Doing the Dirty

There is a skewed logic I have developed regarding auditions; it seems to be a general rule that the worse I think it went, the higher the chance that the phone will ring in a few days with my agent brimming with good news at the other end. It strikes me as a cruel joke that the light is always to be found at the end of the longest, darkest tunnels. And I've been scampering down a fair few of them in recent weeks. I remember the lonely days when first I washed up on the shores of London; every rare audition shone out like a ray of hope across the wasteland of my diary. But in the past ten days, since my last show of Permanence played on March 20th, I have been hurtling across London with a head full of scripts and a bag bursting with shoes apposite for each character. I've auditioned for student films and low-budget features and West End musicals and I can't even remember what else! And all with chronic toothache, a raging head cold and attempting to placate my boss... The anti-glamour of it all sometimes still makes me laugh, and the thrill I get from living the life I craved as a little girl with crazy dreams hasn't ever gone away. But it was the audition for Dirty Dancing on Friday that finally got me down. I was trying out for the part of Vivian Pressman, and I had had to tell my boss that I was meeting a client in Knightsbridge in order to get to Pineapple studios for my 4:15 slot. I did the usual vocal exercises to warm up the voice while hurtling on my bicycle through Oxford Circus. This caused a raised eyebrow or two from the first flush of tourists arriving from Italy and Japan to taste the joys of Spring shopping. (The H&M girls floating past on double deckers are boasting juicy florals and boho blouses - again -for the new season but I never tire of the sight.) At Pineapple, I was shown into Studio 7, with its expanse of sweat-polished floor, and asked to dance with myself while delivering my lines. This is a bizarre thing to do, and when auditioning for Dirty Dancing it doesn't seem unreasonable to expect them to provide someone to dance with...but there I was, attempting to tango on my own and feeling like a perfect idiot. The panel, led by a diminutive Asian-American girl, watched with poker faces. Next, they wanted me to sing a snippet of the song from the show, and I went over to the piano with a sinking heart. This is always my highest hurdle. But the pianist, unlike the accompanist provided for my previous audition who was still attempting to master Chopsticks, was cheerful and laid back and I found myself soothed into singing the song with escalating confidence. Suddenly, the energy in the room swung round and I realised I was watching them as I sang; I was no longer the specimen on the slab. They were simply four people sitting behind a table on a Friday afternoon. And that was a tiny, lovely breakthrough. Swiftly overtaken by the horrible doubt, sadly, and the tradition of the walk to the door with the awkward silence hovering in the air as they wait for you to be gone so they can discuss the pros and cons of you in forensic detail - if you merit such attention. I went back down Pineapple's staircase (surely a cosmic joke as the most treacherous staircase in London) in black gloom and swearing I would never put myself through the humiliation of a musical audition ever again. But they are words I am forced to eat because my agent has rung with the surprising message that they want to see me for a call back in two weeks. And so the rollercoaster lurches again. In the words of one of my favourite songs: "It goes to show you never can tell."