Читать книгу The Start of Something Wonderful: a fantastically feel-good romantic comedy! - Jane Lambert, Jane Lambert - Страница 11
ОглавлениеLooking for Lara
September
IT’S 5.30 A.M. I’M WEARING RUBBER GLOVES and wielding a loo brush. How did my life come to this? I left Amy Air so full of hope and promise, now here I am, not even a year later, with my arm stuck down a toilet. I hate my job, I hate my life, and I hate myself for having got into this mess.
What was I thinking of? I should have carried on flying; okay, so it wouldn’t have altered the fact that Nigel left me and some other woman stole the life I should have had, but at least I would have been a comfortably off singleton. Thanks to some hare-brained that I could become the next Meryl Streep, I am now an impoverished forty-something without a place to call home, my life packed away in bubble wrap at a warehouse off the M4.
Who needs therapy or self-help books to mend a broken heart? All you need do is follow these three easy steps: a) Give up your well-paid, secure, and interesting job. b) Sell your comfortable home and move into someone’s poky back room, complete with resident psychocat. c) Forgo all luxuries and live from hand to mouth doing menial jobs.
Et voilà! You’ll have so many majorly serious problems to contend with (like SURVIVAL) that being dumped by your boyfriend will seem a minor blip by comparison.
My positive side tries to persuade me that jobs like this are all good, character-building stuff. Besides, should The Rovers Return or The Queen Vic be casting for a cleaning lady, my hands-on experience may just give me the edge over actresses who’ve never operated a squeezy mop or emptied a Dyson.
Pah! Dream on. It’s time I faced up to the fact that I’ll never make it as an actress. One thing I have learned over the last few months is that acting isn’t just about remembering lines and moves; you have to let go of your inhibitions, be a little bit daring, and take the plunge. Something always holds me back – fear of making an idiot of myself, I guess, and the harder I try, the more awkward and nervous I feel.
‘Stop thinking so much,’ Portia keeps telling me. ‘Thinking about how we sound or look makes us self-conscious. Be brave, go with your instinct, and don’t analyse situations. It destroys the magic.’
I shudder when I think of the huge sacrifice I’ve made – and for what? I squirt another dollop of Toilet Duck and scrub furiously, tears plopping into the bowl.
‘G’day!’
Startled, I wheel around, toppling over onto my bucket of cleaning stuff.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ says the tall, young stranger, crouching down and handing me my grubby J-cloth and can of Mr Muscle. His Pacific-blue eyes hold my gaze.
‘I’m Dean. New night security. I must have been on patrol when you arrived.’
‘Emily,’ I sniffle, proffering a yellow, rubber-gloved hand. ‘The cleaner … in case you were wondering.’
‘Well, Emily, nice to meet you,’ he says, treating me to a dazzling smile. ‘Maybe see you around tomorrow.’ And with that he is gone.
* * *
That evening, as I climb the steps of Dramatic Ar s for the very last time, I stop to admire the full moon.
I close my eyes and centre myself by breathing deeply. Faye believes this is a time for cleansing, for new beginnings, for emotional and spiritual growth. She told me to make a wish out loud in front of the moon then visualise it coming true.
She also said it’s a time for looking in the mirror and saying nice things to yourself. I draw the line at that one though.
I came to drama school to learn how to make sense of Shakespeare, how to walk in a bustle and corset without keeling over, to flirtatiously flutter a fan, and to move and sing simultaneously without getting breathless. No one warned me that you had to take part in a Jeremy-Kyle-type reality show before you were allowed to pass ‘GO’. If they had, I think I would have stuck to serving chicken and beef at thirty-two thousand feet.
Maybe now it’s time to put stability back into my life. I should forget my dream, wake up, and behave like any normal middle-aged woman, by getting a proper job with a pension scheme and Christmas bonus.
* * *
‘You’ve had twenty-four hours to think about this, and now you’re telling me that your motive, the event that’s going to get those anger juices flowing, that’s going to fuel your performances in time to come, is the fact that you had a puncture, were late for your first day at work, and your boss was mean to you?’ says Portia, scrutinising me with a look of despair in her kohl-rimmed, piercing green eyes.
Here we go again. I must be some kind of masochist, to have spent the last nine months putting myself through this kind of torture.
