying, but you have to hand it to her, the girl saw an opportunity and went for it, acrylic fingernails and all.’

‘But I have an audition! With Serena Stroheim!’ she splutters at me in a cloud of smoke. ‘An hour ago, she’d never heard of me, and I’m going to get to do a classical piece in front of her. I mean come on, that’s some progress, isn’t it?’

‘Honey, my point is, you were a shoo-in for just about any part you wanted, and now you have to
audition
. God forbid and I hope I’m not tempting fate here, but worst-case scenario, suppose . . . just supposing . . .’

A tough sentence to finish but Barbara does it for me.

‘Supposing I flunk the audition?’

‘Then . . .’

Shit and double shit, I can barely finish that sentence myself. Then all of this will have been for nothing. All of my hard work, all the hours I put in and will certainly
be
clocking up over the next few months, will count for naught. Like it or not, we’re committed now. We have Serena Stroheim on board, we’ve the Children’s Hospital on board, and the ice cold reality is that, with or without Barbara, the show must go on. The only thing I’ll have succeeded in doing will be making stars of other actors, a gang of total strangers most likely, and if Barbara’s audition goes anything like today did, she’ll be doing well if Serena lets her hand out programmes or help with costume changes backstage. And that’s if we’re very lucky and she’s feeling charitable.

We cross the street, and keep walking on, each of us wrapped in thought. Or in my case, that sickening sense of frustration you get when you’ve worked your arse off on something and then realize, in spite of all your blood-sweating efforts, the kite just won’t fly. It’s only when Barbara stops to stub out her cigarette that I realize why she has the shades on.

Oh sweet Jesus, she’s actually crying. Barbara, the one who never cracks, at any time, EVER. In fact, I could be mistaken, but I think the last time I saw her shed a tear was when John Lennon was shot. And that was only because he was her favourite Beatle. And at the time, she was only about, like, six.

‘Oh, now come on, it’s not that bad,’ I lie, slipping my arm around her waist.

‘Yes, Vicky, it
is
that fucking bad,’ she snaps, pulling
away
. ‘In fact, I don’t know how it could be much worse. You don’t understand.’

‘Now, that’s not true, OK, so you were a bag of nerves in there, but . . .’

‘No, Vicky, I mean you don’t understand what it’s like for
me
. I am so completely bloody sick and tired of being a failure. And make no mistake, that’s what I am, a useless, bloody, washed-up failure.’

‘Come on, honey . . .’

‘Just hear me out, will you? No one knows more than me how you slaved over this, to get every tiny detail right. And I just went in there and buggered it all up on you. And you know what the worst thing is?’

‘Shhh, shhh . . . here, love, have another ciggie.’ But the tears are tumbling down now and there’s no stopping her.

‘Time was, I used to be a good actress. I
know
I was good. I was confident in myself. It was all out there for me. I could have gone the distance. But, right now, I have to face up to the fact that I have wasted the best years of my life on a pathetic career that didn’t work out for me the way I wanted it to, the way it should have done. Look at me: I’m well into my thirties, the death years for any actress; I live in a rented flat which I share with a couple that are slowly driving me more and more mental every day; I’ll never own my own home, I’ll never be famous. Christ alive, I’ll be doing well if I
ever
get another acting gig ever again. I’m somebody that could end up homeless, Vicky, sleeping rough. And what I don’t get is . . .’ She breaks off here, voice trembling, to suck on a fag. ‘I followed my dreams. I mean, I thought that was what you were supposed to do in life? I look at you, with your booming business, and Laura who’ll go back to the Bar in a couple of years and just pick up where she left off, and what have I got to show for myself? Nothing, absolutely big, fat nada, because I’m worthless and hopeless and useless, useless,
useless
.’

‘Hang on one second, you are NONE of those things,’ I say firmly, stopping to fish a hanky from my bag, which she reluctantly takes from me, as if by doing so, she’s acknowledging just how upset she is. ‘And, let me tell you, “project Barbara” is going to work. You are going to do the best audition you’ve ever done in your life, and you’re going to be cast in a leading role, and that’s all there is to it. Yes, OK, so we had a setback today, but on the plus side, now we’re clear about one thing: it’s not your acting that’s been the problem all this time . . .’