You should have seen the morning editions. A wonder to behold! declared both the Telegraph and The Times. Luminous! So ran the one-word verdict in the Guardian. Total Theatre agreed. An actress already touched by greatness. More please and soon! In no time it seemed every theatre critic was gushing to the gills so enraptured were they all. The consensus: A star is born.
And this is how it has been. All the parts you and me spent countless hours with. Lady Macbeth. Ophelia. Turns with Chekhov’s Three Sisters. I’ve even alternated in the roles of Martha and Honey for a sell-out run of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Henry Balsam-Cumberfeld, the well-known super-agent, flew across the world to see me perform this daring stunt, and in my dressing room after the final performance he offered me the sun, moon and stars. Of course, I hmmmmed and aaahed, and the most powerful agent in show business went down on bended knees and implored me to join his stable of talent. Since then it’s all been a bit of a whirlwind.
But enough about the theatre! I’m through with all of that. From here out it’s the movies for me. Did you see my debut? (Title = Shirley Temple Killer Queen.) I play the better-looking and much cleverer half of a twin-sister assassination squad. We’ve just taken out a high-profile politician with past dealings with the terrorist organization responsible for the death of our parents. So now we’re on the run. Gun crazy we are! And we have a motto: Shoot first, and then shoot again. It caused quite the stir in this London town, my own contribution being singled out. My next one is already in the can too. (Title = Unhitched.) It’s really, really good. I mean they are really bigging up this one. Can’t say too much at the moment (Sir Henry – that’s what I call him – has me sworn to secrecy), but already there’s talk of awards. Silver Bear. Palme d’Or. The Golden Tiger or whatever that thing is they give out in Venice. There is even talk of – I hardly dare say the word – Oscar. And there I go putting the hex on everything. We’re off to Venice tomorrow, actually. Me and Henry, the cast and crew. Unhitched has been selected for screening in competition. Apparently we will arrive at the red carpet by gondola! I’ll let you know how we fare out. Oh, and the London premiere is in a couple of weeks. And we’re set for a US release before the year end – you know, so it will be eligible for the *Oscars*. Imagine. Yours truly at the biggest night of the year in Tinseltown. I’ll send you tickets to the London premiere. I think I still have your address. (Do you still live by the little harbour?) Oh, bother! They are screaming for me here. They want me wearing the latest haute couture on the Venice gondola, I must dash for a fitting. Write back and let me know all your news. And I mean all. Kiss, kiss. Bang, bang. You’re dead! Mel. x
Mel. Imelda. Imelda Ebbing. Imelda J Ebbing. My acting buddy from way back (don’t know why she’s referring to me as her understudy). We were at drama school together. Hit it off from the get-go. Liked the same plays, the same movies, the same stars. We used to have so much fun playing off each other. Some of the others, though. They used to rag her all the time. About her ‘overbearing’ technique. About her ‘high’ ambition. About her name even – especially once she insisted on sticking in that middle initial. Imelda didn’t care. When the time comes I won’t need to change it. That’s what she would say. Looks like she was right about that. Funny thing her getting in touch just as my own opportunity turns up.
I’m about to click on the link at the end of her note – something about this imminent London premiere – when Jennifer comes knocking on my bedroom door. I am fully prepared to ignore her, but she keeps it up, and when at last she clocks that I have no intention of budging, the doorknob turns and in she walks.
‘May I come in?’ she says, already comfortable in the soft chair by the window, legs crossed one over the other.
Let me guess, I say to myself, not looking at her. You have been dispatched by mother to check up on me. Are taking it upon yourself, even, to unlock the door that leads inside me. Have a good goo around. Find out a secret or three. Get to the bottom of me.
‘Mam said I should check in on you. We’ve been talking away and suddenly we realized we were forgetting all about you.’
‘That’s OK,’ I say.
‘No it is not OK. Sisters don’t treat each other like that.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Laura, I want us to be friends. I want us to be able to talk to each other. Tell each other things. And I want you to know that you can tell me anything. And I mean anything.’