I’m realising that the optimist in me has been telling lies – encouraging me to keep on keeping on, because any day now I’ll find the key to that secret door that leads to the actor’s holy grail; that special place that separates the truly talented from the merely mediocre. But let’s be realistic for once: I’m never going to find the key, am I? With no Plan B, where does that leave me? Bitter tears sting my eyes. I swallow hard. God, please don’t let me cry. My toes clench together in my jazz shoes, my face and neck flushing the colour of a strawberry smoothie.
‘Come on, Emily, surely you can do better than that? Haven’t you ever been accused of something unfairly or had your heart broken in two?’
‘Sure, but …’
‘Well then, how did that make you feel?’
‘I … I …’ I murmur, shrugging my shoulders and casting my eyes downwards, wishing I could silently slither down a gap between the floorboards.
‘Didn’t you feel betrayed, wounded, bloody furious?’ she probes.
‘Of course, but …’
‘Well then, now’s your opportunity to break through those emotional boundaries and tell us what’s in your heart. No one’s going to laugh at you. If you’re serious about becoming an actor – a good actor – then you have to live on the edge, bare your soul. Acting is all about trust, Emily.’
‘I know, I know,’ I reply sheepishly. ‘It’s just that, well … I’m not entirely comfortable with all this touchy-feely stuff. Please don’t get me wrong,’ I add quickly, desperately searching for the right words, ‘I … I’m not exactly the stiff-upper-lip type … far from it … I mean, I cry at Britain’s Got Talent … but … well, it’s just that …’
‘Do you want to be one of those actors who believes they’ve done a good job so long as they remember their lines and don’t bump into the furniture?’ continues Portia, tearing into me. ‘Or would you rather be the type of actor who inhabits a role, who sets the stage alight, who can hold an audience in the palm of their hand, make them squirm in their seats, move them to tears, or cause them to laugh uncontrollably?’ Her eyes are flashing now, as her amethyst ring catches the light, sending a whirlpool of lilac light around the room, like a glitter-ball.
‘But isn’t acting all about pretending?’ I say weakly. ‘Don’t tell me you have to have committed murder before you’re eligible to play the villain in an Agatha Christie.’
All eyes hit the floor, and an uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. I flush even harder.
‘Acting is about finding the truth in imaginary circumstances,’ says Portia matter-of-factly.
I know she’s right. All the same … some things are personal. How I wish this were over. I can’t carry on just staring at the floor though. It’s humiliating. Got to do something … oh well, here goes …
‘Those years we spent together, the plans we made – did it all mean nothing to you?’ I say, quietly, haltingly. ‘You were the one who brought up marriage and children, not me, and then when I said I was ready, you kept me hanging on. And all that stuff about “finding yourself” … what a joke! You bastard. You didn’t even have the decency … no, let me finish … you didn’t even have the decency to tell me what was really going on.’
All the bottled-up emotions swirling around inside me since that hideous night come flooding out, filling my words with a mixture of anger and sadness. A big tear slides halfway down my cheek, attaching itself to my nostril, and my legs turn to Plasticine. I grab the corner of the chair.
‘Why couldn’t you have sat me down and told me the truth? That you’d fallen out of love with me and met someone else? But no … you wanted me to think you were having some sort of mental breakdown, when all the time you were sleeping with her. And I was too in love to see through you … even blamed myself. Hah! You’re nothing but a coward and a liar … Come back! Don’t walk out when I’m talking to you! Why must you always bury your head in the sand? Come back …!’ I cry, my outstretched arm flopping limply by my side.
My performance is greeted by complete silence. Moments pass.
‘Are you all right?’ asks Portia gently, handing me a tissue.
‘I’m fine, really I am,’ I say, giving my nose a blow that could warn shipping. I’m not faking it; I really am all right. In fact, I’m more than all right; I’m elated, in a strange sort of way. I did it, and it feels great – liberating – like this huge, tangled mass of poisonous emotions wrapped around my heart has been hacked away and has finally lost its stranglehold. I wasn’t just saying those words; they came from somewhere deep inside me.
‘At last! It took you to the very end of the course to get there, but I knew you had it in you,’ says Portia, with a note of pride. ‘Now, hold on to that emotion and file it away under ANGER, ready to be unleashed as and when the part calls for it,’ she continues, squeezing my arm.
