Elegance and Innocence (60 page)

‘Got an audition for you! Tuesday! Commercial! 3 p.m.!’

‘That’s great, Dougie! What’s the address?’

‘How should I know? Call the sec. What’s-her-face will tell you!’ Click.

His office is manned by particularly desperate out-of-work clients. The turnover is staggering; surviving even a day on your own with Dougie is impressive, let alone a week. I’ve never had to stoop so low, yet. But if things get much worse, I could be making Dougie cups of tea and dodging the walking stick before the year’s out. It’s been months since my last audition; almost a year since my last paid acting job – the role of ‘Hysterical Reporter’ in the low-budget action film
The Bloodletting
, about a psychotic landlord and his young female tenants. As I look around the room, I can’t help but think the other girls, even Bubbly and Inch, exude a certain glow; an inner sheen that only comes when you’ve been working.

A giant stuffed bear’s wheeled through reception.

I try to focus again on the magazine.

I really need this job. Once you get one commercial, it’s easy to get more. And often the directors move on to bigger, better projects – film or television. If you’re cute and do a good job, they remember you. ‘Hey, Bob, why don’t we use that girl from the toilet roll spot? You know the one … What was her name? Eve?’

The trick is to stay positive; act like the job’s already mine.

The girl next to me flips through the pages of Italian
Vogue
. She’s got a French manicure; her long fingers look
neat and chic. Why didn’t I think of painting my nails? They’re probably looking for someone with great hands. Why didn’t Dougie mention hands? I look down. Mine are chapped and calloused, still covered in bits of black emulsion from repainting the theatre last week.

The door to the casting suite opens. Another girl with fantastic, clean hands emerges. She’s blushing and smiling. ‘Thanks a lot, guys! Take care!’ She laughs, waving playfully.

Shit! She’s got it.

She’s definitely got it – she’s calling them ‘guys’.

We all watch as she smiles triumphantly, nodding to the girl with the braids. ‘Thanks. See you later!’

She knows her too! She obviously does loads of commercials. Shit, shit, shit! Why are they even going through the charade of seeing the rest of us?

The reception desk phone rings.

‘Eve Albery,’ the braid girl calls out. ‘You’re next.’

Wrenching myself up, I pull down my black skirt and button my jacket. There’s a little run starting in the bottom of my tights. It’s too late now.

Please, God. OK, deep breaths. It’s mine. This job is mine.

Remember: good-natured yet seductive, cool but boundlessly enthusiastic …

I smile, knock on the door, then push it open.

It’s another tiny room, quite dark, with blackout blinds drawn against the summer sun. There are two men, an older
man with a beer gut, wearing a black T-shirt with a triangle on it that says ‘Service, Unity, and Recovery’, sitting behind the camera, and a younger guy, with short brown hair and a long, angular face, who can only be in his early twenties. He’s dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, a kind of advertising world James Dean. As I walk in, he stands up and shakes my hand.

‘Jason Wiley,’ he introduces himself. ‘And you’re …’ He searches through the vast pile of CVs and photos on the table in front him. ‘Carole?’ he ventures, picking one up at random.

‘Evie. I mean, Eve,’ I correct myself. I’m not used to the name change yet.

‘OK. So, Eve.’ He sounds incredibly, almost paralytically, bored. ‘What I need you to do is to stand here.’ He grabs me by the shoulders, wheels me in front of a sky-blue background screen. ‘And I need you to take your jacket and top off.’

‘I’m sorry? Did you say my top?’

He spins round to the cameraman and shakes his head. ‘See? What did I tell you?’

Then, rolling his eyes, he turns back to me. ‘I need you to take your jacket and top off. OK?’

I smile apologetically. ‘It’s just my agent didn’t mention any nudity …’

He’s becoming annoyed. ‘Well, they wouldn’t,’ he snaps, ‘because there isn’t any. This is a deodorant ad, darling. So
we need to have a nice long look at your armpits.’ He riffles through the papers in front of him, searching for something important; something interesting. ‘Now, if you don’t mind.’

I look at the man behind the camera.

He grins at me. He’s got two gold front teeth.

‘Don’t mind Boris, darling. He’s seen it all before. You can put your things here.’ Jason points to a black metal chair.

I hesitate. I can’t remember what bra I’m wearing or what condition it’s in …

Jason continues to stare at me.

