Page 6 of Mistaken Impression

“You will stay in touch, won’t you?” Calvin says, sitting beside me and rubbing a cleansing wipe over his face, although he’s looking at my reflection, rather than his own.

“Of course.”

“Even though you’ve made the big time?”

“You don’t know what I’ve made. I haven’t told you.”

I haven’t told anyone yet. I’m under strict, contractual instructions not to breathe a word about my new job to a living soul. It feels a little melodramatic to me, but I suppose if it’s what they want, who am I to argue?

“No, you haven’t. But it’s gotta be something spectacular to take you away from all this.” He waves his arm around the slightly shabby dressing room, a broad grin settling on his lips. He celebrated his thirtieth birthday a couple of months ago, which is how I know he’s three years younger than me, and is continually complaining about the fact that his red hair limits the roles he gets offered. I always remind him that it never stood in the way of countless other red-headed actors, but he usually greets my reply with a scowl.

“It was a tough decision,” I lie. It wasn’t, although I still have to pinch myself every so often, just because it all seems so surreal.

The offer came out of the blue a couple of months ago, and although I asked my agent to repeat it several times over, tomake sure I hadn’t mis-heard, I still couldn’t believe what she was saying. She’s based in New York and is called Delilah Dunn. I’ve always imagined her name to be made-up, but I’ve never dared say so, or even ask about it. She’s way too scary. She’s in her mid-forties, and – like Calvin – has bright red hair, although hers is artificial and matches her nails and lipstick. Delilah was adamant about the offer, though… the part she’d sent me to audition for was definitely mine.

“They know I’m British, right?” I asked once the news had sunk in.

“Of course they do. They’re not deaf. They said they were impressed by your American accent.” Her own was dripping into my ear. “I’ll e-mail you the contract, but I’ve read it through and there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Okay. Before you go, have you had any luck with finding a publisher for my book yet?”

I ask her that question every time we speak, and her answer is always the same… just like it was that afternoon. A resounding, “No.”

She’s had my manuscript for over two years and sometimes I wonder if she’s even trying to get it published. I know she makes more money out of my acting – as do I – but this isn’t what I want to do, and she knows it.

The problem is, I didn’t slave over my laptop for months on end to have my novel sitting on my agent’s desk, gathering dust, while I tread the boards, keeping the wolf from the door.

“Shall I try another agent?” I said, knowing it would rile her.

“It won’t get you anywhere.” Her voice was harsher. I knew what was coming next and braced myself. “Your plot isn’t original enough. I’ve told you over and over. You need to re-write it.”

“But I like it.” I like it exactly as it is. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have written it that way.

“It’s not about what you like… it’s about what will sell, and country house murder mysteries have been done to death.”

I refused to listen, just like I’d been refusing ever since she first raised the point, shortly after reading through my manuscript.

Regardless of everything she says, there’s nothing wrong with my novel. I know I’m not exactly re-inventing the wheel, but my detective is at least a little different, no matter what Delilah says. He’s a doctor, who enjoys reading mystery stories, and when a murder happens right under his nose, he sets about solving it. He has little choice, as there’s a convenient snow-storm, stranding the inhabitants of the remote country house where the weekend party is being held, meaning the official police can’t get to them. I’ve set the story in the mid-1920s, when house parties were all the rage, and created some interesting characters… at least, I think they’re interesting, even if Delilah doesn’t.

But that’s because the woman clearly doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

I lean a little closer to the mirror to double-check I’ve removed all the make-up, then pick up the pile of cotton pads I’ve used for cleaning my face, and dump them into the bin. It’s moisturiser next, and I apply it liberally, wondering whether I’ll need to use so much make-up in my next job. I’m just replacing the lid on the pot when the door crashes open, at least half a dozen people vying to get through it at the same time.

“Knock, why don’t you?” I mutter under my breath, although I paint a smile on my face. They mean well, even if they don’t understand the word ‘privacy’.

Ozzy leads the way, which isn’t at all unusual for him. He’s carrying a couple of bottles of champagne, swinging them wildly, which won’t do the contents any good. Not that he seems to care. He’s not the youngest member of the company; he justbehaves like he is. Behind him is Anna, the leading lady. She’s in her late forties, if I’m being kind… which I am, because I’m nearly always kind to ladies. It’s not a trait shared by Ozzy, who’s just crashed through the door ahead of her, while the rest of the company wait their turn, giving Anna due deference.

I stand, offering her my seat, and she smiles up at me.

“Why, thank you.”

She has a slight southern drawl, and without the awful blonde wig and excessive make-up required for the role she’s been playing on the stage, she’s a very attractive woman.

The next person into the room is Desmond… our leading man. He’s probably ten years older than Anna, although he doesn’t look it when made-up, and while he doesn’t run the company, he’s very much in charge of the actors, and we all look up to him. He comes straight towards me, offering his hand, which I shake.

“It’s been a pleasure working with you,” he says with a smile.

“Likewise. I’ve learned a lot from you, Desmond.”

---