Lucky Break takes a group of would-be actors from their first day at drama school to life in their thirties, nursing scars and babies, triumphs and dashed hopes. By the end, some swan down the red carpet, while others (metaphorically, at least) flip burgers. The big question, of course, is: do we care? Are the tribulations of a bunch of actors compelling? Or are they self-absorbed bores?
Nell, the most sympathetic and the central character, struggles with low self-esteem. Next to the beauties at Drama Arts, she feels dumpy and insignificant. Her tall, stunning friend Charlie, meanwhile, seems destined for stardom.
To make matters worse, Nell falls for the handsome Dan — out of her league, and in love with Jemma, another drama-school beauty. After two years of “inhabiting” characters, many of the students will be chucked out — only a select few will graduate. We follow them past this milestone and into “real life”, where they get agents (or not), traipse to auditions, star in weird foreign films and episodes of Casualty, find other careers, or hit the big time.
If this all sounds light, it is — but deceptively so. This is hard to put down, moreish; the prose can feel positively chick-lit at times (“Charlie Adedayo-Martin was the most beautiful girl in their year”, “Marvella, with her sultry, bee-stung mouth”, “Jemma with her tangle of blonde curls”). In other hands, all this could be utter fluff. But Freud is a subtle and observant writer. She enjoys a distinctly highbrow following because, beneath these rather fey touches, she is busy sticking fingers into the darkness, probing the sore, grey areas of human relationships, unearthing our unappealing motivations and fears. And she is very good at it.
None of this is particularly overt. Early on, for instance, three of the bright young things are bonding over whisky macs in the pub. Nell says: “Maybe we should set up our own company. The three of us!” But then, “a shadow loomed over their table”. A man from the bar leans over them and, in a low voice, says: “You’re full of s***.” More people arrive, separating the friends, and the chapter ends: “Nell lost sight of them in the crush.” This is what lifts Freud’s novels. She refuses to overstate. Instead, she leaves things dangling, drops hints and suggestions; makes it all just a bit uncomfortable.
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It is hard to warm to most of these characters. They are largely self-obsessed and their quest for stardom can seem empty. But this, one would imagine, is deliberate. Freud herself started out as a would-be actress (she was kicked out of drama school). She also happens to be married to the actor David Morrissey. These autobiographical elements make the novel all the more poignant — and, presumably, realistic. The hideous rivalries and instant bonding, the desperation and elation, the self-loathing and puff feel convincing. Ultimately, it does not matter whether you care deeply what happens to these people; the journey is the point. And it is weirdly compelling.
Esther Freud is at the Sunday Times Oxford Literary Festival on Wednesday, April 6, at 6pm. To book, visit www.oxfordliteraryfestival.com