A Very Nice Girl by Imogen Crimp

Author:Imogen Crimp [Crimp, Imogen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Published: 2021-12-01T16:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

The Director didn’t bother to introduce himself. He strolled into the space, casual, like he might have come to borrow a music stand. He leant against the piano and looked at his watch, stared out of the window. A minute or two passed, while everyone kept chatting, and then he shouted that the rehearsal was meant to have started by now and could we all please kindly shut the fuck up and stop wasting his time. The Shock Factor. The cast fell instantly silent. The Director was a pro. He knew exactly how to work a room.

Let’s all get to know each other a bit then, shall we? – he sneered, then he began to shout instructions. – Pair up. One of you lead. Choose an emotion. Show the other person that emotion. No talking. None at all. If you’re being led, watch closely. Sense the feeling. Feel it too. Once you’ve got it, swap. That’s it. Let’s go.

In silence, we paired up and decided who would lead. Most did so by pointing, mostly to themselves.

This is an exercise in empathy – the Director tutted performatively, as he stalked round the room. – Pay attention to your colleagues. This isn’t fucking mime.

I was with Frankie. We looked into each other’s faces for what felt like a very long time, then he gave a little smile and seemed confused. I tried to seem the same. The Director stood and stared, and nobody moved.

What emotion was that meant to be? – I asked, when he’d finally moved on.

Wasn’t I following you? – said Frankie.

So just so we’re clear – the Director said, when he’d seen each pair. – I don’t give a fuck about your process. That’s your job, not mine. So sure, you’re at music college, but let’s get one thing straight – I’m not a fucking teacher. A show – he said. – Now, that I can do. I can give you a show. But the process is yours. I don’t do tears. I don’t do personal lives. I don’t do backstory. I don’t do excuses. I just do the show. Do we all understand?

Everyone nodded to show they understood.

But the one thing I will say is this – he said. – Some of you, by the looks of things, really need to get a fucking process. There will not be one singer on my stage who shakes their fist to show they’re angry. Understand? Who cries to show they’re sad. Think, all of you, please, about how real people behave in the real fucking world. Look. Pay attention. Watch. It’s only people pretending to be angry who shake their fists. Manipulative cunts cry. Do some research please – he said – on human fucking nature.

That night, I watched Max closely. He was cooking, and I sat on the sofa and watched him, casual, cross-legged, book in hand, trying to look like I wasn’t. I watched him light up his phone on the kitchen counter, and scroll, checking something – a recipe, perhaps, though I’d never seen him use one.

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