Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame

by Alan McMonagle

  I am just about to walk in on them when Fiona French – I’ve forgotten the others are still present – mentions spotting me up on the boathouse rooftop. And for some reason that sends mother into the distant past, to a time not long after daddy died and we were getting used to it being just the three of us in the house, and how I was determined to be the most stubborn girl in the world. How I would stay in my room and wouldn’t come out for ages and ages. Then I discovered the boathouse rooftop. And mother’s voice sounds further and further away, as she starts into a saga about my stubbornness taking me onto the boathouse roof one afternoon because mother wanted me to stop moping and put on a dress or skirt, something different to what I had been wearing every day for the past week, and how I sat there and wouldn’t budge in the face of her pleading. She tried to entice me down with goodies and soft drinks. She said I could stay up and watch whatever I wanted on TV. She tried to convince me one of my favourite movies was on. But I wasn’t having any of it. Then the wind picked up. And it started to rain. And still I wouldn’t budge, mother is saying. And she was standing there at the boathouse, already soaked to her bones, Jennifer calling out from the gate of our house, and not a stir out of me. It got so bad mother crossed the road and went back inside. And all she could hear was the wind and the rain it was driving along. That was a month after Frank died, I hear mother say. Sometimes I think she’s been up on that rooftop ever since.

  Well, mother.

  I’m not so sure I am in total agreement with you there.

  And not for the first time.

  *

  Dearest Laura,

  I am miffed at you. There was a certain premiere I was hoping to see you at and I am guessing you didn’t turn up – unless you managed to evade my eagle eye, which I suppose is not beyond the bounds of possibility given my necessity to spread myself amongst so many on the night in question.

  I have to say, you missed quite the evening. Armani provided my ensemble on this occasion. The teal suited my complexion. The crowd seemed to agree. As soon as I stepped out of the limousine they cheered and applauded and called out my name. Imelda! Imelda! The photographers couldn’t get enough of me either. Turn this way. Turn that way. Over here. No, there. Eventually I had to summon Falstaff (initiative clearly not a word in his dictionary) and have him usher me further along the red carpet. Time was pressing and some people wanted to talk to me. About the movie. About my dress. About anything really, so long as I was standing next to a talking head with a microphone and offering my adorable self to the camera pointing straight at me.

  And just when I thought things couldn’t get any more surreal, who turned up: only a certain director you and me used to wax lyrical about for hours on end – I’ll let you guess who – and as soon as he clapped eyes on me he made a beeline for the mic I was poised in front of, pushed his face alongside mine (eyebrows! oh my God) and, for the benefit of the watching world, into the camera in that fast-talking New York accent he declared me the finest acting talent to arrive in over half a century. Of course I blushed (who wouldn’t?), pointed to myself and playfully dismissed his comments (‘Are you talking to me?’) while at the same time stammering something to the effect that you’re not half bad yourself, Mr Scorsese. Please, he said, holding up his hands. Call me Marty. We’ll talk, he said, wiggling those eyebrows, and then disappeared into the auditorium.

  After the screening (oh! joyous), there were more interviews and photographs with cast and crew, and other hangers-on who insisted on being in a photo-shoot alongside me. It all became a tad tedious to tell the truth, and naturally no sign of Falstaff to whisk me away. Then there were parties to attend – Dorothy Somebody and Prada affairs – and more interviews to give and more photographs to pose for, and I was approached to be an ambassador for another rancid perfume, and a famous hair product wanted to offer me another million dollars for saying a totally inane catchphrase. And there was a completely annoying little pixie from Film Magazine wanting to do an exposé (so draining, Laura. It really is). And of course there were movie men, schlepping and schmoozing and climbing through each other in their efforts to get to me. Three words, Laura. Three words: hello and goodbye! And that pest of a stalker rocked up. Thankfully, Ennio was near at hand. Ennio Tesara. Have you heard of him? He’s an opera singer (swoon – what a voice!). We were introduced in Venice. This is the second time you’ve come to my rescue, I said to him on this occasion. Well. He puckered those opera lips, leaned in to me, and in that Italian accent whispered in my ear the words, ‘I was born to rescue you.’ Oh, I can manage – for now. That’s what I said back. Then I winked at him, turned on my heels and threw myself into the party.

  I couldn’t get over all the famous faces. It was supposed to be a small affair, but the place was packed. Look at all these people, I said to no one in particular. There is only one reason these people are here, came the swift reply. It was Marty again. Oh, and what reason might that be, I said, knowing full well the answer but wanting to hear him say it anyway. He didn’t say a word either. Merely pointed his finger at me, and at once I threw my arms incredulously to the sky.

  Now, Laura, I want to tell you something, but you must swear not to breathe a word of it. He wants me in his next movie. Marty, I mean. Now guess what his next movie is about? It is to be a biopic of – wait for it – Gloria Swanson. Can you believe it? Apparently he’s been trying to get it made for years, but between one thing and another (idiot moneymen with no vision or backbone, other projects getting in the way, a never-ending search for the actress with the all-encompassing qualities the part requires) he hasn’t been able to do it. Until now, that is. And now that he has seen yours truly in action, he has realized that this project can no longer remain on ice. At long last the missing piece – the most important piece – has finally presented itself. Oh, Laura! I was so excited I grabbed his head with both hands and planted a smacker right on his lips.

