Chapter 23

23

Well, all of my Abstract 23 collection has sold out! Every single one bought before the exhibition!

That’s great Mum. Congratulations! Did you see my drawing? Is something wrong with your phone? I keep trying to call but no answer.

I generally avoid most places outside my little corner of West London but nowhere more than Soho. Soho is the grubbiest, seediest, most self-satisfied area in the entire city. The pavements are all too narrow, the people hanging around there are all obnoxious, and there are so many weird noises and smells and colours that you’d need to lie down in a darkened room for an hour afterwards just to decompress.

To my chagrin, the Maurice Alabaster Talent and Casting Agency is located in an office above a bar on Old Compton Street, smack bang in the middle of the fray. After the disaster of the last few days’ attempts to locate Jonah and Merritt’s unwillingness to give me any intel, I don’t have a choice but to go there.

I reach the bar, and to the left of it there’s a shiny black door with a little intercom pad on the brick wall beside it. I trace my finger down the names and the buttons. Aha! There it is. The Maurice Alabaster Talent and Casting Agency. I press the buzzer and am quickly greeted by a female voice.

“Name.”

“Delphie. Delphie Bookham.”

“One moment…You’re not on my list. Did you confirm attendance at the callback online? The system’s been a little glitchy, I’m afraid.”

“I’m just here to speak to Maurice Alabaster. I’m looking for Jonah Truman—I mean, Jonah Electric as you might know him—and I hoped Maurice could help.”

The woman sighs. “Today Maurice is holding the open call only. He does not have time for anything else. Feel free to send an email. Goodbye.”

I hear a clink through the intercom speaker. Damn it. This is way too urgent for an email.

I’m nudged out of the way by a young brunette woman who leans over me to press the buzzer.

“Name?” comes the intercom voice.

“Here for the callback. Ellie Damson, three thirty appointment.”

The buzzer sounds, and the young woman is immediately let into the building. I quickly slip in behind her and covertly follow her up the stairs to a shabby-looking office lobby, the walls plastered with framed black-and-white headshots like the one I just saw of Jonah on the website.

“Through there.” The woman at the reception desk thumbs down a brown-carpeted corridor, barely looking up at me or Ellie Damson, Three Thirty Appointment.

We shuffle into a tiny waiting area filled with other young brunettes. A door creaks open and a white-haired, moustachioed man pokes his head around it. His face is craggy and tanned, grey eyes slightly bored looking. I recognise from the website that this man is Maurice Alabaster himself. “Rachel Calloway?” he calls out with a spiritless sigh, glancing down at a piece of paper in his hand. “Three twenty?”

No-one responds.

“Rachel Calloway?” the man repeats, a smidge louder. Ellie Damson shakes her head at another of the brunettes. One of them tuts.

“Rachel Calloway, final call?”

I’m on my feet before I can much think it through. “That is me!” I say. “Yes, Rachel Calloway is my name!”

Maurice Alabaster ushers me into a small, sort of triangular-shaped office and settles himself behind a little desk, an old grey laptop resting upon piles of papers and headshots, bright Post-it notes stuck onto every surface. On the wall behind him are haphazardly placed photographs of Maurice, arm slung around people I vaguely recognise from old television shows. Each picture is autographed.

“I don’t remember seeing you at the first casting call, Rachel,” Maurice says, sliding on a pair of large square-shaped spectacles and squinting into his laptop. “Have you dyed your hair since then? The production company specifically asked me for brunettes.”

Ah yes. Rachel Calloway. He thinks I am Rachel Calloway. I open my mouth to explain to him that I’m actually Delphie Bookham and that I’m very sorry for slipping in under false pretences but that I’m here to find Jonah Truman slash Electric. And then I remember Claude’s reaction from the life-drawing class when I asked after Jonah. He went into immediate protective mode—like I was dangerous or something. Hmm. I definitely don’t want that to happen again. Maurice wouldn’t still be in business if he gave out the details of his clients willy-nilly, especially to someone who’s snuck into his office under a false name.

I really have not thought this through. All I was focused on was getting in here, and now…

“I dyed my hair,” I explain, my voice as even as I can get it. “But I can dye it back.”

Maurice harrumphs and shuffles through his papers. I peer around the room, spotting a filing cabinet in the corner. I bet that’s where he keeps his client files. Okay. A plan: I need to try to get Maurice out of the room somehow. Then I can sneak into the filing cabinet and grab Jonah’s file and all of his contact details.

“So, as you know, the part is for the new police constable on Murder in the Pretty Village and…”

I zone out for a moment. I love Murder in the Pretty Village! It’s a stalwart of British programming, been on telly for years. Before Dad left, he and Mum used to watch it every Sunday night.

“And so today, we’re just wanting to find out a little more about you all, and those selected for a third callback will return for a meeting with the show producers. Sound good?”

I nod quickly. Maurice takes a sip from a half-empty glass of green juice and grimaces. Then he leans back into his well-worn office chair. It squeaks beneath his weight and he gives a little “ah” of pleasure. Doesn’t look like he plans on moving anytime soon, but I need him to bog off so I can get into that filing cabinet pronto.

