‘You know they’re only planning to keep four girls for the third year?’ Samantha’s eyes were wide with fear as she shuffled along the bench towards Nell.
‘Who said? How do you know?’
‘I heard it from Charlie. But everyone’s talking about it. Patrick knows what he wants to direct, apparently, and there are only parts for four girls. The interview times are up, have you seen?’
Nell abandoned her lunch and dashed to the front of the building. Traditionally, information was pinned to a noticeboard inside the main doors, and there it was – one white A4 sheet of paper on which, in two columns, was printed the names of the twenty-two remaining students. Nell traced the list with her finger. She was in the second column. Near the end. She was before Jonathan, and after that freak Eshkol. She felt herself go pale.
‘Look,’ Samantha pointed to the list, ‘I’m second.’ She laughed nervously and a red flush appeared on her neck.
‘But what does it mean?’ Pierre joined them. ‘Why have they put us in that order? It’s not alphabetical. It’s not by date of birth . . . is it some sort of code, do you think?’
‘Probably,’ Nell said gloomily. Instinctively she glanced up at the balcony where, rumour had it, Patrick hovered between the lockers. What could he hear from there? Gossip, exhilaration, bitter grievous tears?
‘Right,’ Samantha chewed on an already chewed-up fingernail. ‘Well, they’ll obviously keep Charlie. And Hettie? What do you think?’
‘Probably.’ Pierre agreed. ‘And Marvella’s popular.’ Only last week Silvio had praised her ‘inner tranquillity’. Inner docility, more like, Nell thought now, but it was hard for a man, even a gay man, to see beyond those suntanned limbs and the natural wave of her blonde hair.
‘Yes. And . . . and . . . who else?’ Samantha’s broad shoulders were bent forward, her large oddly bare face, gaunt.
‘They like you,’ Nell assured her. ‘They won’t throw you out.’
‘Really? Do you think so?’ Blood coursed through her, revealing pleasure and a new brief belief. ‘And you!’ Politeness overcame her. ‘They’ll keep you. They’ll have to. You were amazing last term in Othello. No one could have done Emilia better.’
‘Really?’ Nell felt her stomach sinking. ‘But that makes five.’
‘You know they’re only keeping ten boys,’ Pierre shook his head. ‘Just think how awful it’ll be, for the only one to go.’
Both girls turned to him but neither could summon up the necessary sympathy. ‘It’s bloody ridiculous,’ Samantha wailed. ‘Most of the boys in our year are useless, everyone knows that.’
‘Yes.’ Nell hoped Patrick was listening. ‘It’s not as if there aren’t any plays for women. You just have to look a bit harder. Show some imagination.’
A door slammed and Jemma hurried through the foyer. She kept her head low, as if distracted by the large bright orange tutu cradled in her arms. She pushed against the door on to the street, and stood there for a minute silhouetted against the day, dust mites dancing round her curly head, each strand picked out in sunshine.
‘Does she know the list’s up?’ Pierre mouthed.
Samantha sighed. ‘And what about Tess and Mikita? And Susie? What if they throw Susie out?’ Susie was a vegan, moved to tears by the sight of the sausages for sale in the canteen at first break.
Nell turned away. Maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe Charlie had made the whole thing up. But why would she? She imagined attending a debate on the likely reasons. Voices were raised. Outrage expressed. Sheer, unparalleled disbelief. ‘We’re talking about Charlie Adedayo-Martin,’ Nell cut through the rabble. ‘She’d do it – why? Because she can.’
Nell’s soup was cold, her bowl of salad wilted, but she set about eating it all the same.
‘Sweetheart,’ it was Samantha again, tapping her on the shoulder, a sympathetic tap, she was sure of it, a tap that told her she was number 5. ‘I’m going to walk down to Woolworths to get more glitter. Do you need anything?’
Nell smiled mildly at her. ‘No. Thank you. I’m fine.’
That afternoon was the dress rehearsal for Grease. Everywhere girls ran back and forth, assembling costumes, practising dance moves, taking photos, marvelling at their transformations, not the inner transformation they’d been trained to produce, using Silvio’s series of instructions, but the revelation of a high pony tail, of hair smoothed back behind a lemon-yellow hair band, of bare brown legs in bobby socks and a tightly belted waist. Nell was playing Sandy – well, some of Sandy, the part was divided between her, Charlie and Marvella, and she had the first song, a duet. ‘Summer lovin’, had me a blast,’ she sang between mouthfuls of salad, ‘Summer lovin’, happened so fast.’ It was the first time in her two years here Nell had been given a chance to play a lead. It was a good sign, she’d imagined, but now, of course, she wasn’t so sure. And then a thought occurred to her: maybe they hadn’t decided. Perhaps this production was the final test. Nell felt the truth of this ring through her. ‘Summer days, drifting away,’ she forced herself on, ‘bu-ut oh, those summer nights.’
