Little by little, I’ve grown accustomed to walking for miles along streets where the air is filled with the stale breath of seven million people and the sky above is cut into dirty grey rectangles, glimpsed here and there between the buildings. It’s a far cry from the skies over Loch Ewe, which arch from hills to horizon in an unbroken sweep. I’ve grown used to the London weather, too. Or rather to the lack of it. The seasons in the city are marked by the changing of the displays in the shop windows rather than any real climatic shifts: even in the middle of winter the city seems to generate its own heat, rising up from the damp pavements and radiating from the brick walls of the houses. Occasionally at first I used to miss the sense of wildness that the Scottish weather brings, the unfettered power of an Atlantic gale, the breathtaking chill of a clear, frosty morning and the first faint, elusive warmth of a spring day. But I quickly buried my hand-knitted jumpers at the back of the chest of drawers in my bedsit and replaced them with the figure-hugging cotton tops and floaty cheesecloth shirts that the other students wore, more suited to the fug of audition rooms and more likely to catch the eye of an agent or a producer. And I learned to drink coffee instead of tea, even though a cup cost more than a whole jar of the instant stuff that Mum would buy from the shop in Aultbea.
I duck into the alleyway that runs down one side of the theatre and shoulder open the stage door. My stomach churns with nerves and I swallow the bile that rises in my throat, which isn’t going to help my voice one bit. The last few months have been stressful, finishing my run in Carousel and starting the whole gruelling process of going for auditions again. I’ve not been eating or sleeping very well. I tell myself the anxiety is entirely understandable, given the work situation and worries about how I’m going to pay my rent as my bank balance dwindles. But underneath that lies another horrible realisation that has dawned slowly but inexorably over recent weeks: Piers is losing interest in me. Maybe, just maybe, if I land this role then he’ll love me again. Maybe we’ll be able to recapture the passion and the excitement of those early days and everything will be all right.
I join the others who’ve already gathered backstage and shrug off my coat, running my fingers through my hair to smooth the unruly red-gold curls back into some semblance of order. ‘Sorry,’ I mouth at the production assistant, who ticks my name off on her clipboard. She flashes me a smile, too brief to be real, and then turns away. I recognise one or two of the others: the world of musical theatre is a small one. But we avoid meeting each other’s eyes, concentrating on keeping our nerves under control and listening to the first hopeful to audition for the female lead. Competition for the role is going to be keen – the press is already buzzing with news of the Broadway revival and the London show is selling out.
I try to take deep breaths and focus on channelling the role of Mary Magdalene, but my attention wanders back to another audition, two years ago, in another theatre. It was for a production of A Chorus Line, directed by the brilliant Piers Walker whose star was in the ascendant on the West End theatre scene.
He singled me out at the audition. At the end of the exhausting day, he asked me to join him for a drink. He told me that he wanted me in the show even though I was more of a singer-who-could-dance than a dancer-who-could-sing, which was what they’d originally been looking for. He told me I had a luminosity, that I reminded him of a red-headed Audrey Hepburn. Later that evening, he told me he’d never met anyone like me. That I had a rare talent. That he could help me with my career. And that night, as we lay in the tangled sheets on the bed in my dingy digs, he told me I would be his muse and that together, we would blaze a trail to the very top of the industry.
I drank in his words as thirstily as I’d downed the glass of wine in the pub behind Drury Lane. How naïve I was: they both went straight to my head.
The infatuation has worn off now, two years later, and the reality of life has kicked in. Recently, Piers has been coming home later and later from the theatre, more than once mentioning the name of a new starlet who, he makes a point of telling me, really gets his vision and is a total dream to direct. I’ve begun to realise that he needs the affirmation of an audience far more than I do. Life is a performance for him and, like the productions he directs, each of his relationships seems to have its run before the novelty wears off and he moves on to the next one. I’m still clinging to the hope, though, that I will be the one to change all that. That I will be the one who makes him want to stay.
The constant anxiety is taking its toll. Sleepless nights and a feeling of nausea in the pit of my stomach have had an effect on my voice, although I’m not admitting that to anyone. Perhaps I’ve overstrained it a bit, trying out for several parts that have stretched my vocal range. But I can’t afford to let that doubt affect me now. I need to push through today and put in a performance that will land me the female lead in Jesus Christ Superstar.
‘Alexandra Gordon.’ The production assistant calls my name. And so I step on to the stage and take a deep breath, determined that, even though my heart is fluttering against my breastbone like the wings of a trapped bird, my voice will soar free again, as effortlessly as the skylarks that fly above the hills surrounding my former home.
I land the part. And for a few weeks, Piers is as attentive as he used to be, bringing me flowers and taking me out for a celebratory meal. It’s going to be all right, I think, breathing a big sigh of relief. But once rehearsals begin, I seem to be struggling more and more to reach the high notes. The director is concerned, and when he talks to me I can see his eyes flicker with the doubt that he’s made the right choice for the role. Then one day a voice coach takes me aside and asks me if I’m okay.
‘Fine,’ I say, forcing a smile that’s a good deal brighter than I’m feeling. ‘It’s been a difficult couple of months but I’m getting back on track. I’ve had a bit of a stomach bug, too, but I’m getting over it now. I’ve just been a little off form, but my voice will be fine once I’m fully recovered.’ I hope I manage to sound convincing. Actually, I’ve been feeling horribly queasy after downing a piece of toast and a cup of coffee this morning, but I’ve ploughed on determinedly and come in to work.
‘All right.’ She looks at me doubtfully. ‘But Alexandra, I’ve seen this happen once before. I hope you don’t mind my asking . . . are you pregnant?’
The second she says it, I know. It’s as if I’d known already, I just hadn’t admitted it to myself. Automatically my hands go to my belly as the blood drains from my face. A pregnant Mary Magdalene isn’t going to look the part on stage, despite it presumably having been a hazard of her profession. I sway as the walls seem to collapse in around me.
The voice coach sits me down on a stool at the corner of the rehearsal room and presses my head towards my knees to stop me from fainting.
‘It can happen,’ she explains. ‘In pregnancy the hormonal changes can cause the vocal cords to swell. It can affect your range. You’ve been straining to reach the notes and that can cause a bleed. You should see a specialist, get it checked out. And definitely rest your voice for a while.’
Piers’s fury erupts with the force of an Atlantic storm. ‘What a complete disaster,’ he says when I tell him that evening, having seen a doctor who has confirmed both that I am pregnant and that I have what looks like a lesion on one of my vocal cords. I reach out to put my arms around him, desperately needing the reassurance of a hug, but he shakes me off.