Evelyn refused to be intimidated. She had just as much right as they to be there and just as much chance of being spot on for the role. Plus, she had inside information. Mr MacMillan wanted her. How many of these others could say that? As she thought all this through, a door opened, and the first name was called. Evelyn crossed her fingers and prepared to wait.
The hands on the wall clock made their steady way around the hour as Evelyn waited. Eventually it became apparent that she would be last to go in. The others had all emerged looking calm and collected, although one had been in the audition room for less than two minutes, which couldn’t bode well for her but was a positive thing for Evelyn.
‘Evelyn Mountcastle,’ the receptionist called finally, and even though she had been waiting for this moment, Evelyn still started at the sound.
‘Yes,’ she said, and stood up so quickly that her head felt momentarily woozy. She made her way to the door through which the others had disappeared, her hands clammy and her stomach full of butterflies, but ready to show them everything she had.
The corridor was dark, but there was a door open at the far end and she made her way towards it. It took her into a studio, one wall mirrored and with a grand piano in the far corner. Three men sat behind a table positioned in front of the mirror, so that as she approached she could see her own reflection. She tried not to be distracted by it.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said confidently to the man sitting in the middle of the panel who she deduced to be the more senior and consequently more important, although really, she had no idea.
‘Hello, Evelyn. Very nice to meet you.’ He was incredibly quietly spoken, and Evelyn strained to hear him. He handed her a script. ‘Page sixteen, please. Can you read Detective Constable Walker?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How would you like me to play her?’
The man on the left answered her. ‘She’s a bit rough,’ he said. ‘Keen as mustard but without any nuance about her. Calls a spade a spade, if you know what I mean.’
‘All right,’ replied Evelyn smoothly, her brain running ten to the dozen as to how to portray this. She turned to page sixteen and considered it. DC Walker had about half a page of script and she read it quickly so she had some idea of what was coming. And then she began.
When she’d finished, she looked up and smiled. ‘How was that?’ she asked. ‘I can make her more aggressive if you like, or more thoughtful. Whatever you think. She strikes me as having more common sense than is perhaps expected of her, wise beyond her years, if you know what I mean?’
The man in the middle was nodding at her. ‘Go on,’ he said.
Evelyn wasn’t sure she had anything to add, but she carried on anyway. ‘I think she’d be very loyal, the kind of officer her boss can rely on in a crisis, so that even though she doesn’t have much experience, she still makes a valuable contribution to the team.’
More nodding, which Evelyn chose to interpret as a good thing. She smiled and turned her head a little to show off her best side.
‘Okay, thank you, Miss Mountcastle,’ said the one who had yet to speak. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
And then it was all over. Evelyn collected her portfolio from the disinterested receptionist and made her way back outside to catch her bus.
7
‘There’s no bread,’ announced Brenda when Evelyn appeared for breakfast the next day. ‘And there’s only a splash of milk, so use it carefully.’
‘Shall I pop to the shop?’ asked Evelyn helpfully.
‘Don’t you watch the news, Evie? There’s no bread, full stop. There’s nothing. The lorry drivers have been on strike for weeks, or hadn’t you noticed?’
Evelyn was put out. She didn’t really follow the news. It was so dull and nothing ever seemed to happen other than people complaining, which brought her mood down. But she wasn’t stupid.
‘Of course I’ve noticed,’ she snapped. ‘So, there’s no bread in the shop either?’
‘Nope,’ said Brenda, raising her hand, which held a cream cracker slathered with raspberry jam. ‘I’m using my initiative. It’s not too bad, actually.’ She turned her attention back to her newspaper. ‘They’re saying Monday was the worst day of industrial action since 1926,’ she added. ‘And the gravediggers are out in Liverpool. You can’t get a body buried for love nor money, apparently.’
‘That can’t be very hygienic,’ replied Evelyn, pulling a squeamish face. ‘Won’t there be diseases and what have you? Typhoid or the plague or whatever?’