CHAPTER Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jimmy hated auditions. They were an exercise in mutual humiliation. You sat behind a rickety table, in a musty rehearsal room, and pretended to be interested in the resumes of a dismal procession of drama school drop outs, who pretended to be interested in your film.

Because it was an Indie horror film, none of the agents they contacted sent their brightest or best. The guy they’d just seen had nothing but extras work on his resume. The highlight of which was a Swedish advert for haemorrhoid cream in which he’d been: “at the front of the queue of people who pushed their way out of the lift at the end.” This gave him a “full second close up in the lengthier cut.” The saddest thing was that, although abysmal, he wasn’t the worst person they’d seem that day.

The next two actors pulled a no-show.

“Maybe that’s a blessing,” said Jimmy. “Let’s just knock it on the head and go down to the pub.”

“No,” said Sam, ever practical. “We’ll give them ten more minutes then we’ll go