Waiting for Callback (5 page)

Eulalie made a strange Frenchy (to be fair she was French), yelpy sort of sound that I took to mean that she was almost as excited as I was. ‘We must make some shopping.’

I loved Eulalie (and not just because she loved shopping). Years ago – before I was even born – she’d rescued Mum’s lovely (now dead) father from the clutches of her
awful (and still living) mother, Granny Gwen. She was my favourite ‘grandmother’ (and, genetics aside, definitely the one I had the most in common with).

‘
Chérie
, you need beautiful clothes for going to see all the famous directors. Nothing from that horrible Large Shop.’ She helped herself to most of the salad (which I
appreciated because there was less left for me).

‘You mean Top Shop . . . I don’t think it will be quite like that. I mean, I’m not sure I’ll be meeting famous directors.’

‘But of course,
bien sûr
. How else are you going to act for them?’

It was a fair point, but still sort of unimaginable.

‘We’ll go to Harrods.’ (Just assume that every ‘h’ is silent and every ‘r’ is rolled – the longer Eulalie lived in London, the stronger her French
accent seemed to get.)

‘You spoil Elektra.’ Mum brought over extra salad just for me which was pretty passive-aggressive parenting.

‘I enjoy spoiling her,’ said Eulalie without the slightest shame. Her spoiling me is something we both get a lot out of.

‘Eulalie doesn’t believe that gifts, guilt and Oxfam goats have to go together
every time
like Granny Gwen does,’ said Dad who adored Eulalie.

Everyone
adored Eulalie, even Mum who really should have been a bit more conflicted.

‘Boats?’ asked Eulalie, looking bewildered. ‘Yachts?’

‘Goats,’ repeated Dad.

‘Gots?’

‘What’s the French for goats, Elektra? Chevrons? Or is that cheese?’

‘Don’t ask me. Mum, what’s the French for goats?’

My mother’s shrug at least was pretty Gallic.

Apparently, languages wouldn’t be on my parents’ ‘Skills’ sections either. Also ‘goat’ is surprisingly difficult to mime. Eulalie decided that she might as
well talk about yachts (I’m pretty sure she knew a lot more about them anyway). Not just yachts but partying on yachts with actors. Typically, it was a bit inappropriate. In her world,
excessive amounts of champagne and non-stop parties and affairs were just a bit of harmless fun.

‘Honestly, Eulalie, I can’t quite believe that ******* [I won’t use the name of the actress because I’d be sued] would have done
that
with ****** [high-profile
actor, same problem].’

My mother did that
tssk
thing (it’s actually quite hard to do, but she’s good at it).

‘I promise you, Julia, it’s true,’ said Eulalie. She paused for impact. ‘I was there.’

No question that if Eulalie had actually been there when ******* did what she said she’d done to ****** then it was an even more scandalous story. I knew (we all knew) that Eulalie was a
little bit truth challenged, but it wasn’t completely impossible.

‘Everybody is knowing that he is the father of at least two of her children,’ Eulalie went on.

‘Well, I know that’s not true.’ Mum sounded very sure.

‘Were you there too?’ I asked her. She didn’t answer, just punished me with more vegetables.

‘She was having the new bosoms after the third baby and the new face after the third husband.’

‘That I do believe,’ said Mum.

‘I need to see it,’ said Eulalie and it took us a moment to realize she was talking about the contract and not about the actress’s ‘improvements’.

I carried the document over to the table like a high priest bearing precious offerings to an altar.

‘“Talent Representation Agreement . . .”’ read Eulalie. ‘You’re the
talent
– no?’

‘Indeed I am,’ I said, ignoring my parents rolling their eyes at each other. Eulalie nodded as though that was how she described me every day.

‘“. . . I hereby authorize the Haden Agency to negotiate contracts for the delivery of my professional services as an artist or otherwise in the fields of film, television, stage,
radio broadcasting, modelling—”’ Eulalie broke off. ‘Modelling?’ Even she looked a bit surprised.