I rejoin the group, sitting in a circle on the floor. I suddenly feel as if everything has fallen into place. Up to this very moment I have been stumbling, muddling my way through, putting on a brave face to the world, pretending to myself that I’m better off without Nigel. It’s now rapidly, brilliantly dawning on me that I truly had been clinging to a lost cause, and I’m free at last.
Thank you, Stanislavski. I think at last I’ve got it.
* * *
It’s Karaoke Nite at The Dog & Whistle. James and Sally take to the stage to give their Dolly and Kenny rendition of ‘Islands in the Stream’. My mind rewinds nine months and that first awkward meeting. What a long way we have all come: the emotions, the secrets, the triumphs and failures we have all dared to share.
‘To you all and the great adventures that lie ahead!’ announces Portia, popping open another bottle of Prosecco.
‘To us!’
I look around at our merry band, so full of hope and anticipation. I wonder how many of us with dreams of becoming actors will become Hot Property, and how many will end up scraping together a living as market researchers or living statues.
My tyres hiss as I weave along the rain-drenched road home. I freewheel down the hill, feet off the pedals, head tilted back, face cooled by the sudden downpour. I feel lighter somehow, as if at any given moment my bike and I could soar up into the black night to the moon, just like in E.T.
I have no idea what the future holds or how I’m going to survive, but tonight, for the first time since embarking on this mad journey, I feel I’m taking tentative steps towards reclaiming the confidence and self-esteem I lost during Nigelgate, and I’m filled with – not sure what, but this much I do know: I am no longer afraid of being alone.
Goodbye and thank you, Dramatic Ar s, for showing me that though life may be difficult at the moment, I refuse to be brought down by cheating, critical lovers or unforgiving, bitter bosses. Sure, there will be more bumps along the way, but I have a choice; and I choose to keep following my dream, no matter where it leads.
* * *
My love affair with Russia began at the age of fourteen, when they showed Doctor Zhivago on the telly one Christmas. We were studying the Russian Revolution at school, and this epic film brought those dry History lessons to life, and was the reason I got an A* that term.
While most of my friends were drooling over Jason Donovan or Tom Cruise, Yuri Zhivago was the object of my adolescent desire. I would backcomb my hair into a bouffant up-do, just like Julie Christie, wear oversized sweaters and my mum’s faux fur hair band, her pale coral lipstick completing the Lara Look.
I even bought a second-hand balalaika with my pocket money and tormented my parents and the dog by playing ‘Lara’s Theme’ over and over. I begged Mum and Dad to book Russia for our summer holidays instead of Spain. (Needless to say, Spain won the majority vote.)
Some twenty years later, when my flight schedule took me to Moscow, I channelled my inner Lara once more, as I skated in Gorky Park, fantasising as I fell over, that I might one day be scooped up by a handsome Russian doctor who would write me beautiful poems.
The only person who ever came to my rescue was an ice marshal called Zoya, who reminded me of Miss Trunchbull and could lift you up with one arm. I decided then it was high time I grew up and left my Russian romance in my teenage past.
But today I am required to dig deep and channel my inner Lara once more, as my first professional audition, two months after leaving drama school, is to play Olga in Chekhov’s Three Sisters.
How I’d love to say it’s an epic BBC costume drama, involving three months’ filming in grand Russian palaces and sumptuous ballrooms, but the truth is it’s a ‘profit-share’, pub-theatre production. I may have been awarded a D– in Maths, but even I am able to calculate that 40 seats @ £10 ÷ 14 cast members + 5 crew = very little profit (and that’s assuming it’s a full house every night). But then I’m not in this business for the money, rather “to do interesting work that challenges me” – isn’t that what actors always say on The Graham Norton Show?
With only travel expenses guaranteed, you’d imagine there wouldn’t be much competition. Apparently seven hundred actors applied to audition for the fourteen roles, as the venue’s prime location means you might get spotted by agents and casting directors. It’s an opportunity to hone your acting chops, playing the kind of roles awarded only to star names in the West End.
* * *
Ignoring the stench of beer and the odd peanut, I slither around the stained and grubby floor of The Red Dragon pub, going ‘sssss.’ I want to stand up and shout, Could somebody please explain to me what this has got to do with Chekhov?
‘Right then, that’s the end of the warm-up, and in a few moments we’ll be calling you into the room one by one, so please have your audition pieces ready,’ says someone called Rocket, with dreadlocks and a clipboard.
