The Girl Without A Name

Chapter One

Is there anything more destructive than the human desire to be perfect?

There's something alluring in the way it consumes us, transforming us into something horribly beautiful.

There is nothing more fascinating than watching an intoxicated artist perform.

If there's anything that can be learned from a classical tragedy, it's that we all have one common flaw (or hamartia, if you will), we want to be adored. It's a basic human instinct to do everything in our power to be admired.

As an artist, I accepted this fact and I was not the only one. In fact, this is not about me. This book you hold in your hands is an account of a dear friend of mine - one that was neither real nor fake. There are times where I wonder if I made her up in some kind of complex hallucination but sometimes I am haunted by the memories of a living, breathing person.

Those memories were the rare moments I realised what she really was: a person who strayed too far from her sense of identity.

Her identity was shaped by each character she played, both on and off the stage, her name lost in time.

The first time I saw her was at my first audition in London. She stood a few feet away from me, muttering her lines under her breath.

Before I had the chance to strike up conversation, she was gone again.

I saw her later that day with a handful of papers. She looked up as I walked over. For a moment, as our eyes met, I found myself at a loss of words.

However you define the word "beautiful", you would find it in her countenance. To this day, I cannot even explain just how hypnotic I found her presence. In fact, I don't think a word exists that can fully capture her elegance.

"I'm Elodie," I introduced, holding out my hand for her to shake. "And you are?"

As she shook my hand, I found myself shocked at how real and warm she was. "I don't really know," she replied.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," I replied, perplexed by the casual tone of her voice. She considered for a moment, as if searching her mind for a long forgotten secret.

"I'm an actor," she said, finally, slightly lost in thought, "I have no name. I am whoever they want me to be. If you were to ask anyone else, they would probably tell you that I don't exist, that I am merely a character on the stage."

"I see." I still didn't understand what she was saying. "Well, what do I call you?"

"People call me Belle." I pointed out that surely that was a name. She smiled, softly.

"It's not mine though. Belle simply means beauty. That is all I am."

That night I lay awake, staring at my ceiling. Belle's words confused me. They were so simple yet complex.

Part of me was convinced that I had hallucinated the whole encounter. I would have to wait until tomorrow to see her again - if I got a part in the production.

Most shows don't release the cast for quite a while - usually it was weeks before I heard back from them.

Since the post-audition nerves and thoughts of the mysterious girl clearly wouldn't let me sleep, I got dressed and headed out.

The sky was tainted with city lights, so much so that its black pigment had faded to a rich dark blue. My footsteps echoed through the almost empty streets until I reached the main streets of London.

As usual, the night was alive - the city never sleeps.

Music floated towards me from The Nutcracker pub. I opened the door and was hit by the most enchanting voice I had ever heard.

Instead of heading straight for the bar, I walked to the front of the stage, mesmerised. It was the girl from the auditions. She was singing into the microphone with a controlled melancholy.

The song was about a doll, who was kept pristine in her little box. Eventually, she broke free, only to realise that she was better off in her confinement.

As the song drew to a close, the crowd cheered - a few drunken whistles. I heard a few comments from some of the men, which made me feel physically sick.

They were similar to comments made directly to me or as I walked past. Belle pretended not to hear as she made her way through the crowd towards me. Without a word, she took my hand and led me outside.

Belle wandered along the river wall, stretching her arms out for balance, her guitar slung over her back. I walked beside her, both feet firmly on the pavement.

"It's so claustrophobic in there," she said, breaking the silence.

I nodded, unsure what to say. I always pushed that feeling to the back of my mind, which I thought most actors do.

"Did you know I would be playing?" she asked, there was no accusation in her tone but for some reason, I felt there should be.

"No," I replied, "I couldn't get to sleep."
"Because of auditions?" She was analysing me like a literary student studying a piece of poetry.

"Something like that," I responded. She smiled, sympathetically.

"Well, I'm sure you'll get the part. We both will. It feels like fate."

I offered her a weak smile, not sure I could completely believe her.

Years later, I would reflect on this moment and realise she was right - I was a part of her twisted fate. Perhaps, I was the one who helped seal it.

The next day, I woke up slightly disoriented. I took a cold shower in order to wake up a bit, before getting dressed in my work clothes.

I was a waitress at Londres, a restaurant in the heart of London, known for its overly-expensive French cuisine.

When I arrived, it was packed with people in suits and smart dresses. I headed through the staff door, put my things in my locker and got to work.

Barely an hour into my shift, my manager called me into her office. I handed Kai my plates and they took them to the expectant customers, who had already complained about how long their food was taking.

It had only been twenty minutes.

As soon as I set foot in the office, she handed the phone to me. It was Richard McGinnis, the director of Eros, the production Belle and I had auditioned for.

"Congratulations," he drawled, "I've decided to give you the part of Eros. Be there at 8 o'clock sharp. Do not disappoint me."

I left work later that day, whistling a tune to myself. Entering the nearest store, I brought a bottle of water and a baguette. I

then took the tube to Southwark. Sure enough, as soon as I walked out of the station, I could hear someone playing guitar, his voice perfectly harmonising with the instrument.

He waved as soon as he saw me and set down the acoustic.

His name was Leo Hayes. He was around 5ft 8 with a mop of brown hair and tired hazel eyes.

I handed him the baguette and water and sat beside him. "You get the part?" He asked - I had already told him the other day I was going to audition. I nodded with a grin. He returned the smile and gave me a fist bump. "You're so lucky, man. Wish I had your talent. Instead, I'll be here till the day I die."

I gave him an exasperated look.
"I've already told you I'm more than happy to give you the money to get back on your feet."

He shook his head. A humourless laugh escaped his lips. "This is my mess mate. You've done enough." He waved the baguette.

Breaking a piece off, he offered it to me. I declined and he shrugged before shovelling the rest hungrily into his mouth.

I felt a pang of pity in my chest. Many people had passed us and only a few dropped coins into Leo's battered guitar case. The others looked at him as if he was some kind of grotesque bug plaguing the streets.

He paid them no attention, continuing to eat and drink like there was no tomorrow and I suppose for him there wasn't.