Reluctantly Home(12)

‘Yep,’ he said. ‘It’s a big part, Evie.’

Evelyn nodded, but then a wave of anxiety twisted in her gut. It was all very well them liking her, but as yet they hadn’t formally offered her the part.

‘What’s your feeling, Julian?’ she asked him. ‘Do you think it’s mine?’

Julian examined his nails and gave them a quick buff on his trousers. ‘I think quite possibly. From what they said to me, anyway, darling, but it all depends on MacMillan. If he likes you then you’re in. But then he does like you, or so you said. So it shouldn’t be that hard to convince him that you’d be perfect.’

Evelyn’s stomach hit the floor. What if she had imagined it all? What if MacMillan had said exactly the same thing to every young actress at the party? She swallowed hard and tried to push the thought out of her head. She needed this job. Her life in London was depending on it.

‘And the meeting with him is at four thirty tomorrow afternoon at the Hilton? On a Sunday? Are you sure?’ she asked doubtfully. A meeting on a Sunday didn’t seem right to her.

Julian checked his notebook, running his pen down the indecipherable scrawls until he found what he was looking for. ‘That’s right. Sunday. He’s a busy man, our Rory. They don’t work nine to five, you know, these television executives. Just go to the hotel reception and ask for him and they will direct you. Now, off you scamper. I do have other clients apart from you!’ He fluttered a hand to shoo her away.

Evelyn stood up, rushed round to the other side of the desk, bent down and planted a kiss on Julian’s cheek. ‘Thank you, Julian,’ she said breathlessly.

‘I’m just looking out for my ten per cent,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone, but he was grinning at her. ‘And Evelyn,’ he added as she reached for the door handle, his voice a little more serious now, ‘don’t blow it.’



Sunday arrived and Evelyn dressed carefully in a skirt and blouse and a pair of unladdered tights that she’d stolen from Brenda’s room, fully intending to replace them the following day. The doorman opened the door for her as she approached the hotel and then smiled at her as she passed by him.

‘Good afternoon, miss,’ he said.

‘Good afternoon,’ she replied. She sounded like a schoolma’am. Or a policewoman. The thought made her smile.

She walked straight to the reception desk, feeling as if every eye in the place was on her. She was going to have to get used to that, she thought. The turned heads, the nudging and whispering as she walked into a room.

‘I’m here to see Mr MacMillan,’ she said, hoping that the slight shake in her voice was only audible to her.

The receptionist looked at the book in front of her, running a manicured finger down the columns. ‘Mr MacMillan is in suite 507,’ she said. ‘Fifth floor,’ she added, pointing to the lift.

‘Thank you,’ replied Evelyn, and set off in the direction of the lift hoping that she looked nonchalant and as if she went to meetings in hotel suites every day of the week, but inside her stomach was churning with nerves. She was so close to this that she could almost taste her success. And this final part of the process would surely be easy. The casting panel liked her and she had already impressed Rory MacMillan at the New Year’s Eve party. Talking to him now was just a formality, a getting to know each other a little better.

She wondered who else would be there. The quietly spoken director from her audition, she imagined, and maybe whoever they had cast as the inspector. Evelyn ran through a list of possible actresses in her head, hoping that whoever it was was already famous. But even if they weren’t yet, she supposed they soon would be. They both would be.

Suite 507 was at the end of a long corridor and Evelyn knocked lightly on the door.

‘Come in,’ someone said. It sounded like the Glaswegian lilt of Rory MacMillan, but she couldn’t be sure. She opened the door.

A short corridor opened out into a sitting room. It had windows to two sides and views out over Hyde Park, although dusk was falling outside and she couldn’t see far. Lights twinkled on the inky horizon.

Rory MacMillan was sitting on a sofa, dressed casually in slacks and an open-necked shirt, the telephone receiver wedged under his chin. He was twisting the cord round and round his fingers in a continuous movement as if it were an executive toy. He looked up as she came in and nodded at the sofa opposite him. Evelyn couldn’t make much sense of the conversation, which was mainly yeses and nos, peppered with the occasional uh-huh.

Whilst she waited, she looked about for signs of the others, but there was nothing to suggest that anyone else had been there. One whisky tumbler sat on the glass coffee table beside one plate, dirty with the remains of a club sandwich. Maybe the others would be coming soon, she thought, or maybe it was just going to be her. Evelyn considered how she felt about this for a moment. Did the prospect of a one-to-one meeting make her any more nervous? No. She was fine with it. Hadn’t they spent almost half an hour chatting on New Year’s Eve? And to have the ear of someone as senior as MacMillan wasn’t something that usually happened to a relative unknown like her. She would be able to get a real insight into what he was hoping for the series as a whole. Julian would be delighted when she told him. She could almost hear her agent in her ear, urging her onwards. ‘Find out what’s next, darling. Make sure there’s a part for you in that one, too.’