of their will-power.
They've all perhaps quarrelled with their families, who are convinced their daughters will end up working as prostitutes.
They've all been on stage and experienced the agony and the ecstasy of seeing the audience and knowing that every eye is fixed on them; they've felt the electricity in the air and heard the applause at the end. They've imagined a hundred times over that there will come a night when a member of the Superclass will be in the audience and visit them in their dressing-room after the performance with something more substantial to offer than an invitation to supper, a request for their phone number or compliments on a job well done.
To begin with, they accepted a few of those invitations, but the only place they led to was the bed of some powerful, older man - usually married, as all the ‘interesting’ men are -concerned only with notching up another conquest.
They all had a boyfriend their own age, but when anyone asked if they were married or single, they always answered: ‘Free and unattached.’ They thought they were in control of the situation. They've all been told - hundreds of times now - that they have real talent and just need the right opportunity, and that the person there before them is the one who can transform their lives. They've occasionally believed this too. They've fallen into the trap of being over-confident and thinking they were in charge, until the next day comes and the phone number they'd been given puts them through to the extension of a very grumpy secretary who has no intention of letting them speak to her boss.
They've threatened to sell their story to the tabloids, saying that they had been deceived, although none of them has ever actually done so because they're still at the stage of thinking: ‘I mustn't spoil my chances in the acting world.’
One or two may even have shared Gabriela's Alice in Wonderland experience, and now want to prove to their families that they're far more capable than they thought. Their families, of course, have all by now seen their daughters in commercials, on posters and billboards scattered round the city and, after a few initial arguments, are convinced that those same daughters are on the verge of entering a world of ‘bright lights and glamour’.
All the girls there believed that their dream was possible, that one day their talent would be recognised, until the penny dropped: there is only one magic word - ‘contacts’. They had all distributed their ‘books’ as soon as they arrived in Cannes, and now keep a constant eye on their mobile phones, getting invited to whatever launches and events they can and trying their best to get into those they can't, always dreaming that someone will ask them to one of the evening parties or, dream of dreams, award them that greatest of prizes, an invitation to walk down the red carpet at the Palais des Congrès. That, however, was probably the most difficult dream to realise, so difficult that they didn't really allow themselves to think about it, in case the feelings of rejection and frustration destroyed their ability to wear the happy face they must wear at all times, even when they're not happy at all.
Contacts.
After many cases of mistaken identity, they did find the occasional useful contact, which is why they're here. One such contact had led to a New Zealand producer calling them. None had asked what it was about; they knew only that they had to be punctual because no one has any time to lose, certainly not people in the film industry. The only ones who do are the five young women in the waiting-room, busy with their mobile phones and their magazines, compulsively sending texts to see if they've been invited to something later in the day, trying to talk to their friends and always making a point of saying that they're not free to speak right now because they have an important meeting with a film producer.
Gabriela is the fourth person to be called. She had tried to interpret the look in the eyes of the first three candidates who emerged from the room without saying a word, but then, of course, they're all actresses, capable of hiding any emotion, be it joy or sadness. All three strode determinedly to the door and wished the others a confident ‘Good luck’, as if to say: ‘No need to be nervous, girls, you've got nothing to lose. The part's mine.’
One of the walls in the apartment is covered with a black cloth. The floor there is cluttered with all kinds of electric cables and lights covered with a metal mesh, and there's a kind of umbrella with a white cloth spread before it, as well as sound equipment, screens and a video camera. In the corners stand bottles of mineral water, metal briefcases, tripods, bits of paper and a computer. Sitting on the floor, a bespectacled, thirty-something woman is leafing through Gabriela's book.
‘Awful,’ she says, not looking up at her. ‘Awful.’
Gabriela doesn't know quite what to do. Perhaps she should pretend she isn't listening and go over to the group of chainsmoking technicians chatting brightly in one corner or perhaps she should simply stay where she is.
‘This one's awful,’ said the woman again.
‘That's me.’
She can't help herself. She has run through half of Cannes to get there, waited nearly two hours, imagined yet again that her life is about to change for ever (although she's less and less prone to such fantasies now and won't allow herself to get as excited as she used to), and she certainly doesn't need more reasons to be depressed.
‘I know,’ says the woman, her eyes fixed on the photos. ‘They must have cost you a fortune. People make a career out of making books, writing CVs, running acting courses and generally making money out of the vanity of people like you.’
‘If you think I'm so awful, why did you call me?’
‘Because we need someone awful.’
Gabriela laughs. The woman finally raises her head and looks her up and down.
‘I like your clothes. I hate vulgar people.’
Gabriela's dream is returning. Her heart beats faster.
The woman hands her a sheet of paper.
‘Go over there to the mark.’
Then she turns to the crew.
‘Put those cigarettes out and close the window. I don't want the sound messed up.’
The ‘mark’ is a cross made with yellow tape on the floor. This means that the actor is automatically in the right position for the lighting and the camera.
‘It's so hot in here, I'm sweating. Could I at least go to the bathroom and put a little foundation on, some make-up?’
‘Of course you can, but when you get back, there won't be time to do the recording. We have to hand this stuff over by this afternoon.’
All the other girls who went in must have asked the same question and been given the same answer. Best not to waste time. She takes a paper handkerchief out of her pocket and dabs at her face as she makes her way over to the mark.
An assistant positions himself by the camera, while Gabriela battles against time, trying to read through what is written on that half-sheet of paper.
‘Test number twenty-five, Gabriela Sheery Thompson Agency’
‘Twenty-five!’ thinks Gabriela.
‘And action,’ says the woman with the glasses.
Silence falls.
‘No, I can't believe what you're saying. No one can commit a murder for no reason.’
‘Start again. You're talking to your boyfriend.’
‘No, I can't believe what you're saying. No one can commit a murder like that for no reason.’
‘The words “like that” aren't in the script. Do you really think that the scriptwriter, who worked on this for months, didn't consider putting those words in, but decided against it because they're useless, superficial, unnecessary?’
Gabriela takes a deep breath. She has nothing to lose but her patience. She's going to do her best now, then leave, go to the beach or go back to bed for a while. She needs to rest in order to be in good shape for the evening round of cocktail parties.
A