I pace up and down, quietly practising my speech – again:
‘“Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, and to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, born out of your dominions, having here … having here …”’
Oh, God, what comes next?
‘Emily Forsyth!’ calls Rocket.
A queasy feeling floods my stomach. I’m ushered into a poky back room, where I’m introduced to the creative team.
‘Now, Emily, what audition piece are you going to do for us today?’ asks Hugh, the director.
‘I’d like to do Katherine … Queen Katherine from Henry The Eighth.’
Casting me a sympathetic glance, he nods. ‘In your own time.’
With four pairs of expectant eyes upon me, I breathe in, trying to steady my voice.
‘“Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, and to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, born out of your dominions, having here no judge indifferent, nor no more assurance of equal friendship and proceeding …”’
With my audience just inches away, and crates of mixers, packets of assorted crisps, and pork scratchings occupying almost every available space, it’s hard to imagine I’m a sixteenth-century queen in a grand hall, begging my husband not to force me into a quickie divorce.
‘“… in God’s name turn me away, and let the foul’st contempt shut door upon me, and so give me up to the sharps’t kind of justice.”’
I lift my eyes from my kneeling position.
‘Thank you,’ says Hugh, breaking the long silence. ‘Now we’d like you to read part of Olga’s speech for us.’
The script starts to quiver as I take it from him.
‘Turn to page two, beginning from the top please.’
I try to channel my nerves into capturing Olga’s mood of despair.
‘“Don’t whistle, Masha. How can you! Every day I teach at the Gymnasium and afterwards I give lessons until evening, and so I’ve got a constant headache and my thoughts are those of an old woman …”’
PSSCHH hisses a toilet from above. GERDUNG, GERDUNG go the pipes.
‘“I’ve felt my strength and my youth draining from me every day, drop by drop. And one single thought grows stronger and stronger …”’
I play the speech distractedly at first, but halfway through find myself relaxing into it and actually enjoying it.
Then suddenly it’s over: my one and only chance to make an impression. I wonder if they’ll let me do it again …
‘Okay. Finally, what do you feel you can bring to the role of Olga?’
‘Hmm. Well, like Olga, I used to be dissatisfied with my job, felt I’d missed out on marriage, felt old before my time, longed to be somewhere else. The difference is I did something about it. But I can still remember how that feels, and I could draw on those emotions.’
‘Interesting,’ says Hugh, rubbing his chin. ‘Thank you for coming. We’ll let you know on Monday.’
Monday? That’s a whole three days. But hang on! What am I fretting about? I can’t afford to take the job even if they do offer it to me. So it’s for the best if I don’t get it. Just put it down to experience.
* * *
Monday p.m.
Humph! So I’m not good enough for their play, eh? Their loss. Not for them, a thank-you-for-my-first-break mention when I collect my BAFTA, so bollocks to them.
Half an hour later, the Sex and The City theme tune comes drifting across the landing into the bathroom. Jeans at half-mast, I stagger and stumble to the bedroom, and swipe my mobile from the dressing table.
‘Emily, it’s Hugh.’
I hold my breath for a moment.
‘Oh, of course, the audition. Hi,’ I say in my best I’m-a-very-busy-person voice, heart leaping into my throat.
‘Good news … we’d like you to play Olga for us. What do you say?’
My tummy does a double somersault. I open my mouth to speak, but catch myself in time. I want to grovel with gratitude and swing from the chandelier (or in this case, the wire-framed fabric light fitting with rayon fringe), but I mustn’t appear too desperately keen. I count to three, then say coolly, ‘I’d love to – thank you – I’d love to.’
‘Great. Rehearsals start Monday. Rocket, our deputy stage manager, will e-mail you all the details. Good to have you on board.’
‘Thank you,’ I say again, trying to maintain my composure until he rings off.
‘YESSS!’ I whoop, punching the air and landing with a thud.
‘Emily, is that you?’ calls Beryl from downstairs.
Hastily zipping up my jeans, I screech over the banister, ‘Beryl, I got the job!’
‘Fan-bloody-tastic, darlin’! Let me just turn Countdown off an’ I’ll crack open that bottle of Asti Spumante in the sideboard. I’ve been waiting since Christmas for an excuse to drink it.’
