Getting Seen

 

It was a mortal sin to ask, especially of a director so in demand. Even when he sipped his americano, he barely tasted it before he swallowed. You can’t imagine, can you, being that busy. But I did ask.

 

‘Can I start again?’

 

‘Yes.’ The word was hissed, vowelless.

 

I nodded sweetly at the pianist to begin, but he wasn’t looking at me. He continued fiddling with something in his lap, then started again in his own time. I knew the director would have watched this non-interaction happen, stone-faced, leg pulsing under the desk, and I wondered if he’d lost even more respect for me.

 

Anyway, the intro jangled out, all hopeful and twee, and I performed the first verse exactly how I’d done it before. Consistency; maybe it would show him that. He could count on me to deliver a reliable performance eight shows a week.

 

He took a speed-sip of his coffee.

 

‘There were birds in the sky, but I never saw–’

 

‘No.’

 

He stood up, palm raised. The pianist stopped.

 

Instinctively, I looked behind me, to where a tiny square window was cracked open onto an alleyway. An industrial bin was regurgitating some red slop. A pigeon cooed.

 

When I turned back round the director was standing in front of me.

 

‘Why are you singing?’

 

His eyeballs were steady and hard, like glass. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to answer.

 

I smiled again.

 

‘Why?’ he repeated. ‘What has compelled this character to sing?’ He folded his hands across his chest. Not like a normal person crossing their arms – all high and artistic.

 

That was when I noticed a chill at the back of my throat. My mouth was ajar. It occurred to me, as I gawped up at him, that I was bored.

 

Beside us, the pianist’s chair creaked as he leant back into the plastic, he too resigning himself to the director’s impending soul-searching, the way they do. High on their own monopoly of emotional expression. He was about to ask me what it feels like to love someone, then tell me I’m wrong, I’m being lazy, not digging deep enough. He wanted me to cry and plead, then limp through the song freshly illuminated to the world around me. Me, his sort of Frankenstein Bambi – a wide-eyed monster in his image. Then he would proceed to never speak to me again. Not even a courtesy rejection. But I would be grateful that the clever busy man took time out of his day to teach me a thing or two. Unsolicited, of course.

 

Or maybe not. I had to consider there was a small chance he might see something in me, some special thing, so I responded. I said, ‘I don’t know.’

 

He lit up at this.

 

He squatted so his bottom, cupped by corduroy, was almost brushing the floorboards, then he beckoned me down to meet him.

 

While I hovered, he told me love songs were the most challenging audition pieces, or they should be if I was doing them right. I noticed a crumb caught in his snood as he informed me that love was more painful than tragedy and more delightful than comedy all at once, and if I wanted to sing about love, I needed more than a pretty face. My focus sharpened when I heard he found me pretty, until I realised that’s not what he actually said. Maybe he meant I could leapfrog prettiness, that I had the potential to be something other, something superior to a pretty face. I wondered, if there was more, would he be able to draw it out of me. Then I just wondered if there was more.

 

Twenty minutes later, I left the room with my sheet music folded in my hands. The person on the door thanked me and I headed down the staircase.

 

At the bottom, a string of shivering young women waited for their turn, breath clouding up the corridor, bare legs prickled. One of them, willowy and striking, wished me good luck as I passed.

 

‘You too.’

 

–

 

Kerry was seething when I got home. Stood in front of the big mirror downstairs. She dragged a roller out of her fringe, then plumped it into place.

 

‘You know, Paolo was seen by him too. And Gina.’ She examined her fringe from a different angle. ‘What show was it for?’

 

Kerry knew what show it was for. She’d begged her agent to get her in the room.

 

‘Merrily We Roll Along,’ I said anyway.

 

She rolled her eyes. ‘As if we need another revival.’

 

Her leotard was jammed high into her arse crack, directly in my eyeline as I sat at the kitchen table. She must have seen me staring because she swivelled round to get a look at it, then pulled it up so it wedged even deeper, cheeks jiggling in her sheer footless tights.

