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‘They’re boring.’ I’m pretending to be more confident than I am. ‘I’m not good at being young and pretty and…well, that’s all they are; young and pretty’
He grins. Even sitting, he gives the impression of looking down from a great height. ‘Well, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.’
It’s strange standing in the middle; quite different from how I imagined it. All eyes are on me and my heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest, the adrenalin races through my veins. What is it he said? Make the most daring choices you can? Do something worth watching? Scanning the room, I suddenly spot the old piano. And a brilliant, bold scheme forms in my mind.
I push it towards the centre on its creaking wheels, then sit down and start to play, plucking out the tune to Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’. I’ll slowly build in speed and intensity, a macabre reference to Gertrude and Claudius’s incestuous wedding, and then whirl round and hit them with the first line.
Da da dada…da da dada…
My hands start to shake.
I haven’t played a piano in years.
The tune is only barely recognizable. In fact, it sounds more like the Captain and Tennille than Mendelssohn. But the longer I play, the harder it becomes to break off and swirl round.
I’m stuck.
Shit! I have to stop playing the piano! I have to stop! I’m panicking! I have to stop panicking and I have to stop playing the piano!
I twist round and nearly fall off my seat. A sea of bewildered faces greet me. I feel like a lounge singer. ‘“To be or not to be,’” I shout, sounding remarkably like the guy who sells the Evening Standard outside Baker Street tube station. ‘“That is the question!’”
OK. Calm down. I’ve begun. That’s the main thing.
Only now I’m trapped behind the piano. I try pushing the bench back dramatically. But it makes a hideous, spine-crunching, scraping noise. The whole room gasps in agony. Once up, I attempt to recover by leaning nonchalantly against the side of it. The lid slams down and I end up screaming like a girl.
Sadistically, Boyd allows me to work my way all the way through. And when I finish he just looks at me, arms folded across his chest. ‘Thank you, Miss…?’ He pauses, waiting for my name.
‘Miss Garlick,’ I mumble.
The speech had seemed a lot more impressive in my room last night.
‘Yes, well, Miss Garlick, I believe you’ve given everyone a valuable lesson about props.’
There’s a twitter of laughter.
I want to die.
‘So, what’s a nice girl like you doing wrestling with a piano?’ He leans back in his chair.
I stare at the floor. ‘I don’t know…I thought it would be…a good idea.’ I sound like an idiot. Why doesn’t he just let me go? Why does he have to keep torturing me?
‘How old are you?’ he asks.
I pause. Is this a trick question? ‘Eighteen,’ I admit.
‘And what do you like to do?’
‘Uh, well, going out, being with my friends…’
‘You like boys?’
I flush. ‘Yeah.’
‘So pretty much the same stuff Hamlet likes: girls, hanging out with friends, being at school and away from home…normal student stuff. Only, of course, Hamlet isn’t eighteen, he’s thirty’
‘Oh.’ This is obviously important. I only wish I knew why.
He looks at me, tilting his head to one side. ‘Doesn’t that seem strange to you? You see,’ he continues, not waiting for my answer (perhaps already knowing that there isn’t one), ‘long before the play begins, way before his father’s murdered, there’s already something wrong with Hamlet. He enters, fucked.’
I’m not really getting this.
‘That’s what’s so interesting. The hero of our tale is a loser. The most famous play in the world is about a guy who can’t pull himself together, doesn’t have a job, can’t get the girl and who takes four hours to accomplish something he was told he needed to do in the first twenty-five minutes! And then he dies!’
I nod as if it’s all starting to make perfect sense.
It isn’t.
He leans forward eagerly. ‘To be or not to be isn’t about indecision—it’s about failure. He goes through the whole speech, thinks about every angle of the question and then ends up back where he started. So why does the world love Hamlet, Miss Garlick?’
I shrug my shoulders, inwardly kicking myself for not learning Juliet instead.
‘Because’—he speaks with sudden intensity, his face illuminated with feeling—‘very few of us relate to what it’s like to be a hero. But everyone understands what it’s like to fail.’
Boyd stares at me, searching my face for some flicker of recognition.
He’s lost me. I avert my eyes, concentrating on the worn surface of the wooden floorboards, hoping he’ll release me soon. I can sit down and be anonymous.
‘Of course, there’s a lifetime between eighteen and thirty’ he concedes quietly.
‘OK, right!’ he shifts gears. ‘Let’s get this speech moving.’ Standing up, he fishes around in his pocket and throws me a coin. ‘Forget the piano, OK? Let’s keep it simple. Heads you live. Tails you die. Go on—toss it.’
I throw the coin into the air, slapping it down on the back of my hand. ‘Tails.’
‘Is that what you wanted?’
‘I don’t know’
Boyd goes over, pulls Lindsay Crafts to his feet. ‘Here’s the deal,’ he tells me. ‘You can either kill this guy or kill yourself!’
I blink at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Go on, flip the coin! Heads, you kill him. Tails, you kill yourself!’
Reluctantly, I flip the coin again. ‘Heads.’
‘Brilliant!’ He gives me a shove. ‘Off you go!’
I look at him, horrified. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Go on! Kill him!’
I turn to Lindsay. He smiles politely.
‘Come on! What’s wrong with you!’ Boyd claps his hands. ‘Time’s ticking! Let’s go! Stab him! Strangle him! Hit him over the head with a chair! Do something!’
I’m completely paralysed. ‘No!’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t!’
‘Then kill yourself!’ Boyd’s circling me, fencing me in. ‘Go on! Do it! Those are the choices—him or you!’
