.

‘sssss.’ I want to stand up and shout, Could somebody please explain to me what this has got to do with Chekhov?

      ‘Right then, that’s the end of the warm-up, and in a few moments we’ll be calling you into the room one by one, so please have your audition pieces ready,’ says someone called Rocket, with dreadlocks and a clipboard.

      I pace up and down, quietly practising my speech – again:

      ‘“Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, and to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, born out of your dominions, having here … having here …”’

      Oh, God, what comes next?

      ‘Emily Forsyth!’ calls Rocket.

      A queasy feeling floods my stomach. I’m ushered into a poky back room, where I’m introduced to the creative team.

      ‘Now, Emily, what audition piece are you going to do for us today?’ asks Hugh, the director.

      ‘I’d like to do Katherine … Queen Katherine from Henry The Eighth.’

      Casting me a sympathetic glance, he nods. ‘In your own time.’

      With four pairs of expectant eyes upon me, I breathe in, trying to steady my voice.

      ‘“Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, and to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, born out of your dominions, having here no judge indifferent, nor no more assurance of equal friendship and proceeding …”’

      With my audience just inches away, and crates of mixers, packets of assorted crisps, and pork scratchings occupying almost every available space, it’s hard to imagine I’m a sixteenth-century queen in a grand hall, begging my husband not to force me into a quickie divorce.

      ‘“… in God’s name turn me away, and let the foul’st contempt shut door upon me, and so give me up to the sharps’t kind of justice.”’

      I lift my eyes from my kneeling position.

      ‘Thank you,’ says Hugh, breaking the long silence. ‘Now we’d like you to read part of Olga’s speech for us.’

      The script starts to quiver as I take it from him.

      ‘Turn to page two, beginning from the top please.’

      I try to channel my nerves into capturing Olga’s mood of despair.

      ‘“Don’t whistle, Masha. How can you! Every day I teach at the Gymnasium and afterwards I give lessons until evening, and so I’ve got a constant headache and my thoughts are those of an old woman …”’

      PSSCHH hisses a toilet from above. GERDUNG, GERDUNG go the pipes.

      ‘“I’ve felt my strength and my youth draining from me every day, drop by drop. And one single thought grows stronger and stronger …”’

      I play the speech distractedly at first, but halfway through find myself relaxing into it and actually enjoying it.

      Then suddenly it’s over: my one and only chance to make an impression. I wonder if they’ll let me do it again …

      ‘Okay. Finally, what do you feel you can bring to the role of Olga?’

      ‘Hmm. Well, like Olga, I used to be dissatisfied with my job, felt I’d missed out on marriage, felt old before my time, longed to be somewhere else. The difference is I did something about it. But I can still remember how that feels, and I could draw on those emotions.’

      ‘Interesting,’ says Hugh, rubbing his chin. ‘Thank you for coming. We’ll let you know on Monday.’

      Monday? That’s a whole three days. But hang on! What am I fretting about? I can’t afford to take the job even if they do offer it to me. So it’s for the best if I don’t get it. Just put it down to experience.

      * * *

      Monday p.m.

      Humph! So I’m not good enough for their play, eh? Their loss. Not for them, a thank-you-for-my-first-break mention when I collect my BAFTA, so bollocks to them.

      Half an hour later, the Sex and The City theme tune comes drifting across the landing into the bathroom. Jeans at half-mast, I stagger and stumble to the bedroom, and swipe my mobile from the dressing table.

      ‘Emily, it’s Hugh.’

      I hold my breath for a moment.

      ‘Oh, of course, the audition. Hi,’ I say in my best I’m-a-very-busy-person voice, heart leaping into my throat.

      ‘Good news … we’d like you to play Olga for us. What do you say?’

      My tummy does a double somersault. I open my mouth to speak, but catch myself in time. I want to grovel with gratitude and swing from the chandelier (or in this case, the wire-framed fabric light fitting with rayon fringe), but I mustn’t appear too desperately keen. I count to three, then say coolly, ‘I’d love to – thank you – I’d love to.’

      ‘Great. Rehearsals start Monday. Rocket, our deputy stage manager, will e-mail you all the details. Good to have you on board.’

      ‘Thank you,’ I say again, trying to maintain my composure until he rings off.

      ‘YESSS!’ I whoop, punching the air and landing with a thud.

      ‘Emily, is that you?’ calls Beryl from downstairs.

      Hastily zipping up my jeans, I screech over the banister, ‘Beryl, I got the job!’

      ‘Fan-bloody-tastic, darlin’! Let me just turn Countdown off an’ I’ll crack open that bottle of Asti Spumante in the sideboard. I’ve been waiting since Christmas for an excuse to drink it.’

      Three glasses of lukewarm Asti Spumante later, and my euphoria has turned into sickly panic. With daytime rehearsals for three weeks, how am I going to earn any money? Why didn’t I think this through more carefully? Look before you leap. Will I never learn? My self-esteem may well have had a bit of a boost, but the same can definitely not be said for my bank balance. There has got to be a way …

      * * *

      ‘“Masha will come to Moscow for the summer … aargh! … for the WHOLE summer … Masha will come to Moscow for the whole summer …”’ I repeat, as I wind my way in between the desks, flicking my duster with one hand, balancing my script with the other.

      ‘Hello again!’

      I spin around, tripping over computer cables and a waste paper basket.

      ‘Sorry, I’ve gotta stop freaking you out,’ says Dean, grabbing my elbow, his piercing gaze meeting mine. My heart gives a little flutter.

      ‘Glad to see you looking cheerier than last time we met.’

      ‘Yes, sorry about that,’ I reply, glancing at him sideways.

      ‘Guy trouble?’

      ‘That, and one of those where-the-hell-is-my-life-going moments.’

      He looks at me blankly. He must only be in his twenties, so I guess this concept is about as alien to him as Snapchat is to me.

      I glance at the clock. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to be at my next job in less than an hour, and I haven’t started the vacuuming yet.’

      ‘Sure thing. You know, we should …’

      ‘Sorry?’ I bellow over the roar of the hoover.

      He shakes his head and mouths ‘goodbye’.

      * * *

      I pedal through the damp, chill, early morning air, chanting, ‘Aleksandr Ignatyevich Vershinin, Aleksey Petrovich Fed… Fedotik.’ Gaah! Why is no one in Russia called Bob Jones or Jim Smith? I glance at my watch: 7.15. ‘Aleksandr Ignat…