Waiting for Callback (12 page)

Great.

‘I need cake,’ said Moss when we were out of the door.

‘
You
need cake?’

‘I really do. That was tense. I think I felt like mums do when they’re watching their kids in the nativity play.’

‘Most mums don’t laugh at their kids.’

‘Mine always did. Sorry, it was nerves. I don’t know how you can do that. I’m actually a bit impressed.’

‘Aw, thanks, Mossy.’ Admittedly, Moss wasn’t the one I needed to impress, but I wasn’t going to turn down praise. Also my mum had given me ‘emergency audition
money’ and we’d reached a cafe offering hot doughnuts so the day wasn’t going to be all bad.

‘So how’s stuff going with Torr?’ I asked when we were sitting down.

Moss tried to look casual and nonchalant, but it really wasn’t working. ‘We’ve been texting and I might see him again on Saturday.’

They’d already arranged to meet up twice, but the first time Torr had played it safe and turned up with two of his mates for protection and the second time had been cancelled when
Moss’s mum had faked an emergency and made Moss stay at home to look after Haruka.

‘What time on Saturday?’

‘Don’t know, he hasn’t said.’

I resisted the urge both to point out that she had a say in it too and that we’d planned to hang out that day. ‘Cool,’ I said (it was catching). ‘And it’s a full-on
date, right?’

She shrugged. ‘I’m not entirely sure. It’s just the two of us this time. I think.’

She looked a bit stressed which was fair enough. We were both pretty clueless about this dating business (to give it an optimistic, not to say euphemistic, name).

‘You could ask Flissy,’ I suggested. ‘She’d have some useful expertise.’

‘Eurgh, can you imagine how smug she’d be?’

‘True. She and James have been going out for so long though.’

‘I
know
. How is it that Flissy of all people ended up with an emotionally fulfilling, stable relationship?’ asked Moss.

‘We don’t know that it’s emotionally fulfilling.’

‘She says it is and I don’t think he gets the chance to say anything. Ever.’

‘Maybe the secret to relationship success is to date a guy with literally no brain,’ I said.

‘Are you going to test that theory?’

I gave her the sort of look such a question deserved. Also there wasn’t a line of fit, brainless guys vying for my hand.

‘Is Archie clever?’ she asked, licking sugar off her fingers.

‘Sadly, that is not relevant as we’re never going to be in a relationship. And yes he is. Probably.’ I didn’t really know, but he didn’t look stupid.
‘I’m tragic. I’m the only person in our year not on the Maths Olympiad team that hasn’t pulled.’

‘C’mon, Elektra. That is so not true.’

I looked at Moss hopefully.

‘I think maybe most of the Olympiad team have got lucky by now.’

I was nearly at the ‘no sense of humour’ stage. It was just humiliating. Even my mum (getting in touch with her inner Mrs Bennet) had started asking a bit desperately if I’d
‘snogged’ anyone. Statistically, it should have happened by now. I might not have been Moss or Talia, but I wasn’t hideous and the bar was set quite low. It wasn’t that I
hadn’t had chances. I mean, boys had pounced, but not the boys I’d wanted to (frankly, pretty desperate boys – brave but still desperate) and I’d ducked. Now I wished
I’d just let them pounce. At thirteen, any guy is just grateful that you’re there; by fifteen, it felt like you were expected to be expert at it. It’s like rollerblading: the
longer you leave it, the harder it gets.

‘Sarah Walsh and Andrew Bane are going out now,’ said Moss (unhelpfully).

‘But she looks about ten.’

‘And he looks like her brother. They have exactly the same nose. It’s just wrong.’

‘It’s hopeless. I’m never going to leave the house again. I’m going to stay home and eat sweet things and become so fat I have to stay in bed with only Digby and his dog
breath for company and you’ll have to visit me and tell me what it’s like outside.’

‘I wouldn’t rely on me for an education. I’m nearly as clueless as you.’

‘But not quite – thanks for the reminder.’

