Game, Set, and Match

(contains swearing and irreverent references to God)

I hurried off the stage and made for the dressing-room, which was more like a cupboard really. When I got there, I extricated the bank notes tucked into my waist band and stockings, stuffing them straight in my purse. Fighting back the nausea I always felt after a number, I stripped, ran a cloth under the tap, and wiped myself down.

The whisky bottle called me from the make-up table. I poured myself a good measure, downing it in one. And that’s when it caught my eye: an envelope at the foot of the door. I picked it up; it had my name on it. I opened it and took out a sheet of paper, folded twice. The handwriting was very neat.

Cindy

Just watched your turn. I think I might be able to use you in a film I’m making. Come along to the studio tomorrow morning, 11 o’clock. Address below.

Let’s get you out of this dive!

Regards

TR Casper

I read the letter over and over, incredulous. TR Casper wasn’t just some greasy patron or creepy stalker; he was a bona fide big name in the film industry … and not that film industry either. TR bloody Casper? Interested in me? Impossible!

So how come the letter? Then it dawned on me: Trixie! As if on cue, there was a bang on the door and she burst in. She was already dressed in her street clothes; she’d been on earlier.

“What’s up, slag?!” she said, her mouth twisted into a familiar smirk.

I slid the letter under my make-up bag, fixing her with what I hoped was a scornful glare.

“What do you want?” I said, trying to put contempt into my tone, too.

She didn’t answer but stood staring at the make-up table, at the corner of the letter that was sticking out from under my bag.

“What’s that?” she said, pointing to it.

“Mind your own fuckin’ business!” I gave the words as much venom as I could muster, though the months of working the bar with her had taken some of the sting out of my insults, through frequent use.

“Is it a letter?” she asked, strangely tentative. I scoffed.

“You know full well it is!”

I’d thought it was her who’d slipped the letter under the door, but there was something about her expression that began to make me doubt it; Trixie wouldn’t have been able to act that well.

“I got one too, you know,” she drawled. She must’ve dropped in just to tell me that.

She’d managed to re-group her face and tone; she was back to the cocksure bore I’d come to know and hate.

“Yeah? Well whoopee do!”

Our conversations were always like this – like rallies in a tennis match, each of us trying to gain the upper hand. I was at the net, volleying. She lobbed me.

“What could he possibly have seen in your … shall we say act?”

I wasn’t going to let her get away with that. I returned her lob with a smash.

“I don’t know – class, maybe?”

That was a winner. Her bluster crumbling, she grimaced, whirled round, and left, throwing a comment over her shoulder as she went. It was like a weak second serve.

“We’ll see who gets the part tomorrow.”

Yeah, I thought, we will.

Once she was gone, I picked up the letter and read it again, convinced now that this was the real thing. I poured myself another whisky and put my feet up.

*****

There are days, aren’t there, when it seems God has picked us out at random for special punishment. Okay, some of what went wrong the next day might’ve been my own fault – sleeping through the alarm because of the skinful I’d had the night before perhaps. When I rushed out of the apartment, though, to find a tyre on my car was as flat as a tam o’shanter … well, that I did blame on the all-powerful One.

Luckily, my neighbour Ben has a thing for me – unrequited, unconsummated – and he came to my rescue. Not that I’m incapable of changing a tyre myself; it’s just that time was now of the essence, and it would have taken me forever. I owe him one … but not that kind of ‘one’. Lunch maybe.

So eventually I was on the road. I had a general idea of where I was going in South London. I took Waterloo Bridge across the river, drove on down through Elephant and Castle – going too fast, I must admit – along towards Kennington. On that straight bit of road, I took my life in my hands by fiddling with the GPS. It sent me up past The Oval. It didn’t feel right. When I hit the river again, I knew something was definitely off. I was travelling along the Embankment, back towards where I’d started.

Colour the inside of the car blue with the language that was coming out of my mouth – a lot of it directed at the Almighty, I’m afraid. It was a wonder the steering wheel didn’t fall off from the pounding it took. The bloody voice I’d chosen for the GPS was getting right on my tits, so I switched it off, turned into a side road and pulled up.

Breathing’s a good idea sometimes. I put in some heavy lung work to calm myself down. I was going to be late, that was obvious. The question was by how much.

A couple of blokes in their twenties – one very tall, one very short – came sauntering along the pavement. I wound my window down.

“Hey lads! How’s it goin’? I’m headin’ for Streatham. Any idea how to get there?”

I had on a low-cut top; it wasn’t too flashy, but at the audition, I wanted to stand out ahead of the competition, as it were. The lads glanced at each other, grinning. I should’ve guessed what was coming.

“You’re miles away, darlin’!” the taller one said.

My patience was wafer-thin by that point; my frustration got the better of me.

“No shit, Sherlock!” I said.

“You tryin’ to be funny?” the shorter one growled.

“Bitch!” the other one spat.

Fuck this, I thought to myself. I put the car in gear … only not before Lofty had grabbed me by the wrist. Titch trotted round to the passenger door and tried it.

“Open up!” I could hear him shout, slightly muffled through the glass.

