—•✦--✦--✦•—
Saturday, April 24th, 1999 — Somewhere in London
We landed in London Heathrow after a quick two-hour flight. My first experience flying was about as tame as it came. Nain tried to get me to look out the window seat she'd specifically purchased for me. But, I barely gave it a glance before diving into my sides that I'd been faxed in Florence. Trip that took me and my grandparents almost a week of travelling by train was completed before I could even get through all my sides. Flying was convenient, way too convenient even. If things went as I planned, I'd be flying a lot more frequently and soon. The song that Cher helped me and the scene I'd had David's help in filming was sent off by an aeroplane to Canada. I had a plan to send out more. Hopefully it'd result in me being sent off by an aeroplane.
My grandparents wanted me to rest back at home. Catch up on some sleep and some off-time from working so hard. Me? I had no plan to do such things.
If my experience on set with Franco Zeffirelli had taught me anything, it was that there was no time at all for an actor to do much of anything while booked and filming. As much as my Granddad talked down Kent, it was still in England and Britain. Commonwealth law applied here, one of them was incredible law that limited my working hours. A law that I was planning to take full advantage of when I'm out in the middle of nowhere in Kent.
Already, I was making calls to my contacts starting with Georgie. I needed a reading partner and an acting coach for the other auditions I needed to have filmed and sent off. The taxi trip took ages, almost half the time of the flight. Daylight was burning, so I kept hurrying everyone. My attitude got the attention of my grandparents.
"You've got a problem, Wilf. You do," Nain chided.
"My only problem is that this ride's taking ages!" I shot back.
"Sorry, lad, but I've no control over the traffic," the driver apologised, eyes on the road.
"What's gotten into you?" Granddad asked, leaning forward to study me.
"I've got to film some self-tapes," I explained for what felt like the hundredth time.
"You can film them in Kent. We can bring your camera."
"I'll need the lights too. They are impossible to bring," I countered, folding my arms.
"You're not shooting a serious film. It's an audition tape," Granddad tried.
"I need to catch the eye. These are huge films. Lights make all the difference."
"There'll always be huge films, Wilf. Why don't we grab a nice lunch, eh? We could even go back to Chester and see your parents, if you want. Drive to Kent from there."
"Chester?" I harrumphed. "That eats too much time. I need to see Georgie — I want her to come over and help me film. But she's not picking up her phone."
"She's got her life, probably busy auditioning herself. You can't expect everyone to drop everything for your plans." Nain remarked,
I shoved my phone into my pocket, frustration bubbling inside me.
"Even Gilles isn't picking up." I added,
"Heavens, who did Wilf take after? Just a child and already so obsessed with work — this isn't right. It just isn't," Nain sighed.
Granddad smiled knowingly; I already knew the line coming.
"That's the mine in him, that. He is mine grandson," Granddad declared with great wisdom.
"Ughh," Nain and I groaned in unison.
I needed to prepare for Billy Elliot, and there was only one person I trusted for it. How much would it cost to bring Gilles to Kent? I cared not for the cost. Ballet classes whenever I wasn't shooting. Days when I had tutoring or had to sit out because of working limits — Gilles could handle all the dances with me. He could help with the acting too; he was brilliant with emotional works. Billy needed fire, pressure, rage — and Gilles could draw all that out of me. Sometimes, him speaking was enough to bring all of that out of me.
"We've lost him again," Granddad said, shaking his head.
As soon as we were home, I'd have to get to Vauxhall.
"Granddad," I said, turning to him, "can you drive me to Vauxhall?"
"You won't even let your pops rest…" Nain sighed dramatically.
"Well?" I pressed.
Clive Price gave me a long look before nodding in resignation.
"Thank you!" I said, leaning over to hug him.
"God, he's become so transactional," Granddad complained, though he hugged me tightly all the same. "If I'd said no, he'd have been shooting me the stink eye and being a right brat all day long."
—✦—
Saturday, April 24th, 1999 — La Compagnie Lagarde, Vauxhall, London
When my Granddad's Vauxhall drove under the Vauxhall train tracks, I already knew something was wrong. The usual empty street that La Compagnie Lagarde occupied had cars parked up and down the street. It was a Saturday, the offices around here wouldn't be open. Did Gilles suddenly become a famous teacher?