‘Sorry. There’s always
Cosmo
for helpful tips.’ She fished one out from her bag, headline
Your Breasts Called and They’re Feeling Neglected.
(I think my
breasts would still have needed parental permission to use the phone.)

‘Ew, I don’t think I really want to know
Magic Ways to Touch His Ear Lobes
.’

‘You’re freaked out by ear lobes?’ Moss sounded worried for me.

‘I just don’t see them
that
way. This isn’t helping. I don’t doubt
Cosmo
’s educational intentions, but these articles all assume I’ve already
snagged the guy. Which, as we’ve discussed at length, I haven’t. But you have, so you’re just going to have to find out stuff and report back. Come on, Mossy, it’s your duty
as a true friend.’

‘You need to do your own research.’

‘HOW?’ I wailed. ‘We’ve just established my hopelessness.’

‘You’re just a bit rubbish at knowing when someone’s into you.’

Actually, that was true, but it was complicated. How was I meant to know? It wasn’t like anyone was ever honest; that would be social suicide.

‘What about Danny Wright?’ went on Moss.

‘What about Danny Wright?’

‘He was texting you, like, ten times a day. What more of a sign do you want?’

‘Danny Wright plays rugby. He was probably only texting me so he could show all his mates or for a bet or something. Also he’s always breaking into weird chants that don’t
sound human. It’s confusing.’

‘That’s anti-rugby-team prejudice, Elektra James.’

‘No, that’s fact. I’m not buying into this whole rugby team status points thing.’ Well, I wasn’t going to admit to buying into it. ‘Anyway, I have too many
opinions for Danny Wright; his texts were boring.’

‘You need to stop discriminating based on looks or personality; you’re being way too picky. And his texts were only boring because you weren’t into him. You wouldn’t
think it was boring if
Archie
texted you with a bit of rugby banter.’

No I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t think it was boring if Archie texted me about the fact that his mum had run out of washing-up liquid.

‘You actually just sighed.’ Moss looked at me despairingly.

‘I didn’t.’

‘You did.’

I probably did.

I might have blushed as well.

My phone barked and Moss answered. ‘Hello, this is Elektra James’s personal assistant and chaperone speaking. May I help you? Oh, right . . . Sorry . . . Sure.’ She passed me
back the phone, mouthing, ‘
Sorry.
’

‘Hi, Elektra?’ It was Charlie. ‘I can’t reach your mum and that student director person’s been on the phone already. He liked you.’ She sounded annoyingly
surprised.

‘He’s called Ed. I liked him too.’

‘Do you want to do his film then?’

Hell, yes.

From:
Charlotte at the Haden Agency

Date:
22 January 14:21.

To:
Julia James

Cc:
Stella at the Haden Agency

Subject:
Capital Film School (Module 3.2: Working with Children and Animals)

Attachments:
Script.doc; Map.jpeg

Dear Julia,

Further to my conversation with Elektra yesterday, I can confirm that Edward Price at Capital Film School would like to book Elektra for up to one day’s
filming on Saturday 7 February. The script is attached. I’ve highlighted Elektra’s lines and she’ll need to be off-book.

The location is marked on the attached map. Any problems finding it, please call Edward directly on 07778 345651.

In the meantime, could you please email me Elektra’s measurements (height, chest and waist) as a costume will be provided for her? There will be catering
on-site. You should also be given a form to fill in for travel and any other legitimate expenses.

Best,

Charlotte

P.S. I got your email about the singing masterclass. Singing is a great skill for an actor, but if Elektra really isn’t keen and feels that it’s not
her thing then it’s absolutely fine for her not to attend!

‘This can’t be the right place,’ said Mum, pulling up in a narrow side street. She looked doubtfully at the directions she’d printed out. ‘Can you
get out, Elektra, and see if anyone else is here?’

Great, it was still dark and it was freezing. ‘It doesn’t look like anyone else has been here for about a hundred years,’ I said, looking up at the looming Victorian
warehouses. I’m not sure why we were surprised; the script had promised we’d be filming in a disused warehouse.