I must have flinched when she said that last bit, putting her dramatic emphasis on the word anything. And I can tell that she has spotted my reaction, and now she is sitting back comfortably in the window chair, and I wait for a new expression to take over her face, smug and superior. Aha, it will say. You are not at all the firecracker you’ve been made out to be. Look at you, with your knotty hair and patchy skirt. The spindly arms on you. The scratched legs. Wait ’til you see. By the end of the week I’ll have you eating out of my hands.
‘So why are you here?’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s a simple question.’
‘You know why I’m here. To spend time with you and mam. Introduce you to Juan. Let him get to know you both.’
‘Why now?’
‘What? I don’t know what you mean. It’s been on my mind for some time. I didn’t want to leave it until . . .’
‘Until what?’
‘Mam said you’ve been doing OK recently.’
‘Mam, is it?’
‘What would you like me to call her?’
‘Oh, I can think of some names.’
‘What has mam done to you?’
I decide against any more answering. Don’t want this one thinking she is getting the upper hand.
We stare silently at each other. Deciding to call a halt to this early skirmish, she throws her gaze about the room.
‘Look at all these posters.’
‘I do that sometimes, yes.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Gloria.’
‘Gloria?’
‘Swanson. Gloria Swanson.’
‘And that one?’
‘Stanwyck.’
‘What do all the black crosses mean?’
‘They’re dead.’
‘Oh, and there’s All About Eve. I’ve seen that one.’
‘You and the whole world.’
‘The Lana Turner has seen better days. She wouldn’t be very impressed with all those smudges.’
I don’t say a word to that. Just watch her eye up my posters, certain she is going to ask more about them. But no. It is back to the oh-so-polite questions.
‘Do you think you’ll be able to show me around the harbour tomorrow? I hear it’s come on since I was last here. All those cafes and bars and shops. What do you do for fun? Is there someone special I should know about? You can talk to me, you know. Anything at all. I’m a good listener.’
Hear that. Now she thinks she gets to know all about my love life. Next thing she’ll be asking for an introduction to Fleming. Picture his salivating face at that. And I can tell she is about to make a lunge for me, envelop me in those arms.
‘How long are you staying?’ I quickly ask, but she doesn’t answer. She is out of the chair, heading my way and before I have a chance to roll out of the way she is on the bed beside me and has wrapped me up and is clutching me to her chest. I get a scent of something peachy. Strands of her hair tickle my neck. She squeezes that little bit tighter, and I don’t resist her embrace the way I ought to.
Part II
ALL RIGHT, MR DEMILLE, I’M READY FOR MY CLOSE-UP
VERONICA LAKE
November 14, 1922 – July 7, 1973
aka The Peekaboo Girl
Inducted: February 8, 1960
Star address: 6918, Hollywood Blvd
Father died in industrial explosion when she was twelve
Troubled childhood. Expelled from boarding school
According to her mother, diagnosed as schizophrenic
Made seven f
ilms with Alan Ladd
Real name: Constance Frances Marie Ockelman
(note to self: she was dead right to change her name)
11
Jennifer’s arrival home means lots of visitors. Any combination of Fiona French, Yoohoo Lucy Garavan, Odd Doris and Dolores Taaffe. Already this morning, three of them have commandeered the kitchen table. Forlornly, Fiona French flosses the piercings in her ears, picks her nose and, in the hope of finding something worthwhile, gropes at every piece of food mother puts out on the table. Dolores Taaffe is in her trademark combo of red perm, zealously rouged lips and green dress. When I was little she used to tell me she was a queen and could walk on water. Do it so, I’d say to her, pointing to the harbour, and she’d look at me and say only the king could ask that of her. Odd Doris has been that way ever since the roof of her house caved in on her fifteen years ago. Sometime after that she bought our banger of a car and forgot to collect it despite handing over to mother a thousand buckaroos in cash money. Doris, mother would say over the phone, when are you going to collect your new car? Yoohoo Lucy isn’t with them. She lives just a few doors down and has hightailed it to Spain for a couple of autumn weeks to get away from the west wind. I am easily penetrated. Her words, not mine.
