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job. End of.

      Using all the female charm I could muster, I persuaded the landlord that good beer and Sky TV alone were not enough to lure the clientele. What the place needed was a woman’s touch: a splash of bleach here and a squirt of air freshener there. (That was the polite, edited version.)

      Anyway, it worked. So from 7.30 a.m. I’m Mrs Overall, picking chewing gum off bar stools and replenishing paper towels. Then, fast-forward three hours, and I’m Olga Prozorova, schoolteacher and eldest sister to Masha and Irina, dreaming of marriage and Moscow.

      There’s even a shower I can use. The pipes gurgle and rattle a bit when I turn it on, and it splutters and drips freezing cold water, but at least I don’t arrive at rehearsal smelling like a compost heap.

      By the end of the week, I’m sleepwalking my routine:

      0430: Alarm goes off. Hit snooze button.

      0435: Alarm goes off. Roll out of bed.

      0445: Down a bowl of Special K.

      0450: Grab bike and pedal like the clappers.

      0515: Arrive at office. Clean.

      0700: Leave office for pub. Clean.

      0845: Shower, change, stop at Norma’s Diner for tea and runny egg on toast.

      1000–1800: Rehearse.

      1830: Home, dinner, learn lines, and go over what we did today.

      2200: Bed, in order to be up at 0430 to repeat all of the above.

      In between times, I am also sending out mail-shots to agents and casting directors:

      Please cover my performance as Olga in ‘Three Sisters’ at The Red Dragon Pub Theatre, Lady Jane Walk, Richmond. 17th December – 31st January at 7.30.

      Even if only four or five turn up it will be worth it – won’t it?

      * * *

      TONIGHT AT 7.30

      THREE SISTERS

      BY

      ANTON CHEKHOV

      I feel my stomach lurch as I glance at the sandwich board outside the pub. This is it. No more ‘Sorry, what’s my next line?’ or ‘Should I be sitting at this point?’ After three weeks’ rehearsal, I think I’m pretty solid on my lines and moves, but there is always that fear lurking somewhere in the shadows, of stepping out in front of an audience and thinking, Who am I? What the hell am I doing here? Who are these people?

      I make my way upstairs to the cramped, communal dressing room. Where, oh where is the star on the door and the mirror with light bulbs all around it?

      I am the first to arrive and bag myself a wee corner. With fourteen of us in the cast, it’s going to be a tight squeeze. I lay out my make-up, hairbrush, bottle of water, and lucky elephant charm (a treasured gift from the cleaner at the crew hotel in Mumbai). I then distribute my First Night cards.

      One by one, the others start to drift in, and nervous, excited chatter and vocal warm-up exercises soon reverberate around the room.

      There is a rap at the door and Hugh enters, pushing eighty-year-old Betty, playing Anfisa, the nanny, into the lap of Vershinin (he’s the lieutenant, who’s in love with Masha, my sister, but they’re both married, his wife’s suicidal and … well, it’s complicated).

      ‘Break a leg, everyone. Unfortunately our audience tonight is slightly thin on the ground, but please don’t let that put you off. I want you to act like the place is full – which I’m sure it will be once the reviews are out.’

      Another knock on the door and Rocket calls breathlessly from the other side, ‘Act One beginners, please!’

      As I wait in the pitch blackness behind the stage, I wonder if there’s anyone out there at all. No excited chatter or rustling of sweetie papers. I find a tiny hole in the masking drapes, close one eye, and peer through, just as the door at the back slams shut. A solitary cough fills the silence.

      The lights go down and the opening music, by some Russian composer whose name I can’t remember, let alone pronounce, crackles through the speakers. I clear my dry throat, fumble my way through the leaden darkness five steps to the makeshift stage, and take up position. The music fades and the lights snap on, burning my face, blinding me with their glare. Here goes …

      ‘“… Andrey could be good-looking, only he’s filled out a lot and it doesn’t suit him …”’

      A mobile phone goes off.

      ‘Hello …’

      ‘“But I’ve become old, I’ve got very thin …”’

      ‘It finishes around 10.30, I think … I hope …’ (snigger) …

      ‘“I suppose because I lose my temper with …”’

      ‘Okay, darling, see you in the bar. Hmm? I’m not sure …’

      ‘“… the girls at the Gymnasium. Today I’m free, I’m at home, and I have no headache …”’

      ‘Ooh, I know … make it a vodka and orange … a double … I’ll need it! Byee!’

      ‘Shh!’

      ‘“I feel younger than yesterday …”’

      We haven’t even reached the end of Act One and I am consumed by an overwhelming sense of despair. Marvellous method acting? Would it were true.

      A car alarm goes off.

      What in God’s name is that guy doing?

      ‘“… Andrey, don’t go off …”’

      I don’t believe it. He’s getting up. KER-CHUNG! goes the seat as it flips up. EEEEEEAK! creaks the door. A shaft of light streams through from the bar.

      ‘“He has a way of always walking off. Come here.”’

      ‘GOAL!’ comes a collective, triumphant cry from the bar, just as the door swings shut.

      I guess Chelsea must have scored against Sheffield then.

      We brazen it out to the interval - somehow. Acts Three and Four go a little better, and apart from the odd cough, our meagre audience seems to settle down. Maybe they’re actually getting into it. On second thoughts, judging by the lukewarm applause as we take our curtain call, maybe they were comatose.

      It wasn’t meant to be like this; I didn’t expect a standing ovation and flowers to be thrown at our feet, but I wasn’t prepared for this: to be in a production where the actors outnumber the audience. Is this what I have sacrificed my job and everything for? This is not my dream. I had such high hopes. Things are just not panning out as I expected. My bubble has burst already. My nails are chipped and dirty; my knees are bruised from pushing and shoving desks around the office and scrubbing stone steps at the pub. I wouldn’t care had I had one reply from a casting director or agent; even a WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU would have been nice, courteous.

      ‘Well done, everyone!’ enthuses Hugh, giving us the thumbs-up as we trudge up the stairs. ‘The drinks are on me.’

      I’m about to make the excuse of having to be up at 0430, when Susannah, who plays Masha, as if reading my mind, says, ‘Come on, sis’, shall we show our faces and have just one?’

      ‘Why not?’ I say flatly, forcing a smile.

      ‘Ladies!’ calls Hugh, waving us over to the bar.

      ‘Hugh’s a sweetie,’ whispers Susannah. ‘I’ve worked for him before, and not only is he a brilliant director, but he really values his cast. The theatre is his life-blood. He should be at The National – but then shouldn’t we all, darling?’

      Despite early success (she was plucked from drama school at the age of nineteen to play Rumpleteazer in Cats), Susannah

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