If I turn my back to undress, I’ll seem prudish and self-conscious. And no one wants to hire a prude. So I fix my face into an expression of bland pleasantness and unbutton my blouse. Even though it’s June and warm outside, my flesh is goose-bumped and cold. I fold my clothes carefully on the chair. It seems to take for ever, like I’m moving in slow motion. Perhaps it would be sexier, more appealing if I nonchalantly tossed them there. It’s a little late for that now. I wish I could stop thinking …

‘Great. Now, take a step forward please, darling.’ Jason starts waving his arms at me like ground staff at an airport. ‘Into the light, that’s it! Stop!’

I stop. The two of them stare at my image on the video screen.

Jason scowls. ‘What do you think?’ he mutters.

Boris points to something, presumably on my body, and shakes his head.

Jason narrows his eyes. ‘I see what you mean.’ He looks up. ‘Can you lift your arm for us, please?’

I lift my arm.

‘Higher.’

Boris raises his eyebrows.

‘Nice,’ Jason says, tracing his finger along the screen. ‘This here. Good. So, Eve. Do you wax or shave?’

‘Shave.’ Is that the right answer? ‘But I can wax, I mean, if that’s what you prefer.’ God, I sound too eager. Act cool!

‘And is that a Wonderbra?’

‘No.’ I frown. ‘I think it’s … it’s a Playtex, something like a Natural Shaper … from the States …’

‘I’m not thinking of buying one, dear. I’m just wondering if those are real or if you’ve been helping nature along.’

I blush. ‘No, no, they’re real.’

‘Bravo.’ He crosses, hands me a stick of deodorant. ‘Now, I want you to apply the deodorant. But slowly, sensually. And we need to see your face. So I want you to keep it in profile, just here.’ He shoves my nose into the crook of my arm. ‘Got it? Face stays put. Do you think you can do that, darling?’

I hate the way he keeps calling me ‘darling’. But I laugh as if the whole thing’s entirely too delightful for words. ‘I’ll give it a shot!’

I start rubbing.

‘No, no, no, no, no!’ He’s waving his arms again. ‘You have had an orgasm, darling, haven’t you? At some point in your life?’

Boris can’t contain a snigger.

‘I’m sorry?’ Jason prompts, cupping his hand over his ear in response to my silence. ‘I can’t hear you?’

I bite my lip. And nod.

‘Well, you’d never know it! Could we have some
real
action now?’

And so, for the next five minutes, I roll the plastic stick around under my arm, closing my eyes and gasping with pleasure – only not so much pleasure that I’m compelled to move my head in any way, while Jason shouts things like, ‘Open your mouth! Wider! Soft lips!
Yes
, that’s it! Softer! Is it satisfying you? Yes, darling! I think it is!’

Just when I think it can’t get any worse, Guy arrives.

Guy is the nineteen-year-old runner who’s been sent out to buy sandwiches and coffee. And he’s got the ruddy good looks of an extremely posh Eton schoolboy, which is exactly what he is. Tall with yellow-blond hair and dimples everywhere that dimples are possible when a person smiles, he puts down the provisions and then loiters next to Boris, gaping at me on the video screen.

‘Guy, we need a sniffer!’ Jason announces.

‘OK. Right.’ Guy slouches over.

‘The last shot we need is of a male model sniffing your armpit,’ Jason explains.

I blink at him.

‘Is that a problem?’ he asks threateningly.

‘No, no, it’s great! No problem at all!’ I lie, as if I can
think of nothing nicer than having a pubescent boy wedged into my armpit for the afternoon.

‘Guy, take your shirt off.’

‘Yah.’ Guy strips off, which I’m certain is entirely unnecessary, then leans his beautiful bedimpled face into position.

I’m starting to sweat; I can feel the dampness building between my shoulder blades. Shit. Did I put on any deodorant today? ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper. ‘Really. So sorry!’

Guy smiles at me with his clear, grey-blue eyes. ‘Na, it’s like, cool.’

‘No talking!’ Jason shouts. ‘Now sniff, Guy! Sniff!’

Ten minutes later, I’m tucking my shirt in, shaking Jason’s hand goodbye.

‘Take a tip from me.’ He grips my hand tightly. ‘You’ve got to learn to be more adaptable. Understand? You’ve got a nice pair of tits. But that frown is going to cost you work.’

I should say something. Something along the lines of, ‘Piss off, I don’t want your filthy, humiliating job anyway,
darling
!’ But instead I blush and murmur, ‘Thank you,’ nodding solemnly, as if he’s just given me the secret of the Holy Grail.

I open the door.

In a single movement, the entire waiting room full of girls swivel round to stare at me.

‘Hey, thanks, guys!’ I wave, buoyant, full of smiles. ‘That was great! See you soon!’

