My Own Worst Enemy, page 3
As the rest of the shift passes in a monotonous blur, I try to surreptitiously practise for the audition. I do my usual trick of cleaning the empty tables, muttering to myself.
I’m auditioning for an indie short film which reimagines the Victorian male-impersonators from Sarah Waters’ novel Tipping the Velvet as a modern-day queer couple, performing in a gay bar. I’m up for the role of Nan, a drag king who falls in love with her co-star, Kitty. It could be my first-ever main part, and the director has enough kudos that if I got it, it’s just possible that Thalia would hear about it. And I’d get to wear a top hat.
The last customers to leave are the three gays. As I’m clearing their table I notice they’ve left something on the bill tray, and for a mad second I think Mullet left me their number. But no, when I open the pizza-shaped card, all I see is a single five pence piece.
I sigh and put it in the tip jar. To be fair, it’s more than I’ve earned from acting this month.
I flip the CLOSED sign with great relief. The other staff manage to escape before Dad changes the classical music to Semisonic’s ‘Closing Time’. Dad sings along loudly while I mop in silence.
Pete comes out from the kitchen and removes his chef’s cap. Visually it doesn’t make much difference as his hair is permanently moulded to its shape.
‘Thanks for your work today, Emmy.’
I salute.
‘Thanks for your employment today, Boss.’
He chuckles and gives me a doughy kiss on the cheek. ‘Not your boss once the cap’s off,’ he says, and starts switching off the kitchen appliances.
Dad grabs his end-of-day items from the counter – the shift calendar and the tip jar. He tucks the jar under his arm, the coins and notes swishing like sweet music. He takes a well-worn pencil from his waistcoat pocket and licks the lead, looking up at me efficiently.
‘Now then, Patata,’ – (that’s a relief, he only calls me potato when he’s happy with me) – ‘how many shifts do you need next week? I’ve currently got you with Carmella on Friday and Saturday, but your rent’s due next week, isn’t it? Shall I add you in for Monday and Tuesday?’
I shift uncomfortably.
‘Well, Dad… I actually had a really good audition today.’
His pencil hovers.
‘It’s for prime-time TV!’ I add. ‘I think this could be it!’
Dad, in his pizza-themed uniform, looks at me pityingly.
‘Right…’ he says. ‘And even if you do get it, when will they pay you?’
I bite my lip.
The amount you get paid for acting roles is notoriously difficult to predict, and the paperwork can take a hideously long time. But damn it all, I’m nine months past graduation; surely I should be earning enough to live off my acting work by now! If Thalia could see me, still serving pizzas in my dad’s house…
‘Monday and Tuesday sound great,’ I mumble.
He pats my head and I watch him happily scribble my name into even more boxes on the calendar. One of these days, I tell myself, one of those days will be my last shift. Then again, I thought the same thing years ago…
Dad shuts the calendar and then opens the tip jar. He rummages and holds out a handful of money to me, including the prized twenty he got earlier.
‘Dad, I absolutely did not earn that. All I got was five pence.’
‘We’re a team,’ he says, pushing it into my pocket. ‘We all contribute, we all benefit.’
‘No, Dad, we’re individuals,’ I say, pushing it into his. ‘This is yours, you earned it, not me.’
‘Emmeline,’ he says sternly.
I meet his eye. I think I understand his expression. What’s he going to spend this on – another board game for him and Pete? It would just go back into the pizzeria.
I swallow, then nod and mumble a thanks as I slip the glistening twenty into my pocket.
Dad pulls me into a hug and then holds me at arm’s length, studying me with unusual sincerity.
‘Polpetto,’ – (when he’s sorry for me, I’m a meatball) – ‘if things don’t work out with – well, if you ever need a proper full-time job, you know there’s always a place for you here, don’t you?’
I wriggle out of his grip.
‘Yeah, Dad, I know.’
He’s not done. He coughs uncomfortably.
‘Has, er, has your mother been in contact with you recently?’
I freeze.