My feet carried me towards the studio. I saw two older people outside taking a smoke. I gave the obnoxious mural art a disdainful look as was proper. Inside in the reception area I saw there were almost a dozen more people sitting and chatting along. La Compagnie Lagarde had a hit a record amount of pupils, though that was never hard with mostly me haunting these halls. No, the meter had blown up. This was a stampede.
Aurélie's mouth fell open when she saw me.
"What are you doing here, Wilfe?" she asked. Her French accent was faint, but she always pronounced my name with far more Frenchness than necessary.
"Hello, Aurélie! Great to see you too. I need to see Georgie and Gilles — it's urgent," I said.
"Is it urgent enough to interrupt a class?"
"What class?" I asked, even as I glanced around.
"African dancing classes," Aurélie said with a twinkling laugh.
"African dance?" I echoed — then clocked that everyone milling in and out of the studio was Black or, at the very least, a person of colour.
Aurélie curled a finger, beckoning me closer. She leaned in and whispered, mischievous as ever:
"Lion King."
"Right! I'd forgotten all about that." Italy had been chaos incarnate; some part of me was still in Firenze.
"How was Italy?"
"Benissimo!" I announced, then moved on just as quickly. "They're both busy, are they?"
"Yes. David's free, though," Aurélie offered.
I considered it. As much as I needed training, acrobatics wasn't the priority. Still — that one scene with a single front flip mixed into tap and ballet… It would be incredible to enhance it with a proper tumble. The idea was tempting, juicy even. But I couldn't now, could I? I'd need a proper warm-up, and my body wasn't in the right shape yet. I'd eaten a lot in Italy, it was tasty food. Sue me. Self-tapes came first. And on top of that, I had an entire TV movie to shoot soon.
"When will they be free?"
"They've only just started. You can join the class if you don't want to wait."
"Me? In African dance class?" I said, utterly bewildered. "Me. In African dance…" I repeated, as if saying it out loud would make it less absurd.
Aurélie watched me with those enormous round brown eyes of hers. Those eyes reminded me that I needed to get some practice in. Though I had no plan for any African project at the moment, dance was still dance.
"Yes! Count me in. I think I need to buy a pair of slippers, though — I didn't bring my bag."
"No problem, we'll put it and the class on your tab. Though soon you won't be our biggest spender!" she sang.
I glanced around at the parents dotted along the corridor — the same energy I knew from casting offices and rehearsal halls. These were hopeful Lion King parents, which meant their kids were training hard for one of the biggest musicals in existence, a show that would probably outlive us all. A far better jump-start to a career than Dolittle, that was for sure.
"Here." Aurélie shoved a ballet slipper into my hand.
"Thanks," I said, giving her a grateful smile.
"Studio Un," she instructed, pointing down the corridor.
"Ugh, so pretentious," I muttered, shaking my head.
Rhythms I'd never heard in any other dance class pulsed from behind the studio door — proper African dance, taught by the most French person I had ever met. How wild was that?
I cracked open the heavy studio doors and was immediately blasted by the thundering pulse of drums. At the front, a man was hammering a proper war drum — real leather, real hide, ropes pulled taut to make a goblet shape. Gilles stood before the class in a proud, dramatic pose, launching into a tribal routine that looked utterly absurd coming from him — the most French person in existence. Eleven kids — Six boys, five girls — copied him eagerly.
"Imagine a clock face! We go around ze clock. Right foot, twelve o'clock. Right foot, three o'clock. Yes, we go around ze clock, we go. Excellent—"
Gilles clocked me straight away as soon as I entered. He dropped everything, though he still made sure to finish his eight count. I imagined, he'd say something like how he wasn't so savage to stop mid-beat.
"—Wilfred!" Gilles bellowed down the room, making sure to Frenchify my name.
"I suppose he couldn't let me join without drama…" I muttered under my breath.
I was already in dance clothes, bar my jacket and shoes. I ignored Gilles entirely as I slipped into my ballet slippers and shrugged off my jacket.
"He was on Hammersmith Apollo for Doctor Dolittle, all thanks to my instruction!" Gilles announced to the class as if delivering a sermon. "Very bad when he came in, but now he is almost… tolerable. And it only took a year! All thanks to moi skilled and professional teaching."
I shook my head and moved into line.
