On fishnets at noon

After 13 years of auditioning, I still lie awake the night before attempting to quell the butterfly army on the march in my stomach. They had been fluttering since my agent called with the news that Chicago were holding open auditions for their West End company. But my amount of preparedness always tells me exactly where I stand on the scale of How Badly Do I Want This Job?...last Sunday night, I had my carefully chosen outfit all laid out on my dresser. Fishnets, check. Heels, check. Bowler hat, check. I want this job very badly indeed, it seems. So on Monday, I sat down in the front room, where the most light is to be found in our little London flat on a January morning, and began applying the war paint. It feels perverse to be putting on fishnets and three coats of mascara before midday. Arriving at the Cambridge Theatre to join the queue of painted ladies that snaked out of the door and all the way down to the bottom of Mercer Street, I was amused to see that I had been modest in my preparations. I seemed to be the only girl not sporting false eyelashes and a spray-on tan in Tango orange. I put in my earphones (the inane chatter that goes on in audition queues is enough to make the bile rise), opened The Scandal of the Season and began to wait. And wait and wait. The weather at noon had been quite tolerable. By one, the wind had changed and the temperature plummeted like a stone. Girls who had friends to hold their places charged off to Cafe Nero for hot coffee, and H and M for thicker socks and bigger jumpers. Those who didn't have such luxury smoked furiously and tried vainly, as I did, to stop shivering. Four hours and umpteen chapters later, I was almost into the foyer of the Cambridge - ironically, huddled next to the little black side door that I take to climb the stairs to my agent's office, which is squirreled away at the top of the theatre. And then, glory, I made it through the velvet ropes and into the warm bowels of the building, where girls were shedding layers and performing bizarre pre-audition rituals and pinning on the crucial little paper number. The audition brief had said black, and everyone had taken it to heart; I saw black hot pants, and black corsets and black frilly things that looked suspiciously like nighties. I was attempting to recreate the costume I wore as Mona the last time I did the show; a black basque with suspenders. I did a few sit-ups in an attempt to erase the memory of Christmas cookies, and then I heard my number called and my group was taken upstairs to learn the routine from a lovely girl, with the most perfect bottom I've seen outside of Vogue, who is currently in the show and was due to perform Roxie instead of Ruthie Henshall that night. She was sweet and patient with us despite losing her voice and despite the fact that ours was the final group she'd had to coach after what must have been an interminable day with no end in sight. I can go through the motions of All That Jazz with my eyes closed, but I was grateful that she reminded us of Fosse's ethic; nothing overt, no frills, no extras. Dance like you are considering giving away your juiciest secret. And then we were herded downstairs and onto the stage to dance for the panel. The drummer, perched up in the band box, pounded out the opening bars of the number and we all launched ourselves at the one brief chance we had waited for all day. As each group of six girls danced, the rest of us stood to one side and politely applauded the effort that goes into getting yourself up there at all. And I was truly happy to be there. It felt like heaven to take my place on the stage, and gaze into the half-lit, hushed cavern of the auditorium and to be jolted into movement by the drummer. That brief moment was worth the raging cold I now have; that and hearing my number called to return for a second chance. Now I have only to face down my horror of The Singing Audition on Thursday... More, anon