‘It’s a catch-all,’ I explained. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but it was pretty clear that I wasn’t going to be sent out for any modelling jobs any time
soon.

‘You pay them
twenty per cent
of all the monies you are making?’

‘Well, it’s eighty per cent of something or a hundred per cent of nothing,’ I said. I was new to this but not stupid.

‘It could be eighty per cent of nothing,’ said Mum. ‘Stella made it quite clear that Elektra might not get any parts or at least not for a long time.’

Eulalie shrugged like that could
never
happen. ‘You need to think positive thoughts, then it will happen for sure. Close your eyes, Elektra, and imagine yourself in your dream
role.’

I felt like a bit of an idiot, but because it was Eulalie I did exactly what she said (also that way I couldn’t see my parents’ expressions).

‘So, describe to us what are you seeing,’ Eulalie said like some sort of spirit guide.

What I was actually seeing was either a) nothing if I closed my eyes really tightly or b) my dad smirking if I didn’t. Also it was hard to concentrate because Digby was licking my leg
under the table. ‘Er, Joan of Arc?’ I don’t know where that one came from, but it would be a great role (except for the traumatic haircut). This was quite hard. A mean, gorgeous
girl in
St Trinian’s
(or a nice but ‘plain’ girl who gets a makeover and turns out to be seriously fit)? Any part in
Doctor Who
? (Except for a dalek because
I’d get claustrophobic.) None of these would mean anything to Eulalie.

‘Juliet,’ I said because I’d practised fantasizing about that one. I opened my eyes. ‘Have any of you ever heard of an actor called Gregory Peck?’

It was like I’d said, ‘Have any of you ever heard of the Pope or Napoleon or Queen Elizabeth?’ There was outrage at my ignorance.

‘So, first we watch
Roman Holiday
and
second
we go to Harrods,’ said Eulalie when she’d recovered the power of speech.

Dad’s phone started ringing in the other room. ‘It’ll be work,’ he explained. ‘I’ll leave it.’

‘What are you building now, Bertie?’ asked Eulalie.

We’d all given up explaining to her that Dad didn’t actually
build
anything. And yes, he was called Bertie. It was just a cross he had to bear.

‘Not enough actually. It’s quiet at the moment. Too quiet. There’s a limit to how excited I can get about kitchen extensions.’

Dad usually got excited about things like rectilinear elevations or bespoke brushed metal cladding (nope, I’ve no idea either).

‘Well, you can always come over and help me renovate my
boiseries
.’

I don’t know what Eulalie was talking about, but there was no question she was flirting. She flirts with everyone: man, woman, child, dog.

‘I’m not sure what
boiseries
are, Eulalie, but no doubt it would be a pleasure.’

Sacré bleu
, he was flirting back.

Sometimes I struggled being in this family.

Moss turned up just when Eulalie was leaving – which in one way was bad because they adore each other, but in another way was good because they’d have spent ages
talking about fashion and their shoe fetishes and I’d have felt left out. Moss and I grabbed Digby and a packet of custard creams and headed up to my room to ‘revise’.

My messy room’s nice but it’s very cold. That’s how I like it (the cold bit – I’m neutral about mess as it’s just there) but Moss gets shivery so we piled
(Digby included) under the duvet.

‘So, what happens next?’ she asked.

I looked at Moss a bit blankly. ‘I’m not sure. I suppose I wait.’

‘What did they say would happen?’

‘I think they’ll just phone me if there’s something they think I could try for.’

‘You’d better not lose your phone then.’

I started to object to that slur on my character, but to be fair I had form on losing my phone. ‘Well, they’ll probably phone my mum. Until I’m sixteen, I need to get
permission from her even to audition.’

‘I’ll need permission from my mum to do anything until I’m at least twenty-one.’

‘Anything?’

‘Anything.’

‘Well, that’s going to be embarrassing.’