By three o’clock everyone was dressed. Their director, a diminutive Australian, hired by the school for one term, was giving them a last high-octane talk. ‘OK guys. This is it! Do you hear me? I want focus. Got it? I want energy. Yes?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘And I want to see you having some fun. Yes. Fun!’ And his muscles bulged in his neat arms as he shimmied his shoulders and boxed the air. What he didn’t know was that Patrick Bowery had opened the far door and was approaching from behind. ‘And what I want . . .’ Patrick’s voice was cruel with amusement. ‘Is a quick word.’
The Australian blushed and, half bowing, moved to one side. Patrick took his place. Come on then, Nell thought, let’s hear it, but Patrick remained silent. Instead, he surveyed them from on high, raising his eyebrows at the slicked quiffs of the boys, finally handsome in white T-shirts and jeans, the girls, in pastel cardigans done up with one button, their bras pushing their blouses out in peaks.
‘So,’ Patrick began, quietly, ominous. ‘There’s been an awful lot of talk recently about people being Thrown Out, and I would like to assure you, before this goes any further, that no one is being Thrown Out.’ There was an audible sigh of relief. Jemma clutched hold of Dan’s arm, Samantha spun around and stared triumphantly at Nell. ‘But I would like to remind you of the contents of the prospectus, which I’m sure all of you read before choosing to enrol at Drama Arts. In the prospectus it clearly states that not everyone will be suited to the rigours of the third year, and that some of you, for various reasons, will be more suited to setting off on different paths.’ Twenty-two pairs of eyes dropped to the floor. ‘And it has come to our attention that some pupils, as predicted, have nothing left to learn from us, and will therefore be released from their obligation to keep studying the art of acting, and will instead be free, as from next week, to wend their eventful ways out into the world.’
No one spoke. They’d learnt from bitter experience that questions or comments were rarely welcome. So we are being thrown out, Nell thought, and it was no easier to bear the second time round. She remembered reading that clause in the prospectus and knowing absolutely that it would never, ever, apply to her. It was for people who were late, or unable to learn their lines, who crashed into furniture, or questioned the validity of what they were being taught. There was no one in the room like that. Those students had barely lasted the first term.
‘Right.’ Even the Australian looked subdued. ‘So remember, kids. Have fun.’ And they wandered off to take up their positions for the start of the show.
The interviews were scheduled for the following Tuesday. There were no lessons for their year that day, although the year below were still busy, taking ballet class in the studio with Olinka, running through Stanislavsky’s method exercises with Babette in the hall. The third year were preparing for their final production, open to the public, where their friends and family, agents and casting directors could come and speed them on their way. Only the music room was free to wait in. It was a mirrored room, that doubled as a stage make-up and dressing room, and it was opposite Patrick’s office.
There were three students waiting there when Nell arrived. ‘What’s happening?’ she said, glancing at her watch, and Jonathan looked up and whispered, ‘It’s Pierre, he’s been in there for bloody hours. You can hear him, if you listen, pleading and begging.’ They all did listen. A high, hysterical murmur drifted through the door. ‘You’re wrong, please, come on . . . if you give me one more chance, one term . . . I worked so hard . . .’ But he was drowned out by low, stern words, and the fluting fluttery tones of Silvio. If they throw me out, Nell thought, I won’t beg or plead. I won’t give them the satisfaction. I’ll just walk away. She felt herself go icy cold, and eggy pools of sweat collected under her arms. Just then Hettie appeared in the doorway. ‘Hey,’ Nell patted the seat beside her. ‘What’s the news? Did you hear, is Samantha in?’
Hettie nodded, and Nell nodded too, to keep her lip from trembling.
‘But it’s so awful,’ Hettie was close to tears. ‘Susie’s out, and Tess and Mikita. They’re all in the pub. Dan’s in, of course, but he’s threatening to leave because of Jemma.’ Nell glanced at her watch. ‘What time are you?’
Just then the door opened, and Pierre drifted across the hall. ‘They wouldnae listen,’ he said, and he fell on Nell’s shoulder.