Jennifer is entertaining everyone with her delay-at-the-airport story and how she ended up sitting beside a-famous-who in the waiting lounge. They cocked up her booking and so they upgraded her to first class. And she got to hang out in the VIP lounge. ‘And you will never guess who sat down beside me. Go on, guess,’ she says. Fiona and Doris start to guess. ‘Bono!’ Jennifer squeals before they get very far. ‘Bono turned up.’ ‘Did you say anything to him?’ mother asks. ‘For a minute I didn’t say a thing. How could I? I was in shock. Then he looked at me, dipped his shades and smiled. Yes, he said, it’s really me. I’ve had enough and am running away from it all. Then he laughed and told me he was only joking. The band was about to embark on the South American leg of the tour and Bono wanted to do some humanitarian work, so his people had made it happen.’ ‘In the VIP lounge?’ I say, and mother glares at me. ‘He asked me what I was up to in this part of the world,’ Jennifer goes on. ‘You should have seen his face when I told him. He quizzed me for the next I don’t know how long. You know, he said, leaning into me and lowering his voice, the world doesn’t see its best people. Then he said he would mention me during his concert in La Paz. And would dedicate a song to me. Then he actually began to sing. By now, others had realized who it was and had gathered around. He wasn’t in the least bit fazed, just kept on singing. And then he reached out and held my hand. I nearly passed out. Then he took Little Juan’s hand and invited us to sing along with him. So we tried. Then others joined in. By the end of it all the entire VIP lounge was singing.’
Mother laughs. Odd Doris and Dolores laugh. Fiona French thinks it’s the best story she’s heard in ages. Then the four of them start grilling Jennifer about what else she is up to. And that is how it is. Five minutes home and already popular everywhere. In our house. Along our road. At the harbour she talks to the terrorists, takes their picture, points out a nice view of a boat on the water, tips them off to places not mentioned in the guidebooks, places pointed out to her by her array of new friends. In Brady’s shop she is already Alice’s favourite customer, with her requests for apricots and lentils and chia seeds and mung beans and the other strange-sounding tat that comprises her and Little Juan’s diet. A couple of days ago I saw her staring at the nearly completed theatre and one of the buildermen – my builderman – spotted her, the entire length of her, and nibble me down to my wishbone if he didn’t stop what he was doing and make it his business to be all about her. A minute or two later the pair of them were laughing together and, of course, not wanting to miss out on this miracle apparition landed amidst the rubble, all the other builders had to put down their chisels and get in on this laughing act. At last, her precious time with this ever-increasing band of admirers came to a conclusion, and she continued on her untroubled way, moving lithely about the place, taking in the neighbourhood and the harbour and the nearby streets, presenting herself to every corner, as though every step she took had the power to bring her immediate surroundings into existence. She was almost too good to be true. Made me want to burrow a way inside her and let loose a barbaric bug.
She has cast a voodoo spell on mother. For the first couple of jet-lag mornings it was tea and toast in bed, and books and magazines, and bowls crammed with grapes and plates piled high with green-leaf sandwiches, and anything else the prodigal needed while mother parked herself bedside, and all the time an expression on mother’s face that said, I can’t believe it. My daughter in the flesh!
The talk out of her – Jennifer, I mean. Reckons she has saved parts of Brazil and Paraguay and Bolivia. Especially the city of La Paz. La Paz can thank its lucky stars Jennifer showed up. And don’t forget Ecuador. Now that Jennifer has been through the place, any day now Ecuador is going to be a player on the world stage. I wonder when she plans to save Africa. The Congo and Sudan? And while she’s at it why not Syria? Get herself over there and stop all the fighting and all the killing. And cut my legs off and call me shorty if she hasn’t read my mind. And we get treated to a wonderful sermon on unimaginable suffering and the worst kinds of butchering happening in Syria. Aleppo is burning, she gasps, scarcely able to contain herself, before long they won’t have anything left. Nothing. Not even a drop of clean water, she says, crowning off her list of catastrophes, and why don’t you get over there and sort the mess out I feel like telling her. Not that she’d be listening so enraptured is she with all that’s happening thousands of miles away on the other side of the world. A modern-day Mother Teresa of Calcutta I am related to. White enchantress. That’s what the name Jennifer means. I knew because I had looked it up. God help Aleppo!
