3. Genevieve

3

GENEVIEVE

J esus Christ. Who the hell thinks that it’s a good idea to audition for a feminist Shakespeare retelling with a monologue from fucking ‘ Miss Julie ?’ Was this idiotic girl trying to be funny? Genevieve screwed up her face. She had always had a hard time keeping her disdain from showing, and this time was no different.

Panting slightly, the girl stood in front of the panel. A vacant smile on her face. The little moron clearly thought she had done brilliantly with her dyed red hair and tacky heels. Honestly, Genevieve needed to have a word with the casting department. Where did they find these people?

“Tell me, Miss . . .” She had to glance down at her notes. “Miss Reed. Why did you choose this monologue?”

The girl’s victorious smile faltered. She blinked a few times, her confidence fading under the sheer weight of Genevieve’s scrutiny. “Um, well, the play itself is about the relationship between, um, two characters, and there’s tension . . . and I thought it would fit well?”

Genevieve observed her in silence, one eyebrow raised, waiting for anything of note to come out of the girl’s mouth. But, as ever, she was disappointed. The girl merely fidgeted, waiting for someone to say something. Her lovely face was bright with misplaced hope.

After a long moment of awkward silence, Genevieve decided to put her out of her misery. “My issue is that you have decided, prematurely, that my interpretation of Beatrice is wholly concerned with her outward relationships. Now, ‘Miss Julie,’ as a character, I do not have an issue with. If read correctly. However, you have managed to make her internally misogynistic, rather than inherently flawed. Meaning that any value or development the audience receives will be through the lens of her relationships with others. There was no nuance in your performance. No internal battle. Her fight was entirely external, and that simply won’t do. Did you not even bother to read the character information I so graciously provided?”

Like a budget supermarket flower, the girl wilted, every sharp jab of Genevieve’s tongue rendering her smaller and smaller.

“Perhaps I could try another one? Um . . . I know Helena’s monologue from Act One of A Midsummer Night’s Dream ! Look . . . how happy some o’er others can be! Through Athens, I am thought of as fair-”

“Stop,” Genevieve commanded, pinching the bridge of her nose. “In just one line, you’ve convinced me that you will read Helena as being as needy and one-dimensional as you did Miss Julie. I’ve seen enough. Goodbye, Miss Reed.”

As the girl dawdled out of the audition room, her lip noticeably wobbling, Sammy coughed from the seat next to the cutthroat director’s.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Genevieve snapped.

“Darling, that’s the thirty-second girl you’ve turned away in tears. We’ve been at this for days. There was nothing wrong with that monologue. She was showcasing vulnerability?”

“She was showcasing pure idiocy. Just because language has impact, doesn’t mean it is free from the need for complexity,” Genevieve answered with a scowl. She had become utterly sick of all these girls who thought their performance could be carried on the strength of the playwright. That talking of blood magically turned their dullness to shine. They didn’t seem to realise that they were the ones who needed to make the words sing.

It was their literal job.

Sammy sighed, “Any one of these girls would do a fantastically well, and you know it. You’re being far too fussy.” He was getting frustrated with her. Genevieve could tell. His pen was tapping a staccato rhythm against the desk and his eyes flicked toward the clock with increasing impatience. Sammy had to be here as a representative of the company, to ensure transparency. But he had never particularly enjoyed auditions.

Genevieve turned to him. “Every one of those girls either presented me with vapid neediness or complete heartlessness. It’s like they’re far too busy trying to work out what kind of woman Beatrice should be, and forgetting that she is a person first. It’s like they looked up ‘feminist monologue’ online, without a single thought about what I’m actually trying to do here. I’m not telling a feminist story. I’m telling a story about a person. Those two things are distinctly different.”

“I don’t see how,” Sammy said with a yawn, checking his phone. Boredom dripped from his every move.

She resisted the childish urge to thwack him. For an artistic director, he sometimes failed to appreciate the subtlety of what Genevieve did. “If I were to tell a feminist story, I would be trying to give the audience a message. I’m not interested in that. They can go to a lecture if they’re interested in women’s rights. I’m telling a story about what it means to be a human being. No message. No morals. Just pure feeling.”

“You know as well as I do, darling, that the critics will watch it and assume you have a message to tell them. And if you don’t give them one, they’ll assume one?and you won’t like what they come up with.”

Genevieve frowned, a familiar ache starting between her brows. Sammy was right. Critics were constantly looking for the meaning behind her choices. As if every single piece of art needed some moral lesson to justify its existence. Wasn’t it enough for art simply to be? To tell a story and thereby make people feel a little bit less alone, despite the fundamental isolation of existence?

She sighed, the deep melancholia in the face of other people’s mediocrity seeping into her bones. She’d had such high hopes, but so far, nobody seemed remotely capable of living up to her expectations. How hard could it possibly be?

“At this rate, we won’t have a play for anyone to criticise at all. Some of these girls should sue for their academy money back. The quality has dropped off a cliff. Who’s next in the long list of people wanting to disappoint me today?”