Eshkol, his green lenses glinting, his face swathed in foundation, swept past them. ‘If they keep that weirdo I’ll kill myself,’ Pierre wept. ‘Oh God, what will I tell my parents? They’ve paid for two years of this place and I have nothing to show for it. No agent. No photograph in Spotlight. No contacts. It’s as if I was never here.’
Hettie hugged him. ‘Babe,’ she said. ‘I know this might not sound very helpful, but loads of the third year are leaving and they don’t have any agents or contacts either.’
‘Yes,’ he sobbed, ‘but at least their mums and dads had an excuse to come to London. Got to see them. Got to clap and read their name in a photocopied programme.’ Nell and Hettie laughed, and through his tears Pierre did too. ‘Oh, the dreams, the glamour.’
But the door was already opening and Eshkol, his face a mask, his eyes staring, turned and walked away down the stairs. ‘Go after him,’ Pierre hissed. ‘Find out what happened.’ And Hettie skittered away.
‘It’s you,’ Jonathan looked up from where he’d been sitting calmly by the window.
‘Right.’ Nell’s heart was galloping, her shirt was clammy with sweat. ‘Here goes.’
Nell had never been into Patrick’s office before. It was smaller than expected, and two long desks had been pushed together against one wall. Behind it sat Patrick, Silvio and the registrar, Giles. For a moment she was reminded of her audition, but they’d been smiling then, encouraging, whereas now they were steeped in a tragic air of knowledge. Nell sat down, and found herself sinking backwards into the soft cushion of a chair. Flustered, she righted herself and perched uncomfortably on the edge. ‘Nell Gilby,’ Patrick frowned at his papers as if reminding himself who she was. ‘We at Drama Arts feel quite confident . . .’ Nell looked at the three faces, at Patrick, his grey hair thinning, but still spiked vertically at the front, at Silvio, his eyes sadder than ever, and at Giles, who gave her one tight smile, ‘that here, among the myriad opportunities to expand one’s resources . . .’ Nell looked up at the clock. It was already four. Would they even have time to see everyone today? ‘that when a student is ready, and let’s face it, courageous enough to truly open themselves to the sensations and sense memories . . .’ Nell listened hard, ‘only then can they develop into an actor of exceptional qualities . . .’ There was a pause. All three men looked at her, quizzically, as if she was a specimen of rare interest. ‘And, we’ve discussed this at great length, and we’re sorry to say, we do not think you possess these qualities.’
Nell swallowed. She looked at them. Sad, grey, disappointed. Nothing, she remembered. Comes from Nothing.
‘And so . . .’ Patrick had clearly only just begun. His head was tilted back, his Adam’s apple working. ‘We heartily believe . . .’
‘I’d better go then.’ Nell stood up, and even though she heard Patrick splutter, and Silvio – was he calling her back? – she walked out and firmly closed the door.
‘I’m out,’ she stood in the doorway of the waiting room – for one short moment, victorious – but, apart from Jonathan, there was no one there.
Jonathan stood up and came across to her. ‘Too bad,’ he said kindly, ‘we’ll miss you,’ and he leant forward and gave her a quick brotherly kiss on the cheek.
Nell walked down the stairs, bracing herself for an assault of sympathy, a barrage of questions, amazement and respect when she described how she’d not even waited for the end. But no one called to her, no one was there. The foyer was deserted, even the canteen, with no sign of Becky, stirring soup behind her hatch, sliding another tray of flapjacks into the oven. I suppose they’ve all gone to the pub, she thought, unless they’ve thrown out the whole school, and she laughed and with it came one shaky sob. No. She breathed in, I won’t cry, and then Hettie rushed past her. ‘Eshkol’s slashed his wrists out on the street.’
‘Oh my God!’
‘It’s horrible.’
Nell ran down the steps towards a group of people, soothing and wrestling with Eshkol’s kneeling figure. ‘Leave me . . . leave me alone,’ he fought. Trails of mascara ran down his face and a clear red patch of stubbly skin was visible where he’d wiped his nose. ‘Oh Eshkol,’ Nell sank down beside him, ‘you’ll be all right. Really. Don’t give up.’ But Eshkol looked at her without recognition, and why shouldn’t he; this was the first time in two years that she’d offered him a single word.