 

‘I can’t believe you sang The Music Man.’ She laughed a bit then. ‘Babe, if you’d told me you were in for it-’ She laughed more, a dry and cruel sound.

 

The sheet music was still in my hands. I looked down at the notes hiking up the page, ‘I thought it was a safe choice,’ then let the paper fall onto the table beside me.

 

‘Safe?’ Kerry glared at me, sliding a bobby pin between her lips. ‘Didn’t you see his Guys and Dolls?’

 

Of course I hadn’t. Tickets had started at £120, for nosebleed seats.

 

Kerry shook her head at my blank expression. ‘The story played out through the lens of OnlyFans. Like, there were projections on the wall of webcam footage, they did Luck Be a Lady as a rap.’

 

‘Right,’ I nodded, thinking back to my innocent little ballad. My delicate vibrato. My sickly smile.

 

She looked me up and down, her eyes scanning my tea dress, as she dragged tracksuit bottoms over her dance attire. ‘You can always borrow my shit, you know.’

 

She grabbed her backpack, then jogged to the door. ‘I’ll be home late,’ she called back to me. ‘Class finishes at five but I’m hanging around after to network.’

 

–

 

My agent called a couple of days later.

 

I was on my lunch break at TGI Fridays – out on the street, leaning up against the wall, the kitchen sweating away on the other side – when he told me he hadn’t heard anything yet. No news is good news! I’d had so much good news. He said it was a win just getting seen and I agreed. And speaking of, he told me to check my emails because he got me a meeting for a new musical. Really edgy idea, the creative team behind SIX, really boundary pushing, zeitgeisty, the lead is a polyamorous woman in STEM who gets an abortion or something, must have high level tap.

 

I remembered being confused the first time my agent had told me I had a meeting – that’s industry jargon for audition. It implied we’d be in a boardroom, or be wearing corporate-casual, or at least be having a two-way conversation. It suggested reciprocity. I soon learnt that I would not meet anyone and I would certainly not be met. That wasn’t the objective.

 

A rickshaw nipped past me, playing Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas Is You, a pink feather boa intertwined with fairy lights framing the driver.

 

While I still had my agent on the phone, I thought I’d ask him if I was pretty, just out of interest.

 

‘No pressure,’ I said.

 

He told me I wasn’t not pretty. ‘And you’re not fat or anything, so.’

 

–

 

It was a dance call, which made sense because of the high level tap thing. I forced my feet into Kerry’s shoes while everyone else laced up.

 

People swarmed to the front of the studio, rolling their necks, parading their loose hamstrings. There was rustling of paper as they adjusted numbers pinned to their chests. Fifty-two whooped and said, ‘Let’s do this.’ Someone else whooped in response.

 

‘Ok, ladies,’ Lelly P, the choreographer rallied, her aged northern drawl rasping in her throat.

 

But my shoes wouldn’t go on. I tried to wedge my heels into the leather, but they only trod down the backs. A bead of sweat slid off my forehead and onto my sock as I cursed Kerry’s petite build.

 

‘Places!’ Lelly P tightened the checkered shirt tied around her waist, that swung down to her knees and met the drooping crotch of her joggers.

 

She struck the floor with her metal toes – ‘And one.’ She repeated the motion with a reach to the sky this time – ‘And two.’

 

Everyone copied, and I had no choice but to ditch my shoes and pad over to an empty spot at the back.

 

Lelly P grunted as she stomped and slid. She cupped her vulva with one hand and stayed low to the ground, in a style that could be described as street.

 

I tried to peer through the sea of slender bodies to find myself in the mirror, but every time I recognised a limb as mine, it revealed itself to be connected to somebody else. As I scanned the glass, pounding legs and arms in unison across it, I finally noticed a familiar face: the willowy girl from last week’s audition, her black hair smoothed into a high pony.

