Page 32 of Let’s Make a Scene

“I actually wondered if I could borrow her for a couple of minutes?” Jasmine looks to them. “Is now a good time?”

“Sure.” Patty hits me with another blast of hairspray. “I think we’re about done here. Let me take a couple of Polaroids.”

Patty snaps the pictures, and I glance at them, surprised once more by the transformation offered by the wig and the makeup. I really am becoming Emilia. I’m so close to her, I can feel it, like she’s there in my brain, waiting to take over. Although I know that sounds objectively like the premise of a horror movie, I’m actually thrilled by the idea.

“Can we talk in your trailer?” Jasmine asks.

“Of course,” I reply, and I’m hit with a fresh rush of nerves, particularly as I eye the laptop tucked under her arm. I have no idea what this can be about, but given the way things have been going for me lately it’s probably safe to assume it’s not good.

Oh god, maybe she’s going to sack me. Maybe missing my mark was the last straw and they’re going to fly in some actress from LA who actually knows what she’s doing.

By the time we reach my trailer I’ve worked myself into such a state of anxiety that I’m practically humming like a tuning fork. I worry that the frantic pitch of my nervous energy is going to start shattering windows like the world’s most rubbish superhero: Anxiety Woman.

“Can I make you a cup of tea?” I ask, marveling at how calm I sound when my body can’t decide if it wants to cry, scream or throw up.

Jasmine shakes her head, pats the seat beside her. “No, thanks. I actually want us to have a quick chat.”

“Oh?” I sit down, bracing myself for the inevitable bad news. “What about?”

Jasmine opens her laptop and starts clacking at the keyboard. “I know that you’re new to filmmaking, so perhaps you’re not familiar with the concept of dailies?”

“Er,” I riffle through all the information I’ve crammed into my brain over the last few weeks. “When you send the first unedited copies of the day’s filming to the producers, right?”

“That’s it.” Jasmine nods. “And different directors work in different ways, but Logan and I have decided we’re not going to be sharing the dailies with the cast. I don’t think it’s helpful when it comes to informing a performance.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. That’s probably for the best—I can see how watching all the raw footage out of context would make a performer get in their own head… and I certainly don’t need help in that department.

“But before we start filming, there is something I want to show you.” Jasmine turns the laptop screen to face me, and she has my audition cued up on-screen.

“Oh.” My eyes widen. I haven’t seen this before, and even though we filmed it only weeks ago, it feels like a lifetime has passed.

“Just watch.” Jasmine hits play, and the sound of my voice pours from the speakers.

At first, I can hardly get past the fact of my face and my voice on the screen; I wince as I make a mistake with a line, but gradually, I relax and then… I start to see it.

I watch myself laugh, watch my body language change, watch as I stop being Cynthie and become Emilia. The tone of the scene shifts, and there’s sadness in my face. The camera picks up the sheen of tears in my eyes. My voice trembles with emotion. It feels so… real. I’m absorbed enough that I make a sound of surprise when the video comes to an abrupt stop.

A heavy silence hangs in the air.

“Why are you showing me this?” I ask, finally.

Jasmine closes the laptop with a snap. “Because I know how anxious you’ve been since we offered you the part, and I think you need to know exactly why I fought hard for you to get this role.” She drums her fingers across the computer in her lap. “I’m not going to tell you that everyone was on board with casting an untested performer in our lead role. There are a few people who think the idea is… eccentric at best. But I wrote those words, and when you said them I believed them. I saw them come alive. You have a wonderful natural instinct.”

“I feel so out of my depth,” I admit quietly. “I don’t want to let you down.”

Jasmine huffs, her tone brisk, pure business. “You haven’t made a film before. It’s not a surprise or a secret. We all know that. If it takes you a little longer to grasp the technical aspects of your performance, that’s understandable. It’s going to be worth the delay, the extra work”—she looks me in the eye here—“for the sort of performance I believe you are capable of. That you and Jack are capable of together.”

She gets to her feet. “You can do this, Cynthie. I need you to trust me when I tell you that. It’s going to be almost impossibly hard work, but I swear at the end of it, I am going to get a brilliant performance out of you. Not just adequate, not promising for a first role, but brilliant.”

“That means a lot,” I reply ardently.

She hesitates, frowning at me. “Look, I’m not here to be your friend or your mentor,” she says finally, clearly horrified by the very idea.

“No,” I murmur, “of course not.” Even though my heart sinks and I want to ask her why she can’t be those things. “That would be… bad?” I manage to make it sound like a question and I try not to look as pathetic and desperate as I feel.

“I’m going to be your director,” she continues, the words sharp. “We’re making this piece of work together. Bring the joy and energy that you brought into that audition room onto set with you. Turn up, do the work. Be prepared to do it over and over again, until you hate me, until you’re dead on your feet, because we’re not settling for anything less than perfect. You have it in you to be great at this and we’re about to prove it. Do you understand?”

I feel like if the directing thing doesn’t work out, Jasmine could have a career as the American football coach to a scrappy team of underdogs, because that ended up being some rousing half-time speech. It’s all I can do to stop myself from leaping to my feet and starting to applaud.