‘I can’t!’ I feel trapped, panicky. ‘I can’t do either!’
‘So say it! Start!’
To be or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep: No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d.
‘That’s it! Keep going!’
I press on, the language coming fast and easy now. The speech that five minutes ago had seemed like a nightmare of dragging time, tumbles out with a new urgency.
To die, to sleep;To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There’s the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and momentWith this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.
Before I know it, it’s over; done. And for the first time I feel as if I’m in control, driving the words forward instead of racing to catch up. It’s an exhilarating, intoxicating sensation—like being behind the wheel of powerful sports car. I wasn’t sure I could do it. And now I want to do it again.
Boyd’s rocking back on his heels. ‘Well, that’s more like it!’
The door to the studio creaks open and Robbie, still wearing last night’s clothes and clutching a takeaway coffee, tries to steal in.
Boyd swirls round. ‘Ahh! An Ophelia! My, my! You’ve definitely been picking the wrong sorts of herbs! And what’s this?’ He plucks the coffee cup from her hand, tosses the plastic lid to one side and slurps loudly. ‘Mmm! Milk and sugar! Perfect for a hangover, wouldn’t you say?’
She smiles uncertainly and I retreat to my seat.
Wrapping a paternal arm round her shoulders, he leads her gently into the centre of the room. ‘Let me explain to you how this one goes. You can be late but you’d better be good. If you’re crap, you’d better make certain that in future you’re on time. So my dear (and, by the way, it’s nice to know I’m not the only person in London who takes personal hygiene with a pinch of salt), I’d very much like to hear your audition speech.’
He gives her his wickedest grin.
She, in turn, looks uneasily at the floor.
Silence extends in all directions; an excruciating, awkward vacuum of embarrassment. I feel for Robbie—wish that I could rescue her. But instead, the best I can do is look away, as if it’s kinder to ignore her as she stands there, staring at the space between her feet as the moments drag by.
Then, very slowly, she lifts her head. Her eyes meet his. And when she speaks, her voice is languid, almost drunk.
i like my body when it is with yourbody. It is so quite new a thing.Muscles better and nerves more.i like your body, i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spineof your body and its bones, and the tremblingfirm-smooth ness and which I willagain and again and againkiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzzof your electric fur, and what-is-it-comesover parting flesh…And eyes big love crumbs, and possibly [a smile plays on her lips] i like the thrillof under me you so quite new
The room is silent.
She reaches across and removes the coffee cup from Boyd’s hand and, winking, takes a sip.
No one dares move.
‘And with that, ladies and gentlemen,’ he says at last, ‘I think it’s time for a cigarette.’
As the studio drains of students, Robbie sits down next to me. I turn to her, stunned. ‘I thought you said you were shit!’
She grins. ‘Oh, I can make a scene, if that’s what you want. Now, on to more important matters. Who here thinks I should fuck the teacher?’ She giggles and raises her hand.
Imo’s practically apoplectic with indignation. ‘My God, Robbie! He’s only about eighty! That’s 50 gross!’ she hisses. ‘Why can’t you ever take anything seriously?’
Robbie sighs wistfully. ‘But he’s sexy! Besides, our Mr Chicken doesn’t know his penis from his pancreas. Or my tits from my tonsils. Or, for that matter…’
‘Oh please!’ Imogene stalks off, hands pressed over her ears.
I shake my head. ‘Bad Robbie. Down, girl.’
‘Oh, Evie!’ She leans her head against my shoulder, stifling a yawn. ‘But being good is so boring! And besides, I’m ever such a long way from home.’
Boyd walks over and sits down. ‘Good work today’ he says, tapping me on the knee.
I look at him in amazement. ‘But I completely fucked up!’
‘What you did took courage and balls. Anyone who wants to be an actor has to get used to making a prize prat of themselves. And in my experience the bigger the talent, the bigger the flops. But it paid off, in the end…didn’t it?’
My whole insides warm with pride.
‘And you.’ He turns his attention to Robbie. ‘I’m a big fan of e.e.cummings but I’m willing to wager that’s just a little something you pull out of your back pocket any time you don’t fancy paying for your own drinks.’
To my surprise, Robbie’s pale cheeks are bright red. I thought nothing could faze her.
‘Don’t waste my time,’ he continues. ‘This isn’t a nightclub in Soho and I’m not, despite appearances, a casting agent for the European porn industry. And next time,’ he adds, standing up and reclaiming the coffee, ‘go easy on the sugar.’
That night, watching Top of the Pops and eating a supper of boiled rice, soy sauce and Singapore slings, Robbie composes her list of things to do. She’s possessed, pacing the living room and waving her fork in the air.
‘First off, girls, we need to get Evie here into Juilliard!’
‘Guess that rules out my famous Hamlet speech.’
She ignores me. ‘Second, we need to get Imo laid. Preferably with the homo, so a real challenge, that one.’
‘Hey!’ Imo comes to life from the depths of the sofa, where she’s been lying comatose for almost an hour, staring at George Michael dancing around in a pair of tennis shorts, singing ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’. ‘Why am I second?’
‘Because’—Robbie pauses to take another sip of her drink—‘Juilliard will change Evie’s whole life, whereas getting laid with Mr Nancy Pants will pretty much leave you back where you started.’
‘Oh.’ She leans back again, apparently satisfied but more than likely just pissed.
‘And lastly, we need to devise a way that I can impress the new love of my life, Mr Boyd Alexander.’
