I didn’t get the part!

No surprise there, really. Am I disappointed? It’s hard to say. I would’ve liked to have been doing some form of acting (pretending to be sympathetic to the disgruntled clients who walk into my workplace doesn’t count). But, well I didn’t feel I was right for the part. They wanted someone who looked like an English rose, you know the type. Not someone who’s rough around the edges, overweight and common-looking. Trisha would say that’s what make-up is for, but I guess the casting directors didn’t have much imagination.

When I got there there were five other women; all over 5′7, all as skinny as twigs, and all with the posture and air of women who had been in private education from birth and had decided to pursue acting as a career to piss off their well-to-do parents who had high hopes of them being lawyers,doctors etc. (I’m good at analysing people). When I walked in they were all holding their scripts and mentally reading them, with concentration. It looked painful. Serious, like brain surgery! All eyes were on me for what seemed like forever, then they went back to going over the script. Anyone would think they had lines for the part.

I was the third one to be called in after waiting for 15 minutes. I wouldn’t call it an audition as such. They screened me; they made me say a few sentences about the weather and the place where I lived while the camera rolled. It was just to see how I looked on camera. I imagine I looked quite awful, seeing as it added 10lbs on (10lbs I really didn’t need.)

Surprisingly I found out the same day that I didn’t get it. I was on my way to the train station when the runner called and relayed the bad news. The train back to Manchester was slow and dull after that.

I called Bev Newman up when I got home. She said she had tried and that I must not have presented myself properly. Again, back to blaming me. I told her I wanted her actively searching for something, anything, that I can do. I am even willing to do theatre work. She said she would put in overtime to find me the right role, and reminded me that if I didn’t get paid then neither did she, so it was in her best interest to actively search. That didn’t comfort me in the slightest because she doesn’t need the job anyway; her parents are loaded and almost in the grave, and she stands to inherit everything. Plus, her husband is a property developer and has a large portfolio, blah blah blah. Bottom line, this is like a hobby to her. But it’s my life.

That was Wednesday. On Thursday I got a phonecall from the pharmacist. It was 7.30 in the evening and I had just sat down to watch a rerun of Friends that I’d already seen a dozen times before. I put a pizza in the oven and told my housemates I had no intention of sharing.

When I answered the phone the guy sounded really shy and that made me keen to listen to what he had to say. It was an awkward conversation for the first 10 minutes, because we knew nothing about each other and we were basically both putting our trust in Trisha. We knew we shouldn’t have, but at that point it was already too late. Anyway, after the first 10 minutes it became easier and easier to talk to him. He had a goofy laugh that I thought was sweet but knew would be one of the things about him I’d grow to hate IF we ever became something more. The conversation ended with us planning to meet for a few drinks in town. I’ve done it so many times I am completely unfazed by it.

We met Friday evening at Kro in Piccadilly Gardens. We sat and talked about everything from movies to carpet cleaner, and surprisingly it never got boring. For 3 hours we talked and drank (he bought all the drinks, and I stuck to cocktails and then lemonade once I started floating). He seems genuine, really nice. He’s good looking in an Ed Harris sort of way. You can also tell that he is a divorcee. I don’t know what it is about divorced men but they have this look about them that is a dead giveaway that they were once married. It’s something to do with the way they look at you when they speak, and the way they listen when you speak. He mentioned his ex-wife only briefly; his 3 children live with her and they are still on good terms. I must admit it was a bit daunting when he said his oldest son was 20, only 6 years my junior!

The date ended with a goodnight kiss, on the lips I might add, and me taking a taxi home. I was a bit tipsy on the journey home and kept smiling to myself which prompted the taxi driver to ask me what I was smiling about. To which I replied, “That was the best date I’ve had in 4 years.” Knowing my luck, though, he’ll probably never call.

Trisha and I had lunch on Saturday as usual. She was anxious to hear how it went. I played it down and said it was okay, but within minutes of me talking about it she realised I actually liked the guy.

“You couldn’t make it more obvious. When’s the wedding?”

“Shut up! It’s only the first date. He said he’ll call this weekend.”

“Can I be bridesmaid?” By now she was already in her own little world of plotting the ceremony, the catering etc.

“There will be no wedding. Listen to yourself.”

“Oh, and will you wear white? I mean, no offence but that’s a huge fabrication.”

“Trisha!”

We talked about the pharmacist some more, and I found myself (reluctantly) humouring her by discussing wedding venues and babies’ names. If he ever found out that’s what I did 2 days after the first date, he would never call.

I spoke to my sister Janette that evening also. We do speak very regularly, even though she assures me and everyone she knows that she’s far too busy with work to have full length conversations. She calls at least twice a week, and I call maybe once a week. She wanted to come up for a visit, with the kids. She lives Milton Keynes. I told her I would be busy on Sunday which is a complete lie; I just don’t want to see her children. They drive me insane! Olivia is 8 and Robin is 5. They’re smart as hell and beautiful to go with it, but this they are aware of, therefore they’re extremely vain. Even at their age they have vanity down to a T. Olivia is the worst, pointing out my flaws whenever she sees me.  “Aunty Fiona, you look…round today.” Never fat (because Janette told her it’s rude to call people fat) but round. Or, “Aunty Fiona, mom didn’t tell me you were pregnant. That’s awesome.”  And if Olivia’s insulting me, Robin’s running around breaking things and making a racket and making mess - 2 of his favourite pasttimes.

I love them, but I hate being around them. I love them because I have to, because they’re Janette’s progeny, and because they’re family. But it doesn’t mean I love being in their company. Maybe in a few weeks when I’ve been to the gym and shed some of this weight. Mind you, little Olivia will still find something nasty to say about me. I’m almost certain she does it on purpose.

Oh, did I tell you? She’s a child star.