Waiting for Callback Page 3

  ‘Performing? Being onstage?’

  I tried to explain what it had felt like which was so much more than ‘fun’, and Stella and Charlie were both smiling and nodding and I relaxed a little. I think I’d finally said something they wanted to hear.

  ‘So, Elektra, do you really think you want to be an actor?’ asked Stella.

  It was a simple enough question and I knew or thought I knew what the right answer was. Of course I wanted to be an actor – but now she was actually asking the question I hesitated . . .

  I knew that I wanted someone to ask me to act in their television drama or their film right now. I knew that I wanted to be onstage in front of an audience (or even without an audience). I knew I wanted my photo on The Wall. I knew I wanted an agent. I knew I wanted to be Juliet to both Douglas Booth’s and Gregory Peck’s Romeo. I knew lots of things in my head and in my imagination. But Stella was asking: ‘Do you want to do this for real,’ and that was a massively big question.

  Stella, my mother and Charlie were all leaning forward in their chairs, waiting for my answer. God, the pressure. ‘I just . . . I know I want to do it now, but I think it’s maybe a better job when you’re fifteen than when you’re thirty.’

  Stella stared at me. My mum fidgeted. Even Charlie looked embarrassed. The perfect children on The Wall judged me. I blushed (again).

  There was silence for a long moment and then Stella smiled and said, ‘Quite right, Elektra; I think you’ll handle this just fine.’ She paused and exchanged a look with Charlie. ‘Look, I know you’ll need to go away and think about this . . .’ I wouldn’t. ‘But from our side I might as well just say straight away that we’d love to represent you.’

  I’d passed a test. I was stupefied.

  Stella started talking to my mum all about how contracts and fees worked and when I’d recovered a bit I snuck a look at my phone under the desk. There was a whole scroll of text messages from Moss.

  Good luck

  GOOD LUCK

  GOOOODDDDD LUCKKKKKKK

  I just called you

  But you didn’t pick up

  Which is annoying

  Because I wanted to be nice

  And wish you LUCCCCKKKKK.

  It was typical of Moss both that she’d remembered to phone me to wish me luck and that she’d been about an hour too late. She was pretty much always an hour late for everything. In fairness, it was typical of me that I’d forgotten to switch off my phone. I pretty much always forgot stuff.

  ‘We need to get your Spotlight form filled in.’ Stella pulled me back into the conversation. ‘It’s a sort of CV.’

  Personal details were easy: height, eye colour (brown – which sounds better than ‘muddy’ which is what they actually are), hair (brown – more mediocrity right there), etc. My ‘native’ accent is, apparently, Received Pronunciation (aka RP – just a tiny bit on the posh side of normal). Then things started to go downhill.

  ‘Do you have any other accents?’

  I looked at Stella questioningly.

  ‘You know, can you do an American accent or an Irish accent or a Scottish accent?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You must watch American TV shows? Friends?’

  I shook my head (I mean, I’d seen it, but I wasn’t an expert).

  ‘Pretty Little Liars?’

  I nodded. I may have watched several hundred episodes.

  ‘Great. Then you probably can do an American standard accent. That’s always the most useful one. Have a go.’

  I had one of these blank moments when I couldn’t think of anything to say. There was a yellow Post-it stuck on Stella’s desk: ‘Remember call Jamie’s mum after 5 p.m. re Potato Boy CBBC casting.’ I tried not to get distracted by imagining what sort of show CBBC were planning that could possibly be titled Potato Boy and read it out in what I hoped was the right sort of American accent.

  Apparently, it wasn’t any sort of American accent – I watched as Stella wrote NONE.

  ‘Do you speak any other languages?’

  ‘A little bit of French,’ put in my mother from the sidelines. I could tell she was still nervous by the way she was holding her handbag on her knee like a large and expensive body shield.

  ‘Could you cope with a script in French?’ asked Stella.

  My mother and I looked at each other and shook our heads. Stella wrote NONE in the ‘Other Languages’ category.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said kindly. ‘OK, let’s move on to skills.’