"Are you sure you're in ze right class?" Gilles asked, eyeing me up and down.
"This is Studio Un, is it not?"
"Non. This is Studio Africa. Studio 'artlands. Our motherland. You look far too pale to be here. Are you auditioning for Lion King and I have not heard of it?"
I'd been gone less than two weeks and had somehow forgotten exactly how obnoxious he could be at times.
"Afraid not. But I'd love to learn," I said my face a mask,
"Should we accept him, pupils?" Gilles asked, sweeping an arm at the class.
The kids murmured their agreement. One more body clearly didn't bother them.
"Excellent. He is not as good as ze Dominicana, but you can see ze minimum improvements I expect from all of you, in time. So watch him. Now, let us pick up where we left off."
He launched back into the clock-face explanation — laughably simple even without the great analogy. African dance wasn't about technicality; it was rhythm, emotions and the beat vibrating up through the body. Step forward, step back, step sideways, pivot — but everything was dialled up to the nines, every movement large, expressive, utilising full-body instead of just footwork like other dance styles.
"Three and four… six o'clock, twelve o'clock. Now use ze hands! Strong hands — commit into it. Follow me!"
We finally reached the sequence he'd been doing when I entered — something tribal, reminiscent of a haka that Maoris did, though the live drum gave it a distinct African weight, nothing like the rugby versions I'd seen.
"Double time!" Gilles shouted.
That was when the simple dance turned hard. Difficulty which had nothing to do with how hard the movements were. It was all about how tiring it was to move back and forth with so much energy and expressiveness. I'd not warmed up so I started to flag behind.
"Double time again!" Gilles shouted — unmistakably to punish me.
That was when it truly became difficult. By the time we stopped for another round of instructions on a more complex sequence, I was breathing hard. Gilles, of course, didn't spare me so much as a glance nor much time to catch my breath. He simply demonstrated and carried on.
"Pivot, pivot! Jumps, jumps. Grounded — falling — and rise up!"
I immediately regretted joining a session already in full swing. With Gilles I was used to private, one-to-one lessons; here, surrounded by kids, he had an entire new arsenal of sadism to experiment with.
"Wilfred! You seem to be, eh what's ze word, struggling, yes? Do you want a leetle rest?" he called out, voice brimming with false kindness.
"No—! I… I'm— fine!"
"Great! Then let us incorporate another move. Hands up to ze sky, sideways, and swing it. Like zis!" He demonstrated with infuriating ease and freshness.
Inside, I cursed him. He'd put me on the spot, challenged me outright. I hadn't danced properly in two weeks, but I still had over a year of training behind me — theatre work, relentless practice, discipline. These kids weren't my competition. But I was flagging, I had to keep up. Sweat rolled down my brow. Sweat, plural. I was shamefully out of practice. Shamefully, full of pasta, pizza, bistecca, lampredotto.
"How about we go back to square un? Back and forth — simplify! Add more power to zose hops," Gilles sang.
I clenched my teeth. He'd deliberately taken us back to the most exhausting section. My thighs and shins burned. Gilles caught my eye and smiled — an oily, annoying expression. People spoke of punchable faces, I found that the saying had truth today.
"Great job, Luke! You're really getting the timing right. Stay fluid — just like that! Pippa, incroyable—"
We continued for another fifteen minutes, dancing in bursts. Eventually I settled into the rhythm. Exhaustion racked my limbs, but I was deep in the momentum of the dance, it was enough to carry me. A short minute here and there while Gilles demonstrated was all the respite I got. My breathing eased, my focus drifted I could afford to, and I finally noticed the group around me — all Black kids. The next generation of Lion King hopefuls.
I hadn't seen the musical — Broadway and Japan, too far for me to have went — but I knew there were only two child roles, both Black roles, which meant this wasn't a role I could compete for, it was denied to me at birth. But Black actors had the same issue with every other role — so who was I to feel hard done by? Gilles had left France because of racism, struggled even with his prodigious talent, and even turned to teaching to make ends meet.
One boy kept drawing my eye. Luke — the one Gilles had complimented. Gilles never handed out praise lightly. Was he simply gentler with them, or just particularly cruel to me?
None of that was what truly bothered me. Luke looked familiar. Maddeningly so. Yet my mind found no hook, no spark, not even a revelation — only a quiet, persistent tug of recognition I couldn't place. That tug had nothing to do with the buzz I got from revelations either. It was solely my own memory.
