Waiting for Callback (2 page)

‘Don’t say “like”,’ they both said together (as they so often did).

I ignored the interruption (as I so often did). ‘She got loads of As and A stars
and
she went to university all over the place
and
now she’s, like, literally running
the UN or something.’ Also I kept seeing photos of her in magazines with preppy hot guys on both sides of the Atlantic (admirable, but not a point that was likely to help me right now).

‘Don’t misuse “literally”,’ said Dad, who cares about the strangest things. ‘And I thought it was Hermione who was really brainy?’ He used to read me
the
Harry Potter
books at bedtime until the plots got a bit heavy and Mum stopped keeping my room tidy.

‘Well, yes, but—’ I began.

‘Schoolwork matters anyway – exams or no exams,’ my mother interrupted.

‘Natalie Portman went to Harvard and speaks six languages,’ I countered. ‘And Dakota Fanning went to NYU.’

‘I have no idea who you’re talking about,’ said Dad.

I struggled to think of clever
well-behaved
actors that they might have heard of (I wasn’t going to risk bringing up clever badly behaved actors like Lindsay Lohan or any number of
others). I knew
everything
about these people (including things I very much wished I could unknow), something that had at least as much to do with my embarrassing addiction to gossip sites
and trashy mags as it did with my acting obsession. It probably wasn’t entirely healthy.

‘And you wouldn’t mind if it was time off for violin or something,’ I went on.

My father snorted – probably because no one could forget my short-lived but nonetheless painful violin phase.

‘I’m right though, aren’t I? You wouldn’t be worried if this agent lady wanted to represent me for a youth orchestra or something. You should hear the things that go on
at Pro Corda courses.’ Rumour had it those classical musicians spent more time sticking their tongues down one another’s throats than they did mastering Mozart (or any other dead
musical genius) and nobody ever assumed they’d all end up in rehab.

My phone barked. (I wasn’t too cool for novelty ringtones and it was a homage to Digby, who I sincerely loved, despite his favoured child status.)

‘Don’t even think about answering that,’ Mum said, giving me a look.

‘I wasn’t going to,’ I lied.

‘Who is it?’

I considered saying, ‘None of your business,’ but thought better of it. ‘Moss.’

‘Moss can wait.’

I considered saying, ‘You always tell me it’s important not to neglect my friends,’ but I thought better of that too: there were bigger things at stake right now. ‘Look,
I probably won’t get any parts anyway.’

‘Then
why
do you want to do it?’ asked Dad in his annoyingly logical way.

‘Because I
might
,’ I mumbled through an unwieldy mouthful of toast. Digby padded in, sat by my feet and looked adoringly at me (well, more likely at the toast; he was a slave
to carbs).

‘But if you don’t you might get terribly upset. How will you deal with so much
rejection
?’ said Mum.

Like fifteen-year-old girls weren’t used to rejection.

‘It would be me that would have to deal with it. You’re always telling me I have to take risks in life and now the first chance of a big one comes along and you’re both all
weird about it.’

My phone gave a single bark.
PICKKKKK UPPPPPP!

Can’t. Parents.

Have they said yes?

Not yet

My mother swooped in like some sort of vulture (well, a vulture in cashmere and pressed jeans) and confiscated my phone. It was like social services ripping a newborn baby from its teenage
mother.

‘This is an important conversation and you are not going to sit here paying more attention to your phone than to us.’

Obviously, I was not OK with the whole taking-the-phone thing – there are boundaries – but there are also times when just being in the right is not enough.

‘Come on, Julia, we need to make a decision on this.’ Dad was keen to get the conversation back on track. Probably because he wanted it over so he could check
his
phone.
‘Pros and cons: let’s list them.’

Dad’s a committed list-maker. This was something we had in common, although his lists were never random like mine, which were almost
always
random (and usually embarrassing). Also
Dad’s lists didn’t look anything like mine because he was the sort of person who could draw perfectly straight lines freehand and he was severely limited in his choice of stationery and
ink.

After some – occasionally heated – discussion, here’s what we came up with:

I didn’t really get why we argued about money. To me, it was an obvious ‘pro’. At first sight, to Dad (sole breadwinner), it was a ‘pro’, but to
my mother (primary spender) it was surprisingly a ‘con’. To listen to her, you’d have thought that possession of a bank account by anybody under the age of twenty-one was a
passport to depravity.

‘What do you think I’m going to do if I earn any money? Buy hard drugs?’

She shuddered. ‘It’s not unknown.’

‘But it’s
me
. I don’t even like taking
Calpol
. I’m not going to morph into some Hollywood substance abuser because someone pays me a couple of hundred
pounds to do some acting for them.’

‘Some hope,’ said Dad, which (assuming he was talking about the money) was harsh but probably true.

