I tiptoe along the landing to the bathroom and there, lurking in the shadows, like a feline Mrs Danvers, is Shirley, Beryl’s sluggish, obese, spoiled-rotten cat. Those speckled, almond-shaped eyes bore through me unflinchingly. Ever since I refused to open the back door for her and forced her through the cat-flap, I’ve had a chilling suspicion she’s been plotting her revenge.
I enter the avocado-green bathroom and tease the mildewy, slimy, plastic shower curtain across the rusty rail. I turn the tap full on, and the shower head – about as much use as a watering can – emits a trickle that would leave your petunia bed gasping. A startled spider tries to make a break for it up the side of the bath, but slithers back down, leaving me to do a kind of naked Riverdance as it swirls around my feet.
What I’d give to be languishing now in my sparkling-white, Italian-tiled bathroom, complete with walk-in power shower and scented candles.
Hey, don’t be such a wuss! Stay focused. This evening’s drama class will reaffirm that all this hardship is going to be worth it. It will. It will.
* * *
DRAMATIC AR S CENTRE
I peer through the driving rain at the shabby sign tilting dangerously in the wind, many of its bulbs burnt out.
As I chain my bike to the rack, a rush of feverish excitement and anticipation sweeps over me.
I run up the shimmering steps two at a time, my holdall containing new jazz shoes, sports bra, leotard, and leggings, swinging from my shoulder.
The heavy wooden door creaks as I push it open.
I make a dash for the loo, past a group of excited, young beautiful things who look like they belong on the TV series Glee.
I tie my soaking-wet hair into a high ponytail and put on some lippy.
‘Here we go,’ I say, high-fiving my Lycra-clad, slightly lumpy reflection. ‘You can do this.’
Putting on my air-stewardess smile, I bounce out of the door to the noticeboard.
Portia Howard’s method acting class for the over thirties takes place in the basement of this former church. As I enter the room, my springy gait quickly disintegrates into an apologetic tiptoe. Seated on benches at opposite ends of the room are other nervous newbies of all shapes and sizes, some staring at the floor, others checking their phones in absolute silence.
‘Hi,’ I whisper, squeezing in between a serious-looking chap in trackie bottoms, striped shirt, and tie and a mousey, bespectacled woman with frizzy hair. They both nod without making eye contact.
‘At my audition I had to imagine I was a plastic bag,’ I say eventually, in an attempt to break the ice. ‘In a force-ten gale.’
They both smile weakly. Why do I always feel it’s MY responsibility to fill awkward silences?
The door flies open and Portia, taller than I remember from the audition, enters centre stage, her black maxi skirt swaying, a red vintage shirt, and fingerless gloves complementing her boho-chic style.
‘Welcome, everyone. Whether you’re here with a view to becoming an actor, or simply to build your confidence, I hope by the end of the course you’ll leave with a better understanding of who you are, what you’re capable of, and a self-belief that will drive you forward in your personal life and career. So, let’s start by getting to know one another. Have any of you ever been speed dating?’
There’s a sharp, collective intake of breath.
‘Don’t worry,’ continues Portia quickly. ‘I don’t expect you to answer. What you do in your spare time is your affair.’ The room fills with air once more. ‘But this exercise works on the same principle. Let’s move the benches closer together with ten of you on either side. When I ring the bell you have two minutes to find out as much as you can about the person opposite you. When the bell rings again, the people on side A stay seated while those on side B slide along a space.’
The bell rings and the nervous, icy atmosphere of earlier melts away as the room is filled with noisy conversation and splutters of laughter, culminating in chaos when, in true Laurel and Hardy style, one of the benches tips, depositing two speed daters onto the floor.
Exercise over, Portia waits for everyone to settle down. The only sound is heavy breathing.
‘Breath control, projection, and body language – essential tools whether you’re addressing an audience of theatregoers or clients,’ she purrs in her resonant, velvety Joanna Lumley-esque voice, beckoning everyone to stand up. Placing her palm just below her breastbone, she continues, ‘Take a deep intake of breath, fill your lungs with air, like a balloon. Now, pushing the diaphragm in and out, I want you to pant like a dog.’
Pant like a dog? Oookay. Well, if I can successfully portray a plastic bag blowing in the wind, then a panting dog impression should be a breeze.
‘No, no, no!’ Portia says, gliding over to my side, her dangly earrings tinkling like wind chimes. ‘I don’t want to see any movement here.’ She firmly taps my shoulders. ‘It must all come from down here,’ she continues, as she prods my diaphragm.
‘Now try again. Fill those lungs … that’s it, and let out short, sharp breaths. I want my hand to feel that diaphragm bouncing. There, you see, you’ve got it!’
I’m chuffed I’ve got it, but all the same, I can’t help feeling I sound like a cross between a chat-line hostess and a woman in labour.
‘This strengthens the diaphragm, loosens the facial muscles, allows more air into your lungs, helps your voice to develop, and improves your posture,’ says Portia, as if reading my mind.
‘The next exercise is a good warm-up before an audition or performance. It’s called The Wet Dog Shake. Okay, everyone, let’s imagine you’ve just come bounding out of the sea, and now you’re going to shake yourselves dry,’ she says, as she drops to her knees, her long, tapered fingers splayed out in front of her on the grimy floorboards. ‘Let’s start from the top with the nose (she starts wiggling her nose), now the head, tongue, the shoulders (she shimmies her shoulders), legs … come on … bark if you wish … go for it … release your inner dog!’
James, Mr Respectable-Bank-Manager by day, catches my eye, and we exchange an incredulous look. Sally, the mousey, bespectacled, hitherto rather timid accountant has hurled herself into the exercise with rather more gay abandon than is necessary, tongue hanging out of the corner of her mouth, resembling not so much a shaking dog, as someone having stuck a wet hand in the toaster.
‘Come on, you can do better than that!’ pants Portia. ‘Instead of huddling together like a pair of sniggering school kids – James, Emily – follow Sally’s lead. Let yourselves go! What are you afraid of? Making fools of yourselves? If you want to be actors, you have to learn to let go of your inhibitions. I want to see those tails wagging. I want to feel that sea spray flying off your coat. Wag that tail. Shake, shake, shake yourselves nice and dry. Wag, wag, wag. Come on …!’
A few nervous titters echo around the room, but then slowly, tentatively, like lemmings, we all follow Portia’s lead, and our class becomes less Glee, and more Geriatric Gym.
‘See, that’s not so bad, is it? Now roll onto your backs and kick those legs high in the air!’ she cries, her pewter bangles clinking like rigging against a sail mast.
As the Evening Standard’s Most Promising Newcomer of 1980 (I googled her), Portia Howard obviously knows her stuff, but is this what real actors do? I can’t quite picture Dames Judi or Helen kicking their legs high in the air and panting like a dog before a performance.
‘This is ridiculous,’ blurts out Poppy, whose every sentence ends with a question mark. ‘Basically, I don’t hold with all this horseshit.’