“Ava Harper?” I put down my bottle of water and grab my bag. “You’re in next.” The girl due in after me shuffles nervously with her script. I follow the casting assistant into a studio crammed full of cameras and lighting. Unbelievably, paying-to-act might actually change to acting-to-get-paid, since my fringe fluting floozy antiques caught the eye of a leading Television casting mogul currently looking for a new regular in a major weekly series. Who’d have thunk. I allow myself a few seconds of humming Look what happened to Mabel. Instead of avoiding the backstage mice, I could be settling comfortably into my sofa with a curry and chips, watching my mug being broadcast regularly nationwide on ITV. Look what happened to Ava…
I feel my phone buzzing in my bag. Three consecutive buzzes, my LoveArts message signal. There may be safety in numbers as the boyfriend proclaims heartily but at this point I feel like a kid who broke into a sweet shop and ate half her own bodyweight overnight. It’s been 7 hours and 16 days of non-stop Clementine-style LoveArts dating. I’ve had dinner, drinks, lunch, tea and indecent proposals from everyone and…everything imaginable in the dating world. Mike the Magician, Oscar the Olympics team reject, Charles the Chelsea cooking school owner. So far, I have learnt how to make friends with my date’s amphibian pet, talked to his overly tipsy grandmother about “female hysteria toys” and fallen into the embarrassingly predictable let’s-have-sex-to-get-over-my-ex trap. Bridget Jones, eat your heart out.
Tonight I am on my way to meet Harry who works as an accountant near Bank XYZ and is obsessed with Cate Blanchett films. I grab a stool in the corner of the Phoenix bar and await my fate. A sturdy looking lady a good head taller than me approaches me eagerly. “Hi you must be Ava, I’m Harriet.” A question mark covers my face. Should I know this creature? Is she a distant relative or someone I have auditioned for? I tentatively shake her hand. “I am so glad I recognised you, it’s always strange meeting like this for a first date.” I pull my hand away. “I think you might be mistaking me for someone. I am actually waiting for…err…a friend. Called Harry.” Harriet beams and grabs both my hands. “Well that’s me, I’m Harry! Well, Harriet now. I…did want to tell you but it seems rather odd messaging on a dating site about these things so I thought I would wait until we met in person. And you did after all state that you were very open to a variety of personalities and types of….men.” I grab my bag. I am going to kill Clementine. “I’m sorry but I am actually…looking for…a man. Not…a woman. I wasn’t expecting….” I trail off at a loss for words.
There is an awkward silence as Harry aka Harriet’s mood changes decidedly. Her eyes sink into her face and her hands tremble. “It’s funny how everyone always says they are interested in getting to know a person rather than just the obvious. But really, they just do want the obvious. The predictable. When life never is that straightforward, is it? Have you ever been with a woman before?” Harriet is so keen I can literally smell her excitement. “No really that’s not my scene, I’m sorry but I just…can’t fancy a woman. I…think I should go.” Turning around swiftly, I rush towards the door of the bar squeezing past pre-theatre punters and dash decisively to the next tube station. Munching a kebab on the way home, I listen to my eighties club medley on repeat. As I open the front door the house is pitch dark and Dave is sitting hunched at the kitchen table staring at a half empty bowl of soup. Without moving a hair he states: “I’ve called it a day with Anne. It’s over.”
Auditions: Television casting galore
LoveArts dates: dozens