We weren’t getting anywhere. One minute my parents were worried I was going to face a life of rejection and low self-esteem (and would probably get anorexia) and the next that I
wouldn’t be able to deal with a three-film deal (and would probably get anorexia). We broke, exhausted, for more toast (me – an eating disorder was a
spectacularly
remote risk)
and more coffee (them).

It was time to bring out my trump card.

‘It would look amazing on my personal statement for uni.’

Within five minutes, they were talking about calling Mrs Haden (‘just to discuss it’). I fled the kitchen (reclaiming my stolen property en route). I needed to talk to Moss about
important things like what we’d wear to the Oscars.

‘Elektra, get off the phone and go and get dressed!’ my mum yelled from the kitchen after a few minutes.

‘Just talking to Moss!’ I yelled back.

‘Don’t shout!’ yelled my dad.

‘Sorry!’ I yelled back.

‘I mean it, Elektra. Get off the mobile or you’ll get a brain tumour!’ My mother was apparently allowed to shout (although her whisper would have bored through most walls
too).

‘Did your mum just say you’d get a brain tumour?’ Moss was listening in. Hard not to.

‘Yep.’

‘From talking on the phone?’

‘Yep, high-risk thing to do.’

‘Seriously? God, it must be tiring being your mum.’

I think it probably was.

From:
Stella at the Haden Agency

Date:
4 November 16:21

To:
Julia James

Cc:
Charlotte at the Haden Agency

Subject:
Meeting to discuss possible representation (Elektra James)

Attachments:
Directions.doc

Dear Julia,

We are so pleased that you and Elektra are going to come in and talk to us about
possible
representation. I was just telling Charlie (my assistant) about
what a wonderfully
vibrant
carrot Elektra was!

I perfectly understand that an after-school appointment would suit best and I could offer you next Monday 10 November at 5 p.m.? Let me know if that works.
I’ve attached a map with directions; we’re directly above the Mayfield Dental Practice – once you see the metre-high model of a molar, you’ll know you’ve found the
right place!

We’re looking forward to meeting you both.

Best wishes,

Stella Haden

‘So, are you getting off school early to meet her?’ asked Moss as we sat on the bus to school the following Monday.

‘Who?’ I asked distractedly, searching through my bag for my French homework.

‘Your agent,’ said Moss, ‘and how unreal is it that I just asked that?’

‘Well, it’s not real. She’s not my agent.’ Neither of us could say the word ‘agent’ in a normal voice; it still sounded like it should be in italics or
capitals or quotes or something.

‘She’s not your agent
yet
,’ said Moss with an optimism that owed everything to our friendship. ‘Today’s the day.’

‘I can’t even let myself think about it I want it to happen so much.’ Also it made me a bit sweaty. ‘And no, I’m not missing any lessons; my mum
“kindly” arranged the meeting for after school.’ I rifled through my bag for the hundredth time. ‘Aaaargh, it’s definitely not here.’

‘What have you lost this time?’ Moss was used to this morning routine.

‘My French homework. I’ve forgotten it . . . again.’

‘Who cares? You’re going to be a Hollywood star.’

That was true of course (sure), but right now it was Monday morning and there was a lot to be got through before five o’clock – including French unfortunately.

‘I’ll help you look.’ Moss dumped the entire contents of my bag on to the seat between us: a tampon that had exploded half out of its wrapper like a small escaping mouse (but,
to the boys on the bus, scarier); two mini Oreo packets, sadly empty; a copy of
Grazia
(cover story:
Alex Pettyfer on dating his co-stars –
hopefully, useful at some point, but
right now less useful than my French homework); random exercise books and textbooks for every subject except French.

‘Madame Verte will give me detention. That’ll make her happy – she’s such a cow.’ (Her real name is Mrs Green and she comes from Essex.)

‘I’ll keep you company. I got a detention from Mrs Lawal on Friday.’

‘What for?’

‘I was late for physics . . . again.’

Figured. Moss and I spend a lot of bonding time in detention together.

‘Have you told Archie about the meeting?’ she asked.

‘Take a wild guess.’

‘That would be no then.’

‘No.’

‘Is that because you still haven’t talked to him?’

I shook my head and she looked at me in despair. I’d been in the same class at ACT as Archie Mortimer for nearly a term, but it wasn’t that simple.

Archie was fit. The sort of fit that is universally acknowledged – tall, good body (and yes, I’d Facebook stalked for evidence), face full of bones (I know that all faces are full of
bones, but his are perfectly arranged). This isn’t subjective and I’m not exaggerating. I’m not saying this like it’s a good thing. It would be much better for me if I were
the
only one
irresistibly drawn to his understated, outsider, in-the-eye-of-the-beholder charms. That would maybe work quite well all round. But no, nobody’s calling Archie
Mortimer’s charms understated.

Of course I hadn’t talked to him.

In my head, we had entire conversations and I was witty and adorable with just the right number of quirks. Basically, I was every leading lady in every romcom and he was smitten and always
followed the script.

Imaginary dating: it’s the way forward.