  Now we were talking. This was where my optimistic if scattered attendance at after-school activities was going to pay off.

  ‘Instruments?’ Stella asked, pen poised.

  ‘Piano and er . . . violin,’ I offered.

  ‘Both at grade five or above?’

  ‘Er . . . no.’

  ‘Neither?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Singing?’

  ‘I sing.’ Everybody sang, right?

  ‘Trained? Musical theatre? Classical? School choirs?’

  ‘No.’ Maybe not.

  ‘Dance? Jazz? Tap? Ballet? Circus skills?’

  I shook my head. Mum had slumped into a mortified heap beside me. All those hours of ferrying me to after-school clubs and I was a total failure.

  ‘Not to worry,’ Stella said briskly. ‘I’m sure there’s something we can put down. How about swimming, skating, fencing, horse riding . . . ?’

  I sensed my mother twitch into excited life, but I put out a hand to restrain her.

  ‘Would I have to be good enough to do them on-screen?’ I asked.

  ‘Or onstage, yes.’

  ‘Well . . . better just leave that blank too,’ I suggested, keen to have this over. I’d never realized actors were so talented. I’d just thought they were good at pretending and either hot enough to look good on a red carpet and/or twenty feet tall in high definition (surely achievement enough right there) or weird enough to play ‘character’ parts without too much time in hair and make-up. But no; they can all speak in tongues and walk a tightrope while singing a show tune.

  Stella didn’t seem that bothered by my hopelessness. She shoved my mostly blank Spotlight form into the out tray on her desk and gave my mother (who must have been wishing she had lots of other better-skilled children) a list of photographers who could take my headshots.

  ‘Turn up in a black or white top with a simple neckline; that photographs best,’ Stella advised. ‘Choose a photo that looks like you, no make-up and no touching up; it never does to disappoint them when you walk through the door.’

  Which I was pretty sure wasin general.

  Stella’s Words of Wisdom

  1.

  There are far more parts for boys than girls and far more girls than boys looking for parts. My gender would certainly be a disadvantage.

  2.

  Most parts for child actors are playing younger versions of adult actors. The adult actors are cast first. Most actresses are skinny, blonde and beautiful. In other words, my hair ‘etc.’ was a disadvantage.

  3.

  Unlike Real Life, most roles require an accent that’s either cut-glass Queen’s English or Cockney – my accent being somewhere in the middle was a disadvantage.

  4.

  My teeth had better stay perfectly straight. Braces or, worse, wonky teeth would certainly prove to be a disadvantage.

  5.

  There are more parts for teeny little cute girls than for girls at an ‘awkward’ age. My age would be a disadvantage (although if I hung in there till sixteen there were ‘coming-of-age’ roles – bring it on).

  6.

  Puberty generally was a disadvantage (they had no idea). If I got fatter or spottier or too much taller or too busty (I wished), I’d be dropped like a Christmas jumper in January.

  7.

  If I got lucky and was picked for a great role, I’d probably be typecast and never work again, i.e. any early success would be a disadvantage.

  8.

  Ob
viously, failure at any stage would also be a disadvantage.

  9.

  All child actors would probably soon be replaced by CGI which would be creepy and a disadvantage.

  From: Stella at the Haden Agency

  Date: 14 November 16:51

  To: Julia James

  Cc: Charlotte at the Haden Agency

  Subject: RE: Elektra James – contract

  Dear Julia,

  Thank you for sending over the signed contract today. Charlie and I are both so pleased that Elektra wants to join our stable of talent!

  We think we’ve become pretty good at telling which children will enjoy this mad(!) world, but we are very conscious that the reality of what can be quite a tough business is sometimes a shock. If Elektra is unhappy or struggling or even if you feel that she is just losing her wonderful enthusiasm for acting, we really would urge you to let us know straight away. We’re here to help support her.

  We look forward to hearing from you.

  Kind regards,

  Stella

  P.S. Do tell Elektra that Charlie was so impressed by her ringtone that she too has downloaded her very own animal alert (a cow)! I confess to mixed feelings about this!

  ‘I’m just normal. Acting is a hobby between my A levels.’