‘No. No, of course not!’ It’s not technically true, she still texts every few weeks. ‘Nothing new,’ I say. ‘Nothing important. And even if she had, you know I wouldn’t reply.’
‘Oh, my little Prosciutto.’ He shakes his head and squeezes my cheek. I think he’s always at his most affectionate towards me when I’m stating my fealty to him, or insulting Mum.
But then Pete calls out. ‘Time for me to win back that Monopoly money.’
Dad turns away from me, looking relieved.
‘Get ready to lose your day’s wages, Chef.’
They walk up to their flat, trash-talking, just like every other night. I watch as they close the novelty meatball doorknob behind them.
4
No matter how many auditions I do, I still feel petrifyingly sick beforehand. But it’s especially nerve-wracking when it’s a project that actually sounds good.
On the morning of the Tipping the Velvet audition, Raphy makes me a green smoothie, and Ruth makes me an espresso. I force them down. Then I have a choice between whether to do a yoga pose with him or a power pose with her. As usual, I take the latter, smiling apologetically at the former. He says namaste disappointedly.
The audition itself is in a rundown gay bar. Instead of a bouncer, the casting director is on the door with the list of actors.
I’ve arrived my usual forty-five minutes early. I join the queue with three other actors, who are all classic ‘girl-next-door’ casting types: one blonde, one brunette, one red. They all smile white smiles at me. Oh God, I never know what to do back. We might end up colleagues, so I want to be professional, but I don’t want them to think I’m coming on to them or something equally business inappropriate. In the end I just freeze and look away.
‘If you’re here for the part of Kitty, please sit on the left – you’ll audition in room 1,’ says the casting director to those in front. Then, spotting me, says, ‘Phew, a Nat! You’ll be on the right.’
I haven’t been inside a gay bar since Raphy took me to his short-lived drag debut. It feels wholesome during the day – the rainbow bunting isn’t hidden by gyrating bodies. The bar tables have been pushed to the sides and two rows of chairs are laid out facing each other. On the left, there are two more girl-next-doors. On the right, the chairs are all empty. I sit on one, feeling like the loser at a school disco.
The next-doors are reading their lines, or even, quelle horreur, talking to the other actors. I spend ten minutes with my eyes shut, rehearsing in my mind. I’m only momentarily distracted when another Nat auditionee arrives. I recognise her: Sandy Lopez. We’ve been up for the same roles before, and I’ve always beaten her. I used to be secretly reassured by this and think my training must have counted for something, but now I wonder if it’s because she’s an unclear type. She has a buzz cut, chiselled bone structure, and a medium-large dick energy, but she’s wearing a dress and make-up. Offstage, it’s a great look. But for being typecast in the acting industry? Rookie mistake.
When Sandy sits down next to me, I stand up. Seeing competition makes my nausea even worse, and I can’t be distracted from my pre-audition habits. I’m not superstitious, exactly… I simply believe that if any part of my ritual is off, my audition will burst into flames.
I push open the door to the toilets, still marvelling at why other actors don’t use loos the way I do. It’s like my own private green room.
I breathe out slowly, scrutinising myself in the mirror. My audition uniform matches my headshot, as usual; all black denim for an archetypal ‘androgynous butch’ look. I carefully dampen my fingers from the dripping tap and tame one loose hair from my quiff back into its rightful place.
I go into a cubicle for privacy and shake out my muscles. I swivel my tongue around my mouth clockwise and then anti-clockwise. I pull a section of my hair like a puppet string to centre my posture.
I place my hands on my abdomen and breathe deeply. On the exhale, I violently push my diaphragm out, with a ‘ha’ sound.
‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’
I take another deep breath in.
‘Ha! H—’
A creak; I freeze. But after a few long seconds holding my breath, all I hear is the tap dripping, so I move on to my articulation exercises.
‘Unique New York,’ I say, enunciating every syllable. ‘Unique New York.’
There’s another creak, louder this time, recognisably the bathroom door. I break off, my mouth frozen in ‘oo’.
Has one of the other actors found my spot? Or does someone just need a wee?
