My Own Worst Enemy, page 1
MY OWN
WORST
ENEMY
ALSO BY LILY LINDON
Double Booked
MY OWN
WORST
ENEMY
LILY LINDON
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2023 by Head of Zeus,
part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Lily Lindon, 2023
The moral right of Lily Lindon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781801107617
ISBN (XTPB): 9781801107624
ISBN (E): 9781801107648
Cover design: Nina Elstad
Head of Zeus
First Floor East
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London EC1R 4RG
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For my fellow lovers of gay drama
Contents
Also by Lily Lindon
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Acknowledgements
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Prologue
I’m crouched backstage, about to throw up.
Come on, Emmy. Touch your toes. Shake out your arms. Pray with a tongue twister and spin your lucky earring.
I can do this. I have prepared enough. I won’t get stage fright and ruin my one chance to ever achieve my dreams.
Behind the curtain, my fellow drama school graduands complete their own rituals, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Of course, everybody hates actors. But the people who hate actors the most are other actors.
We’ve spent three years together. Daily sessions of ritualised touching, trust falls, and sharing how our characters’ traumas relate to our own have done their job, and we’re all dangerously bonded. But now it’s final term. A deep, unspoken suspicion has arrived. We’ve become dreadfully aware we’re about to be thrown from the nest and expected to fly into The Acting Industry.
My fellow actors are not my friends anymore. They’re my enemies.
At this showcase, we’re not only performing to friends and family, but to agents. Agents who will make or break our careers.
I peek out at the crowd. You can tell who the agents are, not only because they have an aura of godliness, but because their faces are lit up by their open laptops. The rumours are true, then: agents will have the program with our contact details open on their armrests, and they’ll send emails offering representation before you’ve even finished your monologue. Or, crucially, they won’t.
Supporting friends and family have picked up on the tense vibe. It’s deathly quiet out there. Normally I want to strangle people who cough in the theatre, but right now I’d be grateful for a few phones going off.
I don’t have any friends or family here. My dad’s working, obviously, and so’s Pete. Ruth is preparing for an interview, and Raphy is on a meditation retreat in Uzbekistan. I didn’t invite Mum.
A cold hand squeezes mine. In the dim backstage lights, I look into the painfully beautiful face of my best friend, Thalia. Everyone else may have become suddenly distant and menacing, but Thalia’s exactly the same. She’s the only one I trust to never, ever let me down, even when she inevitably rises to stardom.
I clasp her hand in both of mine, trying to warm it. I know she’s trying to be comforting, but the thought that she’ll be watching always ramps up my nausea. I want to impress her even more than I want to impress those agents.
Thalia tugs me in the direction of the green room.
I glance out towards the stage. There’s three monologues between now and my performance. Yes, technically that means fifteen minutes, but what if someone speaks superfast, or quits?
But Thalia strides away, so I follow.
In the empty green room, I turn up the speaker that feeds through the audio from the stage into the room and angle the screen showing who’s on the stage. It’s still Ben, doing his modern. I squint at his technique. His left hand is swinging. I know he’s meant to be my rival now, but my stomach clenches in sympathy.
Thalia yawns. ‘Shall we place bets on who isn’t going to get any offers?’
I can’t join in with her laughter. She rolls her dark eyes at me.
‘Emmy, how are you going to be a professional actor when you get this nervous before a performance?’
Thalia doesn’t have to be nervous. She already has an agent – one of the best. She’s even already been offered a major TV role, which she turned down. Unlike me, raised on a diet of theatre, musicals and pantomime, Thalia has always set her sights on Hollywood.
I try to breathe.
‘They don’t care about your performance,’ she says reassuringly. ‘They’re businessmen. They’ll just choose people based on their casting type.’
She pouts in the mirror, tossing her ponytail. With her athletic physique, spotless brown skin, sharp cheek bones and bold eyebrows, Thalia has sarcastically said that her casting type is ‘they couldn’t afford Zendaya’.
‘You’ll be fine,’ she says, patting my arm. ‘It’s not like many agents already have a short-haired lesbian on their list.’
‘Most agents don’t need a short-haired lesbian on their list,’ I mutter. ‘It’s not like the industry has hundreds of “leading lady” roles for anyone remotely butch.’
Thalia tuts.
‘OK, but the industry needs one. You can be that one. The best. You’re top of the year! You got, like, the highest mark ever on that Shakespeare thi—’
‘We both know good exam results don’t matter on stage,’ I say, pacing.