  Nicholas Hoult

  ‘It’s official. Mum sent back the signed contract today. I’m in business. I am “Under New Management”.’ Which I know made me sound a bit like a restaurant, but I just liked the idea of being under any kind of (non-parental) ‘management’.

  Eulalie made a strange Frenchy (to be fair she was French), yelpy sort of sound that I took to mean that she was almost as excited as I was. ‘We must make some shopping.’

  I loved Eulalie (and not just because she loved shopping). Years ago – before I was even born – she’d rescued Mum’s lovely (now dead) father from the clutches of her awful (and still living) mother, Granny Gwen. She was my favourite ‘grandmother’ (and, genetics aside, definitely the one I had the most in common with).

  ‘Chérie, you need beautiful clothes for going to see all the famous directors. Nothing from that horrible Large Shop.’ She helped herself to most of the salad (which I appreciated because there was less left for me).

  ‘You mean Top Shop . . . I don’t think it will be quite like that. I mean, I’m not sure I’ll be meeting famous directors.’

  ‘But of course, bien sûr. How else are you going to act for them?’

  It was a fair point, but still sort of unimaginable.

  ‘We’ll go to Harrods.’ (Just assume that every ‘h’ is silent and every ‘r’ is rolled – the longer Eulalie lived in London, the stronger her French accent seemed to get.)

  ‘You spoil Elektra.’ Mum brought over extra salad just for me which was pretty passive-aggressive parenting.

  ‘I enjoy spoiling her,’ said Eulalie without the slightest shame. Her spoiling me is something we both get a lot out of.

  ‘Eulalie doesn’t believe that gifts, guilt and Oxfam goats have to go together every time like Granny Gwen does,’ said Dad who adored Eulalie.

  Everyone adored Eulalie, even Mum who really should have been a bit more conflicted.

  ‘Boats?’ asked Eulalie, looking bewildered. ‘Yachts?’

  ‘Goats,’ repeated Dad.

  ‘Gots?’

  ‘What’s the French for goats, Elektra? Chevrons? Or is that cheese?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. Mum, what’s the French for goats?’

  My mother’s shrug at least was pretty Gallic.

  Apparently, languages wouldn’t be on my parents’ ‘Skills’ sections either. Also ‘goat’ is surprisingly difficult to mime. Eulalie decided that she might as well talk about yachts (I’m pretty sure she knew a lot more about them anyway). Not just yachts but partying on yachts with actors. Typically, it was a bit inappropriate. In her world, excessive amounts of champagne and non-stop parties and affairs were just a bit of harmless fun.

  ‘Honestly, Eulalie, I can’t quite believe that ******* [I won’t use the name of the actress because I’d be sued] would have done that with ****** [high-profile actor, same problem].’

  My mother did that tssk thing (it’s actually quite hard to do, but she’s good at it).

  ‘I promise you, Julia, it’s true,’ said Eulalie. She paused for impact. ‘I was there.’

  No question that if Eulalie had actually been there when ******* did what she said she’d done to ****** then it was an even more scandalous story. I knew (we all knew) that Eulalie was a little bit truth challenged, but it wasn’t completely impossible.

  ‘Everybody is knowing that he is the father of at least two of her children,’ Eulalie went on.

  ‘Well, I know that’s not true.’ Mum sounded very sure.

  ‘Were you there too?’ I asked her. She didn’t answer, just punished me with more vegetables.

  ‘She was having the new bosoms after the third baby and the new face after the third husband.’

  ‘That I do believe,’ said Mum.

  ‘I need to see it,’ said Eulalie and it took us a moment to realize she was talking about the contract and not about the actress’s ‘improvements’.

  I carried the document over to the table like a high priest bearing precious offerings to an altar.

  ‘“Talent Representation Agreement . . .”’ read Eulalie. ‘You’re the talent – no?’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ I said, ignoring my parents rolling their eyes at each other. Eulalie nodded as though that was how she described me every day.

