Read Online The Art of Standing Still by Penny Culliford - Free Book Online Page A

the town centre.
    As she rummaged through files, crisp packets, and empty drink cans, looking in her car for her script and her bag, a blue van drove past, narrowly missing her half-open door.
    â€˜Watch it!’ she yelled. The driver shouted back something that Jemma couldn’t hear. She slammed the car door and locked it. She glanced at her watch. Already five minutes late.
    She ran along the pavement, dodging pedestrians and telegraph poles. The pale blue van was parked just a few feet from the entrance to the church hall. Jemma, irked the driver had found a space so close, a space that should have been hers, repressed the urge to kick the tyres. A dark-haired man climbed out of the driver’s seat. He smiled at her. She scowled back.
    â€˜I’m sorry about nearly taking your door off,’ he said, still smiling.
    â€˜Yeah, okay,’ muttered Jemma.
    â€˜You going for a part?’ He nodded in the direction of the hall.
    â€˜Yes, my boss is making me.’ She answered. ‘You?’
    â€˜My vicar’s making me.’
    She couldn’t help smiling back. Was anyone taking part in this play voluntarily?
    â€˜What’s your audition piece?’ she asked as he held the door open for her.
    â€˜I just thought I’d read a bit from the Bible. After all, that’s what it’s all about.’
    â€˜So, you’re not an actor?’
    â€˜Hardly,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve never been on the stage before. I work at Abacus.’
    â€˜The do-it-yourself shop?’
    He nodded. ‘You?’
    â€˜I studied drama at college but now I’m a journalist.’
    He raised his eyebrows.
    â€˜Keep it quiet. I thought I’d go incognito, you know. Tell the story behind the story.’
    â€˜I’d better watch what I say.’
    â€˜The chances of anything of interest happening are pretty remote. This is Monksford, after all.’
    â€˜You don’t sound very keen on the idea.’
    â€˜I’ve been killing myself all week learning my piece. I wish I hadn’t bothered. It’s my editor’s idea to write a weekly column.’
    The man held out his hand. ‘I hope you get it. If that’s what you want.’
    She smiled. ‘Good luck to you too. Break a leg, as they say.’
    Jemma walked into the hall and felt as if she had blundered into the middle of Oxford Street a week before Christmas. It was packed with people, milling around, talking, laughing. She spotted a harassed looking woman sitting at a desk. Resisting the urge to barge to the front, she joined the queue. In front of her were a jester, a Morris dancer, a nun, and several surly looking teenage boys. The woman at the desk took their names and assigned them to different parts of the room. She appeared to be handing the teenage boys five-pound notes. This is good , we get paid too!
    Finally it was Jemma’s turn. The woman looked up and smiled at her.
    â€˜Jemma Durham. I’m auditioning for the part of Mary Magdalene.’
    â€˜Hello, are you the reporter?’
    Jemma nodded. So much for undercover journalism.
    â€˜I’m Ruth Wells, the vicar. That . . .’ she gestured towards a small, plump man in a pink pullover and wearing small round glasses ‘is Ronnie Mardle, and over there is Harlan Westacre. She’ll be auditioning you.’ She nodded towards a thin woman with dangling earrings. ‘If you’d like to wait over there, we’ll try to get organised as soon as we can.’
    â€˜Lot of people here.’ Jemma did a mental count for the article.
    â€˜Yes, I’m delighted at the turnout – oh, will you excuse me?’ She stood up and beckoned to the man Jemma had met on the way in. ‘Josh! Over here.’ He smiled and waved. He really did have a very nice smile.
    Jemma crossed the hall and joined the other potential Mary Magdalenes near the piano. The familiar burning of ambition ignited inside. She studied