God, was twenty times enough times to practise my monologue this morning? I mutter it again at supersonic speed under my breath. Damn, damn, damn, I knew I should have gone for the other one. Maybe I still have time to change it. I do have two others memorised, just in case. Maybe I should—
‘Emmy. Chill out. You’ll put them off. It’s like horses, they can tell when you’re scared.’
I gape at her and start hyperventilating.
‘Jeesh, OK,’ she says, swinging down from the table. ‘I’ll see you after.’
I try to steady my breaths. She’s right.
‘Wait, wait,’ I say, grabbing her hand. ‘Thank you. I just…’ I look down at her fingers in mine. ‘Please don’t forget about me when you’re a star, OK?’
Thalia smiles and tosses her ponytail over her other shoulder.
‘How could I forget about you, you dummy? We’re going to be living together, and flying round the world doing all our filming. Who else is going to roll my celebratory cigarettes?’
After a successful performance, Thalia and I always go to the smoking area to have one celebratory cigarette. Well, I don’t actually smoke myself, but I roll it for her in a celebratory way. Of all my theatre rituals, it’s my favourite.
I stroke her fingers.
‘I’ll roll you a whopper on graduation day.’
She grins and pulls away, flopping over a chair.
‘It’s so soon, I can almost taste it. No more stupid lectures, no more pointless exams, just being an actual performer.’
She closes her eyes in pleasure.
‘Picture the scene. Graduation day. The others are stuck in the foyer, making fake promises to stay in touch, and singing from like, Hello Dolly. But you and me, we’re out in the smoking area, sipping champagne and signing contracts. It’s going to be so good, we’re going to want to do it every year.’
I watch her laugh, reflected a hundred times in the green room mirrors. And I know, without a doubt, that she’s going to be famous one day. One day horribly soon.
‘Then let’s do it every year,’ I say urgently. ‘No matter what happens with… Every year on June 29th we’ll come back to The Boards, and see how far we’ve come.’
Thalia looks up at me.
‘Urgh, you’re such a thespian.’
But she smiles, that rare, unpractised grin that shows the gap between her teeth and makes my pulse do stupid things. When she smiles at me like that, I can almost convince myself that Thalia likes me back.
Graduation day, I promise myself, June 29th, in The Boards Theatre Smoking Area, I’m going to finally tell her how I feel.
Applause thunders through the intercom. On the screen it’s suddenly Aoife, and she’s bowing.
‘Shit,’ I say, and dash towards the door.
‘Good luck!’
I gasp and trip.
‘Thalia!’ I say, crossing myself, and knocking on the wooden door frame three times.
‘What?’ she laughs. ‘I thought it’s only bad luck to say that during a performance of Macb—’
I scream and hold my finger out to silence her, then point urgently at my trousers.
‘Break a leg, then, whatever.’ She yawns. ‘You don’t need to care about that crap. Superstitions are for people who can’t rely on their own talent.’
I wish I could believe her. Thalia waves lazily as the green room door closes.
I sprint up to the wings, our teacher already announcing my name.
There’s just time to take a deep breath and twist my earring. Then I step out onto the stage.
1
Nine Months Later
‘Emmy Clooney,’ announces the casting assistant.
‘No relation,’ I apologise.
The four panellists look at me. I know exactly who each of them is: the director, head writer, producer, and casting director. I memorised all their IMDb pages. Let’s be honest, I memorised all of their social media pages too. You can never be too prepared.
I’ve done all the sniffing around about the project possible before it’s in production – it’s a TV drama called High School about sixth form students on drugs. It would be my first TV part.
I try to keep my voice calm.
‘Thank you for the opportunity to read for you.’
They nod and shuffle their papers. Four printouts of my acting CV stare back at me. My upside-down headshot doesn’t look happy.
For auditions, I try to look exactly like my headshot: no make-up on my pale skin (except a secret dot of white eyeliner which Thalia once told me makes actors’ eyes more expressive), black T-shirt (loose enough to be androgynous, tight enough to showcase breathwork), black jeans (soft enough to allow for choreographed movements), one earring (silver hoop from my mum, supposedly lucky), and my signature short back and sides (cut last weekend so that today I would have optimum fresh-but-not-raw look), quiff gelled carefully back. The aim is to be neutral, a blank canvas to showcase not my own personality but that of my character. And also to look explicitly gay. I am confident I have at least succeeded in that.