A small scruffy white van with
There is no Planet B
scrawled on the side in luminous paint pulled up alongside us and Ed leaned out of the window. ‘Hey, Elektra and Mrs,’ he
paused, ‘er, Elektra’s mum. Cool. Whoa, you’re totally on time.’ He sounded surprised, like timekeeping was on a module he hadn’t studied yet. ‘Excellent,
yeah.’ And he looked at us as though he wasn’t very sure what to do with us.

A worried-looking guy got out of the other side of the van and came over.

‘Hi, I’m Hadid. I’m the first AD on this shoot.’ I wasn’t sure what that was, but it sounded important so I did a deferential head dip. ‘It’s going to
take us a bit of time to set up so would you mind just sitting tight for a bit and we’ll come and get you when we’re good to go?’

‘Sure,’ I said because my mum looked too cold and fed up to speak. We watched as more people and heaps of equipment than seemed possible were unloaded from the back of the
van/Tardis. ‘It’s so exciting,’ I said to Mum as a huge light was carried inside the building.

‘I need coffee,’ was all that she said.

She kept saying it at five-minute intervals for the next forty minutes until a pretty girl with a nose ring, who introduced herself as Megan, came out to collect us.

The inside of the building was spookier than the outside. There were broken windows and pigeon poo on the floor and the faint smell of pee. It was
perfect
.

Hadid and Ed and two other guys were doing intense things with cables and big lights and barely looked up as we passed.

‘You can wait by the fire till they’re ready to shoot,’ said Megan and I thought my mum was going to kiss her. The fire was a tiny old-fashioned electric fire with fake orange
flames, but we huddled round it like it was some sort of Viking hearth. Megan brought us tea in plastic cups and a couple of foldaway chairs. It was like being at some weird (very underfunded) Boy
Scout thing.

‘If you want food or drink, just ask me – I’m on catering – or help yourselves.’ She pointed to a little table heaped high with random packets. There wasn’t a
vitamin in sight. Excellent. ‘Now I need to take Elektra for costume and hair and make-up.’

I’d been looking forward to this. Lead on. It turned out Megan was on catering
and
on costume
and
on hair and make-up. Multitalented and/or Ed’s girlfriend. My costume
was this skinny little black dress enthusiastically distressed with rips and mud (actual mud so it smelled a bit).

‘Wow, it looks even better on you than on the mood board,’ said Megan (design too then) when I emerged, all self-conscious, from behind the makeshift screen.

‘Make-up now.’ She positioned me beside a window and peered at me for about five minutes like I was a thing and not a person. ‘Ooooh, you’ve got a little spot coming . .
. and another one here.’ She pushed my nose to one side to get a really good look.

‘Sorry.’ There wasn’t much else I could say.

‘It’s OK. I’ll cover them up for you.’ She started dabbing at me with a little sponge.

‘Will it show?’ I was getting a bit anxious.

‘No. To be honest, our camera kit’s a bit last millennium so we’ll be lucky if everyone’s not blurry.’

I was grateful for that. I’d have quite liked a smoky eye or something, but all I got was layers and layers of very pale foundation (on account of being dead).

‘You’re done,’ said Megan finally (it took extra long because she kept touching up her own eyeliner; she was definitely into Ed). ‘They’re not ready for you so just
go keep warm by the fire.’ She looked worriedly at my goose-pimply legs (the script demanded bare legs).

A middle-aged man was talking to Mum. ‘And then delays on
World War Z
were endless, weeks hanging around in Glasgow, waiting to be called – but hey, Brad’s totally a
great guy.’

‘Brad Pitt?’ I interrupted.

‘Sure. Brad’s a straight-up guy,’ he said (whoa, BAD breath). ‘I’m Dan and I’ve just been having an interesting conversation with your lovely lady mother here
about some of the people I’ve worked with.’

Whatever my ‘lovely lady mother’ was trying to tell me with her eyes, it wasn’t that they were having an ‘interesting conversation’.