Babette’s method acting class took place in the large, oval hall. A stage had been set up at one end, built from hollow wooden blocks, and one by one, the students were expected to step up on to it and present their understanding of Stanislavsky’s Action and Three Activities for her discerning eye. ‘Oh Nell . . .’ Pierre leant over to her and nudged her in the ribs. ‘I have to tell someone . . .’
Nell kept her gaze fixed on the stage where Samantha was shrugging off her coat.
‘It’s agony,’ Pierre tried again, his large eyes threatening to overflow, and Hettie, who was sitting on his other side, hissed, ‘Save it for your improvisation.’
‘I cannae.’ Pierre’s voice rose to cod-Glaswegian. ‘I think I’ll die . . .’
Nell turned towards him and pretended to be stern. ‘What is it?’
Pierre gave a wide slow smile. ‘I’m in love.’
‘Really?’ Nell was unable to resist. ‘Who with?’
‘Shhh.’ A Swedish girl spun round in her seat. Pierre ignored her. ‘Go on,’ he grinned. ‘Try and guess who it is.’
Nell glanced round the room. The students were scattered across the hall, some singly, others in groups. Babette, their teacher, sat at a table in the centre, her possessions strewn around her, coats and scarves, an overflowing bag, a dog with a matching mop of faded yellow hair. She gave the impression that she must be involved in some multi-fabric task, weaving, or knitting an enormous shawl, but she was in fact keenly watching each exercise, making notes, giving her verdicts in a slow, throaty, American drawl. Nell’s eyes settled on Jonathan, who, at thirty-one, had a car and his own terraced house in Fulham, where, last week, he’d invited a group of them to supper, serving up a stew he’d left all day slow-cooking in the Aga. Or could it be Stuart, short and stocky with a perfect alto, who tramped off every evening in his motorcycle boots to seek new thrills, or the same thrills possibly, on Hampstead Heath? These were the only two, apart from Pierre, who were openly gay, although there were others who may well be about to come out – soft-spoken Cecil, who spent extra hours practising his pliés in the movement studio, and Giles and Kevin, who recited poetry at every opportunity in plummy, competing voices. Nell ignored Rick with his leather jacket and quiff. She didn’t linger on Billy or Jermaine, a couple of chancers, both of whose names had gone up on the board for lateness, whose lives at Drama Arts were already under threat, even though Jermaine could triple-flip across the movement studio and had mastered Silvio’s Cossack dance in less than a week. Nell looked over at Dan, dreamy, distant Dan, his dark hair tufted into peaks, but even as she looked, Jemma leant towards him and whispered something into his ear. Nell sighed, a small knot of longing tightening her gut, and turned back to the stage. Samantha had hung up her coat and was standing before an imaginary mirror. Nell knew it was a mirror, because both Hettie and Charlie had already peered into it, but Samantha wasn’t brushing her hair, or applying make-up, Samantha was unbuttoning her shirt. The room fell silent. Every murmur and shuffle cut short as button by button, Samantha’s fingers fumbled, until her shirt fell open to reveal the bright purple lace of a bra. Next she unzipped her skirt. Her knickers were purple too. She must have planned this.
‘Bloody hell,’ Pierre hissed as she unclasped her bra. ‘Typical. That’s upped the ante. Whose turn is it next?’
‘Yours,’ Nell told him.
Samantha turned away and flung her bra on to the bed, and then, in one swift movement, peeled away her knickers. Her body, from behind, was strong and white, with a scattering of orange freckles on each shoulder. Nell held her breath. Would she turn to them? Would she examine herself in the invisible mirror like any normal woman? But no, Samantha was running in a sideways crab towards the wardrobe. She was searching for something she’d hung up, a grey silk slip, which she pulled over her head, where it stuck, just for a moment, but long enough to give the room the luxury of examining her unseen. Her large white breasts with their unexpectedly small nipples, the narrow triangle of flaming orange hair. And then the silk of the slip fell, and with a communal sigh Samantha was covered, her poise regained, and she ran back across the room and slid into bed.
There was a pause, in which Pierre clutched Nell’s arm.
‘Well done, Samantha.’ Babette nodded. ‘So tell me, what was your Objective?’
‘To get a good night’s sleep.’
‘And your Action?’
‘To prepare myself for sleeping. To get undressed. To put on my slip. To get into bed.’
‘Very good. That’s excellent.’ Babette turned and shot a swift look around the class. ‘Next?’