"Let's cool down, everyone! Just like after ballet. Good job, kids — we'll make proper cubs of you yet," Gilles announced with a neat little golf clap.
I shot him a stink-eye. Gilles, naturally, didn't bother meeting it. He kept that smug, self-satisfied grin, as if I'd be jealous of a roomful of kids. Fat chance of that. Still, the cloud of irritation hung over me. I wanted him in Kent with me. It was a tough preposition already with him having just opened a new studio. But now he had nearly a dozen kids relying on him, a responsibility that he had to keep. There was no way I'd find another teacher of his calibre. Not quickly anyway. And not at all in Kent.
"Hey!" the boy — Luke — called as we jogged in slow circles around the studio.
"Hi," I waved back.
"I saw you shooting me glances. You've got a problem with me?" His tone was joking more than anything.
"Thought I recognised you. Do we know each other?" I dropped back to run beside him.
He studied my face, "No, don't think so,"
"Huh."
We shuffled through a few more lazy laps until the jog descended into a walk.
"Static stretches!" Gilles barked.
Luke plonked himself down right in front of me — odd, considering everyone else was in a circle. He didn't mind being the centre of attention.
"Are you mistaking me for someone else 'cause I'm Black and we all look alike?" he asked.
"What? No! I just thought you looked familiar!" I spluttered.
"Relax, I'm only pulling your leg, mate."
I was frozen for a few seconds staring at the grinning boy in front of me.
"Honestly, I can't catch a break today," I muttered, shaking my head.
"It's a class full of Black kids — I mean, I didn't think you thought that way." He grinned. "I'm Luke, by the way." He held out his hand.
"Wilfred," I said, going in for a shake — only for him to tap my hand instead.
"You're really behind on your Black culture," Luke teased.
"Is this another one of your jokes?"
"Sort of."
"But seriously — what's your full name? I swear I know you."
"Luke Youngblood. What's yours? Are you from Westminster?"
"No, I'm a Price. From Chester."
"Where's that?"
We traded the usual background details. Luke was ridiculously cool and absurdly confident for a boy of eleven. He'd only just started at Sylvia, a posh theatre school. His family was from Kenya. He'd been in Oliver! — in the West End — when he was seven. He rattled off all his family members as if reading a call sheet. I shared mine, it was lot shorter than his. Nothing clicked despite all the information. No revelation. No sudden remembrance. The nagging feeling just stayed there, stubborn to leave. Was jet lag possible after a two-hour flight?
"So who's this Dominicana Gilles kept praising?" I asked, turning to an easier mystery to solve.
"It's a girl. Nathalie. She's so good she's been banned from class."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. She did one session and Gilles complimented her the whole time. He looked proper jealous." Luke flashed a cheeky grin — that grin. Familiar. Frustratingly so.
"Anyway, it's been two weeks. We only see her at the start and sometimes at the end. We think she's in a more advanced class. But Gilles won't tell anything."
"That doesn't make sense — Gilles is the best teacher here."
Luke just shrugged.
I'd been replaced as his star pupil — after only two weeks. Brilliant. And why was I feeling a pang of jealousy over some mystery girl who'd apparently made Gilles redundant as a teacher?
"Good job, everyone!" Gilles called out. "Zat's ze end of week two at Cub Academy! We've got eight more weeks. Remember, even if you're not selected, you'll have learned a ton. So don't stress — enjoy yourselves, learn, improve. Zat is how you get parts, even if Lion King isn't possible."
The kids buzzed with excitement, chattering in their little groups. They were apparently fine with competing for a part. They'd had a solid day, but leaving was clearly the highlight based on their expressions. Thankfully, Luke stuck by me, making me feel a little less singled out and lone.
"What's he talking about?" I asked him.
"Cub Academy. They're trying something new. Three classes like this — thirty-two kids total. Only four girls and four boys get the parts in the end. But all the classes are free!" Luke laughed.
Free. These kids were getting professional training for nothing. My family scraped to pay for mine. 'Bad Wilf', I cursed. Comparison was the thief of joy. No point sulking — I'd landed brilliant work recently, I had no right to complain. Stupid kid brain and stupid jealousy.
