The Roommates. Rachel Sargeant

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      Imogen

      Thank you for auditioning for JC Superstar. Unfortunately, we cannot offer you a part. Show tickets available mid-November. Please get in touch if you can help with sales.

      The same message was sent to her on email as well as text, but with the added bonus of a list of the successful actors. It’s gone around Imo’s mind so many times that she’s learnt the cast list off by heart. The first name was Doris Evans as Mary Magdalene. The audition usher got the star part.

      She had left the kitchen to read the text in her room. It’s what she deserves. How could she have pranced around that stage like the Imogen from before? How could she forget, even for a second? Her head thumps and she needs caffeine. She heard Tegan and Phoenix return to their rooms a while ago so heads as quietly as she can to the kitchen.

      The bloody kettle won’t boil. She realizes the flex isn’t switched on at the wall. Tegan’s harsh words fill her head. Imo gets everything wrong. How could she mistake a mature student, standing outside his hall, for a stalker? She’d never have dreamed up something so outlandish a year ago. She was normal back then.

      She pours her tea and some of the hot water misses the mug. She finds a stinky dishcloth on the draining board and mops the wet patch. Chucks the cloth in the bin and wishes she could climb in after it. When she’s slopped enough water over her coffee granules, she heads out with her mug.

      Amber’s door is open and Imo stands stock still in the hallway. She has a moment of fury. She’s been worried sick, left countless messages, made a fool of herself in front of her flatmates and now Amber’s back without a word of apology. Intending to tell Amber exactly what she thinks of her, Imo marches up the hall.

      But it’s a male voice she hears coming from Amber’s room. “We can let you have some cardboard boxes.” The accent is local. “It doesn’t all have to be out today. We can give you another week.”

      “That’s kind of you.” A female voice, older, strained. “I’ll take what I can and pack the rest. My other daughter will collect it next week.”

      “Right you are, love. Let me just deliver these and I’ll get you the boxes.” The man steps into the hallway. He’s in an Abbeythorpe maintenance team shirt and carrying three parcels. “Morning, love,” he says cautiously to Imo.