Idle Scribe

I don’t want to be here, I think, and twist the script in my hands. The nerves are bad, worse than ever, and my guts almost feel like they’re buzzing, and everyone else in the room is younger and prettier, more composed. I’ve got to get out.

I won’t be called for ages yet, so I go outside for a cigarette. The fresh air helps, but the light’s so bright out here my head starts to hurt.

“Hey.”

I know that voice. I look up. I know that face. “Oh, hey!” It’s him, it’s the guy I’d be sharing screentime with if I were to get the role.

“Listen, good luck in there today.”

My script is on the concrete step beside me and I’ve screwed it up. Please, God, don’t let him see. ”Th… thanks!” And that’s all I can say before he’s gone. I didn’t even clearly see his face; too busy trying to look normal and grateful and charming. It’s over in a blur. But I sit there for two minutes more, my butt starting to numb, and I think about his words.

He knows how it feels. And how does he know? Because he did it too. Auditioned for a role with no guarantee of success. And five years on, nobody can picture anyone else playing the part. It makes a kind of sense to me, and serves as reassurance that my husband couldn’t offer; it reminds me that these stupid nerves are how the game is played.

I flatten out the crumpled sheets of paper and stand up again. I go inside and wait my turn with something quite like hope.