"I've got to head off now, Will," Luke said. "Will I see you again?" He grinned, the same familiar grin.
This time, I recognised him. The one time I'd given up on trying to remember who he was. Luke Youngblood, kid I didn't know by name because my revelation didn't know that detail about him. I knew almost everything about Harry Potter but some roles were small as Luke's role in Harry Potter was. He was Jordan Lee, the boy who did commentary for the Quidditch matches.
My grin matched Luke's own Cheshire one.
"We won't just see each other again. We will work together." I promised,
Luke's eyes got wide at my promise. For the first time, my revelations didn't prick about me trying to reveal something. That was something. I had no intention to reveal anything and it hadn't hit me with the full-body seize spell that it usually threw my way. Revelations worked by intent, I realised. Luke shook his head slowly and he had this expression of pity on his face. His hands grasped my shoulder as if delivering grave news.
"You know Lion King is an all-Black cast, right?" Luke asked, tone pitiful.
"Yes…" I replied slowly, not sure where he was going with this.
"Wilfred. You do realise you're not Black?" He said as if I was a boy being told that Santa wasn't real.
"God, you're annoying." I laughed, shoving away his hands.
Luke and I could be friends. He had the right kind of humour, older than me, and had that mix of sass and confidence most kids my age lacked.
"See you next time," I said, giving him a quick hug.
One by one the kids trickled out, until it was just me and Gilles left in the empty studio.
"Wilfred Price. 'Ow nice of you to show your face around 'ere," Gilles remarked.
"Har-har. What's going on with you? I wanted to hire you out to Kent so I can get some ballet and tap lessons."
"Kent? Why would I go zere? Too close to France." He sniffled dramatically.
"Are you mocking me? Because I genuinely don't get it."
"Non, never mind zat. I have ascended, Wilfred, mon garçon. I am now on West End! On ze biggest show. And best of all, I've scammed zem into giving me more money to teach a whole load of kids. Fifty new students! Too many to teach on my own — Aurélie handles the ones not in ze academy." Gilles burst out laughing, delighted with himself.
I stared, stunned at Gilles' expression. Turns out even stone could be bled. Apparently this cruel man could feel relief when his star finally started rising. And because he'd taught me well, I had no choice but to put him down a peg — the way he always did with me whenever I got too pleased with myself.
"What role did you land?" I asked, casual.
"Dance captain and a swing," he replied, breezy as anything.
"Couldn't land a principal role?" I grinned, knowing exactly where to jab now. It would land between his ribs.
He shrugged, far too casual. He knew what I was doing and was batting me away with ease. Annoyingly, he even displayed that clearly with his smile afterwards.
"I got offered a principal role. But zen I wouldn't be dance captain."
"You gave up a principal role to be a dance captain?" I said, genuinely taken aback.
"Indeed. It means I get thirty-two students guaranteed. All paying full price, thanks to Disney's deep pockets." Gilles cackled like a mad villain.
I eyed him. Financially, that was definitely better than a principal role — or sounded like it. So why did he keep waffling? Something smelled off, and it wasn't the studio.
"Hm…" I murmured as he rambled on and on.
He went on about the programme being ten weeks, how he hooked in extra kids from the open audition. How he now had fifty students. Fifty. He kept repeating the number like a dodgy car salesman trying to upsell me. Was he expecting praise? Gilles never rambled like this. He was lying about that principal offer — he had to be.
"Sorry," I cut in, "what role were you offered? I didn't quite catch it."
His smile collapsed as if yanked off his face. No — he had been acting. Blimey! He was actually good when he put the effort in. Too bad, he only did it for his sinister acts.
"Banzai," Gilles coughed.
"What? That sounds Japanese."
"He is one of ze hyenas," he muttered, eyes averting away.
"Hyenas? Like one of the dumb ones the bossy female one orders around?" My volume rose as understanding dawned.
"Oh my god — I can see it! A hyena. It really suits you. Lord… What a casting choice!" I burst out laughing.
"No laughing in ze class." He sniffed,
"Laughing like how you cackled! Also, class is over, Gilles."
"You call me Maestro," Gilles huffed.
"A hyena! You even look like one when you're like this." I cackled right in his face.
"Merde… arrête tes bêtises!" Gilles snapped.
I only laughed harder.
"'Ave you finished?" he finally asked once I calmed enough to breathe.