Sammy flicked through the piles of paper in front of him. “Eden Rowley. Thirty-five, Mountglad graduate.”

“Never heard of her,” Genevieve muttered, before waving to the attendant by the door. “Show her in. Let’s get this over with and go for lunch.”

Genevieve turned her attention to the glaringly short notes she’d taken about the previous girls. Hardly any had shown any kind of real potential, but there had been one or two she could work with in a pinch. Not a single one of them had really seized her attention, making that spark of human passion dance within her. Making Genevieve long to revel in the divine agony of being alive.

The girl in front of her coughed and Genevieve looked up.

Holy shit. What the actual fuck? Human beings didn’t look like that in real life, surely not.

She was like some maiden out of a fairy tale, her waves of blonde hair artfully pulled free from a long braid, so that they framed her heart shaped face. Her rosy lips slightly reddened from where she’d chewed on them. And her eyes. A gentle baby blue lined with thick lashes, holding all the depths of the ocean within them. There was a tiny mole, high on her cheekbone, delicate and regal all at once.

Her body was toned, but feminine. Gentle dips and swells somehow turning simple jeans and a t-shirt into an elegant ensemble. She was barely wearing make-up. A good call for an audition , Genevieve couldn’t help but think to herself. And the intoxicating scent of roses wafted through the air. Of course it would be roses.

Genevieve swallowed, composing herself. Then she scowled. “Name?”

The girl winced. “Yes, right, um . . . hello! My name is Eden Rowley, and I’m here to read for the part of Beatrice.”

Eden. Of course she was called Eden. The garden of perfection, and the birthplace of original sin.

“Obviously you’re reading for Beatrice. That’s what the audition is for,” Genevieve drawled, determined to maintain her stoic fa?ade. “Tell me about yourself.”

Eden blushed at her gaffe, fiddling with her fingers. “Well, I went to Mountglad Academy after doing my undergrad at Durham University. I love acting. I live for it. Ever since I graduated, I’ve been auditioning where I can and waitressing to make ends meet. Working to improve my art every day.”

Genevieve nodded. It was the same story she’d heard a hundred times. This girl wasn’t special, no matter how pretty she might be. All of them at Mountglad thought they were guaranteed the career of their dreams, but then came to realize that merely getting into the school, and then studying there, wouldn’t be good enough.

“And what monologue have you chosen?”

Eden wrung her hands some more, nervous tension rolling off her in tidal waves. “I’ve chosen Shylock’s monologue, from Act Three, Scene One of The Merchant of Venice . Shall I begin?”

Genevieve’s eyebrows were practically in her hair. Over thirty girls had read for this part, and not a single one of them had chosen a monologue meant for a blatantly masculine character. They had mostly gone for female Shakespeare characters, which was certainly a safe bet. Some, like the wretched Miss Reed, branched out?though largely to their detriment. This, however.

Genevieve had not seen this yet.

Beside her, Sammy shifted. “Well . . . this should be interesting.”

The director nodded her approval and Eden centred herself, smoothing her hands down over her simple t-shirt and looking down.

Genevieve could have sworn that the following pause was electric with anticipation.

Then, Eden lifted her head, blue eyes glistening with barely contained tears. Shoulders tense and desperate, as if fighting the urge to strike out at something.

“To bait fish withal. If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.”

Her voice dropped at the last word, turning guttural. Ravaged and broken.

“He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies, and what’s his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is?”

Her control was masterful. She danced on the edge of hysteria and despair, held together with the ragged threat of pure, unadulterated hatred. Her movements were sparse and carefully considered, while her speech was a maelstrom of fire and teeth. Genevieve felt something stirring inside her. Pity? No. It was more raw than that. More angry. The rousing call of the thick anguish of a person calling out injustice.

“If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example?”

She had slowed, each sentence building from the last, leaving her atop a towering mountain of emotion, a volcano of pure feminine rage. She was closer to the table now, whipping her invisible accuser with every lash of her tongue, her beauty unravelling to near-madness. Genevieve was rapt, following her every word, eyes bright and fists clenched. This girl made her want to fight. To scream. To tear it all down.

“Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.”

Eden finished her speech, clutching her chest, heaving with the power she commanded within herself at her words.

And just like that it was over. Eden blinked a few times and the character melted away, leaving behind the same nervous girl who had first walked in wringing her fingers and biting her lip.

Genevieve was speechless. Truly speechless. She had no words for the euphoric agony she had experienced listening to this girl’s pain, Shylock’s pain. She wanted to revel in it, bathe in it, feel it wash across her skin. Her body sang, heartbroken and roused all at once, desperate for more. She would throw herself at the feet of this Valkyrie, this warrior maiden, this Goddess of love and destruction. And she would take her, mould her, and build her into something unrecognisable in its glory and power.

Genevieve would be there. Feeding her and teaching her, providing everything from the clothes on her body to the stage under her feet, upon which the world would see her and delight. This magnificent creature would be her power and her undoing.

