Page 81 of The Start of Something Wonderful

‘Yes, that’s me,’ I say, standing up, legs wobbly after my night on board the National Express, heart pounding, cheeks flushed.

‘Thank you for coming,’ says the casting director, pulling out a chair. ‘This is Rob, our director.’

Rob stands up and shakes my hand, looking me over with a critical eye. Could Ibe the middle-aged spinster he’s been looking for?

‘Take a minute to familiarise yourself with this bit of script,’ says the casting director.

‘Oh, I’ve prepared the scene you …’

‘We’ve had a rewrite, so have a look at this,’ she says, pushing a couple of pages across the table.

I fumble in my bag for my glasses.

‘Take your time.’

My eyes scan the lines. A mobile rings.

Rob gets up and strides over to the window.

‘Yep, yep. No. Tell him we start shooting in two days. That’s final.’ Throwing his phone onto the table he sits down, turns to me, and says, ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

The red camera light winks at me.

‘The key on screen is mental transmission,’ Portia told us. ‘Be subtle. Don’t project. The microphone will hear you. Don’t use your body toomuch. The camera will pick up the tiniest twitch, flicker of the eye. Don’t blink. Don’t pull faces. Use your brain. Less is more.’

‘Good,’ says Rob after I’ve finished. ‘I’d like you to do it again, but this time put away the script and if you can’t remember the lines, improvise.’

Improvise? Yikes. Come on, remember Branworth Rep? If you can improvise your way through an entire play,then what’s two pages?

‘Ready,’ I say, looking unblinkingly into the eye of the camera.

* * *

One hour later, I’m back wandering the Glasgow streets, killing time until the two o’clock coach.

How did it go? Fine, I think. I did my best. Will I get the part? Who knows? They gave nothing away. A noncommittal ‘We’ll be in touch.’ That’s all.

With filming just a couple of daysaway, at least I won’t be left in Limboland for long.

We’ve just pulled out of a Welcome Break service station and I’m tucking into my curly cheese sandwich, when my phone rings.

‘It’s Rosalind.’

‘Hi, Rosalind. It went well I think, but whether …’

‘You got the job.’

‘I did?’

‘Filming starts Monday. I’ll e-mail you the schedule and your e-ticket. Well done.’

Whey hey!Even the smell of the chemical toilet and my unwashed, Big Mac-chomping neighbour can’t dampen my excitement. My first proper telly, playing an actual character, with lines and a costume, and a backstory, as opposed to the rabbit-in-the-headlights presenter of eighteen months ago.

* * *

Il Mulino – the next evening