Three glasses of lukewarm Asti Spumante later, and my euphoria has turned into sickly panic. With daytime rehearsals for three weeks, how am I going to earn any money? Why didn’t I think this through more carefully? Look before you leap. Will I never learn? My self-esteem may well have had a bit of a boost, but the same can definitely not be said for my bank balance. There has got to be a way …
* * *
‘“Masha will come to Moscow for the summer … aargh! … for the WHOLE summer … Masha will come to Moscow for the whole summer …”’ I repeat, as I wind my way in between the desks, flicking my duster with one hand, balancing my script with the other.
‘Hello again!’
I spin around, tripping over computer cables and a waste paper basket.
‘Sorry, I’ve gotta stop freaking you out,’ says Dean, grabbing my elbow, his piercing gaze meeting mine. My heart gives a little flutter.
‘Glad to see you looking cheerier than last time we met.’
‘Yes, sorry about that,’ I reply, glancing at him sideways.
‘Guy trouble?’
‘That, and one of those where-the-hell-is-my-life-going moments.’
He looks at me blankly. He must only be in his twenties, so I guess this concept is about as alien to him as Snapchat is to me.
I glance at the clock. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to be at my next job in less than an hour, and I haven’t started the vacuuming yet.’
‘Sure thing. You know, we should …’
‘Sorry?’ I bellow over the roar of the hoover.
He shakes his head and mouths ‘goodbye’.
* * *
I pedal through the damp, chill, early morning air, chanting, ‘Aleksandr Ignatyevich Vershinin, Aleksey Petrovich Fed… Fedotik.’ Gaah! Why is no one in Russia called Bob Jones or Jim Smith? I glance at my watch: 7.15. ‘Aleksandr Ignat… Ignatyevich Vershinin, Aleksey Petrovich Fedotik …’
My other job is at The Red Dragon, which is very handy, as we rehearse here. The only way I can afford to do the play is by taking on another early morning cleaning job. End of.
Using all the female charm I could muster, I persuaded the landlord that good beer and Sky TV alone were not enough to lure the clientele. What the place needed was a woman’s touch: a splash of bleach here and a squirt of air freshener there. (That was the polite, edited version.)
Anyway, it worked. So from 7.30 a.m. I’m Mrs Overall, picking chewing gum off bar stools and replenishing paper towels. Then, fast-forward three hours, and I’m Olga Prozorova, schoolteacher and eldest sister to Masha and Irina, dreaming of marriage and Moscow.
There’s even a shower I can use. The pipes gurgle and rattle a bit when I turn it on, and it splutters and drips freezing cold water, but at least I don’t arrive at rehearsal smelling like a compost heap.
By the end of the week, I’m sleepwalking my routine:
0430: Alarm goes off. Hit snooze button.
0435: Alarm goes off. Roll out of bed.
0445: Down a bowl of Special K.
0450: Grab bike and pedal like the clappers.
0515: Arrive at office. Clean.
0700: Leave office for pub. Clean.
0845: Shower, change, stop at Norma’s Diner for tea and runny egg on toast.
1000–1800: Rehearse.
1830: Home, dinner, learn lines, and go over what we did today.
2200: Bed, in order to be up at 0430 to repeat all of the above.
In between times, I am also sending out mail-shots to agents and casting directors:
Please cover my performance as Olga in ‘Three Sisters’ at The Red Dragon Pub Theatre, Lady Jane Walk, Richmond. 17th December – 31st January at 7.30.
Even if only four or five turn up it will be worth it – won’t it?
* * *
TONIGHT AT 7.30
THREE SISTERS
BY
ANTON CHEKHOV
I feel my stomach lurch as I glance at the sandwich board outside the pub. This is it. No more ‘Sorry, what’s my next line?’ or ‘Should I be sitting at this point?’ After three weeks’ rehearsal, I think I’m pretty solid on my lines and moves, but there is always that fear lurking somewhere in the shadows, of stepping out in front of an audience and thinking, Who am I? What the hell am I doing here? Who are these people?
I make my way upstairs to the cramped, communal dressing room. Where, oh where is the star on the door and the mirror with light bulbs all around it?
I am the first to arrive and bag myself a wee corner. With fourteen of us in the cast, it’s going to be a tight squeeze. I lay out my make-up, hairbrush, bottle of water, and lucky elephant charm (a treasured gift from the cleaner at the crew hotel in Mumbai). I then distribute my First Night cards.
