The Start of Something Wonderful: a fantastically feel-good romantic comedy!

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.’

Her strained, cut-glass tones echo around the room as we all stare at her bug-eyed, legs suspended in mid-air.

Rising to her feet and smoothing her skinny jeans, she continues, ‘Release your inner dog? What has all this pretentious rubbish got to do with being an actor? I don’t believe for one moment that Keira Knightley has ever had to crawl around a filthy floor on all fours, pretending to be a dog, so I don’t see why I should.’

‘Good point, Poppy,’ says Portia calmly. ‘Keira has probably never done The Dog Shake, and you certainly don’t have to if you don’t wish. But exercises like this teach you to be more fluid in your movement, to release blockages in energy, so that you can express emotion through your body – as well as build up the stamina to cope with eight shows a week, without …’

‘Yah, but I’m basically not interested in theatre. I plan to go straight into TV and films. I don’t know about the rest of you,’ she says, scanning the class, perky nose in the air, ‘but I want to learn about camera technique, about close-ups and continuity, and … giving the director exactly what he wants …’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ says Portia, holding up her hands. ‘My class isn’t about showing you a shortcut to fame and fortune – if I knew that, do you think I’d be here now?’ she says with a half-laugh.

‘Obviously not,’ Poppy fires back. ‘But I have no intention of ending up a fifty-something has-been, teaching drama in a damp and dreary basement for the rest of my life.’

Catching her breath and her composure, Portia replies with a little, enigmatic smile, ‘Good for you. But what this “fifty-something has-been” can teach you is how to bring truthfulness and honesty to your storytelling. I can arm you with the right tools to survive in this dog-eat-dog, heart-breaking, wonderful business; talent alone is not enough. You need humility, patience, harmony …’

With an unabashed toss of her bouncy, shampoo-commercial hair, Poppy Hope-Wyckhill collects her D&G tote bag, places her jacket carefully around her shoulders, and struts out of the grubby basement on her patent wedge boots, in search of celebrity and riches elsewhere.

‘So if there are any more of you who are here just because you want to see your faces on the big screen or the cover of Hello! and are not willing to commit to hard work, sacrifice, and to embracing new challenges, then this is not the place for you,’ says Portia, directing her words at each and every one of us in turn. ‘Don’t be afraid to speak up.’

The clock ticks loudly, a distant underground train rumbles below, feet pound the floor above, as the muffled strains of some big musical number vibrate through the cracked ceiling.

According to Wikipedia, Portia has worked at The Royal Shakespeare Theatre, The National, and even been in a Merchant Ivory film. So why is she here? Is it the case that after a certain age the parts dry up? What hope is there then for me? I’m a bit ashamed to even think this, but is there an element of truth in Poppy’s outburst?

But there’s too much at stake now to even contemplate giving up, so I must put my trust in Portia and the great Stanislavski’s theory, that to be a successful actor you sometimes have to make an eejit of yourself.

‘Okay, we have just ten minutes left,’ says Portia, rummaging in her well-worn, Mary-Poppins bag and producing a small coloured ball. ‘Let’s see how many of those names you can remember. As you throw the ball, say the name of the person you’re throwing it to and if you’re right, the person catching the ball has to reveal to the group a secret about themselves – the deeper, the darker, the better. Aaand, Emily!’

It seems like everything is moving in slow motion, including my brain. The ball is heading this way … ooh, I can’t think straight … Oh, God, oh, God, this is so embarrassing … What am I going to say?

‘Correct. My name is Emily and … and … I once spent a night in a Middle Eastern jail.’

* * *

Being a Monday night, The Dog & Whistle, opposite Dramatic Ar s Centre, is deserted and we all pile around a long wooden table. Drinks in, we raise a glass to new adventures.

‘So, Emily. Spill the beans,’ says James, splitting open several bags of crisps to share. ‘You can’t leave us in suspense. How on earth did you end up in jail in the Middle East, for Christ’s sake?’

I’m not entirely comfortable recounting the sorry tale as it’s not something I’m proud of, and to this day I have never told my parents. The painful memory has been locked away for many years, but tonight, due to panic and a desire to impress, it was unleashed.

