The card is still propped beside t hem.
I look over my copy of Call of the Night , and flick to my scene . We checked over our scenes while we were having coffee, and I was relieved to find mine isn’ t too bad. It’s the scene where Jennifer talks to her theatre director about giving her the role. Just talking. It didn’t escape my attention that I’ll be talking to Marc, but as Tanya said, it’s still easier than doing a monologue.
I power up my laptop, and look up a plot precise for Call of the Night on line. I’m familiar with the story, but not that familiar. I haven’t looked at th is particular play since school .
I find a website t hat summarises the play .
Call of the Night
Jennifer Jones , a young ballerina, is desperate to succeed at any cost. To win the lead in the Nutcracker, she seduces her elderly theatre director and wins the role. However, the public don’t warm to her, and when she is booed off stage, she commits suicide. The play investigates issues of age gaps in relationships and female empowerment.
For some reason, the grainy black and white picture of Marc and Pen springs to mind. I can’t help thinking about it. I G oogle Pen Hardy, and see various images of a tanned, blonde beach babe with huge fake breasts and lips twice the size they should be.
I look at myself in the mirror. My lips are big – true. And my eyes are okay. A nice brown colour, with really long eyelashes. But I’m nothing like Pen who, for all her enhancements, is clearly a beautiful woman.
I know I should go back to studying the play, but m y fingers stray to t he keyboard, and I find myself G oogling: Marc Blackwell girlfriend.
More images come up, all of beautiful women. Some look like Pen – painted and fake, but beautiful none the less. Others just look beautiful. Straight , white teeth, glowing skin, shiny hair and gorgeous clothes.
I read the articles, and they all talk about Marc being seen ‘partying all night’ with someone, or ‘leaving a hotel’. But none talk about a girlfriend. There’s an article about a woman th rowing a drink in his face .
He doesn’t sound like a nice guy, I think . And yet ... there’s something about him that tells me he’s complicated. There’s more to him than meets the eye .
I check my watch and realise, with a stomach flip, that it’s nearly time for my audition.
Chapter 16
The Queen’s theatre at Ivy College was built in honour of Dame Gabriela Knight. I know this beca use when I reach the red-brick building, there’s a gold plaque on the door that te lls me about the esteemed actress who made the theatre possible.
It tells me something else too. The theatre was commissioned last year and finished just three months ago. Which means we’ll be the first students to use it. In fact, it’s entirely possible I will be the first student to use it. Which does nothing for my nerves.
I think about the old man I met on my audition day, and what he said about Marc turning the whole building to glass and concrete. This theatre has been built to look exactly like the other buildings. Which suggests that maybe Marc isn’t out to ruin the look and history of Ivy College after all.
I push open the double doors, which are arched like everything else around here, and find the theatre in darkness and silence.
To my left, I find a white panel of light switches and flick them all on.
Rows of plush , red- velvet seats appear, lined up in front of a curved stage made from highly polished wood. The stage itself is bright now, and seeing it makes my heart leap. I love stages. I love being on stage. I love looking out at the darkened faces of the audience, hearing their reactions to my performance.
Hanging from the ceiling are dozens of lights that I’m guessing cost thousands each.
Everything is in place, but there’s no Marc . I suck in my breath and venture further inside.
As I reach the stage, I hear the door slam and clipped footsteps. I spin
I look over my copy of Call of the Night , and flick to my scene . We checked over our scenes while we were having coffee, and I was relieved to find mine isn’ t too bad. It’s the scene where Jennifer talks to her theatre director about giving her the role. Just talking. It didn’t escape my attention that I’ll be talking to Marc, but as Tanya said, it’s still easier than doing a monologue.
I power up my laptop, and look up a plot precise for Call of the Night on line. I’m familiar with the story, but not that familiar. I haven’t looked at th is particular play since school .
I find a website t hat summarises the play .
Call of the Night
Jennifer Jones , a young ballerina, is desperate to succeed at any cost. To win the lead in the Nutcracker, she seduces her elderly theatre director and wins the role. However, the public don’t warm to her, and when she is booed off stage, she commits suicide. The play investigates issues of age gaps in relationships and female empowerment.
For some reason, the grainy black and white picture of Marc and Pen springs to mind. I can’t help thinking about it. I G oogle Pen Hardy, and see various images of a tanned, blonde beach babe with huge fake breasts and lips twice the size they should be.
I look at myself in the mirror. My lips are big – true. And my eyes are okay. A nice brown colour, with really long eyelashes. But I’m nothing like Pen who, for all her enhancements, is clearly a beautiful woman.
I know I should go back to studying the play, but m y fingers stray to t he keyboard, and I find myself G oogling: Marc Blackwell girlfriend.
More images come up, all of beautiful women. Some look like Pen – painted and fake, but beautiful none the less. Others just look beautiful. Straight , white teeth, glowing skin, shiny hair and gorgeous clothes.
I read the articles, and they all talk about Marc being seen ‘partying all night’ with someone, or ‘leaving a hotel’. But none talk about a girlfriend. There’s an article about a woman th rowing a drink in his face .
He doesn’t sound like a nice guy, I think . And yet ... there’s something about him that tells me he’s complicated. There’s more to him than meets the eye .
I check my watch and realise, with a stomach flip, that it’s nearly time for my audition.
Chapter 16
The Queen’s theatre at Ivy College was built in honour of Dame Gabriela Knight. I know this beca use when I reach the red-brick building, there’s a gold plaque on the door that te lls me about the esteemed actress who made the theatre possible.
It tells me something else too. The theatre was commissioned last year and finished just three months ago. Which means we’ll be the first students to use it. In fact, it’s entirely possible I will be the first student to use it. Which does nothing for my nerves.
I think about the old man I met on my audition day, and what he said about Marc turning the whole building to glass and concrete. This theatre has been built to look exactly like the other buildings. Which suggests that maybe Marc isn’t out to ruin the look and history of Ivy College after all.
I push open the double doors, which are arched like everything else around here, and find the theatre in darkness and silence.
To my left, I find a white panel of light switches and flick them all on.
Rows of plush , red- velvet seats appear, lined up in front of a curved stage made from highly polished wood. The stage itself is bright now, and seeing it makes my heart leap. I love stages. I love being on stage. I love looking out at the darkened faces of the audience, hearing their reactions to my performance.
Hanging from the ceiling are dozens of lights that I’m guessing cost thousands each.
Everything is in place, but there’s no Marc . I suck in my breath and venture further inside.
As I reach the stage, I hear the door slam and clipped footsteps. I spin
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