God, this is so embarrassing … What am I going to say?
‘Correct. My name is Emily and … and … I once spent a night in a Middle Eastern jail.’
* * *
Being a Monday night, The Dog & Whistle, opposite Dramatic Ar s Centre, is deserted and we all pile around a long wooden table. Drinks in, we raise a glass to new adventures.
‘So, Emily. Spill the beans,’ says James, splitting open several bags of crisps to share. ‘You can’t leave us in suspense. How on earth did you end up in jail in the Middle East, for Christ’s sake?’
I’m not entirely comfortable recounting the sorry tale as it’s not something I’m proud of, and to this day I have never told my parents. The painful memory has been locked away for many years, but tonight, due to panic and a desire to impress, it was unleashed.
‘I’d really rather not …’
‘Come on!’ they chorus, eighteen wide-eyed faces looking at me expectantly.
Even the barman is taking an unusually long time to wipe the table next to ours.
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I was fresh out of cabin crew training school. My second long-haul trip, in fact. I’d never travelled to such an exotic land before, and instead of lying in my air-conditioned room, I wanted to explore the narrow streets of the old heart of Saudi’s capital; to smell the spices, the coffee, check out the colourful carpets and the ostentatious jewellery.
‘Hey, girls, are you all nurses?’ came a British voice behind us.
I don’t blame them – the young expat geologists who invited us to their compound that night – nor do I blame my fellow crew who weren’t strangers to Saudi and should have known better.
‘Isn’t alcohol illegal?’ I’d asked feebly over the blaring music at the party.
‘Yeah, but you’re on British soil here,’ replied our host, handing me a glass of home-brewed wine. ‘Cheers!’
What we naively and stupidly didn’t bargain for was being stopped and breathalysed by the police on the way back to the hotel.
I don’t blame the authorities either. We knew the laws of the land and we broke them. We were lucky we didn’t end up being incarcerated for years, being lashed, forbidden from entering the country again, or fired from our jobs.
I learned a hard lesson that night – to trust my own judgement and not be pressurised into following the herd.
If there was a prize for Most Shocking Secret of the Evening, then I can confidently say I would have won, but I feel cross with myself for having shared that most shameful of events with a bunch of strangers in order to be accepted, to be liked.
But then maybe daring to lay bare guilty secrets, disappointments, and desires is the key to being a good actor as opposed to a mediocre one.
Who knows, one day I might find myself tapping into the fear I felt on that terrible night to bring truthfulness to a role.
* * *
It’s 1 a.m. by the time I turn off the light, having shared tonight’s events with Beryl over a Babycham.
It’s early days, but tonight something shifted I think, and I got a tiny glimpse of where I’m headed – a fleeting confirmation that all of this will be worth it.
T. S. Eliot was right; it’s all about the journey and not the destination.
Warning:
Babycham may cause over-sentimentality.
* * *
I step off the crew bus, uniform, hair, and make-up immaculate. A bag lady is huddled in the doorway of the hotel.
‘Big Issue, Big Issue!’ she cries. I open my purse and lean towards her, looking into her eyes. Aargh! The bag lady is me.
I awake with a start to the blare of the alarm clock, hauling me out of my slumber, back to the real world.
It doesn’t require a psychoanalyst to work out the meaning behind this recurring nightmare.
I simply cannot carry on living off the paltry proceeds from the flat Nigel and I shared. This is supposed to be my emergency money, to support me after the course, during those ‘resting’ periods, in between theatre and TV contracts, daahling. Huh.
There’s rent to pay, food, my Visa bill, and drama class fees.
How naive I was to think I could just sail into another job.
This afternoon’s interview at Trusty Temps Agency is one of the few options left to me now …
* * *
‘Do you have PowerPoint?’ lisps the girly recruitment consultant, running her French-manicured nail down my brief CV.
‘No.’
‘Excel?’
‘Excel? Yes … I mean no.’ (Lying = v. bad idea, Emily.)
‘Minute taking?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Not to worry. Which switchboards have you used?’
‘Erm … none,’ I whisper, biting my bottom lip.
Uncrossing her long, slim legs, she lets out a heavy sigh, and forcing her glossy lips into a smile, says with a hint of superiority, ‘I’m afraid most of our positions are for people with these skills – but we’ll keep you on file.’
‘Sure,’ I say with a careless toss of my head, trying to look self-assured and unconcerned, whilst inside I feel like a technophobic old bat.
I stuff my CV in my bag, pull on my coat and beret, then take the walk of shame from the back office, through the reception area, past all the busy, busy consultants, furiously tapping their keyboards, whilst holding terribly important conversations on the phone.
It’s dawning on me with scary clarity that two decades of working in a metal tube have not armed me with the necessary skills to survive in the business world. I’m a dab hand at putting out a fire, boiling an egg to perfection at altitude, or serving hot liquids in severe turbulence without spilling a drop, but what use is all that in the wired-up world of desktop, data entry, and mail-merge?
Oh God, what is to become of me? Am I destined for a life of Pot Noodles and Primark? What am I going to do? What in God’s name am I going to do?
I trudge along the rain-soaked street. I can’t face returning to Knick-Knack Corral just yet. I turn the corner, and there, like a safe harbour in a storm, are the twinkling lights of Starbucks beckoning me in. Yes, I know, I know I shouldn’t be splashing out £3.20 on a caffeine fix, but I am in the grip of a major confidence crisis, and a large caramel cream Frappuccino is cheaper than therapy.
Sinking into a squashy sofa, I take a sip of my coffee, draw a deep breath, and take out my notebook