‘I’ve called an ambulance,’ Hettie was back. ‘It’ll be here in a minute.’ But Eshkol pulled away and began to tear along the road. They all ran after him, Becky, her apron flapping, Pierre, Hettie, Samantha. ‘Stop, you idiot.’ It was Dan, fast, and stronger than he looked, who raced ahead and grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘You need help, mate,’ he said, and he pinned him against the wall. A flap of tissue paper had unravelled and for a moment Nell saw the raw mess of his wrists. Becky grasped his arm and bound it up again. ‘Naughty boy,’ she said, ‘taking my knife,’ and her nose reddened and her eyes dripped tears. ‘Bastards,’ she shook her head. ‘It can’t be right.’ And then Hettie remembered it was her interview next.
‘What shall I do?’ She was shaking. But Pierre nudged her sharply. ‘Get going. Run.’ The ambulance, its siren screaming, turned into the road. ‘Over here!’ They waved, holding tight to Eshkol, as other students came streaming out of college. ‘What happened?’ ‘Fucking hell,’ they clutched each other, and Nell thought – is this drama any more real than the duet she’d sung with Pierre the week before: Summer dreams, ripped at the seams, bu-ut oh, those su-ummer nights . . . The long top note had mangled somehow – the harmonies clashed, and she’d sworn it, she’d seen Patrick wince.
Eshkol stopped struggling as soon as he was in the medics’ care. They unwound the tissues and examined his wounds. They asked numerous questions, particularly of Becky, who ran back to find the knife which lay abandoned in the yard outside the caretaker’s office. People from the pub, unable to resist the lure of the blue light flashing – Jemma, Charlie, Tess and Susie – handed out cigarettes, their faces ashen, beer hanging hotly on their breath.
They watched while Eshkol was led into the back of the ambulance, laid out on the stretcher and belted in. He had new, thick padded bandages halfway up his arms, and his face, with its mess of make-up, was blank. They watched until the ambulance had turned out of the road, and then they wandered back towards their college, where they sat on the steps in the falling sun and waited for the last interviews to be over.
‘You all right?’ Charlie sank down beside Nell.
‘Yeah,’ Nell nodded. ‘I’m fine.’
‘It’s such a relief, isn’t it? It’s crazy, I know, but I was tense as fuck.’
Nell looked at her. ‘No. I don’t mean that. I’m . . . They’re not keeping me.’
Charlie’s long body jolted with the shock. ‘Oh babe! I didn’t realise.’
‘I guess some people take it worse than others,’ Nell laughed dryly, and she pressed her thumb over the blue veins of her wrist.
‘But what will you do?’ It was clear, and Nell was grateful, she really hadn’t known.
‘Try and get work, I suppose. Find an agent. Show the bastards that they’re wrong.’
‘But will I see you again? What will happen? Will you promise to keep in touch?’
‘Sure.’ It seemed ironic, such concern, when they’d hardly spoken this last year. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow. I’ll have to clean out my locker.’
‘Let’s have lunch,’ Charlie moved closer. ‘Listen. I have to tell someone,’ her eyes filled with tears, ‘I think I’m pregnant. I know I am. And Rob’s gone off to Japan on a British Council tour.’
Nell put her arm around her, she couldn’t help it, and breathed in the familiar scent of her hair. ‘Does he know?’
‘No, and I’m not planning to tell him. Fuck it. Why wait for lunch tomorrow? The pub’s open now. Won’t you just come for one drink, please, and have a chat?’
That night Nell dreamt she was in the interview. Over and over again she walked into the office and sat before the three stern men. ‘Nell,’ they told her, ‘you’re not exceptional . . . but,’ and this time she stayed to hear them out, ‘with one more year, you will be.’
‘Nell,’ they’d called to her as she was leaving. ‘Sit down and listen to us.’ She’d waited and Silvio had raised his eyes to her. Just as on the first day, it was his turn to be kind. ‘We want you to be exceptional, we know you can be, congratulations, please do stay.’ Even Giles had smiled. Even Patrick. They’d smiled and smiled until she’d smiled too and sunk back, falling into the empty well of the trick chair.
Nell woke in a tangle of sheets. What time was it? Sun was streaming through the thin curtain. And then she remembered. She didn’t have anywhere to go. She closed her eyes and rolled away from the light. And almost immediately she was in another dream. ‘Where are you going?’ Patrick was chiding her. ‘Sit down, you silly girl,’ and there were Silvio’s eyes again, creased with kindness and regret. ‘Shhhhh,’ he’d shaken his head. ‘Not you. We wouldn’t let you go.’ She’d choked with relief, warm tears spilling on to her cheeks, and she’d bent her head and felt the healing, almost holy touch of Silvio’s broad hand. When she woke again she lay quite still. She could hear her landlord’s son moving about upstairs. He was meant to be studying for some extra exam he’d failed, but there was the low drone of the television and the clink of cutlery as he poured himself more cereal.
