Page 45 of The Start of Something Wonderful

I’m discovering that often, by adding the letter ‘o’ or ‘a’ to the end of an English word, you can create the Italian: e.g. ‘sense’ =senso, ‘minute’= minuto, ‘romance’ =romanza.

I don’t ever remember language learning being so much fun. But back when Iwas a gawky, pigtailed schoolgirl, my Modern Language teacher was a short, dour-faced Glaswegian, sporting shabby clothes and halitosis. And now? Now my heart flips over at the sight of my teacher’s smile, the tilt of his head as he listens patiently to my attempts at grammar, sentence construction, and pronunciation, the way he says ‘E-milee’ and calls me his ‘piccola studentessa’ in that make-your-knees-go-weak accent of his.

* * *

Isn’t life strange? It seems to me the moment you stop wanting something so badly, it comes and bites you on the derrière …

‘I hope you’re sitting down, darling,’ gushes Lionel in a rare phone call some three weeks later, ‘because I have got you a casting for an eight-week run with The Jeremy Hart Rep Company in Branworth by the sea!’

‘What? Where’s Branworth?’

‘Oh, somewhere up North. Anyway, I’ve got some bits of script that I’ll e-mail to you, darling, and Jeremy will see you tomorrow at The Spotlight Studios at three. Okay?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Got to dash. I’ve got three pantomime dames to find before Friday. Byeee!’

CASTING BREAKDOWN

To play a mermaid, secretary, bride, and maid.

ASM duties: to assist stage management as required.

Good team player, flexible, versatile.

Turns out the original actress was offered a last-minute contract to play Maria on a six-month tour ofThe Sound of Music, so has dropped out. Aargh. Am I destined to be used only in emergency situations?

In any case, I’m far too old to play a mermaid and a bride, but Lionel is having none of it and reminds me that my reward at the end of the seasonwould be the much-coveted Equity union card – a little plastic card that is my proof that I am a proper professional, and which gives actors discounts on everything from theatre tickets to hair removal.

I don’t know why I’m getting in such a tizzy. They’ll be seeing loads of people, so I probably won’t get it anyway. Nevertheless it will be good audition experience, and I can’t risk beingdumped by my one and only agent.

* * *

Only hours after the audition, am in the newsagent’s deciding which lottery numbers to choose this week, when my mobile springs into life. As usual, it’s worked its way to the bottom of my cavernous bag, and not until my purse, a half-eaten tube of extra strong mints, my mini Italian dictionary, a Tampax, a bottle of water, keys, my Oyster card, ascrunched-up tissue, lip gloss, and satsuma are spewed all over the floor, am I able to answer it.

‘Emily, darling, it’s Lionel,’ he says in a singsong voice I’ve never heard before. ‘Terrific news – you got the job!’

As he rattles off the terms of the offer my mind goes into overdrive. Monday? I can’t start on Monday! What about the restaurant? I can’t leave them in the lurch. And Beryl?I’ve paid next month’s rent in advance. What about my yoga class, my Italian lessons?

‘So pleased for you, darling. Firing that e-mail off to you right now. Toodle pip!’ and he hangs up.

Where has my ambition, my drive, my self-belief gone? Over ninety per cent of actors are out of work. I should be swinging from the lampposts and here am I agonising over missing yoga and Italian lessons.It’s pathetic.

I’ll call the girls. I can always rely on them for sound advice and reassurance.

Beeeeep, beeeeep. Abroad. Every one of them. I hang up, disappointed.

As I’m about to leave the shop, I notice a yellow Post-it Note on the floor.

“Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.” Remember! Love & luck, Portia xx

** *

CHIUSO/CLOSED.As I turn over the door sign for the last time, a feeling of melancholy swells my heart.

‘A cena!’ calls Luigi. Francesco slips into the empty space beside me on the banquette. There are a couple of bottles of Prosecco chilling in an ice bucket by the side, and a little pile of gifts by my place: a box of my favouriteBaci Peruginachocolates, a bottle of Montepulciano,a copy of the Zucchero CD we play in the restaurant, and a notebook in which Nonna Maria has written several of her recipes.

‘Mille grazie, a voi tutti,’ I say, swallowing hard, looking at them all through a sudden mist.

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