 

With my own reflection somewhere lost in the masses, I followed her movements to make sense of the choreography. She swiped her arm across her body and I felt fingers brush my chest; she scuffed her heel on the ground and I felt the burn on my skin.

 

We did the combination over and over, until Lelly P put the music on so we could practice it up-to-speed. Shortly after, she sat down at the front, joining the panel of young mullet-haired, gender-blended creatives, all pairing sportswear with cowboy boots. She put her feet up and counted us in.

 

‘FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT: AND ONE, AND TWO, KICK, BALL-CHANGE, PICK-UP, SIX, SEVEN, DROP.’

 

My bones cracked against the floorboards; I watched knees slam down in the mirror. We rolled around, slapped the ground, then sprung up to end in a defiant yet laid back final pose: one hand behind the head, one punched out in front.

 

The music was paused for a few seconds, and heavy breathing pulsed through the room, hands resting on hips, hair being fixed, salt-slick cheeks. Then the music started again. The panel whispered and pushed papers around on the desk.

 

Eventually, a stack appeared in front of Lelly P. She called out the first round of cuts.

 

As she spoke, I stared at the number ten on my chest through the mirror.

 

One by one people peeled away, retrieved their things and drifted out the door.

 

‘Twenty-seven, thank you. Thirty, thank you. Eighteen, thank you.’ A page got stuck, Lelly P licked her finger and tried again. It was freed. ‘Ten, thank you.’

 

I expected a pause, or wanted one, but she continued to churn out the other unsuccessful auditionees. I swung my bag over my shoulder and weaved through the remaining hopefuls towards the door.

 

Glancing in the mirror one final time, I saw willow girl doing the same. Striding towards the exit. I felt glad – that she was cut. Or that I was. Her eyes were fixed on herself, yet, impossibly, also staring directly at me.

 

Out front, it was obvious some of them knew each other. I imagined they’d probably got to talking in a Kerry-like schmooze post-audition, post-class, post-job, even – I had to remember that the odd person actually worked, remind myself that’s what this was all in service of.

 

Willow girl’s ponytail hung heavy down her back, in front of my face. I inched closer and it brushed my cheek. I stroked the hair with my hand, smoothing it along my jawbone. It rested there like a freshly cut layer.

 

A few other half-naked, sports bra-clad dancers were huddled close, cooling off in the December air. I tried to listen to what they were saying, wondered if I should chip-in. I could buy a round in Costa or whatever it was people did. But before I’d decided, they spun round – the ponytail was whipped away – and they passed by me on the pavement. Willow-girl was smiling, her number still attached to her Lycra with a safety pin: number ten.

 

–

 

‘You’re such a twat,’ Kerry shouted across the landing when I got home.

 

I tried not to visualise the thick, black one zero printed on that chest. My chest. Instead, I watched Kerry tearing things from her wardrobe, jumpers falling limp onto the carpet.

 

She asked me to pass her hair straighteners from the cabinet in the bathroom, where I was sat on the tiles. One of my hands was stirring lukewarm water filling the tub. I shook it dry.

 

‘Sure you don’t wanna come with?’ Kerry asked. ‘My parents wouldn’t mind.’

 

I gave her the straighteners, and she jammed them into her already-bloated case. She grabbed her phone and flopped back onto her bed without waiting for a response.

 

–

 

‘Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring-ting-a-tingling too. Ring-a-ling-a-ling, a-ding-dong-ding!’

 

A gaggle of children climbed into a booth in my section. The adults slid in alongside them, picked up their menus.

 

I rushed over, adjusting the tinsel round my neck that was itching me. It wasn’t compulsory to wear it, but you looked like a good sport and tended to get better tips.

 

‘Welcome to TGI Fridays, I’ll be your server today. A very happy Christmas Eve to you all.’

 

One of the kids started laughing uncontrollably.

 

‘It’s a funny accent, isn’t it honey,’ one of the adults said with a harsh American twang.

 

They reeled off their order, then I leant over them all to scrape up the menus.