‘I’d really rather not …’

‘Come on!’ they chorus, eighteen wide-eyed faces looking at me expectantly.

Even the barman is taking an unusually long time to wipe the table next to ours.

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I was fresh out of cabin crew training school. My second long-haul trip, in fact. I’d never travelled to such an exotic land before, and instead of lying in my air-conditioned room, I wanted to explore the narrow streets of the old heart of Saudi’s capital; to smell the spices, the coffee, check out the colourful carpets and the ostentatious jewellery.

‘Hey, girls, are you all nurses?’ came a British voice behind us.

I don’t blame them – the young expat geologists who invited us to their compound that night – nor do I blame my fellow crew who weren’t strangers to Saudi and should have known better.

‘Isn’t alcohol illegal?’ I’d asked feebly over the blaring music at the party.

‘Yeah, but you’re on British soil here,’ replied our host, handing me a glass of home-brewed wine. ‘Cheers!’

What we naively and stupidly didn’t bargain for was being stopped and breathalysed by the police on the way back to the hotel.

I don’t blame the authorities either. We knew the laws of the land and we broke them. We were lucky we didn’t end up being incarcerated for years, being lashed, forbidden from entering the country again, or fired from our jobs.

I learned a hard lesson that night – to trust my own judgement and not be pressurised into following the herd.

If there was a prize for Most Shocking Secret of the Evening, then I can confidently say I would have won, but I feel cross with myself for having shared that most shameful of events with a bunch of strangers in order to be accepted, to be liked.

But then maybe daring to lay bare guilty secrets, disappointments, and desires is the key to being a good actor as opposed to a mediocre one.

Who knows, one day I might find myself tapping into the fear I felt on that terrible night to bring truthfulness to a role.

* * *

It’s 1 a.m. by the time I turn off the light, having shared tonight’s events with Beryl over a Babycham.

It’s early days, but tonight something shifted I think, and I got a tiny glimpse of where I’m headed – a fleeting confirmation that all of this will be worth it.

T. S. Eliot was right; it’s all about the journey and not the destination.

Warning:

Babycham may cause over-sentimentality.

* * *

I step off the crew bus, uniform, hair, and make-up immaculate. A bag lady is huddled in the doorway of the hotel.

‘Big Issue, Big Issue!’ she cries. I open my purse and lean towards her, looking into her eyes. Aargh! The bag lady is me.

I awake with a start to the blare of the alarm clock, hauling me out of my slumber, back to the real world.

It doesn’t require a psychoanalyst to work out the meaning behind this recurring nightmare.

I simply cannot carry on living off the paltry proceeds from the flat Nigel and I shared. This is supposed to be my emergency money, to support me after the course, during those ‘resting’ periods, in between theatre and TV contracts, daahling. Huh.

There’s rent to pay, food, my Visa bill, and drama class fees.

How naive I was to think I could just sail into another job.

This afternoon’s interview at Trusty Temps Agency is one of the few options left to me now …

* * *

‘Do you have PowerPoint?’ lisps the girly recruitment consultant, running her French-manicured nail down my brief CV.

‘No.’

‘Excel?’

‘Excel? Yes … I mean no.’ (Lying = v. bad idea, Emily.)

‘Minute taking?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Not to worry. Which switchboards have you used?’

‘Erm … none,’ I whisper, biting my bottom lip.

Uncrossing her long, slim legs, she lets out a heavy sigh, and forcing her glossy lips into a smile, says with a hint of superiority, ‘I’m afraid most of our positions are for people with these skills – but we’ll keep you on file.’

‘Sure,’ I say with a careless toss of my head, trying to look self-assured and unconcerned, whilst inside I feel like a technophobic old bat.

I stuff my CV in my bag, pull on my coat and beret, then take the walk of shame from the back office, through the reception area, past all the busy, busy consultants, furiously tapping their keyboards, whilst holding terribly important conversations on the phone.