Eden shifted on her feet, “Was that . . . okay?”

Genevieve swallowed, her fist tight, the sharpness of her nails against her palm centring her and helping to shake her from her reverie. She needed to hear more.

“Miss Rowley. Can you tell me why you chose that monologue?”

Eden’s eyes flicked to Sammy and then back, her hopeful expression dimmed with nerves. “Well, I read the character information you provided. Your Beatrice, she’s so angry. So full of love. So confused, but so sure at the same time. I thought about the line I loved best from Much Ado About Nothing and I felt it was the closest your character gets to Shakespeare’s character. So, I wanted to find a monologue that would suit that.”

Genevieve nodded slowly. She didn’t think it was possible to be any more intrigued. “And what line was that?” she asked, although she was sure she already knew.

Eden’s eyes brightened, her features hardening slightly with determination. “‘I would eat his heart in the marketplace.’ It’s so visceral. So powerful. The mundane made horrendous through the sheer force of her love, the lengths she would go to. It’s not just about saving Hero, it’s her cry that she cannot do it alone. She’s so conflicted. She knows an injustice has been done and she wants to fight, but the world tells her she can’t. Shylock goes through something similar, albeit for religious reasons as opposed to gender. It’s a human being, screaming at the injustice of the world.”

Genevieve exhaled, a weight seemingly lifting off her chest. Finally. Someone who understood what it was she needed to do, the story she needed to tell, and the well of emotion she needed to tap into. She stared at this girl, this Eden, and she saw her Beatrice. Glorious and beautiful and horrifying and monstrous and human.

“I see. And is there anything you’d like to ask us?” Genevieve continued, knowing how tense and snappy she sounded. But she had to speak that way. She couldn’t just leap over the table and grasp Eden in her arms and pour out all the truths of her art as she wanted to. It would be entirely too unprofessional. And, anyway, she had a reputation as an utter bitch to keep up.

Eden seemed to sink, face crestfallen at Genevieve’s terse response, but Genevieve didn’t care. The girl would learn what exactly she had in store for her soon enough. And it’s not like Eden would turn down Beatrice because it was the role of a lifetime. Eden would be within Genevieve’s grasp in a matter of days.

Eden stuttered, “Um, not really, I guess, um . . . .” She took a deep breath. “You won’t judge me just for how I look, right? I tend to get typecast quite a lot as the dumb blonde, and I just . . . I just want you to know that I want more than that. I can be more than that.”

Genevieve raised an eyebrow. How delightful this timid creature was, and she didn’t even know it. What foolish, lesser directors had been casting on looks alone? Beauty, when wielded properly, could be ferocious. Classically, a woman’s beauty existed for the benefit of men. What happened when a woman grasped it and used it for herself, and herself alone? Did it stop being beauty, or did it make men tremble? They would find out together.

“Our casting decisions will be made in line with our requirements for the role,” she replied, shuffling the papers in front of her, tapping it against the wooden desk. “That’s all; you may go now.”

Eden nodded shyly and thanked them, her blue eyes swimming, her lips pressed tight. Silly girl. She would learn not to hold anything back when Genevieve took control of her.

“Darling, do you have to be so simply horrible? Sammy scolded her, stretching his arms above his head and cracking his neck. “Is it a kink? Sending pretty young things running from your snapping jaws?”

Genevieve aimed a withering glare at him. “Not everything has to do with sex, you know. This is about the art.”

He rolled his eyes, rocking back on his chair. “And what did you think of your most recent victim? I thought she was rather good.”

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed, her lips spreading into a conspiratorial grin. “She’s perfect.”

The company director nearly fell back in his shock, eyes comically wide, hand flying to his collarbone in mock horror. “Could it be? Somebody you actually approve of? Saints save us; it must be the end of days.”

“Did you not see it?” Genevieve asked incredulously, her voice breathy. “The passion, the emotion, the pure grit. I can take that girl and make her a star. Make her my star.”

“Should I send the next one in?” the attendant murmured from the doorway, leaning into the room?as if she was too scared to step inside.

“No.” Genevieve’s reply was curt. “I’ve seen everything I need to see, and I know exactly who I’m casting. Send the rest away, please. I have no use for them.”

Sammy pouted. “Now, come on, Genevieve. You may have made your decision already, but it’s not fair on all those poor girls to send them away without letting them at least read.”

The formidable director scoffed. “Why would I waste my precious time on any of those little airheads when I have the perfect fit already? Send them away.”

As the attendant scurried off with a slight squeal, Sammy tutted. “You know, just because you’re scary, it doesn’t mean you can do whatever you like.”

“Au contraire, my dear Samuel,” Genevieve purred. “It means that I can do precisely whatever I like. I know you won’t stop me.”

He rubbed his temples as if staving off a vicious migraine. “I’ve created a monster,” he muttered.

Genevieve laughed, deep and content. Her mind was already whirring, toes curling with excitement. This was going to be simply delicious.