Christmas at the Little Clock House on the Green. Eve Devon

       Chapter 3

       Pity and Pitiful

       Emma

      Emma had no idea how long she slept for, but she awoke to a dark room and the remnants of a weird dream about fifty-seven varieties of bean auditioning for the lead part at Bar Brand – the bar she’d been working at for three years.

      Pushing herself upright she reached for her phone.

      Five missed calls.

      None of the numbers belonged to Penny, so she guessed she knew what she could do with the absurd hope the actress the studio had decided to go with had caught a sudden case of really bad numb-tongue.

      She texted her flatmates to tell them she hadn’t got the part, but that she was okay (greatest piece of text-acting ever, right there) and that neither needed to rush back because celebrating had been replaced with one of the greatest comforts known to woman: a long soak in the tub and a re-run of Pride and Prejudice.

      If she dragged her armchair over to the bathroom door, piled up all her books and set up her laptop at the right angle, she could watch Darcy-Colin emerging from the lake, while she submerged her aching heart in the bath.

      The next message turned out to be from her mother. With a curious detachment that belied the usual trepidation she felt when listening to messages her mother left, she got up and padded out to the kitchen to open the fridge. Her mother was on a cruise with – actually Emma didn’t want to think about what number boyfriend this was. She knew she quite liked this one though. For a start, he was age-appropriate. Fingers crossed he’d last the distance, or at least the length of the cruise, because no way could she deal with her mother having nothing else to focus on but her and how she Had Not Got The Part she might have bragged was in the bag.

      Reaching into the fridge she grabbed the Moo Shu pork, a carton of noodles and the cheap champagne.

      ‘Hi,’ she said, turning around to greet several imaginary people, ‘so glad you could make it. Welcome to my pity party, help yourself to drink and canapés …’

      Pretty convincing, she thought, as she opened a kitchen drawer to grab a pack of chopsticks. Who wouldn’t want mad-skillz like hers on the set of a rom-com?

      She uncorked the bubbly, debated drinking straight from the bottle, and then put her voicemail onto speakerphone while she hunted up a glass.

      ‘Hi Emma, enquiring friend from across the pond is dying to know if you got the part? Can’t wait to post pics all over social media of when I knew you, back in the day.’

      Emma shoved a mouthful of cold noodles into her mouth. ‘Back in the day’ had been three years ago when Kate Somersby had walked into Bar Brand to write a review of the place. It had been Emma’s first day on the job and she’d been busy acting her way through her shift, doing the whole fake-it-’til-she-made-it routine until she got familiar with everything. Emma had immediately recognised the actress in Kate. Not the showy, this-is-who-I-be kind of acting, but more the, this-is-how-I-get-through-the-days face that she showed the world.

      She’d wondered what had happened to make Kate so eager to try on any other face that wasn’t her own. Plus, Kate’s British accent and its reminder of a home she hadn’t visited for years, had got her good. They’d become good friends, keeping each other up-to-date with their lives ever since.

      Taking a gulp of fizzy wine straight from the bottle she listened to the second message from Kate:

      ‘Me again. Did I get the day wrong? Hope I haven’t jinxed anything. Oh, are you busy rehearsing a) a love scene b) a love scene or c) a love scene. Tick all that apply. And call me or text me or email me or send smoke signals or something because clearly our telepathic link is down.’

      It was going to have to be a non-verbal communication, Emma decided, swapping phone for laptop so that she could compose better. If she had to actually use her voice, Kate was going to know right away just how devastated she was that she hadn’t got the part.

      As she munched on more food she emailed:

       To: Kate Somersby

       From: WritingHer‌OscarAccep‌tanceSpeech

       Subject: Won’t be giving up my day job after all.

      I didn’t get the part

       Emma xx

      There, she thought, pleased with her honest, to-the-point and most importantly, no-sobbing-to-be-heard composition.

      Minutes later she got a reply.

       To: WritingHer‌OscarAccep‌tanceSpeech

       From: Kate Somersby

       Re: Won’t be giving up the day job after all.

       Oh, EM, G! No coming to the UK to practise your British accent a la Renee Zelwegger??? Waaah—I’m so sorry, hun. I know how much you wanted that part. You would have been bloody brilliant. You ARE bloody brilliant.

       Kate xx

      Emma searched for the crying emoji and sent a whole line of them back and then immediately felt pitiful so followed it up with: Feeling sorry for myself will only last one millennia and then I’ll be all good.

      Minutes later she got back:

       You’ll be back to lighting up the sky-line with flames in no time, I know it! (((Hugs))) Kate xx

      Tears pricked as Emma replied: Well, back to bartending at Bar Brand, at least. Rent’s due in a couple of weeks. No rest for the wicked-ly untalented. Emma xx

      She was more than halfway through her food when she received her reply:

       Hey, if they ever do a remake of Cocktail, Tom Cruise doesn’t stand a chance. Seriously, a better part will come along. You just have to believe (and work your arse off) but the part in brackets I know you already do, Kate xx

      That produced a half-smile but then Emma flexed fingers eager to type something else. Picking up the laptop and the bottle of champagne, she headed back to her room to hop back onto the bed. After taking a thoughtful couple of gulps, she wrote: You sound like my agent, Penny. Emma’s hands paused on the keyboard and then she typed: Maybe it’s time I let the dream go! Emma, xx

      She pressed ‘send’ and raised her gaze to the dressing table under the tiny window. Sitting prettily on top were various photo frames containing affirmations she’d printed out. Why didn’t looking at them spur her on the way they used to?

      Over the last year, when her faith in her ability to land a good role had started slinking off to play hide and seek, Emma had seriously considered moving to New York or back to London to try the stage. She’d thought that perhaps the change of scene would herald a change of luck.

      If it wasn’t for the sly fear she’d end up doing the same thing – going to audition after audition without actually getting a part – except if she moved she’d be doing it in the freezing-cold, maybe she’d even have got on that bus or plane.

      She’d been in LA since age nine when her parents had divorced and her mother had taken Emma’s ‘One day I’m going to be a famous actress’ and run all the way to Hollywood with it. LA felt like home now but eighteen years was a long time to try and make it.

      She’d had some successes when she was younger.

      Trouble was as you got older, straddling that line between wanting more and getting desperate,