It’s dawning on me with scary clarity that two decades of working in a metal tube have not armed me with the necessary skills to survive in the business world. I’m a dab hand at putting out a fire, boiling an egg to perfection at altitude, or serving hot liquids in severe turbulence without spilling a drop, but what use is all that in the wired-up world of desktop, data entry, and mail-merge?

Oh God, what is to become of me? Am I destined for a life of Pot Noodles and Primark? What am I going to do? What in God’s name am I going to do?

I trudge along the rain-soaked street. I can’t face returning to Knick-Knack Corral just yet. I turn the corner, and there, like a safe harbour in a storm, are the twinkling lights of Starbucks beckoning me in. Yes, I know, I know I shouldn’t be splashing out £3.20 on a caffeine fix, but I am in the grip of a major confidence crisis, and a large caramel cream Frappuccino is cheaper than therapy.

Sinking into a squashy sofa, I take a sip of my coffee, draw a deep breath, and take out my notebook and pen.

Potential Job List:

P.A./Receptionist/ Switchboard Operator?

Waitress?

Shop assistant?

Tour guide?

Cleaner?

Telesales?

Dog walker?

Market researcher?

Hmm. None of the above fills me with inspiration, but in my current financial state, I’d gladly don a baseball cap and serve greasy burgers from a catering van at a football stadium.

‘Are your gums sore, my angel, is that why you’re a grouchy girl today? Mummy make it better. Mwah, mwah.’

My gaze is drawn to the next table, where a group of yummy mummies in Cath Kidston, accessorised with matching designer tot, sip cappuccino and cluck and coo …

‘I was just warming his milk, and I swear I heard him say “Mama”. Didn’t you, Toby? What a clever boy! Yes, you are. You’re Mummy’s special boy.’

My eyes mist over, and I am consumed by a sudden yearning to belong to that members-only club; to have a little person to dress up in spotty dungarees, to romp around the park with, and to read Peppa Pig to.

Next to them is a table of young, svelte businesswomen, sipping their skinny lattes.

‘Let’s go in there and show them what we’re made of, girls. Here’s to new clients!’

‘New clients!’ they all cheer, chinking coffee cups and giggling.

Busy people with busy lives … children to pick up from school, meetings and post-natal classes to attend, deadlines to meet. And me? No job, no prospects, no daily routine …

Wife and mother

High-powered businesswoman

The soft lyrics of Adele’s soulful voice filters through the speakers.

Well, I can either sit here crying into my coffee, or take hold of the reins, buckle down, and find myself work.

I know I’m hardly a suitable candidate for The Apprentice, but surely there must be a vacancy somewhere for a well-travelled waitress with first aid and fire-fighting skills, who can say ‘Welcome to London’ in six different languages?

The earlier drizzle has now turned to torrential rain, so I dive for cover under the candy-striped awning of Galbraith’s The Jewellers. Row upon row of diamond rings blink at me through the glass. My chin starts to quiver and a huge tear sploshes down my cheek. Will I ever experience the thrill and romance of someone proposing on bended knee, before I reach the age of Hip-Replacement-Boyfriend? I had such high hopes when I was five, dressed in my mum’s white nightie and high heels, clutching a bunch of buttercups in my grubby fingers, an old net curtain and crown of daisies on my head.

Through the blur of my tears I squint at a sign in the window:

RETAIL CONSULTANT REQUIRED

APPLY WITHIN

Before I have time to talk myself out of it, I press the buzzer …

Miss June Cutler, manageress of Galbraith’s Jewellers, leans across the gleaming glass counter and peers at me over her half-moon glasses.

‘Ideally, we are looking for someone with retail experience in the jewellery trade, as many of our items are very, very valuable,’ she whines in a Sybil-Fawlty voice.

‘I may not have worked in a shop as such,’ I retort, ‘but I have sold duty free goods, and so I am … au fait with handling money and expensive items.’ (Working in the first class cabin taught me to always have a little, posh phrase up my sleeve – preferably French – when dealing with supercilious, la-di-da people.)

‘A bottle of Blue Grass eau de toilette is hardly a Rolex watch, is it?’ she says, with a taut smile of her thin, red lips. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle.

