Page 2 of Lights, Camera, Love

A balding, middle-aged stranger sits hunched over my kitchen counter, my favourite mug held prisoner in his hands.

His hairy fingers mask the words ‘STRAIGHT OUTTA BED’ printed in black on the white porcelain, but something about his knit cardigan and olive khakis makes me suspect he wouldn’t get the NWA album reference anyway.

‘Hellooo!’ he croons as I attempt to sneak into my own kitchen. ‘You must be Eva.’

‘Hellooo,’ I echo, like we’re on the set of a nineties game show. Not for the first time, I regret inviting my mother to move in with me. It’s way too early for this, Mum. ‘And it’s Evie,’ I correct with slightly heated cheeks. ‘Nice to meet you …’

‘Jack,’ he supplies, smirking with one side of his mouth.

I tighten my fluffy bathrobe in front of the man I assume Mum went out to dinner with last night and hunt for a runner-up mug that’s big enough to hold my litre of coffee.

‘This isn’t yours, is it?’ Hairy Fingers lifts the steaming cup a little higher.

Everything in here is mine, actually.

‘It’s all good.’ I shoot him a smile because I honestly don’t want him to feel bad about the mug or helping himself to my coffee. Where in the infinite depths of the universe is my mother?

I fish a chipped mug from the dishwasher, wash it out, and begin brewing a cup of dark roast.

Hairy Fingers and I are making painfully clumsy small talk about which grocery stores have the best coffee deals when Mum strolls in, draped in a palm-print caftan that looks well out of her budget. It’s still early, yet she’s carefully applied her trademark fire-engine-red lipstick.

‘There she is— La Prima Donna, ’ Hairy Fingers sings in a poor imitation of an Italian accent as Mum pads over to him and kisses his temple, leaving behind a crimson smudge.

Anyone would believe she’s either in a relationship with this man or destined to be in one soon. Anyone who doesn’t know my mother.

‘Morning, Evie,’ she says over a yawn while brushing past me, drenching my nostrils in expensive perfume. ‘I see you’ve met Jack.’

‘I’m not surprised you have such a gorgeous daughter,’ he remarks, the compliment clearly meant for Mum rather than me. His eager eyes ogle her behind as she flings open the fridge and pulls out the organic pomegranate juice she bought yesterday.

‘How’s your head?’ she asks him while filling her glass with juice; presumably, they made the most of last night’s wine menu.

‘Depends on which head you mean,’ Hairy Fingers quips under his breath.

Mum bursts into girlish laughter as she tosses a tea towel at him. ‘Well, I’m sure there’s one that’s feeling quite content,’ she deadpans as he shakes off the tea towel like a wet dog drying itself.

I think I puke a little in my mouth.

A faint, tinny rendition of ‘Birds of a Feather’ by Billie Eilish tingles from my bedroom, and I mentally kiss the universe for saving me from this unfolding horror show.

I reach my phone just before it rings out.

‘You have no idea what you just saved me from , ’ I say to my agent, setting my coffee on the bedside table.

Martina chuckles. ‘Oh no, what did I interrupt?’

I sit on my emerald-green bedspread and curl up a knee. ‘Mum brought a guy home last night, and they’re having flirty sex banter right in front of me. Ugh, I should’ve just stayed in bed.’

I swear, her grimace is audible. ‘Your mum’s still living with you?’

‘Yup. Mum and her revolving door of Tinder dates. You hardly ever call me this early, lovely,’ I observe and blow on my coffee. ‘Got something fun to tell me?’

‘Sure have. An email came through last night about an audition for this Friday.’

I sit up higher. ‘Please tell me they’re bringing Hamilton back to Australia. You know I would sacrifice a limb to be in that show. Well, maybe not a limb. They’d probably want me to have all my limbs.’

Dancing is all I’ve ever wanted to do, but renting in Sydney’s inner west isn’t cheap, and teaching hip-hop several times a week isn’t exactly covering my bills, especially now that Mum’s moved in.

Her casual hospitality earnings don’t quite align with her impulsive spending habits, and she’s got more credit card debt than she can keep up with.

None of this is news—I spent my childhood enjoying gourmet seafood platters and freshly baked desserts on Mum’s payday and then living off rice and tinned tuna for the rest of the month—but this past year has really tested her lack of budgeting skills, with her car breaking down and her hospitality staffing agency going under.

When it got so bad that she couldn’t pay her rent, I offered her my guestroom on the spot.

