Valentine (2 page)

She anxiously looked at her watch. Where the hell was
the bus? A woman passed by clutching an unfeasibly large
bouquet of red roses, a smug I-am-not-a-sad-singleton
expression across her face. Valentine felt the familiar wave
of nausea at the sight of the red roses and looked the
other way. It really was time to stop channelling Marnie
from that Hitchcock film. Just at that moment a double-decker
bus sailed past her with one of the actresses from
her old drama school plastered across it, advertising her
latest film, and almost blinding the unsuspecting public
with her incredibly white, perfect teeth. It was Tamara
Moore or NTM (No Talent Moore) as Valentine and
Lauren called her. Valentine liked to think that she would
not have begrudged her fellow actor her success if she
had been supremely talented, but Tamara had all the
acting range of an eleven-year-old girl and that was
probably being disrespectful to the eleven-year-old. Her
trajectory to almost instant fame was due entirely to who
she was, or rather who her parents were. She was the
daughter of an extremely successful actress and a rock-star
dad. Nepotism was alive and kicking in the acting
world. In fact, all the people from Valentine's year who
had gone on to do well were the sons or daughters of
established actors. While some had talent and deserved
it; others like Tamara did not. Valentine's mum was a
midwife and her dad, who had died three years ago, had
been a psychiatric nurse, both extremely worthwhile
professionals, and Valentine was proud of them. However,
sometimes, when there had been no auditions for a while
Valentine did have the odd dark moment when she
thought she might have made it by now had she been
better-connected. She had talent – she had won the
prestigious Olivier award in her final year – but that apparently
wasn't enough. But she didn't just dislike Tamara
because of her talent bypass; Tamara had made it her
mission to undermine Valentine at all times and had also
flirted outrageously with Finn. Valentine had often wondered
if there'd been something going on between them.

She took a deep breath, trying to centre herself and
instantly regretted it as she inhaled what seemed like the
entire vehicle emissions of Westbourne Park Road. She
spent the next five minutes coughing and thinking she
was going to die of lung cancer on the spot. And what
would her epitaph be? Here lies Valentine Fleming, failed
actress, single, leaving behind no children. Her funeral
would just be attended by her mum, brother, aunt, and
friends. There would be no one giving speeches about
how they remembered her Lady Macbeth and how her
Rosalind had defined a generation. There would be no
one eulogising about how unfair it was that she had never
got the Oscar for Best Actress. No large plasma screen
showing her finest moments in stylish black and white,
while 'What a Wonderful World' played and there wasn't
a dry eye in the church. There would be no white coffin
(did that say tacky or timeless chic? She couldn't decide)
in front of the altar decorated with lilies and white roses,
only a cardboard one because her mother was very eco-aware
and would have insisted on sustainable materials.
She probably wouldn't allow any flowers at all unless they
were grown in this country, because of their carbon footprint.
Valentine would end up with a wreath of nettles
and hogweed. In fact her mum probably wouldn't let her
have a church funeral at all, but would bury Valentine in
the back garden, next to the two deceased cats and five
hamsters, in some kind of humanist ceremony. She
cheered herself up by reminding herself that she'd be
dead and wouldn't know anyway.

Twenty minutes later, when her bus still hadn't turned
up, panic had well and truly set in. She rifled through
her purse, which only contained a solitary fiver, not enough
to get her to The Circle Arts Centre, the theatre on Baker
Street. She'd have to get a taxi some of the way and then
leg it. There then ensued a further five frustrating minutes
when every single available taxi ignored her outstretched
arm as if she'd suddenly become invisible. In the end she
had to practically stand in the middle of the road, risking
death to flag one down. The cardboard coffin, hogweeds
and burial next to the hamsters might be coming sooner
than she realised. Finally one stopped. She got in and
quickly explained her cash crisis to the taxi driver. 'We
could go via a cash point,' he replied.

'No, there isn't time; I've got to get to an audition. I'll
run some of the way,' Valentine said, willing him to put
his foot down.

'Oh you're an actress are you? Would I have seen you
in anything?' the cabbie asked, pulling away maddeningly
slowly, as if he had only just learned to drive.

Fuck, why had she mentioned the audition? She hated
telling strangers about her profession; they always asked
that question.