One good thing about this wonderful-me act is that I don’t have to spend too much time in her company. In fact, aside from keeping an eye on Juan for an hour or two here and there while mother fusses all over her returned daughter, I have had little to do with Jennifer. Which suits me fine as I need to think about the theatre part I am up for without any distraction. I spot Little Juan sitting out by himself in the front garden and have just set down a bowl of Chipsticks in front of him when this week’s Advertiser arrives. Straightaway, I relieve the delivery boy and scour the entertainment section. And, yes, my hunch is correct.
The call for auditions has been announced.
‘Listen to this,’ I tell Little Juan, sitting into the deckchair beside him while holding up for his benefit the open pages of the Advertiser.
Khaos Theatre Company invites actors to audition
for its forthcoming production
A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE
Town Hall. Friday, September 23rd, 10 am.
I knew it was going to be Streetcar. Good. Now I can completely focus on the scenes I need to get ready for audition day.
‘Did you get any of that, little man?’ I say, looking over at my companion while nodding to the open newspaper. ‘The key words are theatre, actors, audition and forthcoming production. That’s me they’re asking for. I’m going to be on the stage again. And not before time. Stick around and you’ll get to see me. Play your cards right and I might even score front-row tickets for you. Mark my words. It will be worth the wait.’
He looks at me, shrugs his shoulders and slumps into the deckchair. I should really start calling the little fellow by his proper name. Since his arrival we have taken to bumping into each other very early in the morning. At first he hardly said a word, then it was in a lingo I don’t understand. No hablo la lingua, I said to him, and he flashed a toothy grin my way. After that, though, he started using bits of English, and when he wants to, has little difficulty making complete sentences. But mostly he just shuffles silently about the place, looking for something to amuse himself with, his black, overgrown curls moving in several directions at once. Every time I see him it’s like
I am looking at a mop.
I read over the newspaper bit again. Trace my fingers along the title of the play. He certainly enjoys a bit of intrigue, our new theatre director. I wonder what other grandstand announcements he has up his sleeve.
‘What do you think, Juan?’ I ask the little fellow, nodding at the Advertiser.
Juan doesn’t say anything. He just slumps further forward in the chair, chin in his hands.
‘Why the long face?’ I ask.
He shrugs again. I offer him the bowl of Chipsticks. He shakes his head, though I can tell he wants to.
‘Let me guess. You prefer mammy’s very special guacamole mung bean salad. Your loss,’ I say, tucking in. And I return my attention to the newspaper.
For the next few minutes we sit like that. I skim the paper and munch Chipsticks. Little Juan sits there, not saying a word. Presently, I peek out at him from the paper.
‘Tell me, have you ever made a movie?’
No answer.
‘Because, I have this great amazing idea for a movie and need some help getting it off the ground.’
He half-turns his head towards me.
‘You heard me. I’m talking about a co-production here. The debut feature from the Juan and Laura Studio of Movie Excellence. As well as being directors, scriptwriters, dolly grips, clapper loaders and executives in charge of production, guess what else we are going to be? We are going to be the stars. What do you say to that?’
He says nothing to that.
‘Bueno. I can tell you are in total agreement. Listen carefully now. I’m going to give you two star names and you have to pick one. Comprende?’
A brief shrug of the shoulders.
‘Good boy. Are you ready? Brando or Bogart?’
‘Bogart,’ he murmurs, after an uncertain moment or two.
‘Excellent choice. Bogart is the man. You’re good at this. In fact you’re so good I’m going to let you pick my name too. OK? This time I’m going to say three names. Lana or Gloria or Barbara?’
Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame Page 6