Innocence. Kathleen Tessaro

does look good—slightly tanned; the kind of gentle wash of colour that’s the result of a couple of weeks in Monte Carlo or Beaulieu rather than a month in Mauritius—and effortlessly chic in a dark tailored suit and crisp white shirt. But there’s that familiar air about him, even in a photograph, a slightly edgy awkwardness as if even after all these years in the limelight he still doesn’t quite fit in. He remains, as always, the outsider, one eye forever on the door.

      His hand rests on the shoulder of a glamorous blonde. She has the same glowing tan, amply displayed in her sheer, strappy pink dress, and similar expensively tousled bedroom hair. But her smile is harder, more focused. The cameras are on her and it’s a moment she’s been waiting for. She looks both terrified and intensely determined. Something in my stomach wrenches with recognition. ‘Jake Albery seen leaving a private party at the Café de Paris’ the caption reads. ‘A back catalogue of songs from his hit band Raven is due to be released in May’.

      Opening a kitchen drawer, I take out a plastic carrier bag and stack all the magazines neatly inside.

      And then I stand there, staring at it.

      If only it were as simple as that.

      But it never was simple.

      Right from the start I should’ve known.

      ‘Nothing happened.’

      ‘Nothing?’ Imogene frowns.

      We’re waiting for our first day of classes to begin, sitting in the basement studio beneath the North London Morris Dancing Association. It’s a vast square room with wooden floors and an old upright piano in the corner. Light filters in through small round windows near the ceiling; dust particles dance in the shafts of brilliant sunlight, slicing like lasers through the hazy calm.

      ‘That’s right. I mean, we just hung out. Went to see the band, talked.’ My cheeks are burning. I turn away, pretending to search for something in my brown corduroy handbag. All I can find is a mouldy old mint. I pop it into my mouth anyway.

      Around us the room’s filling with students.

      ‘You’re blushing!’ She giggles. ‘You like him, don’t you?’

      I smile back at her.

      Yes, I like him.

      And I shouldn’t. Jake’s not my type of guy, not that I’ve ever met anyone like him before. There’s something rough about him. I don’t mean physically rough. But he has this dark undercurrent of raw energy I’m not used to; like anything could happen, any time. Besides, I’m not meant to like anyone except Jonny.

      Jonny is my type; polite, clean-shaven, on time…the kind of guy who celebrates the anniversary of your first kiss with flowers, even when he doesn’t have any money.

      But if I love Jonny, why do I keep thinking about Jake?

      I wish he’d kissed me good night. Not just a peck on the cheek but one of those full-on face-devouring sessions that don’t stop with kissing. But I can’t tell that to anyone.

      Robbie, on the other hand, happily disappeared with Mr Chicken for ages.

      ‘Enough about me.’ I’m determined to rein in these thoughts. ‘Show me which one of these fine gentlemen is Lindsay Crufts.’

      Now it’s her turn to blush. ‘Where’s Robbie?’ she skirts my question. ‘You guys got back so late last night.’

      I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I heard her alarm go off.’ I check my watch. ‘And I pounded on her door before I left. She should be here.’

      A slender young man with soft, ashen hair walks in. He smiles at Imo and her whole face lights up. This must be Lindsay. But he takes a seat on the other side of the studio, folds his legs neatly over one another and fishes a worn copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets out of the pocket of his tweed jacket. He reads intently, brow furrowed, nibbling away at his nails.

      Imo gazes at him with unrestrained longing. I give her hand a gentle squeeze.

      Soon the studio is full; there are about twenty of us and still no sign of Robbie.

      At ten o’clock precisely, the door swings wide and Simon enters, wheeling expertly into the centre of the room. ‘Good morning!’ he bellows. ‘Welcome to the beginning of the spring semester! I’m Simon Garrett. I’ve spoken to most of you, and shall, no doubt, speak to you again. However, if you have any questions or problems, either my assistant Gwen or I will be available to help you. Gwen!’

      Gwen appears behind him, clutching a stack of papers, which she begins to pass around the room.

      Simon whips one from her hand and raises it high. ‘Here are your schedules for the next three months. As you can see, we expect a great deal from you—in addition to your regular classes there are masterclasses, workshops, private tutorials, and plenty of opportunities to see the greatest living actors of our generation in live performances. You’re in London now, ladies and gentlemen. It’s time to seize the day! If this is your chosen profession then you’ll need discipline, determination, the ego of a dictator and the stamina of a decathlon athlete! We’ve provided you with the most extraordinary professional actors, actresses and directors as teachers. In return we expect you to be prompt, prepared and, above all, professional.’

      There’s an awful hacking sound on the other side of the door; a kind of retching cough, followed by a long, woeful moan: ‘Jesus! Fuuuuuck!’

      The door opens and a dishevelled, overweight man, somewhere between the ages of forty-five and sixty, stumbles in, an unlit cigarette dangling off his lower lip. His thinning brown hair is scraped back across his scalp, and he’s wearing a wine-coloured pullover, grey suit trousers and a pair of well-worn black sneakers. He looks like a tramp. Standing just behind Simon, he pulls a gold lighter out of his back pocket. The cigarette fizzes into life. He inhales deeply.

      ‘Greetings.’ His voice is deep and resonant: the rounded, poignant timbre of a fallen hero. ‘Pardon me. Have I interrupted your St Crispin’s Day speech, Simon? Once more unto the breech and all that? “O! for a Muse of fire,’” he roars, ‘that would ascend the brightest whatever-the-fuck-it-is of invention!’

      ‘Not at all, my dear man!’ Simon’s all warm authority; they shake hands. ‘Just giving them an idea of what to expect.’ He turns his attention to us. ‘I’d like to introduce Boyd Alexander, who will be your principal acting instructor this term. Boyd has just returned from Russia where he’s been working with members of the Moscow Art Theatre on a new production of The Cherry Orchard.’

      There’s an audible gasp; the Moscow Arts Theatre is legendary; the company Chekhov himself favoured.

      ‘He’s also due to direct the Wars of the Roses next season at the RSC, so we’re very, very lucky to have him.’

      Boyd executes a little half-bow, nearly scorching himself with his cigarette in the process.

      ‘Right!’ He pulls a chair up and collapses into it. ‘Enough about me. Run along, Simon! Now’—he glowers at us—‘what I really want to know is, can you people act? Or are you just poncing about in London on your parents’ credit cards for a few months?’

      Gwen and Simon exchange a look.

      Boyd waves them on. ‘Off you go, you two! And Gwen, a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss. Trust me,’ he purrs placatingly ‘I am, after all, a professional!’

      They leave. The rest of us are left clasping our schedules, the way that lost tourists cling to maps.

      ‘You were meant to prepare an audition speech. So, which one of you has the balls to go first?’

      All eyes hit the floor.

      He groans, inhaling again. ‘Fine. Shall we do it like this, then? How many Juliets do we have with us today?’

      Three hands go up.

      ‘Of course. Let’s start with the Juliets. And