‘We didn’t just sell perfume and alcohol, but luxury goods as well – like gold and silver necklaces and designer watches: Cartier, Dunhill … and … and …’

Bloody typical! There was a time when I could have won Mastermind with ‘The World’s Leading Designers’ as my specialist subject, but just when I’m under the spotlight, the names escape me.

Miss Cutler, meanwhile, is scrutinising me as if I’ve just stepped off the set of some Tim Burton scary movie; then I catch sight of my reflection in the antique, gilt-framed mirror opposite, and do a double take. What the …? I have blood-red rivulets trickling down my face. Oh my God, the heavy rain must have caused the dye from my beret to run! (£3 from Primark, what do you expect, Emily?) I pull out a length of loo paper from my pocket, and a chewing gum wrapper falls to the floor.

There’s a stony silence. Here it comes, another helping of ‘I’ll keep you on file’ – not sure I can handle two rejections in one day.

‘Very well,’ she says with a sigh, holding out my damp, crumpled CV, like it’s a snotty hankie. ‘I have been left in the lurch rather, so you can start tomorrow at nine – sharp.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply, vigorously shaking her hand, sending the charms on her bracelet jingling.

Giving me a final once-over, she says pointedly, ‘Just one more thing – dress code here is smart.’

I resist the temptation to tell her to stuff her job and her precious things, and head out onto the bustling street. I jump astride my bike, leaving drizzly, grey commuterville behind, and pedal towards the bright lights of Dramatic Ar s Centre.

* * *

The next morning

‘You bastard!’ I mutter. ‘How can you let me down like this?’ As fast as I pump the air in, the faster it is released with a loud hisssss. I knew I should have caught the bus this morning. Fired on my first day. Great!

I fumble in my voluminous bag for my mobile and dial Galbraith’s number.

You have used all your calling credit, comes the unsympathetic, recorded voice. Heavy rain starts to pound the pavement. Shit! Right, that’s it! Wielding the pump, I unleash my pent-up anger and frustration on my bike, much to the sly amusement of early morning commuters, as they scuttle to the station, clutching their takeaway coffee, ears wired to iPods and hands-free.

Squelching and wheezing my way up the hill, I make a mental note to a) learn how to mend a puncture and b) invest in waterproofs.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Miss Cutler,’ I pant. ‘I would have got here quicker if I hadn’t had to wheel my bike and I wanted to call you, but my mobile was out of credit and …’

‘You’d better clean yourself up,’ she says, her steely gaze resting on my oil-stained hands. ‘And may I remind you, Emily, you are on probation. If you are serious about working here, then you had better pull your socks up.’

Blimey, I haven’t felt like this since fourth form, when I was hauled up in front of the headmistress for not wearing regulation knickers at gym.

‘The stock room looks like a bomb’s hit it,’ she snarls, giving me a death stare. ‘Health and Safety are visiting next week, so I’d appreciate it if you could tidy the place up, and ensure the fire exits are kept clear.’

‘Sure,’ I say in a sugary sort of way, jaw clenched.

(Another tip gleaned from years spent bowing to the whims of rude passengers: whatever verbal abuse flies your way, DO NOT rise to the bait. Respond in an overly polite manner, and it will annoy the hell out of your antagonist.)

‘“A bottle of Blue Grass eau de toilette is hardly a Rolex watch, is it?”’ I mutter, giving my best JC impression from the top of the stepladder, as I fight with piles of slippery plastic bags that are refusing to stay on the stock room shelf. Huh! I’ve sold Rolex, Raymond Weil, Piaget, Mont Blanc to Arab kings, I’ll have her know.

‘Emily! A customer!’ comes Miss Cutler’s shrill voice from the top of the stairs, sounding for all the world like Mrs Lovett in Sweeney Todd.

God, five-thirty and seeing my girls can’t arrive quick enough.

‘Coming!’

* * *

As I chain my bike to the railing, I spy them through the dimpled glass, sitting in our favourite spot, by the open fireplace, and I smile inwardly.

My life may be starting to resemble a black comedy, but with a supporting cast like mine, I can just about deal with the fact that I’ve got Cruella De Vil for a boss, and that my acting dream is fast turning into a horror movie.