Very quietly she crept along to the shower. The water was tepid, the timer long switched off, but even so she washed herself all over with lily of the valley soap, and rinsed her hair until it squeaked. She would make a last magnificent entrance. ‘Nell?’ Patrick might open that secret door that led on to the balcony. ‘Come in here a moment,’ and she would leave her locker open, her ballet shoes and library copy of Chekhov revealed, and follow him through to where there were party poppers and champagne. Olinka would be there, and Babette, even the voice teacher Steven who had tried so hard to iron out any hint of a west country burr.
‘So glad we caught you,’ they’d say. ‘Yesterday, it was all a misunderstanding. Congratulations.’ Their glasses were raised. ‘Cheers. Here’s to the third year. Here’s to you!’
Nell clutched the towel round her and ran back to her room. She rolled her hair into a turban and threw back her head. There she was in the mirror, gleaming, her skin tingling, her features stretched into optimistic arcs. No one would ever know, she thought, that inside, her heart was bleeding, her stomach had been lashed into a knot. Was that because she was a marvellous actor? Or did it prove that she was incapable of showing true emotion on her unexceptional face?
An air of desolation hovered over Drama Arts. Even the canteen was empty. There was nothing on the chalkboard menu, just a plate of cold sausages on the counter, and one hardening flapjack. Becky was scrubbing out a pan. Her hair was bound up with a ribbon and she had on her customary polka-dot apron, but when she turned, Nell saw her face was weary, the skin below her eyes puffy and red. ‘Any news?’ She ran water into the pan, and Nell’s heart stopped at the thought that she would have to tell each person she met: they threw me out.
‘From the hospital,’ Becky prompted her. ‘About Eshkol,’ and Nell realised that although the knowledge of it had stayed with her through the long afternoon and evening at the pub, where she’d sat in a corner with Charlie, ravelling and unravelling solutions to her predicament, attempting to convince her that she owed it to Rob to at least tell him what she planned to do, she’d forgotten to think once about the details. ‘No.’ She was appalled. ‘I don’t even know where they took him.’
‘Well, he’s probably out by now.’ Becky looked sour. ‘It just worries me, who will take responsibility. Not those . . .’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘so and so’s upstairs.’
Becky went back to her pan. ‘If you hear anything . . .’
‘Yes.’ Nell wandered through the empty rooms, pushing aside a chair, glancing into the hall, trudging up to the balcony where costumes from last night’s production were racked up on metal trolleys. Many of the lockers had already been cleared out. They hung open, their insides sharp and empty. Nell leant down to hers. She’d brought a bag especially, and without looking at what was there she scooped two years’ worth of accumulated dance tights, hair ties, leg warmers and make-up into it. No one called to her. No one opened a secret door. On her way down she took a detour past the caretaker’s room. The merry sounds of children’s daytime television drifted out. ‘Joey?’ She looked in, her nose already filling with the familiar sour smell of spirits, but instead of the caretaker’s thickened, dark red face, there was Susie, sewing a button on to one of his shirts. ‘Hey,’ Nell said, and then she saw that Joey was lying on the bed behind her, fully dressed, his head sunk into a stained pillow. ‘Guess what?’ Susie licked the thread and brought the needle to her eye. ‘When Joey wakes I’m going to take him to an AA meeting. He said he’d come. He promised, last night, in the pub.’
Nell nodded. She didn’t want to remind Susie that he’d promised to stop drinking many, many times before.
‘I mean, once I’m gone,’ Susie knotted her thread, ‘there’ll be no one to take care of him, and he won’t last here, indefinitely, unless he sorts himself out.’
Nell looked at Joey’s feet, his socks threadbare, his ankles white and bony where his trousers had rucked up. He had a wife somewhere, she knew that. And three kids. But his wife had thrown him out.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘They’re already in the pub. Are you all right?’
Nell nodded. She didn’t dare ask Susie how she was. Susie, so kind she would cry on a daily basis for water voles or the plight of Tibetan monks. Only last week she’d been inconsolable when news came through that a Colombian footballer had been shot dead for scoring an own goal during the World Cup. ‘See you later then.’ Nell couldn’t bear to see Susie cry for herself. ‘Good luck.’
‘And you,’ Susie held out a hand to her. ‘Good luck.’