A slow tap of soles on linoleum. The door next to mine creaks plastically open, then shut, then locked.
I have to decide whether to make my presence known, pretend I’m weeing, and therefore rustle some loo roll (commit!). But the moment passes and I’ve stayed quiet too long. I glance at my watch: ten minutes until I’m scheduled to go in. I’ll just have to creepily wait for this person to do their business and then carry on. I twist my earring to ward off bad luck.
But there’s no rustle of clothes from next door. Only the lid of a loo seat being flicked closed, and the slight scuff of trainers on sticky linoleum. Then, like a renegade saying the password at the door of a speakeasy, a voice says,
‘Unique New York.’
The articulation is effortless and flawless. The voice is slightly higher and brighter than mine, and the accent is unusual – New Zealand, with something else. Irish?
I hold my breath. Am I being mocked, teased, or challenged? Could this be a bizarre coincidence?
Very seriously, I ask, ‘A proper copper coffee pot?’
There’s a pleased chuckle from the other side of the wall. A tingle dances along my spine. I’d have to practise a lot to make a laugh as charming as that.
‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,’ they say.
I say it back, faster. But halfway through they join in with me, so that we’re saying it in unison.
I start again, trying to accelerate to the end of the line to beat them. But they keep up, laughing, with perfect diction in that unusual accent. Yes, definitely New Zealand and Irish, but there’s still something else, like they’ve picked up inflections from multiple places. And I swear it’s familiar in some way, but I can’t place why.
‘If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers…’
I urge my mouth forwards, fumbling slightly but faster, racing through the last line to the punch and just beating them. We’re both shouting now.
‘Where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?’
We break off triumphantly and their laughter is infectious. I bark and then feel self-conscious at how ugly my laugh is compared with theirs.
‘Well,’ says the voice, ‘I have never felt so warmed-up.’
Damn it. What am I playing at, fraternising with the enemy before an audition? But wait, it might be all right. This could be the person who plays Kitty opposite my Nat… I could be signing up to perform opposite that voice.
‘You’re not here for the part of Nat?’ I ask.
‘No,’ they say, and my heart soars. ‘I’m here to do a massive shit.’
I laugh in surprise, then stop. The echo in here is not flattering.
‘Yeah, I am actually here for the part of Nat,’ they say. ‘You?’
‘Oh…’ I say. ‘Me too.’
There’s a pause.
‘We can practise together,’ they say, at the same time that I say, ‘We’re rivals.’
There’s another pause. Then we both, at the same time again, say, ‘Jinx.’
They laugh. ‘We probably just cancelled each other out.’
The wall next to me wobbles, as though they’re leaning against it on the other side of the cubicle. I have an image of leaning against it too, like in a music video where the lovers are in different bedrooms thinking about each other.
I’m going mad. I stay seated.
‘I’m Em, by the way. Emmy Clooney. No relation.’
They laugh again, that delightful laugh.
‘God, I’m sorry. Do you have to say that every time?’
‘Yeah, it’s difficult not having a famous actor for a parent.’
The voice pauses for a moment and I fear my joke hasn’t landed. Then the angelic sound comes again and I smile to myself.
‘I’m Mae. Mae Jones.’
‘Mae Jones,’ I echo, then blush. God, why am I being so embarrassing?
‘My pronouns are she/her,’ she adds.
‘Oh! Yes! Sorry, I should have – me too,’ I say, glad she can’t see me flustering. ‘It’s a pleasure to, er… Does this count as meeting you?’
‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m planning to leave this bathroom stall at some point.’
She clicks open her lock. There’s the squeak of her shoes, and then I can see them under the gap at the bottom of my door. Well-worn, outrageously chunky multicoloured trainers, their soles so large they’re practically platform, turn towards me.
The tap drips.
‘What’s wrong?’ Mae asks with a laugh. ‘You need to do a pre-audition shit?’
‘No, I…’
I don’t want to break the spell. But that’s stupid.
‘Well then,’ I say, to force myself, ‘I’m coming out now.’