I wink at the braid girl. ‘See ya!’

And making my exit, I push through the door into the safety of the empty corridor beyond. Leaning with my back against the wall, I close my eyes. This is the last time. The very last time.

But I know I’m only kidding myself.

Someone’s coming.

I pull myself up and pretend to be waiting for the elevator.

It’s Guy. ‘Hey!’ His cheeks are bright red. ‘I just thought, if you ever, you know, want to hang out.’ He tilts his head to one side and hands me a scrap of paper.

‘Guy!’ Jason’s voice thunders through reception.

He lingers a second longer. ‘And just to let you know, you, like, smell totally amazing!’

Then he’s gone.

I stand, holding the little scrap of paper. Then I lift up my arm and have a sniff. Not as bad as I thought. I press the lift button, slipping the number into my handbag. It’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in a long time.

The arrivals area at Heathrow is crowded with excited children, anxious parents and eager lovers. Taxi drivers lean, with glazed expressions, holding signs, searching for people they have yet to meet. I make it just in time to see her come out of the customs hall. She is, as always, eye-catching, dressed in a pair of black fitted trousers and the ugliest green knitted top I’ve ever seen.

I wave. ‘Robbie!’

And she spots me, wheeling her thick, battered, vintage Louis Vuitton case behind her. ‘Evie!’ She wraps me in a scented embrace; Chanel No. 5. And suddenly it’s just like old times.

‘I’m so glad you’re here!’ I hold her close. ‘It’s been ages!’

‘Years! Can you believe it?’

I give her another squeeze. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ I say again.

‘Darling, what are you wearing?’ she laughs, holding me at arm’s length.

I shudder. ‘I had a casting today. A deodorant commercial. I can’t tell you how cringe-making the whole thing was. And please, just for five minutes, don’t call me darling!’ I start to head towards the train but she pulls away.

‘Let’s take a cab; I’m shattered,’ she pleads.

‘I … I didn’t think, Robbie … it’s just, I haven’t been to the bank yet.’

‘I have cash.’ She surges ahead to join the queue.

Opening my handbag, I peer into my change purse. Two pounds and fifty-seven pence rattle around in coins. Clicking it shut, I wander after her.

She leans back in the cab. ‘So, how’s married life, Evie?’ She gives me the same naughty little smile everyone does when they use the phrase ‘married life’, as if it’s merely a euphemism for masses of sex.

I nod. ‘Great! Lovely. Where did you get your jumper? And how can you stand to wear it in this heat?’

‘I made it!’ She laughs, looking at it as if she still can’t quite believe the genius of her own handiwork. ‘I made you one too,’ she adds gleefully. ‘I’ve discovered a whole new side of myself that’s intensely visual. It’s amazing! And I love the feel of the wool between my fingers … it’s so … so …’

‘Woolly?’ I suggest.

She wrinkles her nose at me. ‘I was going to say grounded. Earthy. Did I tell you I began a textiles course? I’m doing really well. In fact, I’m a genius. Last week, I made a coat entirely out of recycled plastic bags. They’re using it in the end of term show! Of course, it smells a bit and makes a horrific noise if you move, but my professor says I’m inspired.’

‘Did you sleep with him?’ I tease.

She smiles, digs a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket. ‘No not this time.’ She tears the cellophane. She looks bloated; her grey-green eyes are washed out. Maybe it’s jet lag.

‘Although I should,’ she adds, giving me a wink. ‘He’s short.’

‘And this is a good thing?’

She lights up. ‘They’re so eager to please.’

‘I wouldn’t know!’ I laugh. The smell of the smoke is sharp and acrid. ‘Robbie, roll down the window, will you?’ I press the button on my side.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s the heat.’ I take a deep breath.

She holds her cigarette daintily out of the window. ‘My very own Princess and the Pea. So, thanks for putting me up tonight. Boyd’s not back from Moscow until tomorrow.’ And she winks again.

I shake my head. ‘What are you doing, Robbie?’

‘What I always do.’ She shrugs her shoulders lightly. ‘He’s sweet. I like him. We get each other, Evie.’ She takes another drag and looks out of the window. ‘He’s taking the Moscow Art Theatre to the Edinburgh Festival. He needs company. And frankly, so do I.’

There’s a lost quality in her voice; a sudden sadness. I turn to look at her again. She’s collapsed against the seat, gazing out of the window, chewing unconsciously on her bottom lip. There’s something different about her: a vagueness, a strange sense of resignation. We lapse into silence.