‘This is Ninian and Emily,’ says the woman with the headphones.
‘Okay, you’ve read theblurb,’ says a man with a goatee beard and small crucifix dangling from his left ear. I’m about to explain I haven’t yet had the opportunity to read the blurb, on account of being late, due to signal failure on the District Line (again) and not being able to run very fast in my new wedge shoes, but he ploughs on without pausing for breath.
‘Now … Emma …’
‘Actually, it’s Emily.’
‘Let’shave you first. Stand on the white cross please, and when you’re given the nod, say your name and agent’s name to camera. Just leave your things on the floor. Okay?’
Dilemma: do I just give my details deadpan, or do I smile and say it with feeling, thereby conveying my warm, sincere personality and versatile acting talent? Never having been for a commercial casting, I don’t know the protocol.
‘When you’re ready please.’
I plump for a bit of both – not too serious, not too gushing.
Ninian opts for the cool, I-do-these-all-the-time approach.
‘Thank you,’ says Goatee, leaping up. ‘Now, just to recap – the scene is a small, intimate Italian restaurant. If you’d like to sit down here, please,’ he says, propelling us over to a metal table and chairs. ‘In front of you is aplate of pasta cooked inPino Pinucciosauce. I’m afraid it’s cold, but I assure you it was freshly cooked this morning. Now, I want a bit of improvised chit-chat to begin with, and then as you start to eat, you, Emma, go into wild raptures at the taste,’ he says, clicking his fingers whilst simultaneously stamping his foot, like he’s about to launch into a paso doble. ‘You, hubby, on the otherhand, carry on eating, oblivious to the stares and sniggers from the other diners. Okay?’ He claps his hands, then leaps backwards onto the arm of the sofa, eyes boring into me, chin cupped in his hand.
‘Camera rolling … and … action!’
Looking around me at the stark, white walls, I say in a thin voice, ‘I’m so glad you brought us here for our anniversary, darling. What a lovely surprise.’Ninian looks at me expressionless.
I poke the oily pasta with my fork.
‘Mmm, this pasta is really delicious,’ I say through a mouthful, resisting the urge to gag. Goatee jumps up, tugging at his beard, crucifix swinging wildly back and forth.
‘No, no, no! We want a bit of va-va-voom! Let us feel our mouths salivating, let ustastethat pasta sauce, let us besweptalong with the sheerenjoyment, thepassion… thinkWhen Harry Met Sally,think … think …orgasmic!’
He flops back down, eyes twirling in annoyance. Ninian sighs and fires me a withering look. I’ve a good mind to chuck the bowl of pasta over his perfectly coiffed head. I know he isn’t supposed to say anything, but God almighty, it’s like sitting opposite a tailor’s dummy.
I wonder if he works much; perhapsMORTUARY CORPSEis his speciality, and he has a string of enviable TV credits to his name:Silent Witness, Law & Order, Casualty, Holby City, Midsomer Murders, Lewis;the possibilities are endless.
‘Now let’s try it again, please,’ hisses Goatee, chewing gum furiously as he glances at his watch. I glimpse the panel: a stony-faced woman with half-shaved hair yawns, a young guy sporting a man-bunand grungy jeans waggles his sneaker-clad foot, while the cool rock chick in denim skirt and cowboy boots plays with her iPhone.
Okay, you arty-farty advertisers, you want va-va-voom? I’ll give you va-va-voom!
Two and a half grand may be a drop in the ocean to Ninian Moncrieff, but to me it’s a fortune. And that cheque with my name on it is just within my grasp. All that stands betweenit and me is a few moments of humiliating myself in front of a bunch of strangers. That’s not so bad, is it?
I close my eyes, draw a deep intake of breath, and fling my head back, diving into a frenzied attack on the mound of pasta, stuffing it into my mouth with both hands, covering my face withPino Pinucciosauce, panting and moaning.
‘Mmm. More … more … Yes, yes, YESSSS!’
Ninianlooks at me, open-mouthed, eyes wide.
‘Thank you!’ booms Goatee eventually, jumping to his feet, a faint smile hovering over his lips. ‘Well, what can I say? Meg Ryan, eat your heart out! We’ll be in touch.’
Ninian scarpers, doubtless terrified he may end up having to escort me back to the tube. I am left to pick up my bag, coat, and last morsel of dignity in stunned silence. I fumblein my pocket. Where’s a tissue when you need one? Head held high, I exit, leaving behind a blob of pasta sauce on the door handle.
I enter the crowded waiting area, woefully aware of the other candidates’ eyes boring through me as they pretend to read their casting briefs.
I clear my throat. ‘Where’s the loo?’ I ask the receptionist.
‘Second door on the left,’ she mumbles, withoutlifting her eyes from herHeatmagazine.
Dammit, it’s engaged, so I about-turn and make a break for it, leaving behind a trail of bloody devastation.
* * *