 

‘Oopsie!’ My manager appeared beside me with his hands full of crayons and colouring sheets. ‘I think my friend here forgot to bring you these!’

 

The kids pawed at the supplies as they were deposited on the table. One of the adults rested a hand on my manager’s arm and said very sincerely, ‘thank you.’

 

At the end of their meal, I realised, only after I’d dropped off their bill, that I had charged them for one too many chocolate sundaes. Reluctantly, I alerted my manager, and he accompanied me to their table, citing it as a learning opportunity.

 

He explained the situation and the adults looked pretty peeved – more than I expected, considering I’d owned up. Something mangled had fallen onto the seat beside one of them. Perhaps an onion ring.

 

At some point, I realised my manager was beaming down at me saying, ‘Isn’t that right?’

 

He was explaining to our American patrons that I was an actress, trying to present me as artistic and aloof rather than inept for the sake of our online reviews.

 

‘Would we have seen her in anything?’

 

–

 

That evening, I scoured the internet for open auditions. Since the last time I’d spoken to my agent, he had ignored two calls and an email from me. I supposed it was likely I hadn’t been recalled by the big director I ‘met’ with a couple of weeks before.

 

On my laptop, I saw a posting for a job. It was unpaid, a workshop of a new musical, but it promised a potential for future paid opportunities, and more importantly: exposure. I’d need to send a self tape.

 

I set up my bedroom. Moved my single bed towards the window to unobscure the plain white wall, blasted the main light, piled some big books on my mattress as a makeshift tripod, then balanced my phone on top, propped against a water bottle.

 

With my back to the wall, I placed myself in front of the camera – crisp, clean nothingness behind, so they could really see me.

 

The backing track played from my laptop.

 

After singing the opening sixteen bars over and over again for more than an hour, I finally fatigued and hoped at least one take would be alright. But as I sunk back onto my bed and reopened the job posting, I realised submissions were closing in just two minutes. It was nearly midnight. I fumbled with my phone, composed a sparse email, attached the video – the final take, it was probably the most relaxed – then sent it.

 

A few seconds later the tiny numbers in the corner of my screen turned to 00:00. I exhaled.

 

I navigated into my ‘sent’ mailbox to open the email as if I was the casting director, which I often did, trying to embody a stranger and see myself anew through their eyes. Though thin, the cover message was polite and friendly – a smattering of exclamation marks made me seem bubbly. I clicked on the self tape.

 

The video filled my screen and I hit play. It was completely white. Just a blank rectangle.

 

–

 

It must have been late spring when I passed the Gielgud theatre one afternoon on my way to work.

 

I happened to see the big famous director having a smoke round the side, out near the stage door. Behind him was the poster for Merrily We Roll Along, the most recent winner of Love Island featured front and centre wearing elbow-high satin gloves.

 

The director sucked his cigarette in long, drawn-out inhales. Quickly, it was burned down to nothing, so it almost looked like he was ingesting the butt. His eyes were drifting about, distracted. I buttoned up my coat, so he didn’t see my work uniform, should they land on me. Should he spot me on the pavement, like a lucky penny.

 

He finally flicked the butt into the gutter, swung open the stage door and sighed, loud enough to cut through the traffic on Shaftesbury Avenue. The door wobbled in the wind as he stepped through it, and I caught a glimpse of burgundy carpet before it slammed.

 

I moved closer. Passed a pigeon dragging a fraying foot. I heard a muffled laugh inside. I’d wait here.

 

 

By Alex Summer Milne

 

 

Alex Summer Milne is a writer and director based in London. Her novel Stray was selected for Hachette’s Grow Your Story scheme for ‘LGBTQ+ fiction stars of the future’ and longlisted for the London Writers Awards. Alex's plays have been produced at The Cockpit, Seven Dials Playhouse and Stockwell Playhouse. She holds a first-class degree in English and Creative Writing from Royal Holloway.

 

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Instagram: @al_mil

Website: www.alexsummermilne.com