CLOSE-UP & PERSONAL

#CHAPTER 3#

CHAPTER 3

For a long moment my feet won't move forward, and it's all I can do to keep my mouth dropping open in amazement.
Then my resolve kicks in and I force my legs to move across the room.
The audition space is small, with just a single chair in which Berkeley sits and a mock stage taped-out in white tape.
Easy, Isabella, I say to myself. Just one step at a time.
I have no idea how I'm going to get my lines out.
I take in the taped-out stage area. It's about fifteen foot square. Bigger than I was expecting. Somewhere in my panic-frozen brain, I mentally scale up some of my acted movements to fill the area.
'You're late,' says Berkeley as I approach the taped-out area in front of his director's chair.
'And you're not who I was expecting,' I mutter. My rising fear is mixing with a feeling of aggravation. What a stunt to pull! Surely even a seasoned professional would be intimidated to find a world-famous director conducting their audition instead of the usual casting director.
Or perhaps this is just a mean trick to weed out the less experienced actors. In my case, it's bound to work.
'You are not who I was expecting either,' he says in a low voice. The way he speaks seems to have an extra resonance, and his words rumble around the small room.
My legs manage to carry me into the designated acting area. Berkeley stares into my face as I stand in the acting area and turn to him. We are about six feet apart, but for some reason, the distance feels a lot closer. The atmosphere is almost intimate. I feel my cheeks begin to heat and pray I'm not blushing.
He's dressed plainly in the classic director's black jeans and T-shirt. I've seen this look a hundred times in drama school. But clinging to his broad chest and muscular thighs, they take on a new level of sexy.
He's so hot. The thought leaps into my head, unbidden.
There's a rustle of paper as he consults his notes.
'Isabella Green?' he says. The corner of his mouth twitches, just fractionally.
'Yes.'
'And you are auditioning for Lady Capulet?' He sounds confused.
I let out a breath.
'Yes.'
'I apologise for the last minute change in who you were expecting. Nancy has been called away,' he says, his tone explanatory.
The words compute in my brain. Nancy. Nancy Mendes. The casting director. He's explaining why he's here instead of her.
'She's having some... personal problems, and so I offered to step in,' he adds. 'Nancy is a good friend of mine.'
She must be a very good friend if he flew here all the way from LA. I wonder idly what his wife must think of her famous husband jetting halfway across the world to help out a female friend.
'You know who I am?' he asks.
His accent is aristocratic English, I realise - something I hadn't noticed in the nerves of my first arrival. He speaks in the definite tones of the British upper class.
I nod, fractionally. Of course I know who you are! my brain screams.
Every drama student knows about the famous producer-director and his equally famous actress wife.
'Your first film became a cult classic,' I mumble, consulting my student knowledge bank, 'and it made you the youngest director to win an Oscar for Best Picture. Then your next three films became huge box office hits.'
He gives a slight smile, as if amused to see his work summarised.
'Quite so. Thank you for the biography,' he agrees in clipped tones, and I can't tell if he's flattered or horrified by my childish description of his career. But something about the tone of his answer goads me.
'You're also notorious for pushing actors to their limits,' I retort, 'and the rumour is that you're known as "the hammer" on-set for your work-all-hours approach.'
I regret the words almost as soon as they are out of my mouth.
Damn my Spanish hot-headedness. Will I ever learn?
Berkeley's eyebrows raise and my sudden rush of courage deserts me.
I stare at him nervously, trying to gauge the effect of my last remark. He seems completely unconcerned.
'The actors who complain of the work do not complain when they win awards,' he says without emotion.
It's as much as I can do to concentrate on why I'm here, and I realise I'm staring at his mouth. I've seen James Berkeley in magazines. Everyone has. But in real life, the seductive charm he oozes in photographs is dialled up to the next level.
'I didn't realise you had such an interest in theatre,' I stumble, filling the silence with the first thing which comes into my head.
He looks surprised.
'I have an interest in all dramatic arts,' he says. 'Some of my interests are more financial than hands-on. But that doesn't mean I don't find the time to be personally involved when my movie schedule allows.'
He sounds annoyed.
Great start Isabella.
'Well then,' he says, his accent rounding off every word. 'You'd better show me what you can do.'
Something about the way he says it suggests he finds the idea funny.
He can already see I shouldn't be here. The thought brings a white surge of panic to my stomach and I fight to push it down.
Get out the lines, do your best, and get out of here, I say to myself. It's the best I can hope for.
I walk to the center of the stage. My script is in my hand because that's what's expected at an audition. But I don't need it. I've learned everything by heart.
The part I've rehearsed is Lady Capulet's biggest scene. Where she tells Juliet she must marry a man she doesn't love.
I close my mind for a moment and try to let the character flow.
Then I take a deep breath and begin. But I've only uttered a few lines when Berkeley stops me.
'You're not using your script,' he says.
I swing to face him, totally wrong-footed in the middle of my performance.
'I. Um. I've learned it by heart,' I say.
He gives a sardonic smile. 'How very diligent.'
Great. So James Berkeley doesn't like me. He could at least have the manners to let me finish my performance.