“I see you trained at RADA, very nice,” Maurice reads from what I assume is Rachel Calloway’s CV. “Do you have your monologue prepared?”

My eyes flick from side to side as if the solution to what the hell I’m supposed to do in this most niche of scenarios is somewhere nearby.

Maurice’s face softens. “A little nervous? It is rather a significant role.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Well, dear, here’s a tip from me to you. We’re looking for someone who can really get angry, no holds barred. PC Buttersby has quite the temper, and everyone I’ve seen so far?” He waves his hands about. “They’re a little too subtle. And I know that’s the trend right now on HBO and in American Prestige TV and what have you, but this is British Sunday-night drama, and I’m looking for someone who isn’t afraid to just…let rip.” He smiles. “Does that help?”

No, Maurice. No, it does not. What would help is if you took off so I can get access to your filing cabinet and find the only person on Earth who can save my life.I need more time to think of a proper plan. I need to be smarter than this.

“Go ahead.” Maurice nods.

I take a deep breath. “Errrrr…let’s see. Um…Na, na, na na na nana. Na, na, na, na nana. Getting jiggy wit it,” I begin before clamping my mouth closed.

Delphie, why? Why, at times of great stress and pressure, do you immediately go to Will Smith? Maurice wants a monologue. Not whatever this is! He’s going to kick you out. Shit. Okay. Angry. He said he wants angry. I can be angry. I’m always angry! I transform my face into a frown and fold my arms across my chest. I think of people who say, Wow. Just wow. I think of how terrible it is that Mr. Yoon has no family around him. I think of cleaning the cheese grater. I think of how awful secondary school was. I think of my mum never calling me back. I think of all my worst things, but to my dismay, instead of getting angry, a flood of tears journey to my eyes. I frantically sniff them away. I am ridiculous. I am fully ridiculous and this is never going to work! I should just leave, go home, and wait for Merritt. I should just accept my fate. It’s inevitable.

Maurice sighs like maybe this has happened to him before. “Let’s come back to the monologue a little later.” He taps at the laptop screen. “It says here you studied Acting through Dance under Pauline LaRue Toussaint! Wonderful. Pauline and I go back a long way. Dear, dear woman.”

I’m about to apologise for wasting his time when I suddenly spot that something outrageous is happening behind Maurice’s head. On a framed photo of Maurice and what looks to be a very young Judi Dench, words start to appear on the photo in the same black handwriting as Judi Dench’s autograph. I gasp. Merritt? I look at the scrawled sentence.

KNOCK OVER THE GREEN JUICE!

She’s trying to help me! At last! My eyes flick to the glass on Maurice’s desk. Of course! If I knock that onto him, he’ll leave the room to clean himself off and I can get into the filing cabinet!

“Yes!” I say brightly, focus returning. “Pauline de La Roo, croissant. She taught me how to do this.”

I start to do the first dance that occurs to me, which, considering it had been such a hit last night, is once more the hand jive. Maurice sits up in his chair, jaw open as I hand jive across the office towards him. I do an exuberant shimmy forward and, in the midst of a wrist crossing, reach out and knock the green juice onto his chest.

He yelps and jumps up from his chair, glaring down at his striped shirt in dismay.

“I’m so sorry!” I try, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s already scooting his way out of the office door, muttering something about the shirt being a gift from Sir Anthony Hopkins.

Yes! Yes, yes! I dash over to the filing cabinet. I’ll start at the top and work my way down. Only…Fuck. The drawer doesn’t budge. It’s locked. No! Keys. I need the keys to the filing cabinet. I hurry over to Maurice’s desk, opening the top desk drawer and rustling through. No keys. I try the bottom two drawers. Nothing.

“Any more help, Merritt?” I mutter, scanning the walls for key-holding hooks.

Nada.

I rifle across the messy desk, noticing slight flecks of gloopy green juice spotting the screen of the laptop.

“Shit. Come on, keys!” I growl to myself.

Oh no. I can hear Maurice talking outside the office door. He’s coming back. And then, without me even touching it, a blue cardboard folder flies off the desk and onto the floor. “Merritt?!” I whisper. I pick up the folder and see a hot-pink Post-it note stuck onto the corner of it. I squint. The Post-it has Jonah’s name scrawled across it, along with something else that I don’t have time to decipher because the door opens and Maurice flusters in. I swipe the Post-it note off the folder and tuck it quickly into my bra. Maurice dabs at his shirt with a huge wad of kitchen towel.

“I really am sorry, Mr. Alabaster,” I say, darting past him and making a note to myself to send him some money for the dry-cleaning bill as soon as I can.

Outside on the street I catch my breath and lean my head back against the brick wall of the building next door. Then I reach into my bra and pull out the hot-pink Post-it, eyes greedily taking in the information.

JONAH ELECTRIC DERWENT MANOR ANNUAL GALA

There’s a date scrawled right at the bottom of the Post-it. It’s the day after tomorrow.

Bingo.