Pierre stood up. ‘Keep guessing,’ he told Nell as he hurried on his skinny legs to the front of the room.
Pierre waited a few moments before leaping on to the stage. He ran forward, almost tripping over a corner of the bed, and set down a cassette player on the floor. Then he turned away, his back to the audience, and struck a pose. The class could hear the grind and hiss of the tape turning, but no sound came. Hettie and Nell exchanged a glance. The tape hissed on. Pierre waited. Eventually, red-faced, he turned, adjusted a dial and suddenly the music burst up to the ceiling, startling everyone, even the dog, who sat up and gave a bark.
Pierre threw himself into the dance, wiggling and strutting, twirling and tapping, striking sudden idiotic poses until the audience of Year 1 was united in compulsive, convulsive laughter and Babette was forced to rise from her nest of wool and call a halt.
‘What are you doing?’
Pierre looked jubilant. ‘Dancing?’
‘And your Objective? Your Action?’
‘To . . . um . . . entertain you all.’
Babette paused. ‘But you’re not telling a story, not showing us anything. Pierre, honey, you’re just showing off.’
Pierre slunk back to his seat. ‘Bitch,’ he hissed, ‘just because I didn’t get my knob out.’ But Nell knew he was ashamed.
The pub adopted by Drama Arts was warm and dimly lit, with tassels on the curtains and heavily upholstered seats.
‘The thing that worries me,’ Hettie said, once they’d slipped in behind the much-coveted corner table, ‘I have to decide who Thea is by tomorrow. Apart from being a wallaby, I mean. Well, obviously, she’s a girl, but the animal I’ve chosen for her is a wallaby. So, anyway, I’ve done her back story, which is fine, but the real problem is, I’m still not sure which of the Inner Attitudes she has, and our scene’s coming up before Patrick Bowery tomorrow.’
‘OK.’ Pierre flipped over a beer mat. He prided himself on being Silvio’s most assiduous student. ‘What’s the first Inner Attitude?’ Nell and Hettie leant forward as if he might be about to perform a trick. ‘It’s Close.’ He sunk his biro into the soft cardboard. ‘Which is sensing and intuiting. And aren’t all children Close? I mean, Thea’s a child really, isn’t she? I mean, more so, say, than Moritz, who’s probably number 6 – Adrift.’
‘Do you think?’
‘Well, Adrift is sensing feeling. With Inner Participations of Intending and Adapting. Motion Factors are Weight/Flow and Inner Quests – What/Why?’
Hettie frowned and Nell caught her breath. ‘I wish I understood it like you.’
‘Yes,’ Hettie agreed. ‘You’re amazing. So, if Moritz is Adrift what are his elements?’
‘Light and strong, free and bound,’ Pierre came back.
‘That’s brilliant.’
‘So if Thea’s Close,’ Pierre said reassuringly, ‘her elements will be light and strong, sustained and quick.’
‘Right.’ Hettie blinked. ‘Sustained and quick. And while we’re on the subject, who fancies another drink?’
‘I’ll get them,’ Nell said. ‘Same again?’
Nell stood on the metal footrail and used her extra height to attract the barman’s attention. But for all her efforts the man beside her, more recently arrived, was served first. He was stocky, dishevelled, in an overcoat and a paisley scarf. No one she recognised from Drama Arts. A paperback novel, the title of which she couldn’t read, protruded from his pocket. He ordered his Guinness and walked over to a table not far from theirs, where he proceeded to roll himself a cigarette.
‘We’re so lucky,’ Hettie was saying, when Nell slid the dented metal tray of drinks on to the table, ‘to have all this to work from. Honestly. I don’t know where I’d start otherwise.’
‘We are lucky.’ Pierre winced at the first bitter taste of beer. ‘My back story has given me so many insights into Moritz’s character, and each time I rehearse, just having my Objective – I know I was bitching about Babette today – but really, it’s like having a coat to keep you warm.’ His eyes went misty. ‘A magic cloak of confidence. To think some people just wander on to the stage, without any idea where they’re going.’
‘Yes.’ Hettie was excited. ‘You know in that skipping scene, with the other girls, well, I’m actually meant to be visiting my Grandma, and then I get distracted, but all the time . . .’ Her face was flushed, and her voice rose in pitch. ‘I’m feeling guilty, I’m actually thinking, shit, Grandma’s waiting for me. And of course none of that is in the script.’
‘Yes,’ Nell agreed. ‘That’s brilliant.’
