Read Online Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? by Claudia Carroll - Free Book Online
Authors: Claudia Carroll
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stage. I do as I’m told, clutching the script like a talisman.
Next thing, a striking-looking, long, lean guy is swooping down the centre audience aisle and striding towards where I’m standing centre stage, in a ball of sweaty tension.
‘Well, hello there,’ he calls out smoothly. ‘I’m Jack Gordon.’
Not every day you come face-to-face with the David Beckham of the theatre world, so even though I’m blinded by the hot stage lights, I manage to squint through the darkness to get a half decent look at him. He’s a lot taller and slimmer than I’d have thought, wearing an impeccably-cut, slate grey suit with an open-necked, crisp, white shirt underneath, which somehow makes him look older than he actually is, even though he can’t be much more than early thirties. For a second, I can’t actually remember the last time I saw a proper well-dressed, metrosexual guy in a proper suit, outside of the local courthouse in Stickens, that is. Blue eyes and light brown-ish hair, but with slanting eyebrows that kind of give him the look of a satyr when he frowns downwards. And self-confidence that practically bounces off the auditorium walls; not a word of a lie, if the guy had antlers, they’d probably be well past his shoulders.
In short, he looks like a Michael Bublé song.
Anyway, he marches all the way down to the apron of the stage, walking as though he’s in his own spotlight and extends a smooth, lotioned hand out to me.
‘You must be Annie Cole,’ he smiles, flashing teeth brighter than a toxic blast from a nuclear bomb. ‘So good of you to come at such short notice. It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.’
And his voice is thicker than a jar of Manuka honey. A twenty-fags a day voice, if ever I heard one. Anyway, I mumble something inane and shake his ice cold hand. He’s focusing really intently on me now, keenly looking me up and down, then down and back up again and it’s making me bloody nervous. And the danger with me is that when nervous, I tend to act like I’ve got St Vitus’s dance of themouth and start gabbling like a half-wit about complete and utter shite. Mercifully though, he doesn’t initiate any more chit-chat or small talk; just directs me towards the scene that he’d like me to read, coolly telling me to start in my own time.
And for better or for worse, I’m on.
Good sign: I’m asked to play one particular scene five different times, and in about five different ways. The logical part of my brain says, would Jack bother spending so much time on me if he thought I was really shite?
Bad sign: As I leave the stage, I meet the other actress who was in before me, having a fag in the tiny yard off the green room. We both instantly cop on who the other is, the giveaway being the script we’re both clutching to our chests and each of us launch into a big post-mortem. Anyway, she says she was asked to do exactly the same thing. So much for that.
Good sign: One of the pivotal scenes, feels completely fantastic. It’s impossible to describe the massive adrenaline rush I get from performing it – closest thing I can imagine would be like what a fighter pilot must feel on take-off. Or a cat burglar. For the first time in years, I find myself feeding off the sheer pleasure of acting and loving every second of it, thinking feck it anyway; even if I don’t get the part, I’ve come this far, so I may as well enjoy myself.
Jack does a kind of deep, throaty, snorting laugh at some of the gag lines I deliver and this I find hugely encouraging.
Bad sign: Then he excuses himself to answer his mobile phone and does precisely the same laugh.
Good sign : After I’ve been put through my paces, he politely asks me about my personal life and whether thesignificant commitment involved in this gig would be an issue for me.
Bad sign: When I tell him that I’m married but haven’t had a chance to discuss it with my significant other yet, he just nods curtly, giving absolutely nothing away.
Next thing, a striking-looking, long, lean guy is swooping down the centre audience aisle and striding towards where I’m standing centre stage, in a ball of sweaty tension.
‘Well, hello there,’ he calls out smoothly. ‘I’m Jack Gordon.’
Not every day you come face-to-face with the David Beckham of the theatre world, so even though I’m blinded by the hot stage lights, I manage to squint through the darkness to get a half decent look at him. He’s a lot taller and slimmer than I’d have thought, wearing an impeccably-cut, slate grey suit with an open-necked, crisp, white shirt underneath, which somehow makes him look older than he actually is, even though he can’t be much more than early thirties. For a second, I can’t actually remember the last time I saw a proper well-dressed, metrosexual guy in a proper suit, outside of the local courthouse in Stickens, that is. Blue eyes and light brown-ish hair, but with slanting eyebrows that kind of give him the look of a satyr when he frowns downwards. And self-confidence that practically bounces off the auditorium walls; not a word of a lie, if the guy had antlers, they’d probably be well past his shoulders.
In short, he looks like a Michael Bublé song.
Anyway, he marches all the way down to the apron of the stage, walking as though he’s in his own spotlight and extends a smooth, lotioned hand out to me.
‘You must be Annie Cole,’ he smiles, flashing teeth brighter than a toxic blast from a nuclear bomb. ‘So good of you to come at such short notice. It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.’
And his voice is thicker than a jar of Manuka honey. A twenty-fags a day voice, if ever I heard one. Anyway, I mumble something inane and shake his ice cold hand. He’s focusing really intently on me now, keenly looking me up and down, then down and back up again and it’s making me bloody nervous. And the danger with me is that when nervous, I tend to act like I’ve got St Vitus’s dance of themouth and start gabbling like a half-wit about complete and utter shite. Mercifully though, he doesn’t initiate any more chit-chat or small talk; just directs me towards the scene that he’d like me to read, coolly telling me to start in my own time.
And for better or for worse, I’m on.
Good sign: I’m asked to play one particular scene five different times, and in about five different ways. The logical part of my brain says, would Jack bother spending so much time on me if he thought I was really shite?
Bad sign: As I leave the stage, I meet the other actress who was in before me, having a fag in the tiny yard off the green room. We both instantly cop on who the other is, the giveaway being the script we’re both clutching to our chests and each of us launch into a big post-mortem. Anyway, she says she was asked to do exactly the same thing. So much for that.
Good sign: One of the pivotal scenes, feels completely fantastic. It’s impossible to describe the massive adrenaline rush I get from performing it – closest thing I can imagine would be like what a fighter pilot must feel on take-off. Or a cat burglar. For the first time in years, I find myself feeding off the sheer pleasure of acting and loving every second of it, thinking feck it anyway; even if I don’t get the part, I’ve come this far, so I may as well enjoy myself.
Jack does a kind of deep, throaty, snorting laugh at some of the gag lines I deliver and this I find hugely encouraging.
Bad sign: Then he excuses himself to answer his mobile phone and does precisely the same laugh.
Good sign : After I’ve been put through my paces, he politely asks me about my personal life and whether thesignificant commitment involved in this gig would be an issue for me.
Bad sign: When I tell him that I’m married but haven’t had a chance to discuss it with my significant other yet, he just nods curtly, giving absolutely nothing away.
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