Moss groaned and crammed a whole biscuit into her mouth.

‘Do you want to see my headshot?’ I asked.

‘Yes!’

I pulled it up on my phone. ‘What do you think?’

She gave it the sort of close, critical examination it deserved. ‘Wow . . . It’s like you but not like you. It’s like a better you. Sort of a glossy version of you.’

‘Thank you, I think.’

‘You should totally make it your new Facebook profile pic.’

‘No way. It’s too . . . perfect.’ I meant the photograph, not me obviously.

‘Flissy has her profile pic taken professionally.’

Of course she did. Flissy had her hair blow-dried and wore a smoky eye to school. ‘I’m not going to start competing with Flissy.’ There was only so much narcissism that someone
outside her crew would get away with.

‘What was the photographer like?’

‘Old, quiet, quite sweet. It was still scary though. I felt really self-conscious.’ And weirdly aware of my teeth. In the end, I’d had to act being a super-confident actor
(with no teeth hang-ups) getting her headshots done.

‘Well, it was only one photo. It can’t have been that scary.’

‘You have no idea – it took forever to get that shot.’ Literally hours – respect to models; at least I could eat biscuits while he was fiddling with the lighting.
‘I’m like an expert now.’ I took back my phone. ‘Come on, I’m going to take your headshot now. Give me your best pose . . . Chin down . . . Neck back and up, sweetie .
. .’

‘He called you “sweetie”?’

‘Yes, but in a nice not weird way. Concentrate. Eyes to me . . . Time for a few with your hair up . . . No, not like that . . . Leave it down . . .’

‘It’s my ears, right? They always look weird in photos.’

She did have very big ears. ‘They’re only ears; nobody’s ears are a huge selling point. Stop pouting.’

‘I wasn’t pouting.’

‘You so were. That was a Flissy-level pout. Come on, I want to get the perfect shot, face slightly to the left . . . NOT YOU, DIGBY.’ He was photobombing. ‘Now to the right,
Moss . . .
Relax
your face.’

‘What does that even mean?’

‘I don’t know, but the photographer said it to me
a lot
. Try blowing out through your mouth like a pony – that was another of his top tips.’ It was a direction too
far. Moss lost it. I wasn’t going to get the
perfect
shot. I had some quite funny ones though.

‘Are you scared about auditions and – I don’t know –
doing
stuff in front of people?’ Moss asked when we’d got ourselves together.

I thought about it. ‘Nah. I mean, I probably will be, but it’s not real yet so not much point getting worried about it.’

‘I couldn’t do it.’

Moss had had a seriously traumatic experience as a gryphon in our Year Seven production of
Alice in Wonderland
and I doubted if she’d ever get on a stage again.

‘There must be some stuff you wouldn’t want to do.’

‘Like what?’

‘Don’t know. Getting naked? Advertising tampons?’

I hadn’t really thought about things like that. ‘Aaaargh, I’m not sure. Maybe not being naked.’

‘Imagine being stark naked on a ten-metre-high screen. In high definition. With people you know in the audience. Are you chill with that?’

‘Not exactly “chill”.’ Not even a little bit chill.

‘What about horror movies?’

‘I think I’d be OK with horror.’

‘Seriously, Elektra? You can’t even watch
Doctor Who
without holding on to me or Digby.’

That was true. Now I came to think about it there was quite a lot of stuff I wouldn’t want to do. This was making me anxious, and when I was anxious I made lists. My room might be messy,
but I liked my mind to be tidy. I scrabbled for something to write on (back of a letter from school about signing up for sports teams that I’d ‘forgotten’ to hand in) and a pen
(actually an eyeliner, but I was rubbish at using eyeliner so it was a reasonable redeployment). ‘I need something to lean on.’

‘Use Digby,’ suggested Moss, hefting him from her side of the bed to mine.

‘No, he won’t stay still while there are crumbs in the bed to be hoovered up. I’ll use a pillow.’

Out of the Question