I think I would have stuck to serving chicken and beef at thirty-two thousand feet.
Maybe now it’s time to put stability back into my life. I should forget my dream, wake up, and behave like any normal middle-aged woman, by getting a proper job with a pension scheme and Christmas bonus.
* * *
‘You’ve had twenty-four hours to think about this, and now you’re telling me that your motive, the event that’s going to get those anger juices flowing, that’s going to fuel your performances in time to come, is the fact that you had a puncture, were late for your first day at work, and your boss was mean to you?’ says Portia, scrutinising me with a look of despair in her kohl-rimmed, piercing green eyes.
Here we go again. I must be some kind of masochist, to have spent the last nine months putting myself through this kind of torture.
I’m realising that the optimist in me has been telling lies – encouraging me to keep on keeping on, because any day now I’ll find the key to that secret door that leads to the actor’s holy grail; that special place that separates the truly talented from the merely mediocre. But let’s be realistic for once: I’m never going to find the key, am I? With no Plan B, where does that leave me? Bitter tears sting my eyes. I swallow hard. God, please don’t let me cry. My toes clench together in my jazz shoes, my face and neck flushing the colour of a strawberry smoothie.
‘Come on, Emily, surely you can do better than that? Haven’t you ever been accused of something unfairly or had your heart broken in two?’
‘Sure, but …’
‘Well then, how did that make you feel?’
‘I … I …’ I murmur, shrugging my shoulders and casting my eyes downwards, wishing I could silently slither down a gap between the floorboards.
‘Didn’t you feel betrayed, wounded, bloody furious?’ she probes.
‘Of course, but …’
‘Well then, now’s your opportunity to break through those emotional boundaries and tell us what’s in your heart. No one’s going to laugh at you. If you’re serious about becoming an actor – a good actor – then you have to live on the edge, bare your soul. Acting is all about trust, Emily.’
‘I know, I know,’ I reply sheepishly. ‘It’s just that, well … I’m not entirely comfortable with all this touchy-feely stuff. Please don’t get me wrong,’ I add quickly, desperately searching for the right words, ‘I … I’m not exactly the stiff-upper-lip type … far from it … I mean, I cry at Britain’s Got Talent … but … well, it’s just that …’
‘Do you want to be one of those actors who believes they’ve done a good job so long as they remember their lines and don’t bump into the furniture?’ continues Portia, tearing into me. ‘Or would you rather be the type of actor who inhabits a role, who sets the stage alight, who can hold an audience in the palm of their hand, make them squirm in their seats, move them to tears, or cause them to laugh uncontrollably?’ Her eyes are flashing now, as her amethyst ring catches the light, sending a whirlpool of lilac light around the room, like a glitter-ball.
‘But isn’t acting all about pretending?’ I say weakly. ‘Don’t tell me you have to have committed murder before you’re eligible to play the villain in an Agatha Christie.’
All eyes hit the floor, and an uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. I flush even harder.
‘Acting is about finding the truth in imaginary circumstances,’ says Portia matter-of-factly.
I know she’s right. All the same … some things are personal. How I wish this were over. I can’t carry on just staring at the floor though. It’s humiliating. Got to do something … oh well, here goes …
‘Those years we spent together, the plans we made – did it all mean nothing to you?’ I say, quietly, haltingly. ‘You were the one who brought up marriage and children, not me, and then when I said I was ready, you kept me hanging on. And all that stuff about “finding yourself” … what a joke! You bastard. You didn’t even have the decency … no, let me finish … you didn’t even have the decency to tell me what was really going on.’
All the bottled-up emotions swirling around inside me since that hideous night come flooding out, filling my words with a mixture of anger and sadness. A big tear slides halfway down my cheek, attaching itself to my nostril, and my legs turn to Plasticine. I grab the corner of the chair.
‘Why couldn’t you have sat me down and told me the truth? That you’d fallen out of love with me and met someone else? But no … you wanted me to think you were having some sort of mental breakdown, when all the time you were sleeping with her. And I was too in love to see through you … even blamed myself. Hah! You’re nothing but a coward and a liar … Come back! Don’t walk out when I’m talking to you! Why must you always bury your head in the sand? Come back …!’ I cry, my outstretched arm flopping limply by my side.
My performance is greeted by complete silence. Moments pass.
‘Are you all right?’ asks Portia gently, handing me a tissue.
‘I’m fine, really I am,’ I say, giving my nose a blow that could warn shipping. I’m not faking it; I really am all right. In fact, I’m more than all right; I’m elated, in a strange sort of way. I did it, and it feels great – liberating – like this huge, tangled mass of poisonous emotions wrapped around my heart has been hacked away and has finally lost its stranglehold. I wasn’t just saying those words; they came from somewhere deep inside me.
‘At last! It took you to the very end of the course to get there, but I knew you had it in you,’ says Portia, with a note of pride. ‘Now, hold on to that emotion and file it away under ANGER, ready to be unleashed as and when the part calls for it,’ she continues, squeezing my arm.
I rejoin the group, sitting in a circle on the floor. I suddenly feel as if everything has fallen into place. Up to this very moment I have been stumbling, muddling my way through, putting on a brave face to the world, pretending to myself that I’m better off without Nigel. It’s now rapidly, brilliantly dawning on me that I truly had been clinging to a lost cause, and I’m free at last.
Thank you, Stanislavski. I think at last I’ve got it.
* * *
It’s Karaoke Nite at The Dog & Whistle. James and Sally take to the stage to give their Dolly and Kenny rendition of ‘Islands in the Stream’. My mind rewinds nine months and that first awkward meeting. What a long way we have all come: the emotions, the secrets, the triumphs and failures we have all dared to share.
‘To you all and the great adventures that lie ahead!’ announces Portia, popping open another bottle of Prosecco.
‘To us!’
I look around at our merry band, so full of hope and anticipation. I wonder how many of us with dreams of becoming actors will become Hot Property, and how many will end up scraping together a living as market researchers or living statues.
My tyres hiss as I weave along the rain-drenched road home. I freewheel down the hill, feet off the pedals, head tilted back, face cooled by the sudden downpour. I feel lighter somehow, as if at any given moment my bike and I could soar up into the black
