Far From Perfect by Holly Smale

Author:Holly Smale
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2020-02-26T17:00:00+00:00

I know where we are now.

For a brief second, I consider resisting – jumping out of the car and legging it across Soho – but why bother? If anybody needs professional help, it’s me.

‘The four-day acting workshop started yesterday,’ Genevieve explains as the chauffeur opens the limo door. ‘But your grandmother says it doesn’t matter if you arrive a day late. Everyone obviously knows who you are already.’

I flinch. ‘Lovely. Thank you.’

Anxiously, I say a polite goodbye, climb out and make my way to yet another reception desk. It’s quiet, but through closed doors you can hear shouting, screaming, laughing, crying. Anywhere else that would be a cause for concern.

‘Hello, Faith,’ the receptionist says as I open my mouth. ‘Seven B. Third floor, second to the right. Go in quietly, please. Class has begun.’

As I climb the stairs, I’m starting to itch all over. By the time I reach the classroom, my throat has closed, my forehead is damp, my legs are shaky and my eyes are burning.

Could I be allergic to the arts? Maybe it’s like an extreme version of hay fever – I’m so repelled by anything creative that simply being in this building is causing my entire body to break down.

Gently, I push open the door. Outstretched on the floor are eight people roughly my age – flat on their backs, eyes closed, arms by their sides. For a second, it looks like the end of a Shakespearean tragedy, until I realise they’re all humming quietly.

‘Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.’

‘Come in!’ The teacher beckons me over with a whisper-shout. He’s almost entirely silver: salt-and-pepper hair and beard, grey jumper, charcoal trousers, like a thespian wizard. ‘Find a space! No talking!’

I blink at the room. What space?

Taking my trainers off, I tiptoe in socks through the outstretched humans. ‘Excuse me,’ I whisper. ‘Sorry. Sorry, just going to put my foot— God, sorry, was that your finger?’

The teacher frowns, so I quickly lie down in the corner in a bent L-shape, close my eyes and start to obediently mmmmmmmmmmmmm.

‘Ooooooooooooooooooo,’ the teacher announces loudly.

‘Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo,’ says the class.

‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.’

‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.’

‘Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.’

‘Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.’

‘Go with the flow. Feel the sound change as it moves to different parts of your body. Each sound produces a new vibration – explore how you feel in each state.’

‘Mmmmmmmmmmm – oooooooooooo – eeeeeeeee—’

Opening my eyes, I make an executive decision to sit out this nonsense and wait until the actual acting class starts. I already do yoga: there’s only so much hippy rubbish one person can take.

‘Right!’ There’s a loud clap. ‘Up! Walk round the room! Make eye contact! You’re walking down a road! The sun is out!’

Bouncing to my feet, I obediently start walking in random semicircles. My classmates lock eyes with me one by one and blink, startled – What the hell is Faith Valentine doing here? – so I blush and stare at the floor.

‘It’s raining! Thunder! Lightning!’

My peers immediately start running, holding imaginary coats over their heads, peering up at the skies, flinching at fictional rumbles. I copy them, even though all I can hear is a clunking generator outside.

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