One by one, the others start to drift in, and nervous, excited chatter and vocal warm-up exercises soon reverberate around the room.
There is a rap at the door and Hugh enters, pushing eighty-year-old Betty, playing Anfisa, the nanny, into the lap of Vershinin (he’s the lieutenant, who’s in love with Masha, my sister, but they’re both married, his wife’s suicidal and … well, it’s complicated).
‘Break a leg, everyone. Unfortunately our audience tonight is slightly thin on the ground, but please don’t let that put you off. I want you to act like the place is full – which I’m sure it will be once the reviews are out.’
Another knock on the door and Rocket calls breathlessly from the other side, ‘Act One beginners, please!’
As I wait in the pitch blackness behind the stage, I wonder if there’s anyone out there at all. No excited chatter or rustling of sweetie papers. I find a tiny hole in the masking drapes, close one eye, and peer through, just as the door at the back slams shut. A solitary cough fills the silence.
The lights go down and the opening music, by some Russian composer whose name I can’t remember, let alone pronounce, crackles through the speakers. I clear my dry throat, fumble my way through the leaden darkness five steps to the makeshift stage, and take up position. The music fades and the lights snap on, burning my face, blinding me with their glare. Here goes …
‘“… Andrey could be good-looking, only he’s filled out a lot and it doesn’t suit him …”’
A mobile phone goes off.
‘Hello …’
‘“But I’ve become old, I’ve got very thin …”’
‘It finishes around 10.30, I think … I hope …’ (snigger) …
‘“I suppose because I lose my temper with …”’
‘Okay, darling, see you in the bar. Hmm? I’m not sure …’
‘“… the girls at the Gymnasium. Today I’m free, I’m at home, and I have no headache …”’
‘Ooh, I know … make it a vodka and orange … a double … I’ll need it! Byee!’
‘Shh!’
‘“I feel younger than yesterday …”’
We haven’t even reached the end of Act One and I am consumed by an overwhelming sense of despair. Marvellous method acting? Would it were true.
A car alarm goes off.
What in God’s name is that guy doing?
‘“… Andrey, don’t go off …”’
I don’t believe it. He’s getting up. KER-CHUNG! goes the seat as it flips up. EEEEEEAK! creaks the door. A shaft of light streams through from the bar.
‘“He has a way of always walking off. Come here.”’
‘GOAL!’ comes a collective, triumphant cry from the bar, just as the door swings shut.
I guess Chelsea must have scored against Sheffield then.
We brazen it out to the interval - somehow. Acts Three and Four go a little better, and apart from the odd cough, our meagre audience seems to settle down. Maybe they’re actually getting into it. On second thoughts, judging by the lukewarm applause as we take our curtain call, maybe they were comatose.
It wasn’t meant to be like this; I didn’t expect a standing ovation and flowers to be thrown at our feet, but I wasn’t prepared for this: to be in a production where the actors outnumber the audience. Is this what I have sacrificed my job and everything for? This is not my dream. I had such high hopes. Things are just not panning out as I expected. My bubble has burst already. My nails are chipped and dirty; my knees are bruised from pushing and shoving desks around the office and scrubbing stone steps at the pub. I wouldn’t care had I had one reply from a casting director or agent; even a WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU would have been nice, courteous.
‘Well done, everyone!’ enthuses Hugh, giving us the thumbs-up as we trudge up the stairs. ‘The drinks are on me.’
I’m about to make the excuse of having to be up at 0430, when Susannah, who plays Masha, as if reading my mind, says, ‘Come on, sis’, shall we show our faces and have just one?’
‘Why not?’ I say flatly, forcing a smile.
‘Ladies!’ calls Hugh, waving us over to the bar.
‘Hugh’s a sweetie,’ whispers Susannah. ‘I’ve worked for him before, and not only is he a brilliant director, but he really values his cast. The theatre is his life-blood. He should be at The National – but then shouldn’t we all, darling?’
Despite early success (she was plucked from drama school at the age of nineteen to play Rumpleteazer in Cats), Susannah tells me she has struggled since, doing the odd commercial and bit part on telly.
‘The only way I get to do the juicy, classical roles is on the Fringe, in productions like this, with a couple of students or maybe a pensioner or two for an audience at matinées. But who knows, one of these days, Sam Mendes may be out there scouting for new talent,’ she says brightly. ‘Top-up?’
