Close Up and Personal (2 page)

Anxiously
, I approach the ticket office, feeling my muscles tighten with nerves.

A young woman in gold and green liveried suit looks up. Her lipstick is so
perfect, it makes her mouth look like a magazine cover shot.

“Can I help you?” she smiles. I blink, momentarily overwhelmed by her flawless make-up. Surely she must have someone do it for her?

“I’m here to audition,” I say, adding, “Lorna Hamilton arranged it.”

The woman’s face twists in confusion.

“They sent you up here?” she says. “You usually need to go to the stage door.”

Of course I should have gone to the stage door!
It’s as much as I can do not to slap my hand against my forehead.
What a complete idiot to think I could just walk into the main theatre.

“It’s back outside and round the corner,” she adds, kindly catering to my obvious idiocy.

I nod. “Thanks. Um. Thank you.”

“They probably haven’t put the right signs up,” adds the woman. “It’s absolute chaos today.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “James Berkeley has flown in from LA unannounced, and everyone is running around like a headless chicken!”

“I… I thought he was only a financer,” I say, curiosity getting the better of me. James Berkeley
is
James Berkeley after all. In the movie world, he is one of the biggest directors and producers out there. Not to mention he is seriously hot.

The woman smiles,
obviously sharing my interest.

“Usually
, he doesn’t get involved. But he’s interested in nurturing young talent. So sometimes he flies in to see how the rehearsals are going. It’s a real honour for the actors,” she adds.

I give a half smile in reply before turning on my heel and heading the way I’ve just come.

It surprises me that the woman speaks so warmly of Berkeley. In the movie world
, he’s known for his take-no-prisoners approach to filming and has a reputation for working staff to the brink of exhaustion. Maybe he has a different approach to theatre.

I make my way out of the plush doors and eventually find the considerably less glamorous stage door round the back of the theatre.

Maybe James Berkeley arriving is a blessing in disguise, I think. Perhaps everyone will be too distracted to notice I’m a few minutes late.

I knock and
, after a moment, someone buzzes me in. I enter and am confronted with a grouchy-looking woman behind a glass panel. She must be in her mid-fifties and looks as though she’s been here since the theatre was built.

“I
… Um… I’m here for an audition,” I manage.

She glowers at me and looks at her watch meaningfully.

The clock behind her head reads a few minutes past the hour.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I add
. “I went to the wrong place.”

T
he woman raises her eyebrows.

“Name?”

“Isabella Green.” She consults her list for what feels like an age. Then, just when I think she’s going to find a reason to send me away, she points a coral-painted fingernail along the dark corridor.

“That way,” she says. “Third door left.”

I nod gratefully. She leans forward.

“Do. Not,” she says, pronouncing every word, “
go running around into different rooms. Mr Berkeley is here to watch the rehearsals today, and the last thing he needs is some love-struck young performer interrupting him.”

As if I would
blow my audition to go act the dumb fan!
I am outraged. James Berkeley may be a famous director, but I’m not about to go running around trying to catch a glimpse of him.

Temper, temper.
Keep yourself in check.

I bite back a tart reply, reminding myself to keep my hot-headedness under control.

I’ve learned the hard way that having my mother’s Spanish temperament can be less than helpful in professional situations.

So I choose to ignore the comment and turn away from her, stalking off down the corridor.

I’m still letting the annoyance subside as I find the door marked ‘auditions’. I take a moment outside to steel myself.

Lorna has told me all about the casting director. She’s a formidable woman and unforgiving of slip-ups. I feel the nerves begin to build again.

I’ve learned all my lines
, I remind myself.
At least she can’t be angry at me for that.

Slightly calmer
, I raise my hand and knock on the door.

“Come in!”

To my surprise, it’s not a female voice but a male who calls from inside.

Perhaps she has an assistant.
Or a bevy of other people in to help her watch the casting. I don’t know how big theatres work, but this makes sense.

I
push down the handle and walk in.

But in the room
there is only one person. And as the familiar face turns to me, I feel my heart drop into my shoes.

I can’t believe it.

James Berkeley himself is conducting the audition.

Chapter 3

For a long moment my feet won’t move forward, and it’s all I can do to keep my mouth dropping open in amazement.

The
n my resolve kicks in and I force my legs to move across the room.

The audition space is small, with just a single chair in which Berkeley sits and a mock stage taped
-out in white tape.

Easy
, Isabella
, I say to myself.
Just one step at a time.

I have no idea how I’m going to get my lines out.

I take in the taped-out stage area. It’s about fifteen foot square. Bigger than I was expecting. Somewhere in my panic-frozen brain, I mentally scale up some of my acted movements to fill the area.

“You’re late,” says
Berkeley as I approach the taped-out area in front of his director’s chair.

“And you’re not who I was expecting,” I mutter. My rising fear is mixing with
a feeling of aggravation. What a stunt to pull! Surely even a seasoned professional would be intimidated to find a world-famous director conducting their audition instead of the usual casting director.

Or perhaps this is just
a mean trick to weed out the less experienced actors. In my case, it’s bound to work.

“You are not who I was expecting either,” he says in a low voice. The way he speaks seems to have an extra resonance, and his words rumble around the small room.

