Page 3 of Lights, Camera, Love

When it got so bad that she couldn’t pay her rent, I offered her my guestroom on the spot. I know she only has herself to blame for indulging in shopping sprees when she’s got bills piling up, but it felt like the least I could do for the person who single-handedly raised me. It must have been tough for her to save up a nest egg when she had me to look after all on her own. As careless as she is with money, Mum always found a way to pay for my countless dance lessons and expensive competition costumes.

Still, I need to figure out a solution to this because I can’t imagine living with my dear mother forever. I’m beginning to think that the only way she’ll be able to afford her own place again is if I have enough money coming in to help her get back on her feet. Perhaps I can even buy her some money-management lessons to go with that fresh start. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make to not have to share a space with her and the Jacks of Tinder. I love my mum to death, but we have wildly different views on things.

Martina laughs. ‘The audition isn’t forHamilton, I’m afraid. This is actually for a lead role in a new Australian film!’ My lips pop open as she continues. ‘Village Pictures are spearheading it, and they’re looking for a female dancer who can also act. Ginnifer Carlos was meant to play the part, but she’s had a scheduling conflict.’

‘Ginnifer Carlos?What film is this?’ I’m already seeing dollar signs.

Martina hums. ‘Thought that might get your attention. It’s a romantic dance movie called’—her computer mouse makes a series of clicks—‘Moving.’

I can’t help but cringe at the title.

‘The notes here say it’s about a wealthy farmer whose estranged daughter comes to live with him after her mother dies,’ Martina explains. ‘The daughter hasn’t spoken a word since her mum’s death, but she loves to dance. So, to help the daughter express herself, the farmer hires a dance teacher from the city to come andstay with them and teach the daughter, and the father and dance teacher end up falling in love. The lead male actor will be at the audition, so it’ll be a chemistry read with him, too.’

My smile practically reaches my ears. ‘I can’t believe it—a movie!’ I want to roll onto my back and kick my feet in the air like I’m twelve instead of twenty-seven. It’s not like I’ve never had an on-screen audition: I’ve been cast in a few commercials here and there and even played a recurring character in a TV police procedural last year. But film auditions are rare, especially ones for the lead role.

‘Here’s the kicker,’ Martina says. ‘The director is Brian Winter—he’sHarold Winter’snephew, and he’s been making big waves on the short-film festival circuit.’

‘Holy moly—are you serious?’ Harold Winter may have been born in a tiny Australian town, but he’s one of the world’s most famous film directors. He has more Oscars shining up his mantle than Spielberg. Hopefully, his nephew has inherited some of his remarkable talent.

‘This could behugefor you, Evie.’ Martina draws in a deep breath. ‘So, with that in mind, do you think we should mention—’

My chest constricts. ‘No.’

I hear her swallow hard. This is a conversation we’ve had before, and it always ends the same.

‘No mentioning my biological father’s name,’ I instruct, a sharp twinge pulsing through my chest. Gabriel Dean, the actor who gave me half my genes and nothing else, hasa bigger name in Hollywood than even Harold Winter’s, but I don’t want his name attached to mine.Ever.

Martina sighs. It can’t be easy for her not to play the nepo-baby card when she’s negotiating a potential role for me, but this is a hard no, regardless of how much I need the work.

‘It’s your call,’ she concedes. ‘Promise me you’ll put the work in for Friday, though, okay? Maybe your mum can dust off her acting chops and run the lines with you. Because if Ginnifer Carlos was attached to this script, it’s probably exceptional.’

‘Of course. Thank you for being so amazing, lovely.’

She makes kiss noises into the phone. The moment we end the call, I dash into the hallway to tell Mum about the audition. The breathy mumble of wet, smacking lips assaults my ears before I even reach the kitchen.

I spin on my feet and hurry back to my room.

Please, for the love of all that is good in the world, let me get this role, not only for my career, but so I can get enough money to help set up Mum on her own.

This script is not exceptional.

In fact, itsucks.

Or at least this scene does, the one I’m still silently rehearsing in the casting agency’s waiting room at ten minutes past four on Friday. Was Ginnifer Carlos on crack when she agreed to do this film? If this scene isanything to go by, the role of the wealthy farmer, Jamie, has all the substance, while the dance teacher, Constance, is only there to look good in a ‘leotard’ (the writer evidently grew up in the eighties) and say things like:

CONSTANCE

(Winks) Dancing isn’t the only way to burn calories.

Seriously?

‘Evie Scott?’

My gaze snaps up to find a young woman in a pair of horn-rimmed glasses peering through the double doors.

‘Yes, hi! I’m coming.’ Beaming to mask my nerves, I collect the dog-eared pages of my script and trail the woman into the studio while trying to slip into the character of Constance. But I’m still drawing blanks as to what the director wants from me for this part other than my dance skills. When I ran the lines with Mum, she was brutally honest: ‘Evie,’ she said, ‘this script is so terrible that it’ll be a miracle if this movie ever gets made.’ I’m not sure she’s wrong.

Inside the dimly lit studio, a makeshift performance space has been set up beside a long table with four chairs and a monitor. My eyes shoot to a man hovering near one of the free-standing lights, his golden curls barely contained by his fedora hat.

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