"Yes. Mr Hyena — or is it Banzai?"
"Oh, stop it. It's unbecoming. Now tell me, why 'ave you come?" he grumbled.
"Like I said, I came to hire you out to Kent. I've got a role — a huge role coming up." I emphasised the word. "If you know someone who can teach me privately for a few weeks — I'll pay and put them up in Kent. There's choreography and everything. I need it to be perfect, I need a coach."
"You book one film and now you're tossing money around like sweets? 'Ave you lost your mind?"
"It's not tossing money away," I insisted. "If I get this role, it'll make me famous and not in some superficial way. I'll get critical acclaim. If I can do it right."
"Eh. It's not Lion King," Gilles muttered, lying to himself.
He had no idea what I knew — and I couldn't exactly tell him. He fell silent, thinking, then smiled slowly as he got his solution.
"I 'ave just ze person for you. I 'ave been wanting to fire zem for some time."
Maybe Luke's grin earlier had primed me, but Gilles' grin proved infectious. Before I knew it, I was grinning right back.
—✦—
"Why don't you go in?" Gilles said, giving me a gentle shove.
Nerves prickled under my skin. This was the advanced class — the one with his new favourite student. Gilles never offered things like this, at least to me. Which is to say that something suspicious was afoot. I tread carefully.
I knocked. The noise inside cut off at once. A click, a twist of the knob—
"Ahh!" I yelped as the door swung open.
A woman pulled a grotesque face straight out of a horror film, then immediately swapped it for a grin.
"Hiya, Wilfy! Who's scared you off?" Georgie chirped.
"You! God, I forgot how insufferable you can be."
"Where do you learn these phrases? Your grandad? You should spend more time with kids your age."
"Zat is ze plan!" Gilles declared, shoving me fully into the room. "One new student for you~!"
I whipped round to glare at him, but the door slammed shut in my face.
The studio was the same size as Georgie's usual space, but we weren't alone. She was here — the new favourite. The usurper. My new arch-nemesis.
Except… I recognised her. Exactly as she appeared in my memories. My revelations stirred, sharp and insistent — the ones I'd been avoiding all this time. Harry Potter had been plenty to obsess over; another massive franchise had felt like too much. But now those visions came anyway.
"Hi," the girl said shyly.
"Hi," I muttered back, still reeling as the revelations unfurled in my mind.
"Come on, introductions. Manners maketh man," Georgie said brightly.
"I'm Wilfred Price." I extended a hand.
"Nathalie Emmanuel. Pleased." She shook it gently.
I didn't need to be told that. I knew that name. I knew her. Even at this age, she looked just like the older version lodged in my memory — only destined to grow even more stunning.
"Er—I'm playing Nala in The Lion King. Nala means 'gift' in Swahili, but it can also mean 'cherished'. Oh! I'm from the Dominican Republic, not Africa. I don't speak Swahili. Well— actually I was born here. So I'm English. Oh my god, please don't tell anyone I've already booked the role! I'm not supposed to say anything until the academy finishes." She rattled on, nerves spilling out in a rush.
Nala meant gift. The revelation finally finished with me. Game of Thrones, the story I'd been saving for later. The one, I'd just seen to the end. Nathalie had given me a gift without even realising it. But I wouldn't understand how much this day mattered until years afterwards. The man I'd become, the purpose I would serve. It was all hatched that day. For now, she was the gift. My rival. My Nala.
I smiled at the fluttery girl at the edge of tears. She was so good that she'd booked the role outright. Good enough that thirty kids were fighting to be her second. They just didn't know it. I almost felt bad for them.
"I'm from Chester. You're Dominican, right? Do you speak Spanish?" I asked, eager — too eager.
Her gift could keep on giving. Her island, Dominica, tiny jewel in the Caribbean — maybe her Spanish could give me a hint. What my accent was supposed to be. Where my revelation-self had their roots. What Caribbean Spanish even sounded like could help me place myself.
Nathalie flushed and folded inward.
"Sorry, I only speak English. My mum tried teaching me, but I was too busy dancing."
I wasn't even disappointed, I couldn't be. I wanted to know everything about her. My mouth started moving before she'd even finished her rattles. For some reason, Georgie kept shooting me a cheeky grin — But, I paid her no mind.
I'd found my rival at last.