embarking on this mad journey, I feel I’m taking tentative steps towards reclaiming the confidence and self-esteem I lost during Nigelgate, and I’m filled with – not sure what, but this much I do know: I am no longer afraid of being alone.
Goodbye and thank you, Dramatic Ar s, for showing me that though life may be difficult at the moment, I refuse to be brought down by cheating, critical lovers or unforgiving, bitter bosses. Sure, there will be more bumps along the way, but I have a choice; and I choose to keep following my dream, no matter where it leads.
* * *
My love affair with Russia began at the age of fourteen, when they showed Doctor Zhivago on the telly one Christmas. We were studying the Russian Revolution at school, and this epic film brought those dry History lessons to life, and was the reason I got an A* that term.
While most of my friends were drooling over Jason Donovan or Tom Cruise, Yuri Zhivago was the object of my adolescent desire. I would backcomb my hair into a bouffant up-do, just like Julie Christie, wear oversized sweaters and my mum’s faux fur hair band, her pale coral lipstick completing the Lara Look.
I even bought a second-hand balalaika with my pocket money and tormented my parents and the dog by playing ‘Lara’s Theme’ over and over. I begged Mum and Dad to book Russia for our summer holidays instead of Spain. (Needless to say, Spain won the majority vote.)
Some twenty years later, when my flight schedule took me to Moscow, I channelled my inner Lara once more, as I skated in Gorky Park, fantasising as I fell over, that I might one day be scooped up by a handsome Russian doctor who would write me beautiful poems.
The only person who ever came to my rescue was an ice marshal called Zoya, who reminded me of Miss Trunchbull and could lift you up with one arm. I decided then it was high time I grew up and left my Russian romance in my teenage past.
But today I am required to dig deep and channel my inner Lara once more, as my first professional audition, two months after leaving drama school, is to play Olga in Chekhov’s Three Sisters.
How I’d love to say it’s an epic BBC costume drama, involving three months’ filming in grand Russian palaces and sumptuous ballrooms, but the truth is it’s a ‘profit-share’, pub-theatre production. I may have been awarded a D– in Maths, but even I am able to calculate that 40 seats @ £10 ÷ 14 cast members + 5 crew = very little profit (and that’s assuming it’s a full house every night). But then I’m not in this business for the money, rather “to do interesting work that challenges me” – isn’t that what actors always say on The Graham Norton Show?
With only travel expenses guaranteed, you’d imagine there wouldn’t be much competition. Apparently seven hundred actors applied to audition for the fourteen roles, as the venue’s prime location means you might get spotted by agents and casting directors. It’s an opportunity to hone your acting chops, playing the kind of roles awarded only to star names in the West End.
* * *
Ignoring the stench of beer and the odd peanut, I slither around the stained and grubby floor of The Red Dragon pub, going ‘sssss.’ I want to stand up and shout, Could somebody please explain to me what this has got to do with Chekhov?
‘Right then, that’s the end of the warm-up, and in a few moments we’ll be calling you into the room one by one, so please have your audition pieces ready,’ says someone called Rocket, with dreadlocks and a clipboard.
I pace up and down, quietly practising my speech – again:
‘“Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, and to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, born out of your dominions, having here … having here …”’
Oh, God, what comes next?
‘Emily Forsyth!’ calls Rocket.
A queasy feeling floods my stomach. I’m ushered into a poky back room, where I’m introduced to the creative team.
‘Now, Emily, what audition piece are you going to do for us today?’ asks Hugh, the director.
‘I’d like to do Katherine … Queen Katherine from Henry The Eighth.’
Casting me a sympathetic glance, he nods. ‘In your own time.’
With four pairs of expectant eyes upon me, I breathe in, trying to steady my voice.
‘“Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, and to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, born out of your dominions, having here no judge indifferent, nor no more assurance of equal friendship and proceeding …”’
With my audience just inches away, and crates of mixers, packets of assorted crisps, and pork scratchings occupying almost every available space, it’s hard to imagine I’m a sixteenth-century queen in a grand hall, begging my husband not to force me into a quickie divorce.
‘“… in God’s name turn me away, and let the foul’st contempt shut door upon me, and so give me up to the sharps’t kind of justice.”’
I lift my eyes from my kneeling position.
‘Thank you,’ says Hugh, breaking the long silence. ‘Now we’d like you to read part of Olga’s speech for us.’
The script starts to quiver as I take it from him.
‘Turn to page two, beginning from the top please.’
I try to channel my nerves into capturing Olga’s mood of despair.
‘“Don’t whistle, Masha. How can you! Every day I teach at the Gymnasium and afterwards I give lessons until evening, and so I’ve got a constant headache and my thoughts are those of an old woman …”’
PSSCHH hisses a toilet from above. GERDUNG, GERDUNG go the pipes.
‘“I’ve felt my strength and my youth draining from me every day, drop by drop. And one single thought grows stronger and stronger …”’
I play the speech distractedly at first, but halfway through find myself relaxing into it and actually enjoying it.
Then suddenly it’s over: my one and only chance to make an impression. I wonder if they’ll let me do it again …
‘Okay. Finally, what do you feel you can bring to the role of Olga?’
‘Hmm. Well, like Olga, I used to be dissatisfied with my job, felt I’d missed out on marriage, felt old before my time, longed to be somewhere else. The difference is I did something about it. But I can still remember how that feels, and I could draw on those emotions.’
‘Interesting,’ says Hugh, rubbing his chin. ‘Thank you for coming. We’ll let you know on Monday.’
Monday? That’s a whole three days. But hang on! What am I fretting about? I can’t afford to take the job even if they do offer it to me. So it’s for the best if I don’t get it. Just put it down to experience.
* * *
Monday p.m.
Humph! So I’m not good enough for their play, eh? Their loss. Not for them, a thank-you-for-my-first-break