‘Proud of you.’
I laugh and take a breath. Then I open my cubicle door.
Looking out, I lock eyes with myself in the mirror.
But something is wrong.
Yes, my dark brown hair is short, my face is pale and slightly flushed, my eyes are blue. But it’s all… Off. It’s like a game of spot the difference. I’m wearing the wrong clothes. In the mirror, my professional black audition outfit has become a clashing pink and red oversized shirt, over baggy blue jeans. My ear is pierced in the wrong ear, and instead of a hoop it’s a glittering stud. Where my face is usually long and chiselled, in the mirror I have adorable dimples. I’m holding out my hand to shake, but in the mirror, I’m going in for a hug. And the smile in the reflection – a smile that’s broader, straighter, more mischievous and charismatic than my own – is quickly dropping.
For a second, I have a sense of an alternate universe, a universe where I’m like myself, but better in every way.
Then I realise it’s not me at all.
But Mae is exactly my type.
*
My pre-audition routine is in flames.
I sit on the right side of the room, hyper-aware of Mae next to me. Her knee is centimetres away – a knee that is surely the same but better than mine.
The Kitty auditionees are staring at us. It’s different, being variations on a mainstream casting type. We’ve all seen two pretty ‘girl-next-doors’ sitting next to each other. But in an audition room, two – whatever you want to call us – overtly androgynous, masc-of-centre, ‘soft butch’ women – are a rarer exhibit.
I feel my seat starting to shake and think that, of course! Now there’s an earthquake. Then I realise it’s Mae, next to me, convulsing with silent laughter.
I slowly turn to look at her.
‘Sorry, sorry, I always laugh when I’m—’ She catches my eye and sets herself off again, clutching her belly as if she’s in agony. I stay very still. I feel in pain too.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ she splutters.
‘This is bad luck,’ I whisper.
Mae’s bluer-than-my eyes stare at me.
‘It’s bad luck to meet your doppelganger,’ I say. ‘When it happens in fairy tales, you and your lookalike are destined to fight to the death. Only one can survive.’
I don’t know the specific ritual for warding off this kind of omen – I’ll have to consult Raphy. But in the meantime, I knock on the side of my head three times.
Mae’s eyes twinkle. She leans into me and says, ‘It doesn’t feel like bad luck to me.’
I look away, my cheeks burning. I can feel some kind of dark magic working on me already, deep in my stomach.
The audition room door opens, and the casting director calls out, ‘Emmy Clooney?’
I know I need to stand, but I’m stuck to my chair.
It’s official. Mae has cursed me.
Mae softly touches my elbow. ‘Hey, are you OK? Want me to go first?’
I blink at her hand, then force myself to look back up at her face. Her better-than-my face. Her photogenic, cinematic, ready-for-a-close-up face. Why would any casting director choose me when they could have her?
I have no shadow of a doubt that Mae Jones will beat me to this part, and any others she wants.
I stand suddenly. All the audition preparation papers that were in my lap fall to the floor. Mae and I both duck to pick them up, and bump heads. She clutches at hers, laughs, and moves back to grab the papers again. I try to snatch them away. Each of us grapples with half the pages of my worn-out copy of the acting Bible (Constantin Stanislavski: An Actor Prepares). The book rips in two.
We both stumble back slightly, then look instinctively from the pages up at each other.
If my eyes are an overcast blue, hers are a clear summer afternoon. They search mine, and then, for just a fraction of a moment, flicker down the rest of my body. She must be doing exactly what I’m doing: comparing us, sizing up the competition. Like me, she’ll be cataloguing all the ways in which she is superior. She frowns at my face, no doubt seeing all my inferiorities. Then her face splits into her effortless grin.
Blood powers up my cheeks. It’s clear. We both know she’s the alpha, and I’m the pathetic beta.
I turn on my heels, and walk as calmly as I can down the room.
‘Emmy?’ call two voices behind me, but I’m already at the door.
As soon as I’m outside, I break into a run, dumping all my preparation for the part in a bin.
