All too quickly it becomes a blur, as my brain staunchly refuses to cooperate with my body. Shuffle, hop, step, tap, kick, step, no, slide, shuffle, no, turn … aargh!
‘Everyone got it?’
I clear my throat and tentatively put my hand up again, but then the door bursts open and the othergroup clatter in noisily, practising their little kicks and turns. I detest their serene confidence, their smugness.
I raise my hand once more, but yet again I am upstaged: this time by the arrival of the panel. As they take their seats behind the trestle table, the only sounds to be heard are the shuffling of CVs and photographs, accompanied by the glug-glug of mineral water being poured.Eventually they look up at us grim-faced, as much as if to say,Well, go on then, show us what you’re made of!
‘Okey-dokey, everyone ready?’ calls Neville enthusiastically, flicking his silk scarf over his shoulder and flinging his arms wide.
‘We’ll have Group A first, please. Now remember, try to look as if you’re enjoying it, and don’t forget to give it somerazzmatazz!’
I reluctantlydrag myself to my feet, then shuffle along the back row until I am safely tucked behind a tall, willowy creature, who doubtless knows what she’s doing.
‘And when you’re ready, Julian, from the top, thank you!’
‘And five, six, seven eight …’
It only takes a couple of bars of ‘Steppin’ Out with My Baby’, before I’m a step behind, and why, oh why do I keep on turning the opposite wayto everyone else? Gotta stop looking in the mirror … oops … now I’ve collided with the girl to my left. I duck, narrowly missing an extended arm, belonging to thePhantomdancer in full spin before me. She darts me an icy glare. I now have a stitch in my side and have absolutely no idea what my feet are doing.
Julian ends the piece with a Liberace flourish, and we make way for Group B, whoperform the routine with assured ease.
We stand about nervously as the panel scribble notes, then huddle together, whispering and pointing.
I fix my awkward gaze on a frantic bluebottle, buzzing about the windowpane, desperately seeking an escape route. What I’d give to be atop Crinkle Crags now.
‘First of all, I’d like to thank everyone for coming,’ booms the director. ‘It’s a difficultdecision and I wish we could take you all …’
Come off it, Peter, let’s be honest, don’t you mean all but the red-faced, toe-tied, middle-aged clodhopper in the back row? I am amongst those called for elimination. Well, there’s a surprise.
‘Thank you very much for coming …’ Blah, blah, blah …
OhGod, get me out of here NOW.
I don’t hang around for the group-hugging, kissing, andsympathetic exchange of words, opting instead to trip out of the door to the changing room as fast as my shiny, new tap shoes will carry me.
Never have the busy streets felt so safe and welcoming. I walk around a bit, savouring my anonymity.
I’m about to pop into Starbucks when I notice The Lamb & Flag pub across the street.
I dive through its doors and order a G&T – a double, knockingit back in one, then slamming down the glass on the bar, like they do in gritty TV dramas.
I tell myself to stay calm. Fuelled by Dutch courage, I dial Lionel’s number.
‘Didn’t I tell you, darling?’ he says breezily, ‘the actress who plays Andy also covers the role of Mavis, the dance teacher?’
‘No, Lionel. You left out that tiny bit of information.’
‘Sorry, darling. Anyway, howdid it go?’
If I had another agent fighting for my business then I’d fire him, but I don’t, so we are bound together – unless he fires me first, of course.
On the tube to Richmond I take out the Wish List I wrote after the shopping channel fiasco. I unfold it carefully and make a small amendment:
Findan agent. abetteragent.
Do interesting work that fulfils me.
Write andperform my own play.