'Probably not,' she replied, trying to keep the edge
from her voice. She was buggered if she was going to
give him a run-down of her CV. She didn't ask him how
long he'd been driving a cab or when he'd passed the
Knowledge. But that was the thing about revealing that
you were an actress; it gave other people carte blanche
to ask personal questions.

'Perhaps your big break's round the corner,' the cabbie
persisted. 'What's your name and then if you make it I
can say that I've had you in the back of my cab. Driven
you, I mean!' The cabbie gave a raucous, dirty laugh at
his own joke, worthy of Sid James in his
Carry on
roles,
while Valentine rolled her eyes and squirted a shot of
Bach Rescue Remedy into her mouth to stop herself
telling him to piss off.

'Candy Beaver,' she lied, instantly regretting giving
herself a porn-star name, and quickly got her copy of
A
Midsummer Night's Dream
out of her bag as a barrier to
further conversation. She liked to get to auditions in plenty
of time, but at this rate she would have just seconds to
spare. She chewed her nails (a disgusting habit she knew
and promised herself that if she got the part today she'd
stop doing it) and squirted more Rescue Remedy into her
mouth. You couldn't OD on it could you? After what
seemed like two minutes the meter hit five pounds.

'That's your lot,' the cabbie said cheerfully, pulling over.
'Good luck in the audition Candy,' he called after her as
she thrust the fiver at him and opened the door. Then
she started running, thinking bitterly that if she had been
No Talent Moore the driver would have taken her all the
way. Then again if she was NTM she wouldn't be going
to an audition for an off-West End play in the first place.
Almost instantly her hair, which she had so carefully
arranged into an elegant bun, started breaking free and
cascading down her shoulders, leaving behind a trail of
pins. A bad omen. Curly hair was like marmite and
aroused strong feelings in people, which was why she
preferred to keep it tied back at auditions.

Fifteen minutes later, dishevelled-haired, red-faced (the
extra blusher had definitely been a mistake) and out of
breath, she burst into the theatre building. She was nearly
ten minutes late – a complete audition no-no – and saying
the bus hadn't come would sound pathetically lame. She'd
blown it. There was no one in the foyer and guessing that
they were all in the theatre she tentatively knocked at the
large green door in front of her. There was no reply.
Bollocks, what should she do? Stay out here? Or go in?
But say they were in the middle of a scene? She pressed
her ear against the door straining to hear anything.
Nothing. She knelt down and tried to look through the
keyhole but something seemed to be blocking her view.

She was just about to get up when the door opened
and she found herself staring straight into a denim crotch.
A very nice one, she had to admit – just the right
proportions – but oh God never mind that now! She just
hoped it wasn't the director, or maybe it would be good
if it was. She had never gone the casting-couch route
before but frankly right now she was willing to try almost
anything to get a part. Hastily she averted her gaze upwards
into an amused pair of dark-brown eyes, owned by a very
handsome man. Surely too striking to be a director?
He had leading man stamped all over his gorgeous face
and his broad-shouldered, sexy, lean-limbed body, all six
foot two of it by her reckoning, though it was hard to be
sure from the position she was in.

'I don't usually have this effect on women on first
meeting – I'd say usually halfway through the second
date,' he said smiling, his brown eyes with a very naughty
glint in them. Was he flirting with her?

Valentine felt at a horrible disadvantage. She hastily
scrambled to her feet and stuck out her hand. 'Valentine
Fleming. I'm so sorry I'm late.'

'Really? A Valentine on Valentine's Day? But isn't it a
boy's name?' he asked as he shook her hand. His hand
felt cool and firm. Valentine prayed that hers didn't feel
sweaty. She did so hate a moist palm herself.

'Yes, it's a boy's name,' Valentine replied, trying not
to go into surly teenager mode – people were always
telling her this. 'I was born on Valentine's Day and so
that's why my mum chose it.'

'Happy birthday then,' the good-looking man said.
'We've got a bit of a theme here as I'm Jack Hart. Harts
and Valentines, we go together.' All right he was good
looking, but he also seemed a bit of a wanker.

'So you're not the director, are you?' Valentine asked,
surreptitiously trying to smooth down her wild hair as she
followed him into the theatre. She paused for a moment,
trying to orientate herself in the space – there was a stage
in the middle of the room, and tiered seats on three sides,
which could probably seat two hundred. She liked the
feel of it.