‘And if Thea is Close,’ Pierre added, ‘then you’ve got her rhythm for nothing. Her Shadow Moves are punching, slashing, floating, gliding, pressing, wringing, dabbing, flicking.’
‘My God.’ Hettie tore open a packet of crisps. ‘Yes. I can work out every single one of her lines. Well,’ she laughed, ‘not that there are that many.’
‘Whereas Moritz,’ Pierre squeezed his hand in for a crisp, ‘is Adrift, and the Shadow Moves for Adrift are punching, pressing, floating, flicking, wringing, slashing, gliding and dabbing.’
‘Bloody hell! Does Silvio know what a genius you are at his work?’ Nell asked. She didn’t know how he’d memorised the lists, especially when so many of them were the same.
‘I’m not sure, but I thought I’d better make an effort. In the third year we have to create whole characters from his Six Tables.’
Hettie looked alarmed.
Pierre sighed. ‘I think I’ll do my Mum, everything she says sounds as if she’s wringing out a sheet.’ He began to twist an imaginary piece of cotton, his face contorting with the effort. ‘For Christ’s sake son,’ his voice was strained, ‘when are you going to get a proper job and stop messing around?’
‘You’re a genius.’
‘Yeah. Well. I thought I’d better start making plans. I mean, what are they going to do? The ones who haven’t bothered really listening? I guess they’ll be out on their arses, doing walk-on parts in Panto, if they’re lucky.’ He drained his glass. ‘Actually, I feel sorry for my mate at Guildhall, not learning what we know. All they teach them there is tits and teeth. Maybe we should try and explain some of Silvio’s theories.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Nell felt doubtful. ‘What if we get it wrong?’ She imagined attempting to reproduce Silvio’s work, the intricate multi-coloured charts, the graphs and tables, the three-dimensional drawing of a cube with abbreviated directions for the angles of your thoughts.
‘True.’ Pierre tore open another packet of crisps. ‘Maybe we’re not ready yet. Anyway, you still haven’t guessed the identity of my beloved.’
‘It’s me.’ Hettie licked her salty lips.
‘Warm.’ He put an arm around her narrow shoulders and laid his head against her fine, pale hair. ‘If you were a boy, you’d be perfect.’
‘I wonder if we’ll ever all work together?’ Nell watched them. ‘I mean in the future. When we get out.’
‘It will be odd to be on stage with people not from Drama Arts,’ Pierre said. ‘I guess we’ll stand out. Or they will. Our training will put us on a whole other level.’
Yes, Nell thought. She took a last sip of her whisky mac and felt entirely happy. There would be actors, acting, and then them, inhabiting their actual characters, an entire psychological life, both physical and mental, all mapped out. ‘It’s going to be so strange. Maybe we should set up our own company. The three of us!’
A shadow loomed over their table. They all looked up. It was the man from the bar, the man in the overcoat and paisley scarf. ‘You lot,’ he gave a little rueful smile, ‘you know something . . .’ He leant further down towards them and dropped his voice. ‘You’re full of shit.’
Nell felt herself flush. Beside her, Pierre’s mouth fell open, but he didn’t say a word. The man raised his eyebrows, in derision, in warning, and pulling on his roll-up, he pushed his way out through the swing doors of the pub.
None of them spoke. There seemed nothing to say. What a horrible, bitter, cynical man, Nell thought. But she felt dirty, as if she’d been caught doing something obscene.
‘He’s probably a failed actor,’ Pierre rallied.
‘Yeah.’ Hettie looked pale. ‘Maybe he trained at the Guildhall.’
Nell laughed, but she felt unnerved, right in the pit of her stomach where up until a minute before the whisky had been.
‘He’s in the second year,’ Pierre said eventually.
‘Who?’
‘My discovery. Look out for him. Gabriel. He’s going to be a major star.’
‘Really?’ Nell glanced up at the clock. She was ready to go home, but the thought of the note, propped as it was most evenings against her door, inviting her upstairs for a nightcap and a chat, dissuaded her.
‘Don’t forget, you heard it here first. The Angel Gabriel. Gabriel Grant.’
‘OK.’ Nell had never even noticed a Gabriel. ‘If you say so, then I’m sure you’re right.’
The door swung open and a horde of students burst in, Dan and Jemma at the head of them, Charlie just behind.
‘Make room for the others.’ Pierre and Hettie shifted along the bench away from her, and Nell lost sight of them in the crush.