at a long table, watching our progress and taking notes.
It was after lunch that the tension in the building heightened, whispers cascading from ear to ear as news spread that Mr Atwood had finally arrived. Iggy’s studio took up the entire top floor of a large Victorian building in central London; it included one large practice room, several smaller ones, dressing rooms with showers, and a few offices. I wondered where they’d sequestered Damon Atwood.
I summoned up an image from the movies of his that I’d seen. He’d been young, but I remembered he was tall, with dark hair and deep, soulful brown eyes. Though who knew what he was looking like these days.
I often found that child actors looked odd when they got older. Not because their appearances were particularly unusual, but more because you were so used to seeing their faces as children that it was strange when their features transformed into adulthood.
Case in point: Macaulay Culkin.
“I heard he lives in a tiny little cottage and works on the fishing boats that operate out of the island for no pay. Why anyone would want to work on a stinky fishing trawler when they’ve got millions sitting in the bank is beyond me,” said a woman sitting a few feet away from me as we took our break. I recognised her from the chorus line.
“But can you imagine him working?” said another. “I saw him arrive out front a half hour ago. Boy has grown up good.”
I shamelessly continued listening to them gossip for the next ten minutes as I chomped on some Bombay mix. Then Jacob flounced into the room once more, several assistants heavy on his heels, and took a seat at the long table.
There was some frenzied chatting between him and the choral director, an older woman named Maura. Turning to one of his assistants, he gave some instructions and the girl hurried from the room. When she returned, a hush fell over the studio as she escorted a tall man inside. His brown hair was long and came to just below his ears. Some heavy stubble dusted his face, and he wore scuffed, workman’s clothes: a long grey coat and steel toe–capped boots. Despite his distinctly laid-back appearance, I sensed a special aura from him, that certain je ne sais quoi they called star quality.
This was Damon Atwood, and he was entirely unexpected.
He didn’t look weird to me, like grown child actors normally did. No, he looked like his previous incarnation had been a costume and this was his true self come to fruition.
“Well, then, Mr Atwood, let’s see what we have to work with,” said Jacob, a pad of paper in his lap and a pen poised at his lips. “Have you prepared a song?”
Damon nodded but didn’t speak. There was a stoicism about him, his dark brows drawing a distinctive line across his forehead. He stood at the front of the studio and shot a look to the assistant as she hit a button on the sound system. Music began to play, the intro to “Nature Boy.”
When he opened his mouth to sing, he didn’t sound how I thought he would. His voice was a revelation, more Nat King Cole than Ewan McGregor, and the tiny hairs on my arms stood on end as I suddenly found myself leaning forward to listen. He had my undivided attention.
Man, his singing was like aural caramel, smooth, thick, and undeniably sultry. The entire room was held rapt by his performance, barely an intake of breath to be heard. Damon stared at his feet half the time, almost as though he was too shy to face us. Still, it felt like somebody so large, somebody with such a strikingly masculine appearance, couldn’t possibly be self-conscious. It was only as he sang the last line that he finally looked up, and somehow his eyes locked on mine, like he sensed my spellbound attention.
The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.
Goosebumps rose on my skin.
When he finished there was a beat of silence, like everyone had been struck speechless.
Jacob cleared his throat. “Well, you definitely won’t need a voice coach,” he said, eyeing Maura with a pleased expression. I was slightly annoyed that he hadn’t taken a moment to compliment Damon on his performance. Describing it as life-altering wasn’t even an exaggeration. Directors, unfortunately, were often desensitised to greatness, spending their lives amid the highly talented and beautiful as they did.