Reluctantly Home(9)

‘Do they want me to read?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Read for the director first and then, if they like that, a meeting with Mr Rory MacMillan himself,’ replied Julian. ‘And as you already know him, that should be a breeze.’

Was it Evelyn’s imagination, or could she detect something in his tone that suggested he was impressed? It was hard to tell, but Rory MacMillan was a big name. Even Julian, with his ‘I’ve seen it all before, darling’ attitude might be a little bit excited by the opportunity that had presented itself to her. She wondered about confessing to him that she didn’t really ‘know’ Rory MacMillan; it had been one conversation at a party, but she decided against. It would do her no harm to let Julian think the acquaintance went deeper than that.

‘They’re serious, then? About me, I mean,’ Evelyn asked, hardly daring to believe it. When she’d gone for other parts, she had only ever seen the casting director, never the producer, but then she had never been up for something as big as this before.

‘It seems so,’ Julian drawled. ‘And so they should be. This is well within your range. They’d be mad to miss you.’

Despite his optimism, Evelyn tried to keep a lid on her excitement. This still felt like a lot of hoops to jump through.

‘And is there anything else in the pipeline for me?’ she asked hopefully, thinking of her bare kitchen cupboards and the freezing cold flat.

‘Not just at the mo, darling. These perishing strikes are putting the wind up everyone. People are nervous about committing to things just now whilst the country is going to hell in a handcart, but don’t you worry. If you manage to bag this one, then you won’t have time for anything else.’

Evelyn bit her lip. It was a ten-part series with the chance of a second if things went well. A part like this would be the making of her.





6


The audition was at the film studios in Wembley. Evelyn had been once before, which reduced her nerves just a little, and she tried to look confident as she marched up the drive to the reception desk. She wondered how many other hopefuls would be there. She assumed dozens, possibly even hundreds of people, all as desperate as she was to get the part, but as she drew closer there were only a handful of other actresses waiting. She checked her watch and then the date, but she had both things correct. Her heart, already pumping hard, started to work a little harder still. Were they only considering so few people? Maybe she was in with a real chance.

Her initial anxiety switched to excitement. This was what she did. She performed. And it didn’t matter what it was or who to. When the time to shine arrived, Evelyn Mountcastle shone. She straightened her skirt (dark, pencil, worn to give the subliminal impression of a policewoman), took a deep breath and stepped into the reception. Every pair of eyes turned to look at her. Unperturbed, Evelyn walked as confidently as she could to the desk.

‘Evelyn Mountcastle,’ she said clearly, and handed over her portfolio.

The receptionist took it from her and put it on a pile with the others without even glancing at it.

‘Take a seat,’ she said.

Evelyn chose a chair nearest the door, rearranged her skirt and then, when she was sure she was sitting in the most flattering position, lifted her chin to take a look at her rivals. She immediately wished she hadn’t. There were five other women sitting there. All of them were older than her and at least two were, if not quite household names, then certainly someone who would turn heads in a restaurant – ‘Isn’t that . . . ? You know. The one from . . . ?’

Evelyn refused to be intimidated. She had just as much right as they to be there and just as much chance of being spot on for the role. Plus, she had inside information. Mr MacMillan wanted her. How many of these others could say that? As she thought all this through, a door opened, and the first name was called. Evelyn crossed her fingers and prepared to wait.

The hands on the wall clock made their steady way around the hour as Evelyn waited. Eventually it became apparent that she would be last to go in. The others had all emerged looking calm and collected, although one had been in the audition room for less than two minutes, which couldn’t bode well for her but was a positive thing for Evelyn.

‘Evelyn Mountcastle,’ the receptionist called finally, and even though she had been waiting for this moment, Evelyn still started at the sound.

‘Yes,’ she said, and stood up so quickly that her head felt momentarily woozy. She made her way to the door through which the others had disappeared, her hands clammy and her stomach full of butterflies, but ready to show them everything she had.

The corridor was dark, but there was a door open at the far end and she made her way towards it. It took her into a studio, one wall mirrored and with a grand piano in the far corner. Three men sat behind a table positioned in front of the mirror, so that as she approached she could see her own reflection. She tried not to be distracted by it.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said confidently to the man sitting in the middle of the panel who she deduced to be the more senior and consequently more important, although really, she had no idea.

‘Hello, Evelyn. Very nice to meet you.’ He was incredibly quietly spoken, and Evelyn strained to hear him. He handed her a script. ‘Page sixteen, please. Can you read Detective Constable Walker?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How would you like me to play her?’