so much,” says Stella. And then, “Witch!” under her breath, still smiling.
“Come on.” I am desperate now.
“OK.” Stella links arms again as we walk quickly down the corridor. “What’s she on, anyway? Anyone would think someone had appointed her Simon bloody Cowell.”
She kicks the bathroom door open.
The Lab may be all Norman Foster glass and chrome, but the toilets are regulation dive. Smell of bleach drowning out the filth and smoke. Lipstick messages on the walls. Tampons spilling out of the sanitary bins.
I lock myself in a stall and pee for what seems like an eternity, nerves eased by the sweet relief of it.
But as I pull my knickers up, I feel a wave of sickness wash over me and I drop onto my knees, staring my pee in the face. I retch but nothing comes up.
Stella bangs on the door.
“Bulimia is so last year.”
“Vodka.” I retch again, trying to heave something up. But it won’t come.
“You only had three,” she says. “You need to work on your alcohol capacity.”
The nausea subsides. I flush the toilet and open the door.
“Maybe it’s nerves.” I turn on a tap and splash lukewarm water on my face. I don’t feel any better.
“Whatever. Get over it.”
“Thanks for the sympathy.”
She smiles. Looks at me staring at myself in the graffitied mirror. “Well, you may not look like a nun, but you’re giving good turmoil. Very Isabella.”
I want to smile, but I can’t. My head is full of the wrong things. I try to pull Isabella’s lines out of the chaos, but they won’t come.
“I can’t do it, Stell.”
“What?”
“The audition. I’m not doing it. I can’t even remember my lines.”
“You can.
That had he twenty heads to tender down/On twenty bloody blocks, he’d yield them up.
”
I shake my head.
“Come on. This is what you want, Jude. Don’t wimp out on me now. Don’t be him. Don’t be Tom.”
But tears are rolling down my cheeks, taking the mascara with them. Washing away the disguise.
“Right. I’ll do it, then,” she says.
I look up. “What?”
“If you won’t go in, I will.”
I don’t understand. “But you can’t . . . you don’t have an audition.”
“No. But you do.”
And I realize what she’s saying. What she’s going to do. For me. And I love her. For caring. For daring to.
But it’s wrong. It can’t work. I shake my head. “They’ll suss it.”
“How? No one knows what you look like yet.”
“What if I — if you get in? They take photos in there.”
“So? Same hair. Same clothes.” She pulls me to the mirror. “Look. I’m you.” And then she starts to sing. But it’s not her voice; it’s mine. It’s eerie. Like watching a better, more brilliant, version of myself. Like the camera on my life has focused and suddenly I’m clear.
I shiver and look away. “You can’t.”
“Just watch me.” She smiles at herself in the mirror and shakes her hair back over her shoulders. “I’m Jude, and I’m fabulous.”
The door opens and a man sticks his head around.
“Oh, sorry. Jude Polmear? Two o’ clock?”
I open my mouth but Stella’s voice rings out. “Yes, that’s me.”
“You’re next.” He nods.
“Coming.” She smiles.
The door closes.
“You see?” She hands me her bag.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
“Yes, I do,” she replies. And I know she’s right. Because I can’t. Because it’s my only way out. My last hope. Or I will suffocate. Like him.
“So, how do I look?” she asks. But she knows the answer.
“You look amazing.” And she does. She is beautiful. A star. How could they not want her?
“Great. Because I am so ready for my close-up.”
And she is gone.
I sit on a plastic chair in the corridor. The audition room is on another floor, but somehow I can still hear her. Or me. Hear her speaking the words I have spent months learning, practicing. Feel the gaze of the panel on her, watching the way she moves. The way Isabella moves. See them nod and take
“Come on.” I am desperate now.
“OK.” Stella links arms again as we walk quickly down the corridor. “What’s she on, anyway? Anyone would think someone had appointed her Simon bloody Cowell.”
She kicks the bathroom door open.
The Lab may be all Norman Foster glass and chrome, but the toilets are regulation dive. Smell of bleach drowning out the filth and smoke. Lipstick messages on the walls. Tampons spilling out of the sanitary bins.
I lock myself in a stall and pee for what seems like an eternity, nerves eased by the sweet relief of it.
But as I pull my knickers up, I feel a wave of sickness wash over me and I drop onto my knees, staring my pee in the face. I retch but nothing comes up.
Stella bangs on the door.
“Bulimia is so last year.”
“Vodka.” I retch again, trying to heave something up. But it won’t come.
“You only had three,” she says. “You need to work on your alcohol capacity.”
The nausea subsides. I flush the toilet and open the door.
“Maybe it’s nerves.” I turn on a tap and splash lukewarm water on my face. I don’t feel any better.
“Whatever. Get over it.”
“Thanks for the sympathy.”
She smiles. Looks at me staring at myself in the graffitied mirror. “Well, you may not look like a nun, but you’re giving good turmoil. Very Isabella.”
I want to smile, but I can’t. My head is full of the wrong things. I try to pull Isabella’s lines out of the chaos, but they won’t come.
“I can’t do it, Stell.”
“What?”
“The audition. I’m not doing it. I can’t even remember my lines.”
“You can.
That had he twenty heads to tender down/On twenty bloody blocks, he’d yield them up.
”
I shake my head.
“Come on. This is what you want, Jude. Don’t wimp out on me now. Don’t be him. Don’t be Tom.”
But tears are rolling down my cheeks, taking the mascara with them. Washing away the disguise.
“Right. I’ll do it, then,” she says.
I look up. “What?”
“If you won’t go in, I will.”
I don’t understand. “But you can’t . . . you don’t have an audition.”
“No. But you do.”
And I realize what she’s saying. What she’s going to do. For me. And I love her. For caring. For daring to.
But it’s wrong. It can’t work. I shake my head. “They’ll suss it.”
“How? No one knows what you look like yet.”
“What if I — if you get in? They take photos in there.”
“So? Same hair. Same clothes.” She pulls me to the mirror. “Look. I’m you.” And then she starts to sing. But it’s not her voice; it’s mine. It’s eerie. Like watching a better, more brilliant, version of myself. Like the camera on my life has focused and suddenly I’m clear.
I shiver and look away. “You can’t.”
“Just watch me.” She smiles at herself in the mirror and shakes her hair back over her shoulders. “I’m Jude, and I’m fabulous.”
The door opens and a man sticks his head around.
“Oh, sorry. Jude Polmear? Two o’ clock?”
I open my mouth but Stella’s voice rings out. “Yes, that’s me.”
“You’re next.” He nods.
“Coming.” She smiles.
The door closes.
“You see?” She hands me her bag.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
“Yes, I do,” she replies. And I know she’s right. Because I can’t. Because it’s my only way out. My last hope. Or I will suffocate. Like him.
“So, how do I look?” she asks. But she knows the answer.
“You look amazing.” And she does. She is beautiful. A star. How could they not want her?
“Great. Because I am so ready for my close-up.”
And she is gone.
I sit on a plastic chair in the corridor. The audition room is on another floor, but somehow I can still hear her. Or me. Hear her speaking the words I have spent months learning, practicing. Feel the gaze of the panel on her, watching the way she moves. The way Isabella moves. See them nod and take
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