The Disappearing Act(2)
Who knew Jane Eyre had a catchphrase?
Who knew Arsenal supporters read Bront??
And yes, in case you’re wondering—much to my shame—reader, I said it.
* * *
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“You’re late,” my agent, Cynthia, smirks as I plonk down into the restaurant seat opposite her.
“Sorry. Tube,” I counter.
She’s already ordered us two glasses of champagne. I eye the chilled bubbles in front of me greedily. “Are we celebrating, again?” I half joke as I shrug off my coat, but her silence makes me raise my gaze.
“You could say that. Yes,” she says, grinning before pointedly sipping from her champagne flute. “I got a call this morning,” she purrs, placing her glass down calmly. “From Louise Northfield at BAFTA. A heads-up if you will…Louise and I went to St. Andrews together; we tend to keep each other posted—she loves you by the way. So the word on the street is…though they’re not announcing the nominees until a month before the ceremony, which is in May, but…” She pauses for effect. “You’re on the BAFTA list. Nominees. For Eyre. Best actress.”
For a moment her words don’t make sense to me. Then they slowly shuffle into meaning. I feel the blood drain from my face, then my hands, and in its place a rush of serotonin floods in, the like of which I have never felt before, crashing through me.
“Holy shit.” I hear the sounds come from me, distant, as I fumble with a shaky hand for my champagne and gulp down a cool, crisp mouthful. The light-headedness only intensifies. Seven years I’ve worked for this. This is it. This is what I wanted. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
“That’s what I said.” Cynthia chuckles, grinning from ear to ear. “Now here’s the really good bit. All the other nominees are over fifty, and they’ve all won before.”
I sober quickly, brought up short. “Wait. Is that good?”
“Yeah, it is,” she says with a laugh. “People love discovering actors, even if they’ve been knocking around for years. Plus, you’ve got great credits, pedigree, even though this is your first major leading role. You’re academy catnip. A safe bet that seems like a wild card. And everyone will be rooting for you, nobody needs to see one of the ‘Ladies in Lavender’ win another bloody award.”
I let out a nervous laugh and take another swig of my drink. Seven years of auditioning has taught me never to get my hopes up but right now I can’t help it; my happiness bubbles up, irrepressible.
Cynthia catches the waiter’s eye.
“Could we get a selection of everything? Just, whatever the chef thinks,” she says airily, as if that’s a thing that people actually say in restaurants. “Nothing too big, just a light lunch.” She looks to me questioningly. “Is that okay, hon?” The waiter’s gaze follows suit. Both deferring to BAFTA-nominated me.
“Okay, sure, yes, that sounds great,” I reply, and the waiter heads off with total confidence in what I’d personally consider to be a very confusing order.
Cynthia leans forward on the table businesslike.
“This is all going to be new for you, and to a certain extent it’s new ground for me too. I mean, Charlie Redman won best actor in, what, 2015? But it’s different with men, they just show up in a suit. Best actress is trickier. I’ll be fielding calls about you as soon as the press release lands in April. So here’s my thinking. We’ve got two months to kill in the meantime. I don’t want you tied up filming, I need you free for bigger meetings with this on the horizon. We’re going to ride the crest of this. So how do you feel about a little work trip to LA so we can drum up some studio interest? Nom’s still unofficial but we can certainly drop some hints.”
She clocks my expression and changes tack.
“Sorry, I’m firing a lot at you, aren’t I? It’s a lot to take in. Here.” She raises her champagne flute and clinks mine. “One thing at a time. Congratulations, Mia, you clever, clever thing.”
Cynthia has been my agent, advocate, and therapist since I graduated. We’ve weathered some soaring highs and soul-destroying lows together over the years. In some ways we’re unbelievably close and in others we’re almost strangers. It’s an odd relationship, but then it’s an odd industry.
Her energy suddenly changes. “Oh, and I heard about George by the way,” she says, her eyes searching mine, alive with curiosity. “That’s so exciting for him! He must be over the moon.”
I feel the smile slip from my face. I literally have no idea what she’s talking about. George? My George?
To my knowledge not much is happening for him. In fact, if anything it’s slightly insensitive of Cynthia to bring it up. George hasn’t had an acting job for eight months at least and he’s an absolute wreck, if I’m honest.
I met George on my first big job—a movie adaptation of Tess of the d’Urbervilles—six years ago and we’ve lived together pretty much from the get-go. We both had tiny parts in Tess but our scenes were with the Hollywood star they shipped in to play her and we couldn’t believe our luck, and we couldn’t believe we found each other. We bought our flat last spring but after that things sort of dried up for George, right around the time they picked up for me. But that never seemed to bother us. Because George isn’t competitive like that.