  ‘“. . . I hereby authorize the Haden Agency to negotiate contracts for the delivery of my professional services as an artist or otherwise in the fields of film, television, stage, radio broadcasting, modelling—”’ Eulalie broke off. ‘Modelling?’ Even she looked a bit surprised.

  ‘It’s a catch-all,’ I explained. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but it was pretty clear that I wasn’t going to be sent out for any modelling jobs any time soon.

  ‘You pay them twenty per cent of all the monies you are making?’

  ‘Well, it’s eighty per cent of something or a hundred per cent of nothing,’ I said. I was new to this but not stupid.

  ‘It could be eighty per cent of nothing,’ said Mum. ‘Stella made it quite clear that Elektra might not get any parts or at least not for a long time.’

  Eulalie shrugged like that could never happen. ‘You need to think positive thoughts, then it will happen for sure. Close your eyes, Elektra, and imagine yourself in your dream role.’

  I felt like a bit of an idiot, but because it was Eulalie I did exactly what she said (also that way I couldn’t see my parents’ expressions).

  ‘So, describe to us what are you seeing,’ Eulalie said like some sort of spirit guide.

  What I was actually seeing was either a) nothing if I closed my eyes really tightly or b) my dad smirking if I didn’t. Also it was hard to concentrate because Digby was licking my leg under the table. ‘Er, Joan of Arc?’ I don’t know where that one came from, but it would be a great role (except for the traumatic haircut). This was quite hard. A mean, gorgeous girl in St Trinian’s (or a nice but ‘plain’ girl who gets a makeover and turns out to be seriously fit)? Any part in Doctor Who? (Except for a dalek because I’d get claustrophobic.) None of these would mean anything to Eulalie.

  ‘Juliet,’ I said because I’d practised fantasizing about that one. I opened my eyes. ‘Have any of you ever heard of an actor called Gregory Peck?’

  It was like I’d said, ‘Have any of you ever heard of the Pope or Napoleon or Queen Elizabeth?’ There was outrage at my ignorance.

  ‘So, first we watch Roman Holiday and second we go to Harrods,’ said Eulalie when she’d recovered the power of speech.

  Dad’s phone started ringing in the other room. ‘It’ll be work,’ he explained. ‘I’ll leave it.’

  ‘What are you building now, Bertie?’ asked Eulalie.

  We’d all given up explaining to her t
hat Dad didn’t actually build anything. And yes, he was called Bertie. It was just a cross he had to bear.

  ‘Not enough actually. It’s quiet at the moment. Too quiet. There’s a limit to how excited I can get about kitchen extensions.’

  Dad usually got excited about things like rectilinear elevations or bespoke brushed metal cladding (nope, I’ve no idea either).

  ‘Well, you can always come over and help me renovate my boiseries.’

  I don’t know what Eulalie was talking about, but there was no question she was flirting. She flirts with everyone: man, woman, child, dog.

  ‘I’m not sure what boiseries are, Eulalie, but no doubt it would be a pleasure.’

  Sacré bleu, he was flirting back.

  Sometimes I struggled being in this family.

  Moss turned up just when Eulalie was leaving – which in one way was bad because they adore each other, but in another way was good because they’d have spent ages talking about fashion and their shoe fetishes and I’d have felt left out. Moss and I grabbed Digby and a packet of custard creams and headed up to my room to ‘revise’.

  My messy room’s nice but it’s very cold. That’s how I like it (the cold bit – I’m neutral about mess as it’s just there) but Moss gets shivery so we piled (Digby included) under the duvet.

  ‘So, what happens next?’ she asked.

  I looked at Moss a bit blankly. ‘I’m not sure. I suppose I wait.’

  ‘What did they say would happen?’

  ‘I think they’ll just phone me if there’s something they think I could try for.’

  ‘You’d better not lose your phone then.’

  I started to object to that slur on my character, but to be fair I had form on losing my phone. ‘Well, they’ll probably phone my mum. Until I’m sixteen, I need to get permission from her even to audition.’

  ‘I’ll need permission from my mum to do anything until I’m at least twenty-one.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Well, that’s going to be embarrassing.’

  Moss groaned and crammed a whole biscuit into her mouth.