CHAPTER ONE

      I am aware that learning my lines on the loo is not the classiest way to prepare for an audition, but it works for me. The gentle trickle of a cistern filling up, the hypnotic whirring of an AC unit in the background; it helps me concentrate. I often imagine what other actresses get up to in the toilet. I picture them:

      a.) Sticking Post-it notes on the shoots in W magazine they would like their stylist to draw inspiration from.

      b.) Tweeting a supposedly self-deprecating, goofy ‘selfie’ in which they actually look fabulous.

      c.) Plotting how to raise awareness of their worthiness and humanity by raising awareness of worthy humanitarian causes.

      d.) Using their visit as me-me-me-time to consider their brand extension. Maybe – right now – somewhere in the Hamptons in a WASP-y ‘new minimalist’-style bathroom, Gwyneth Paltrow is coming up with a low-GI (but highly condescending) spelt-based agave-nectar-infused muffin recipe for her latest cookbook.

      I doubt I will ever get to confirm d.), though, as Gwynnie and I don’t mix in the same circles. Unlike her, I am not a super-successful thespian with my fingers in other financially rewarding (gluten-free) pies. I am a hostess at a private members’ club in central London called Burn’s. I act when given the opportunity but I am certainly not at risk of suffering from ‘exhaustion’ due to a relentless schedule of back-to-back projects. My own fault – I have some focusing issues – but honestly, I am not desperate to become a huge star. Besides, I don’t do ‘selfies’ and I reckon I’d struggle with the worthy humanitarian angle.

      I leave the loo and head for a meeting with Roger, my boss. It still feels weird calling him this because over a decade ago we started out as waiting staff together. We always used to request the same shifts so we had the same hours off to party and go on the pull. We went for the same type of guy, too: those with directional haircuts and an enticing after-the-club-shuts attraction at their apartment, like an ice box full of premium vodka or tandem-functioning disco lights and surround sound. But then Roger met Pete and our late nights out together? They petered out.

      ‘Hi, Rog,’ I say, loitering outside his open office door.

      He looks up from his desk. ‘Come in, Vivian. I saw you in that advert for the Sofa World Spring Clear Out! last night. To be fair, you made that cream leather recliner look very tempting indeed. The way you flopped down on to it in your sensible office separates without spilling a drop from your glass of vin rouge – I was absolutely convinced you’d been grafting at work all day … not a look of yours I’m particularly familiar with.’

      We both laugh as I enter the room. Like the rest of Burn’s it is painted in an understated off-white Farrow & Ball paint and the furniture is a mixture of ultra-contemporary pieces and perfectly worn classics. Ten years ago, when the club first opened, this schizophrenic new-meets-old look was reasonably fresh. Now you can’t move in London’s hospitality industry without tripping over an angular chrome footstool and landing on a tattered leather sofa.

      ‘Anything exciting?’ he asks, pointing in the direction of the manuscript I am holding.

      ‘Surf Shack. The audition is tomorrow. It’s a new kids’ show for a late-afternoon slot, so even if I get the role and deliver a performance with Tilda Swinton-esque intensity, it’ll probably only be seen by some homework-dodging ten-year-old in between mouthfuls of reconstituted poultry “nibblets” and ketchup.’ I pass Roger the script and sit down on the Eames office chair in front of his antique desk.

      He flips open the first page and reads out loud. ‘“CHARACTER: DEBBIE. Debbie is a neurotic yet stubborn and antagonistic mother. She takes echinacea, spinning classes and life very seriously. In the scene below (taken from Episode 1) Debbie is nagging her daughter to do her homework instead of hanging out at the local water sports club, the eponymous Surf Shack.’” Roger gasps sarcastically. ‘Ooh, nail-biting stuff. I’m already envisioning an end-of-series drowning or a story line involving a stranded dolphin. It’s got Emmy Award written all over it.’

      I yawn and rub my eyes. ‘Did you actually want to see me about something to do with Burn’s, Rog? Or did you just want to remind me how insignificant my contribution is to global entertainment?’

      ‘Both really.’ He grins at me. ‘This morning, Fiona on the board told me she still hasn’t found a suitable candidate to take over my role as Head of Staff when I get made General Manager in six weeks. You’re easily the most experienced person on the floor, so I’m pretty sure if you made yourself available she’d give you the position. Shall I lie and tell her how industrious you are?’

      I take a good two seconds to consider the offer. I covered for Roger once before – when he had his wisdom teeth removed – and found myself having to do some work. ‘Thanks, Rog, but nah.’

      ‘But nah? Is that it?’ He gives a deflating lilo of a sigh. ‘Think about this seriously, Vivian, it’s obvious you need some motivation. If you had some extra duties it would inspire you to take more of an interest in how Burn’s operates. You’d be organising all the private functions, doing the rosters, liaising with the committee over membership, structuring and monitoring the deliveries …’

      I zone out temporarily at this point as I notice a glass jar of truffles on Roger’s desk. Each chocolate is individually wrapped in yellow metallic paper. I think of Keira Knightley wrapped in gold lamé at the second Pirates of the Caribbean première. A classic noughties’ moment. Bitchy bloggers accused her of appearing ‘emaciated’. I think the intention was more …

      ‘You’d be silly not to consider it,’ Roger is saying. ‘You would even have this office all to yourself …’

      …