The Love of My Afterlife(47)
No-one responds.
“Rachel Calloway?” the man repeats, a smidge louder. Ellie Damson shakes her head at another of the brunettes. One of them tuts.
“Rachel Calloway, final call?”
I’m on my feet before I can much think it through. “That is me!” I say. “Yes, Rachel Calloway is my name!”
Maurice Alabaster ushers me into a small, sort of triangular-shaped office and settles himself behind a little desk, an old grey laptop resting upon piles of papers and headshots, bright Post-it notes stuck onto every surface. On the wall behind him are haphazardly placed photographs of Maurice, arm slung around people I vaguely recognise from old television shows. Each picture is autographed.
“I don’t remember seeing you at the first casting call, Rachel,” Maurice says, sliding on a pair of large square-shaped spectacles and squinting into his laptop. “Have you dyed your hair since then? The production company specifically asked me for brunettes.”
Ah yes. Rachel Calloway. He thinks I am Rachel Calloway. I open my mouth to explain to him that I’m actually Delphie Bookham and that I’m very sorry for slipping in under false pretences but that I’m here to find Jonah Truman slash Electric. And then I remember Claude’s reaction from the life-drawing class when I asked after Jonah. He went into immediate protective mode—like I was dangerous or something. Hmm. I definitely don’t want that to happen again. Maurice wouldn’t still be in business if he gave out the details of his clients willy-nilly, especially to someone who’s snuck into his office under a false name.
I really have not thought this through. All I was focused on was getting in here, and now…
“I dyed my hair,” I explain, my voice as even as I can get it. “But I can dye it back.”
Maurice harrumphs and shuffles through his papers. I peer around the room, spotting a filing cabinet in the corner. I bet that’s where he keeps his client files. Okay. A plan: I need to try to get Maurice out of the room somehow. Then I can sneak into the filing cabinet and grab Jonah’s file and all of his contact details.
“So, as you know, the part is for the new police constable on Murder in the Pretty Village and…”
I zone out for a moment. I love Murder in the Pretty Village! It’s a stalwart of British programming, been on telly for years. Before Dad left, he and Mum used to watch it every Sunday night.
“And so today, we’re just wanting to find out a little more about you all, and those selected for a third callback will return for a meeting with the show producers. Sound good?”
I nod quickly. Maurice takes a sip from a half-empty glass of green juice and grimaces. Then he leans back into his well-worn office chair. It squeaks beneath his weight and he gives a little “ah” of pleasure. Doesn’t look like he plans on moving anytime soon, but I need him to bog off so I can get into that filing cabinet pronto.
“I see you trained at RADA, very nice,” Maurice reads from what I assume is Rachel Calloway’s CV. “Do you have your monologue prepared?”
My eyes flick from side to side as if the solution to what the hell I’m supposed to do in this most niche of scenarios is somewhere nearby.
Maurice’s face softens. “A little nervous? It is rather a significant role.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Well, dear, here’s a tip from me to you. We’re looking for someone who can really get angry, no holds barred. PC Buttersby has quite the temper, and everyone I’ve seen so far?” He waves his hands about. “They’re a little too subtle. And I know that’s the trend right now on HBO and in American Prestige TV and what have you, but this is British Sunday-night drama, and I’m looking for someone who isn’t afraid to just…let rip.” He smiles. “Does that help?”
No, Maurice. No, it does not. What would help is if you took off so I can get access to your filing cabinet and find the only person on Earth who can save my life. I need more time to think of a proper plan. I need to be smarter than this.
“Go ahead.” Maurice nods.
I take a deep breath. “Errrrr…let’s see. Um…Na, na, na na na nana. Na, na, na, na nana. Getting jiggy wit it,” I begin before clamping my mouth closed.
Delphie, why? Why, at times of great stress and pressure, do you immediately go to Will Smith? Maurice wants a monologue. Not whatever this is! He’s going to kick you out. Shit. Okay. Angry. He said he wants angry. I can be angry. I’m always angry! I transform my face into a frown and fold my arms across my chest. I think of people who say, Wow. Just wow. I think of how terrible it is that Mr. Yoon has no family around him. I think of cleaning the cheese grater. I think of how awful secondary school was. I think of my mum never calling me back. I think of all my worst things, but to my dismay, instead of getting angry, a flood of tears journey to my eyes. I frantically sniff them away. I am ridiculous. I am fully ridiculous and this is never going to work! I should just leave, go home, and wait for Merritt. I should just accept my fate. It’s inevitable.
Maurice sighs like maybe this has happened to him before. “Let’s come back to the monologue a little later.” He taps at the laptop screen. “It says here you studied Acting through Dance under Pauline LaRue Toussaint! Wonderful. Pauline and I go back a long way. Dear, dear woman.”
I’m about to apologise for wasting his time when I suddenly spot that something outrageous is happening behind Maurice’s head. On a framed photo of Maurice and what looks to be a very young Judi Dench, words start to appear on the photo in the same black handwriting as Judi Dench’s autograph. I gasp. Merritt? I look at the scrawled sentence.