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CHAPTER ONE
I fell in love at eighteen.
Not with a person, but with a feeling. This feeling. The buzz of nerves climbing down my spine, the jumble of excited butterfly wings fluttering in the depths of my stomach, the warmth of a blush on my cheeks.
I only ever feel this way right before I’m about to step on stage.
Six months ago, on the night of my eighteenth birthday, after I’d just wrapped up the final show for my high-school drama club’s performance of The Comedy of Errors, I realized why I loved acting.
It was because, every night, I became someone else.
I wasn’t Farah Sheikh: I was Lady Macbeth, I was Luciana, I was Hermione. I was everyone else but myself. For a few fragile hours, I could step into someone else’s life and pretend it was my own.
Now, three months later, after moving to London for my first year of university, I stand in the wings, sinking into that feeling once again. My script has been rolled up and stuffed into my bag – I don’t need to reread it that much, considering I’m not trying out for the main part. Not by choice, of course. If I had it my way, I’d be reading for Juliet. But this production has a very strict requirement – every actor must have at least a year’s worth of experience in either an American or British production.
And while I’ve been on stage throughout my academic career, it doesn’t count because I grew up in Karachi, Pakistan. So, instead of the lead role, I’m trying out for a minor one. But I don’t mind. No respected actress makes it big without some struggle (unless there’s nepotism involved), and humble roots make the greatest stories on talk shows, right?
I remind myself of this as another actress finishes off her monologue. She is auditioning for Juliet, and she’s good. Really good.
I consider peeking round the corner, to catch a glimpse of the director and producer of the play, but I stop myself – I don’t want to add fear and nerves to the excitement I’ve got rioting through me. Instead, I will myself to focus on other things. Like what I’m going to watch to relax tonight. I remember there’s a new TV series starring Zayan Amin that I still need to dive into. He’s my favourite Pakistani actor, and this is supposed to be his big move after seventeen years on a family sitcom. I’ll stuff my face with the correct ratio of salty to sweet popcorn, while telling my flatmates about the audition and everything else.
A solid plan.
‘Next!’
I jolt out of my thoughts, walk to the ‘X’-marked spot on the stage and face the two people who hold my fate in their hands. My own university has a mediocre, underfunded theatre society. The London School of Dramatic and Creative Arts Theatre Society (a mouthful, I know), on the other hand, are nationally recognized, treated with respect by industry professionals and often featured in the news for producing the first plays of many budding actors.
That’s why getting even a minor role would mean everything to me.
‘Name? Age?’ the director, a white man with longish-black hair and blue eyes, demands. There’s a roughness to his tone, like he’s prone to shouting.
‘Farah Sheikh. Eighteen years old. And I’ll be auditioning for the role of Balthasar,’ I reply evenly, making sure my voice doesn’t shake and a smile remains on my face.
I lean forward to hand him my profile, which has all this information on it, along with my contact details for a callback. The director glances at it, the corners of his mouth pinching with something I can’t identify. Then he looks up again, his crystal-clear gaze focused on me in a way that makes my skin prickle.
One shot. I’ve got one shot to get this right.
‘Whenever you’re ready, Farah,’ says the producer, a woman with a long, blonde plait and freckled face. ‘I’ll read the lines for the opposing role.’
I breathe in deeply, letting that feeling wash over me. If I had to describe what it’s like to play a role, I’d say it’s like shedding your skin and stepping into someone else’s. Your feelings aren’t your own, your words aren’t either, but they feel like they are. The character’s pain is your pain; the character’s life is your life.
I’ve only got five lines, but I’ve practised them a million different ways – different tones and pitches – and when I say them now, I feel like Balthasar.
Three lines in and I’m bursting with Montague pride. I can see myself performing on opening night; I can feel the audience’s stares.
Four lines in, and I’m positively feeding off the daydream.
Five lines in, and –
‘I’m going to have to cut you off there,’ the director interrupts.
‘Henry,’ the producer admonishes quietly.
‘I’m sorry, Lisa, but we’re wasting time here. We’ve only got two months to get everything ready, and we’re throwing time away by auditioning people who we know are unsuitable for this role.’
Unsuitable?
Henry turns away from Lisa and focuses on me, his gaze hard and inscrutable. My stomach tightens in anticipation of the feedback that will be slung my way. I’m ready to hear what my acting lacks, and what I can fix for next time.