I started to pull away. The two blokes scrambled to keep up with me, Lofty still holding on to my arm. I could’ve just sped up to shake them off, but I wasn’t sure that Lofty would let go even then, and that would make steering tricky. So with my left hand, I rummaged about in my bag, pulling out what I needed.

“AAARGH!” Lofty screamed as the spray hit him. His hands flew up to his face and I was free to drive away. Titch hung on for maybe ten yards before giving up the ghost. In the rear-view mirror, I could see him tumbling to the asphalt, with Lofty staggering in circles, rubbing at his eyes.

This small victory would’ve pleased me if I hadn’t been aware that I was now very late. I weighed up the possibility of jacking it in, going back home, but I had nothing better to do. While there was still a scintilla of hope, I decided to persevere.

A kind old bloke walking his dog put me on the right track, and, more confident of the route, I headed on to Streatham, praying to Him up there not to let the cops stop me for speeding.

*****

I got to Streatham, found the street – more by luck than judgement – drove past the building and parked up as close as I could. It was a baking-hot day; I could feel the sweat streaming down my back. I was sure I looked a proper sight. The security guard in the reception area looked me up and down, checked a clipboard he had on his desk and told me that he was sorry, the auditions were over. I checked my watch: one o’clock. Of course they were over.

I wanted to hurl abuse at the bloke but resisted – it wasn’t his fault after all. Instead, I asked him to point me to a café; it occurred to me suddenly that I was gasping for refreshment. He directed me to one a little way along the street and that was where I headed, feeling very sorry for myself.

When I got there, who did I bump into coming out but Trixie, her face plastered with a self-satisfied smile.

“Bit late, slag!” she sneered.

It was a public place or I would’ve clocked her one.

“Ah, fuck off!” I said – a weedy return, I know. I would’ve tried something like a dinky drop shot if I’d been in the mood. I wasn’t.

“Feelin’ a bit flat, are you?” she said. The emphasis she put on that word, plus the wink that accompanied it, hit me like a steam-train, the whole of the tyre episode explained in an instant.

“You didn’t…!” I spluttered.

“Dog-eat-dog!” she giggled and flounced by me. I resolved there and then to get my own back somehow. If I hadn’t been so gobsmacked, had been quicker to react, I could’ve at least tripped her up. As it was, I had to watch her wobbling away down the street on her ridiculous stilettos and just think harm to her … for now.

It was a self-service café, with a stainless-steel shelf running past Perspex compartments containing sandwiches, cakes, fruit… I slid my tray along and chose a large wedge of chocolate cake – because why not, right? – then ordered a mug of tea at the cash register.

I’d just paid up and turned to find a table when…

CRASH!

The bloke that I spilled the tea over, that I plastered with sticky chocolate cake, stood there for a long moment, hands raised, apparently in disbelief at what had just happened to him. He looked to be in his forties, with a slightly greying beard, wearing sunglasses. Objectively good-looking, in fact, though that was really the last thing on my mind right then.

“Oh, so sorry, let me…” I said, trying to wipe the bits of cake from what was obviously an expensive suit. He grabbed my hand – not unkindly – and took off his glasses.

“My fault. Don’t worry about it,” he said. His voice was soft, mellow.

Now that I could see his eyes, it hit me who he was.

“You’re a bit late, Cindy,” he said.

“Ah, man. TR, I mean, Mr Casper, if you only knew…”

And that’s when the dam burst, the morning’s stress catching up with me.

He led me to a table, sat me down, handed me a crisp, white handkerchief (who said chivalry was dead?) and told me to wait there.

My sobbing had subsided into sniffles by the time he returned with another piece of chocolate cake and a pot of tea for two. He’d cleaned himself up a bit and sat down opposite me.

“Better?” he said, smiling warmly.

I laughed through the tears and nodded.

“Tell me what happened,” he said. So I did.

By the time I’d finished recounting the story of my morning, I’d polished off the cake (excellent it was, too!), and we’d finished the tea. He sat back, looking at me, long and hard.

“You know something?” he said. “I was really disappointed when you didn’t show up. I should’ve given you my number – my fault again. Then I would’ve known why you were late. I figured you’d got cold feet.”

I held up a hand; this wasn’t making sense.

“But you’ve done the auditions, haven’t you? My … er … friend Trixie, for example.”

“Ah yes. Trixie…”

His tone and face made my heart sing; Trixie had evidently been disastrous.

“So you’ll have decided on someone,” I said. He shook his head.

“Actually, the studio asks us directors to audition several people for each role, just to say we’ve gone through a selection process. In fact, since last night, I’ve known there’s only one person I want.”

If my heart had been singing at the news of Trixie, now it was performing a stirring rendition of Ode to Joy.

“You mean…?” I began; my battered self-esteem needed confirmation.

“Well, we’ll have to stop by the studio and go through the motions, but yes, I think I can safely say it’s yours.”

Freude!

He went on to tell me what the part involved, and how it was a key role in the film (for which shooting starts next month). I was mightily relieved to hear that I won’t have to get my tits out.

As we made our way back to the studio, I silently apologised to God for taking His name in vain earlier, thanking Him for this gift.

And I was already planning what I’ll say to Trixie the next time I see her.

It'll be something exceptionally powerful and cutting – a glorious passing shot that will leave her flailing, a scintillating winner.

It'll be game, set, and match.