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‘Sorry, uh – Farah, was it? The direction of our programme … We’re attempting to go back to the historic roots of Shakespeare. We want real authenticity, and that requires a cast that – well, that looks more classically British.’
I feel a smile twitching at the corner of my mouth, because this has to be a joke. Right? Surely someone is going to come out with cameras and tell me I’m a part of a social experiment or something.
But they’re not laughing, and for several long, painful moments, nothing happens. This nightmare is reality.
I should demand more, advocate for myself, but no words pass my lips. Lisa just watches me uncomfortably, Henry rifles through the papers in front of him, unconcerned, and as I walk off the stage in silence, that buzzy, in-love feeling I had wilts away.
CHAPTER TWO
When I jam my key into the lock and step into the flat, I’m still lost in my thoughts. It’s not until the door shuts quietly behind me that I finally return to reality.
The numbness disappears, and every physical feeling that was muted before erupts in my body. The disgust makes my stomach clench, the panic makes my hands shake, but the embarrassment is the most overwhelming.
Somewhere in the background, I can hear my flatmates talking, but I really just want to be alone right now.
My flatmates are my two best friends, Amal and Maha; they’re from Karachi, Pakistan as well. We went to the same A-level school – Rocate High – and after we all got into universities in London, we moved in together at the start of the academic year. They’re like sisters to me, friends that I can’t imagine living without. I didn’t tell them about the audition – only because, foolishly, I’d wanted it to be a surprise if I got the role. But I can’t face them. Not right now.
So, instead, I quietly slip off my shoes and make my way to my bedroom. I close the door ever so gently, hoping that the click of my lock is masked by their conversation.
When I’m sure no one has heard me coming in, I flop directly on to my bed. My head beats like a dull drum, matching the word still pulsing through my mind.
Unsuitable. Unsuitable.
My chest aches with a pain so harsh and deep that I’m sure my heart must be broken. Irrevocably torn apart. That feeling I had while being on stage, right before Henry interrupted me, is so far away now. The phantom whisper of it remains, but it’s out of reach.
More classically British.
What does that even mean? Sure, I didn’t have the Union Jack painted on my face, but Henry and Lisa had my profile in their hands. They had to know I was British Pakistani. And if they didn’t have my profile, if I’d just been some anonymous, random actress stumbling into the theatre to audition, they’d never have guessed that I was actually brown. Not based on what I looked like.
I spent eighteen years in Pakistan, hearing comments – sometimes whispered, sometimes casually mentioned – about how cool it was that I had a foreign passport, how enviable it was that my skin was the perfect shade of brown that could almost be considered a tanned sort of white, especially if I stayed out of the sun. The remarks were always said with such reverence, such pride. No one ever considered my dual nationality to be a failing.
So why did Henry say it? Why? Was it even a real critique, or was there something –?
The sound of my phone ringing breaks me out of the cycle of unanswerable questions. I scramble to pick it up, but when I see the caller ID, my stomach clenches with anxiety.
My mother.
Usually, phone calls with my mother are an experience. They tend to begin with her regaling me with tales about back home – which fellow aunty slighted her during a committee lunch, which friend’s daughter just got married – but this time, Ammi starts with a question.
‘How was the audition, Paari?’
Paari. Fairy. An affectionate nickname Nani and Nana gave me when they gifted me a Tinker Bell costume from the Disney store on Oxford Street. I was in the thick of my fairy phase – I loved Barbie: Fairytopia and I read every Rainbow Magic book that existed. Every night, I imagined my wings were yet to sprout and that when they did, I’d fly to the stars and pluck one out of the sky. I’d hold it in my hands and steal all its magic.
My nana was watching me prance around the living room, turning teapots into frogs and waving around a palm-tree leaf for a wand, when he coined the nickname. If I think back hard enough, I can hear his rough laugh, and the gentle way he said, Look, there’s a fairy in this room, brighter and happier than the sun.
After that, I was Paari. The bright spot of the family. Never sad. Always smiling. Made of magic.
‘It was …’ I struggle to find the right words. ‘I didn’t get it. I didn’t get the role.’
‘Oh, Paari,’ Ammi replies, her voice sounding so anguished it makes my heart ache. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
I’m lucky my parents are so supportive. They didn’t discourage me from wanting to be an actress – they always told me I could achieve whatever I wanted if I tried hard enough. All they ever asked was that I graduate with a degree – any degree – alongside that dream. They asked about every audition, came to every show, sat right in the front row. I just know that my failing this audition is a disappointment for them as well.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, my tone sounding wooden even to my own ears. ‘I just want to sleep it off.’
Ammi makes a noise of understanding, and I can hear my father’s voice rumbling in the background. Nope. I can’t do it. I will quite literally have a breakdown if my father, with all the excitement in his usually gruff voice, asks me how the audition went.
‘I’m going to go now, Ammi,’ I say quickly. ‘Give Abu all my love, OK?’