The director, Laura Brooke (white, blonde, 38, attended Kent Grammar School, father also a successful director, had muesli for breakfast) frowns at my CV. My pulse surges with anxiety. I’ve spent approximately one thousand hours trying to perfect the best structure and wording for it, but whenever I’m in an audition room, I’m convinced I got it wrong. My first-class degree from Saint Genesius School of Drama is surely the most important part so I’ve got that at the top. But does that make it look like I am embarrassed about my unimpressive professional work? Surely, they’re thinking – hang on, this person graduated nine months ago, why hasn’t she had her big break yet? Why are we even bothering to see her in this audition if she hasn’t already had multiple lead TV roles?
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ says Laura.
The camera is on a tripod next to the panel, already recording me. I instinctively angle my face so that it will be capturing my best side.
Unlike theatre, where you must exaggerate your expressions for the audience, good television acting is about reducing your emotions to minute details. Instead of showing your emotions, you should hide them. Fortunately, I’m well-practised at that.
I put down the script. I always bring it so that I can revise my annotations beforehand, but of course I would never dream of auditioning without knowing it by heart.
Deep breath in through my nose, and out again. I close my eyes and let my own gait drop from my body. Just like I practised a hundred, a thousand times over the weekend, I adopt a whole new physicality.
I’m no longer Emmy Clooney (no relation). I’m now… Lesbian Number Two.
‘Fuck off, Christina,’ says Lesbian Number Two. ‘You never seen two women kissing before?’
And… that’s the end of the lines. I hold the silence for a second, all Lesbian Number Two’s pent-up frustration and insecurity tense in the air. Then, controlled, I let all my muscles relax into my own posture. Well, into the character of Emmy Clooney, a professional actor, awaiting feedback.
The panel whoop. One of them does a spontaneous little round of applause.
‘You’re perfect!’ squeals the producer. ‘It’s like you were made for the part!’
I bow my head graciously, but my eye twitches. Damn it, I hope they’ve turned the recording off. I remind myself that being put up for the role of ‘Lesbian Number Two’ doesn’t mean they think that I’m a ‘second-best’ lesbian actress. It will just be because Lesbian Number One is being cast as a more femme lesbian (likely with long hair, lipstick, and other more audience-pleasing stereotypes).
Fictional lesbian couples must either be one femme and one butch, or two femmes. The question of whether two butches have the capacity to fancy each other in real life is irrelevant. The Media rules that two butches cannot be a couple – how else would audiences know which one wears the trousers?
My spiral must have lasted too long, because Laura looks aghast down at my CV.
‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘You are a lesbian, aren’t you?’
I rehearsed a thousand scenarios for this audition, but none of this is playing to my script.
‘I… What?’
Laura’s forehead is crinkled in genuine distress. ‘You are a – er – a woman who – umm – sleeps with other women?’
I’m not sure if I’m thrown because of the weirdness of being asked that outright by strangers, because of the binary implications of that phrasing, or because I’m taken aback that she even needs to ask. Normally it’s enough to just have short hair and do a monologue from Oscar Wilde.
‘I am gay,’ I say, managing to avoid adding ‘duh’. ‘But—’
Technically, I don’t sleep with other women, I avoid saying. I am a woman who has in the past had embarrassingly few half-hearted fumbles with other women. I haven’t even kissed someone since graduation – except onstage.
‘Thank God,’ says Laura. ‘No wonder it’s so authentic! You’re a natural!’
My eye twitches again. I spent one hundred hours practising so that I could look this natural.
I swallow and remind myself what my drama teacher used to say: the sign of a true actor is complete control over your emotions. Whatever I am feeling right now is not relevant. All that matters when the camera is on is the interior life and complex motivations of Lesbian Number Two. Now the camera is off, all that matters is performing the well-rehearsed role of Emmy Clooney, the world’s next great lesbian thespian.
I smile and bow.
‘Thank you so much,’ I say, hand on heart. ‘I really identify with this part.’
The casting panel beam back, radiating the confident glow of good allies.
‘Well done, Emmy,’ says Laura. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
2
Fade out on the audition scene. Or ideally there’d be some kind of fun special effect like they used to do in the noughties – a clunky dissolve, perhaps, or a whoosh.
New establishing shot: a surprisingly nice flat in Walthamstow. The front door is large and green, the marble steps are clean, and there’s a well-kept garden patch with unusual fresh herbs that a witchy viewer might recognise as potion ingredients. The general viewer will question how attractive the flat is given that my character is a clearly unsuccessful actor. They might wonder if the film is going to be unrealistic, or if I have some other source of income, or if the story is set in an alternate universe that is not in the midst of several economic crises.
