Page 13 of Best Supporting Actor

Although he was sweaty from his run, Tag pulled on a hoodie and stuck his feet into his slipper boots so he didn’t cool down too fast. The heating went off at eight and wouldn’t come back on until six, and the house was already feeling chilly. Nothing that a cuppa wouldn’t fix, though.

He headed into the kitchen, grateful for the silence. Tag was gregarious by nature, but before auditions he craved quiet and solitude, needing a bit of mental space to get himself into the right frame of mind, especially for something as important as this audition. He couldn’t afford to mess it up—hewouldn’tmess it up.

He smiled then, unsurprised to see a note propped up against the kettle.

Knock ‘em dead, Tag! I’ll be thinking of you today. Lots of love, Mum xxx

He folded the note and slipped it into his hoodie pocket. For luck.

Once he’d put the kettle on, he made himself a big bowl of porridge. He needed something wholesome to fill his belly so he wouldn’t be distracted by sugar crashes or hunger pangs while he was concentrating on nailing the audition. Then he sat down at the little table in the kitchen to eat while he leafed through the copious notes he’d made on the play and on Owen himself.

When Pete had first mentionedLet Us Go Backbeing about two First World War poets, Tag had imagined willowy young officers regretfully mourning their lost chums from the playing fields of Eton. How on earth, he’d thought, could someone like him find a way into a role like that? Once he’d done some research, though, his enthusiasm for the part began to grow beyond just its potential career benefits.

For a start, Owen had only been twenty-five when he’d died, right on the eve of the Armistice in 1918. That was practically the same age that Tag was now, which had given him pause when he’d worked it out. And yes, while Owen had been middle class, he’d not been wealthy enough to attend university. He’d had to work instead of swanning around Oxford like Sassoon. What had opened everything up for Tag, though, was discovering that Sassoon had once written that he found Owen’s ‘grammar school accent’ embarrassing.

And suddenly, there was the character, fully formed in Tag’s mind: a little awkward, extremely talented, probably gay, yearning to be taken seriously by a privileged literary elite whose gatekeepers, like his mentor and idol, Sassoon, couldn’t see past Owen’s gauche accent.

That’s how Tag had approached Owen in the auditions, and it resonated deeply for him. The character felt genuine, the role meaningful.

In fact, it felt like Tag’s to play, and nobody else's.

His thoughts and preparations were interrupted then by the ding of his phone. He’d turn it off soon, to avoid any distractions, but he smiled to see a WhatsApp notification from Aaron.

Break a leg!

Tag sent back a fingers crossed emoji.

RPP are springing for a limo tonight,Aaron messaged back. Will pick you up at 7, okay?

That made Tag grin. A limo? Hell yeah.

Lewis Hunter, now Aaron’s boyfriend, had been nominated for Best Screenplay at the TV Best Awards, and, because of Tag’s role inBow Street, Aaron had invited him along to fill a spare seat on the RPP table at tonight’s awards ceremony. Tag hadn’t needed to be asked twice. Events like this were fantastic for making industry connections and impossible to get invited to. Of course, Mason might have taken him to a couple, if Jay bloody Warren hadn’t muscled in on Tag’s fake dating scheme. Andhewas the last person Tag should be thinking about right now…

He messaged Aaron back,That’ll get the neighbours talking!

His mum would love it, too. His dad would take the piss, of course, but underneath all that, he’d be a little bit impressed. One day, if he ever made it big, Tag wanted to be the one rolling up in the limo to collect his parents and takethemto an awards dinner—the BAFTAs, maybe—where he, obviously, would be winning Best Actor.

For a few moments, he lost himself in that fantasy before shaking it off irritably; he was losing focus and he had work to do. Switching off his phone, he turned back to his notes. Daydreams got you nowhere in this business. For actors like Tag, with few connections in the industry, the only way to succeed was through hard bloody graft.

And a little sprinkling of luck.

* * *

At 10:48, Tag found himself loitering outside the audition venue. It was a basement room beneath a quirky theatre bookshop, auspiciously located opposite the Young Vic.

His meeting was at eleven, but it always paid to be in plenty of time. Still, before he went in, he checked his reflection in the bookshop window. Today, he’d gone with khaki cargo pants tucked into his battered old DMs and a leather jacket. He thought it suggested ‘soldier’ without being too over the top. He’d slicked his hair back and let it part naturally in the middle, again approximating something from the 1920s. His messenger bag, with the script and his notes, was slung over one shoulder.

He took a breath, readied himself, and headed inside.

The rehearsal room was down a narrow flight of stairs, but there were a couple of chairs at the top where he could wait, and he took a seat. From the bottom of the steps, the sound of muffled voices floated through the closed door, but it sounded like talking rather than performance.

Tag sat straight, doing a couple of breathing exercises to keep him focused while he waited.

And then the door clicked open.

“...thanks, I appreciate your time,” said a light, cultured voice. It reminded Tag, irritatingly, of Jay Warren’s cultivated timbre.

Tag rose.