I know she only has herself to blame for indulging in shopping sprees when she’s got bills piling up, but it felt like the least I could do for the person who single-handedly raised me.

It must have been tough for her to save up a nest egg when she had me to look after all on her own.

As careless as she is with money, Mum always found a way to pay for my countless dance lessons and expensive competition costumes.

Still, I need to figure out a solution to this because I can’t imagine living with my dear mother forever.

I’m beginning to think that the only way she’ll be able to afford her own place again is if I have enough money coming in to help her get back on her feet.

Perhaps I can even buy her some money-management lessons to go with that fresh start.

It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make to not have to share a space with her and the Jacks of Tinder.

I love my mum to death, but we have wildly different views on things.

Martina laughs. ‘The audition isn’t for Hamilton , I’m afraid.

This is actually for a lead role in a new Australian film!

’ My lips pop open as she continues. ‘Village Pictures are spearheading it, and they’re looking for a female dancer who can also act.

Ginnifer Carlos was meant to play the part, but she’s had a scheduling conflict. ’

‘ Ginnifer Carlos? What film is this?’ I’m already seeing dollar signs.

Martina hums. ‘Thought that might get your attention. It’s a romantic dance movie called’—her computer mouse makes a series of clicks—‘ Moving .’

I can’t help but cringe at the title.

‘The notes here say it’s about a wealthy farmer whose estranged daughter comes to live with him after her mother dies,’ Martina explains.

‘The daughter hasn’t spoken a word since her mum’s death, but she loves to dance.

So, to help the daughter express herself, the farmer hires a dance teacher from the city to come and stay with them and teach the daughter, and the father and dance teacher end up falling in love.

The lead male actor will be at the audition, so it’ll be a chemistry read with him, too. ’

My smile practically reaches my ears. ‘I can’t believe it—a movie!

’ I want to roll onto my back and kick my feet in the air like I’m twelve instead of twenty-seven.

It’s not like I’ve never had an on-screen audition: I’ve been cast in a few commercials here and there and even played a recurring character in a TV police procedural last year.

But film auditions are rare, especially ones for the lead role.

‘Here’s the kicker,’ Martina says. ‘The director is Brian Winter—he’s Harold Winter’s nephew, and he’s been making big waves on the short-film festival circuit.’

‘Holy moly—are you serious?’ Harold Winter may have been born in a tiny Australian town, but he’s one of the world’s most famous film directors. He has more Oscars shining up his mantle than Spielberg. Hopefully, his nephew has inherited some of his remarkable talent.

‘This could be huge for you, Evie.’ Martina draws in a deep breath. ‘So, with that in mind, do you think we should mention—’

My chest constricts. ‘No.’

I hear her swallow hard. This is a conversation we’ve had before, and it always ends the same.

‘No mentioning my biological father’s name,’ I instruct, a sharp twinge pulsing through my chest. Gabriel Dean, the actor who gave me half my genes and nothing else, has a bigger name in Hollywood than even Harold Winter’s, but I don’t want his name attached to mine. Ever .

Martina sighs. It can’t be easy for her not to play the nepo-baby card when she’s negotiating a potential role for me, but this is a hard no, regardless of how much I need the work.

‘It’s your call,’ she concedes. ‘Promise me you’ll put the work in for Friday, though, okay? Maybe your mum can dust off her acting chops and run the lines with you. Because if Ginnifer Carlos was attached to this script, it’s probably exceptional.’

‘Of course. Thank you for being so amazing, lovely.’

She makes kiss noises into the phone. The moment we end the call, I dash into the hallway to tell Mum about the audition. The breathy mumble of wet, smacking lips assaults my ears before I even reach the kitchen.

I spin on my feet and hurry back to my room.

Please, for the love of all that is good in the world, let me get this role, not only for my career, but so I can get enough money to help set up Mum on her own.

This script is not exceptional.

In fact, it sucks .

Or at least this scene does, the one I’m still silently rehearsing in the casting agency’s waiting room at ten minutes past four on Friday.

Was Ginnifer Carlos on crack when she agreed to do this film?

If this scene is anything to go by, the role of the wealthy farmer, Jamie, has all the substance, while the dance teacher, Constance, is only there to look good in a ‘leotard’ (the writer evidently grew up in the eighties) and say things like:

CONSTANCE

(Winks) Dancing isn’t the only way to burn calories.

Seriously?

‘Evie Scott?’

My gaze snaps up to find a young woman in a pair of horn-rimmed glasses peering through the double doors.