'Nope, another actor like you. The director's just nipped
out for a fag, said he'd be back in a minute.' His dark-brown
eyes moved over her appraisingly. 'You might want
to do up your dress before he gets back, unless it's deliberate,
in which case, very nice.'

Valentine looked down. The wrap dress had
unwrapped. Her come-to-bed black lace bra was on full
display. Usually it was strictly reserved for the bedroom,
as it was ferociously scratchy and totally revealing but
she'd had to wear it as she'd run out of clean lingerie.

'Don't worry, it could have been worse. I once did a
whole audition with my flies undone,' Jack continued.

'Did you get the part or just show yours?' Valentine
muttered sarcastically, feeing that Jack Hart, although
undeniably attractive, was way too cocky. She would have
bet money on him having gone to public school and then
to Oxford. He had that kind of easy confidence that only
came with money and privilege and always getting what
you wanted. She was self-aware enough to admit to having
a slight chip on her shoulder, having gone to a rubbish
comprehensive, and coming from a very non-theatre
family, where the only books in the house were John
Grishams and Dan the
Da Vinci Code
Brown's, and the
only family trips to the theatre had been to pantomimes.

'Both, actually.'

Jammy bastard
. She turned away and pulled her copy
of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
from her bag, wanting to
compose herself for the audition.

'Love the hair by the way, very pre-Raphaelite.'

Damn
, it must be looking wild.

'And I wouldn't bother reading that,' Jack said, seeing
her book. 'I had a quick chat with Vince, the director,
and he wants us to improvise.'

The horror, the horror, the horror! Valentine had one
of those heart-of-darkness, staring-into-the-abyss moments.
She
hated
improvising at auditions. You never knew quite
what you were supposed to be doing and as you didn't
know the other actors there was none of the feeling of
trust, which was what improvisation was supposed to be
based on.

'So what part are you up for?' Valentine asked, her
heart sinking – all those hours she'd wasted getting into
the role of Titania.

'Bottom,' Jack replied, grinning wickedly. 'So you're in
love with me.'

'Yeah, only because I've been drugged!' Valentine shot
back.

At that moment Vince, the director, walked into the
hall. He was a small, intense-looking man in his mid-twenties,
dressed in a long black military-style coat
several sizes too big for him and scruffy Converse
trainers. Valentine immediately switched into charm
mode and introduced herself, shrugging off her irritation
with the arrogant Jack. Vince, who she noted had a
moist and limp handshake, then launched into a long
and frankly tedious explanation of how he saw the play,
during which Valentine could feel her eyes glazing over.
Sylvia, her agent, had raved about him, saying that he
was an up-and-coming director; he'd been to Oxford
and was well-connected and bound to be destined for
great things. 'Get in with him now, darling, is my advice.
And you never know who'll come and see the show –
it could be your big break.' When Valentine had first
signed up with Sylvia she had hung on her every word,
convinced that success was only just round the corner.
Now she was wise to Sylvia's tendency to exaggerate.

Jack caught her eye at one point and she saw his lips
twitching.

Bugger off
, she felt like saying.
I need this part!

Vince's vision included having the forest scenes set in
a giant club with Titania as a hip DJ, who along with
her husband Oberon had a sideline in selling hallucinogenic
drugs. 'So right now I want you and Jack to
improvise a scene in a club. I'll say no more than that,
but Valentine, I want you to make the first move. I'll put
some music on to give you some ambience.' He walked
over to a portable CD player and pressed
play
. Dance
music pulsed through the theatre, while dread filled
Valentine's soul. Then he sat down cross-legged on one
of the front-row chairs and leaned forward, looking like
an expectant gnome. It was at moments like this that
Valentine wondered what had ever possessed her to want
to act. Perhaps she should have gone into nursing like her
mum. Admittedly there was her phobia of hospitals to
overcome, but maybe she could have had aversion therapy
or watched back-to-back episodes of ER to get over it.
And that way she'd have a steady job where people
respected her and did not expect her to humiliate herself
on a regular basis. Then she tried to clear her mind of
everything. She'd bloody well improvise her arse off . . .