CHAPTER 8

I stand before the panel, wearing a smile I barely feel. Edwina Hirsch sits in the middle, hair piled on top of her head like a three-tiered chocolate fountain, a spine as straight as a javelin, and unblinking cat eyes. The queen of British theatre is holding court. Back in the day, Edwina was a world-class ballerina before she broke her leg then discovered she had a gift for musical theatre. To her right sits Dalton Wright who was in a boyband in the nineties, then had a short run on a soap, before the producers killed his character off after he kept turning up on set drunk. Dude might be relapsing cos his face is flushed and his man-weave is glued on wonky. Completing the judging panel is Ananya Banerjee, a British Bangladeshi journalist who co-hosted a daytime TV show a few years ago before turning to radio. A pink gem glistens above her right nostril, a wide smile simmering beneath it.

‘Tell us your name, where you’re from and why you think you’d be perfect for the role,’ says Edwina, rolling her R’s in old-school received pronunciation.

I open my mouth and nothing comes out. Calm down, I tell myself. You got this. Be yourself – that’s one job you can’t screw up. I manage the first two, no problem.

‘What makes you think you’re more special than the other girls we’ve seen?’ presses Dalton.

‘Nothing,’ I admit. ‘Cos everyone’s special in their own way. But I think you should pick me cos no one would be more dedicated or committed to the role. 5 a.m. call times? No problem. Last minute script changes? I can learn lines faster than you can write them. I’m a triple threat.’ I can act, sing and dance but should I mention my vocal struggles with public singing? ‘But acting is my number one.’

After rolling his eyes twice, Dalton scribbles something on a pad.

‘Cinderella is a girl from the wrong side of town,’ I continue. ‘With big ambitions but everyone’s telling her to remember her place. That could be me you’re talking about, right there. I got bundles of creative energy but three drama lessons a week ain’t enough. I want to do it twenty-four-seven. I need it to breathe.’ I clutch my ribs, flaring my nostrils. ‘No one back home seems to understand that, so I keep ending up in trouble. People take one look at me and they think they know who I am. No one ever gives me a chance.’

‘What? People hate you because you’re beautiful?’ Dalton says sassily, placing his hands under his chin as if serving shade on a platter.

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ I quote back at him. ‘Everyone’s got a story to tell and sometimes a smile can hide pain and tears.’

‘Well,’ Ananya says with a kind smile. ‘We’re giving you that chance now.’

Edwina narrows her eyes. ‘Begin.’

Taking a deep breath, I recite Sophocles, feeling the power of the words resonating in my soul, forming tremors in the air that seemed to grow bigger and bigger. In my mind I am Polynices in Ancient Greece, pleading for forgiveness from the family I have wronged.

Ananya nods and smiles broadly, while Dalton looks disappointed. Edwina clears her throat, ‘That was . . . different. We’ve had a surfeit of Juliets and a Miranda or two, but you selected a traditionally male role. What was your thinking behind that?’

I shrug. ‘Back in the day, men got the best roles. I figured if I was going to show my range, that’d be the way to go.’

‘We’re casting for Cinderella not Cinderfella,’ snipes Dalton.

‘Yes, but the winning actor gets to give the character her own unique spin,’ replies Ananya.

Edwina taps her upper lip. ‘There was something in your delivery just now . . . the degree of guilt and self-flagellation. Of course your diction was terrible. The alveolar trills in particular were quite flat.’

I blush. Not sure what she’s on about but ashamed all the same.

‘Quite horrendous!’ Dalton agrees with relish.

Edwina asks me to move on to my song. ‘Now I want you to enter into the mind of Cinderella – the school pariah. Don’t play her, be her. When words are simply not enough in theatre, we sing. Tell the audience through the power of song exactly how you are feeling.’

‘What’s your song choice?’ asks Ananya.

I shuffle about nervously. ‘I . . .’ The silence is deafening. ‘I couldn’t find one. So I wrote my own.’

Edwina nods. ‘Begin.’

‘Mamma was my guiding light; I’mma preach it.

Daddy taught me wrong from right; Him’ma teach it.

Cancer stole my mum away, can’t believe it.

Couldn’t live another day, wanna leave it.

So Daddy marries another girl, it hurtin’ me.

Stepma come to destroy my world, she workin’ me.

Sistas brung twin hearts of stone, dem lurk fo’ me.

Soulless clones who yell and moan, dem come fo’ me.

Daddy don’t believe what’s said! Dem lie.

But Daddy did and now he’s dead. Man die.

Here I am, all alone. Ask why.

Become a slave in my own home. I’mma cry.

Oh-oh-oh-oh! How I cry—’

The rap breaks me, my emotions so raw, the wounds too deep. I cover my face and start to sob, knowing I’ve blown it. Somehow I always mess everything up.

Applause cuts through my downward spiral, making me double take. Ananya is on her feet shouting, ‘Brilliant, brilliant!’ and clapping like there’s no tomorrow. Dalton is looking seriously sketchy, scribbling away on his pad like he’s filing a victim report. Edwina’s neck has extended like an alert giraffe.

‘It’s a big YES from me!’ Ananya says grinning, sitting down. ‘Did you really write those lyrics yourself?’

Rubbing my eyes, I nod. I feel like I’m back at primary school, blubbing in front of the class cos my life sucks.

Dalton raises his eyebrows and sighs as if blowing an invisible balloon. ‘Yeah, not really a fan of gimmicks. It’s a cover for a lack of talent, isn’t it? The rapping was great and all but this is primarily an acting role and there are thousands of kids in inner city schools who can rap. Nothing special.’

‘How can you sit there and say that after we’ve had samey performances all afternoon?’ says Ananya, bristling.

‘It’s how I feel and I’ve been in the business long enough to know what I’m talking about.’

‘You were in three episodes of EastEnders and we all know how that ended!’

‘It was called Rochdalers and we had creative differences! Happens all the time.’

Edwina sniffs and the bickering promptly stops.

‘Salma Hashmi, isn’t it?’ she asks checking her tablet. I nod, the tears drying on my cheeks. ‘I believed every word. Thank you for reminding me of the magic of performance.’

I cover my mouth, the tears flowing again. Edwina winks and my heart does a backflip.