My legs manage to carry me into the designated acting area.
Berkeley stares into my face as I stand in the acting area and turn to him. We are about six feet apart, but for some reason, the distance feels a lot closer. The atmosphere is almost intimate. I feel my cheeks begin to heat and pray I’m not blushing.

He’s dressed plainly in the classic director’s black jeans and
T-shirt. I’ve seen this look a hundred times in drama school. But clinging to his broad chest and muscular thighs, they take on a new level of sexy.

He’s so hot.
The thought leaps into my head, unbidden.

There’s a rustle of paper as he consults his notes.

“Isabella Green?” he says. The corner of his mouth twitches, just fractionally.

“Yes.”

“And you are auditioning for Lady Capulet?” He sounds confused.

I let out a breath.

“Yes.”

“
I apologise for the last minute change in who you were expecting. Nancy has been called away,” he says, his tone explanatory.

The words compute in my brain.
Nancy. Nancy Mendes. The casting director. He’s explaining why he’s here instead of her.

“She’s having some… personal problems, and so I offered to step in,” he adds. “Nancy is a good friend of mine.”

She must be a very good friend if he flew here all the way from LA. I wonder idly what his wife must think of her famous husband jetting halfway across the world to help out a female friend.

“You know who I am?” he asks.

His accent is aristocratic English, I realise – something I hadn’t noticed in the nerves of my first arrival. He speaks in the definite tones of the British upper class.

I nod, fractionally.
Of course I know who you are!
my brain screams.

Every drama student
knows about the famous producer-director and his equally famous actress wife.

“Your first film became a cult classic,” I mumble, consulting my student knowledge bank, “and it made you the youngest director to win an Oscar for Best Picture. Then your next three films became huge box office hits.”

He gives a slight smile, as if amused to see his work summarised.

“Quite so. Thank you for the biography,
” he agrees in clipped tones, and I can’t tell if he’s flattered or horrified by my childish description of his career. But something about the tone of his answer goads me.

“You’re also notorious for pushing actors to their limits,
” I retort, “and the rumour is that you’re known as ‘the hammer’ on-set for your work-all-hours approach.”

I regret the words almost as soon as they are out of my mouth.

Damn my Spanish hot-headedness. Will I ever learn?

Berkeley’s eyebrows raise and my sudden rush of courage deserts me.

I stare at him nervously, trying to gauge the effect of my last remark. He seems completely unconcerned.

“The actors who complain of the work do not complain
when they win awards,” he says without emotion.

It’s as much as I can do to concentrate on why I’m here, and I realise I’m staring at his mouth.
I’ve seen James Berkeley in magazines. Everyone has. But in real life, the seductive charm he oozes in photographs is dialled up to the next level.

“I didn’t realise you had such an interest in theatre,” I stumble, filling the silence with the first thing which comes into my head.

He looks surprised.

“I have an interest in all dramatic arts,” he says. “Some of my interests are more financial than hands-on. But that doesn’t mean I don’t find the time to be personally involved when my movie schedule allows.”

He sounds annoyed.

Great start Isabella.

“Well then,” he says, his accent rounding off every word. “You’d better show me what you can do.”

Something about the way he says it suggests he finds the idea funny.

He can already see I shouldn’t be here
. The thought brings a white surge of panic to my stomach and I fight to push it down.

Get out the lines, do your best, and get out of here
,
I say to myself. It’s the best I can hope for.

I walk to the centre of the stage. My script is in my hand because that’s what’s expected at an audition. But I don’t need it. I’ve learned everything by heart.

The part I’ve rehearsed is Lady Capulet’s biggest scene. Where she tells Juliet she must marry a man she doesn’t love.

I close my mind for a moment and try to let the character flow.

Then I take a deep breath and begin. But I’ve only uttered a few lines when Berkeley stops me.

“You’re not using your script,” he says.

I swing to face him, totally wrong-footed in the middle of my performance.

“
I. Um. I’ve learned it by heart,” I say.

He gives a sardonic smile. “How very diligent.”

Great. So James Berkeley doesn’t like me. He could at least have the manners to let me finish my performance
.

Trying not to let his disapproval put me off
, I carry on for a few more lines. But after a moment, he interrupts again.

“What do you think Lady Capulet is feeling at this moment?” he asks.

I stare at him in confusion. But this, at least, is something I can answer.

“She thinks
her domineering husband might do something terrible to Juliet,” I say. “She loves her daughter. But she realises that it is best for Juliet if she marries Paris instead of Romeo.”

“You don’t think that Lady Capulet has her own selfish motives?”

The script in my hand is shaking a little, but I still myself.

“No,” I say, defending my own reading of the play. “That’s not how I read it.
I think she’s doing the best to protect her daughter in a difficult situation.”

“I s
ee.” His voice is crisp, and I realise I have blown it.
This must be what the life of an actor is like
, I think grimly. I should have known it wasn’t for me. The rejection comes like a sharp jab in the pit of my stomach.

“What made you decide to aud
ition as Lady Capulet?” he asks, more kindly now. I realise he’s breaking the news that I’m not right for the part.