  We had a pow-wow that lasted more or less the rest of the night. He loves Gloria almost as much as I do. And he was thrilled, ecstatic even, at my enthusiasm for his vision. You should have seen him. Like a little boy, he was. Skipping about the room when I did my ready-for-my-close-up routine. Remember you and me used to take turns do it? Such fun! Not a word to anyone. It’s hush-hush, off the record for now. Oh, my. I have Ennio in my ear again. (That voice . . . It dissolves me, Laura, it really does . . .) Gotta fly. For heaven’s sake, write to me. Kiss, kiss. Bang, bang. You’re dead! Mel. x

  That night I can’t sleep. And once I know nobody else is still up, I get out of bed and go downstairs and occupy myself in the kitchen, then take what I make to eat into the sitting room where I manage to get through all of Nightmare Alley, Kiss Me Deadly, Detour and as far as the scene in The Big Heat where Lee Marvin hurls a pot of boiling coffee into Gloria Grahame’s face, at which point I hear the others rousing themselves upstairs and make myself scarce.

  21

  Day before my audition and I’ve arranged to meet Fleming in Barna Woods. I want to go over my scene one last time. Not for the first time he is keeping me waiting. Even after I send forth a little giddy-up come and get me big boy enticement.

  I lie down among the trees. Reach out my arms, caress windblown leaves either side of me without them getting the wrong idea. Pretend-scream at the laughing branches. Share a gory secret with the nearby stump. Listen to me, stump, I begin, I am only going to say this once. Aha! I have its attention now.

  Maybe I should stay like this forever, close my eyes and let time fritter silently along. Maybe I will one day. Maybe I will fall into a deep sleep. Maybe I won’t wake up for a hundred years. Maybe when I do, everything will be different. I won’t look the way I used to. I will have acquired a reputation for being a remarkable person. All manner of people will crave time in my company. In their eagerness they will bump, jostle, knock, clamber over each other to get to me. And I will confer with my loyal sycamores and decide who among the clamouring hordes is deserving of this special time.r />
  And still no sign of my leading man. Who does he think he is? And more to the point what part of his brain has him thinking I have nothing else to do with my time other than wait for him to show up? Once again, I reach for my phone. Last chance, big boy.

  I’ve gobbled down a half-bag of Chocolate Emeralds and am about to share one of my best secrets with the stump I am developing a soft spot for when I hear him. All huff and puff and completely over-the-top swearwords for the tree root that never fails to trip him up.

  ‘We really need to find another spot,’ he says, removing with a flamboyant sweep of his hand a stray bramble from his fleecy hair. He’s not averse to a little theatre, is Fleming. Aids-and-abets his lofty notion of himself, I suppose.

  This time we go further in, where the trees are thickest, the roots visible. We wrap ourselves around each other within the remains of a makeshift campground others have left after them. I kick off my boots and pull down my jeans and we grind and heave for the two or three minutes we are good for. ‘That was profound and unforgettable, Fleming,’ I say. ‘You have missed your calling.’ I wouldn’t mind but he actually looks like he believes what I am saying.

  I yank back up my jeans and tie on my boots. Moments later, we are sitting back to back on the tree stump, smoking rollies.

  ‘That was great,’ he says.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘The meal we rustled up the other evening. With Jennifer and your crew. How is she? Jennifer, I mean.’

  ‘Still over the ground,’ I say.

  ‘And the kid. Juan. What a character. Did I ever tell you I love kids?’

  ‘Fleming, are you trying to wind me up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve told you before. Wind me up at your peril.’

  ‘I’m just taking an interest, Laura.’

  ‘Well, take an interest in something else. In case you’ve forgotten, I have an audition tomorrow morning. I thought you might like to hear me out while I run my scene past you.’

  ‘I am interested.’

  ‘You sound so convincing.’

  ‘Laura. Please. Now, I’m all ears. Let me hear what you’ve got.’

  ‘I’ve decided to do bits from Blanche’s hot date with Mitch. Especially when Blanche and Mitch return to Stella’s place. Stella and Stanley are still out, and Mitch thinks he’s landed on his feet when Blanche invites him inside. But of course all Blanche wants to do is talk and she ends up telling Mitch all about the young boy she was once in love with and how she let him down. It’s quite a long speech for Blanche. Lots of emotion, and a killer punchline to finish.’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘You ready to listen, then?’

  ‘Give it to me, baby.’

  By now I am on my feet and moving among the leaves. And I deliver the lines I have been going over in my head, in my room, along the pier, pausing where it matters, reaching for the high point. By the time I have manhandled Fleming up beside me for the smooching bit I am almost sorry it isn’t the real thing.

  ‘You were right about the emotion,’ Fleming says, as soon as I have released him. ‘That’s really sad. I like that bit at the end about the searchlight going out. You were very strong there.’

  ‘Why, thank you. I’ve been working hard on those very lines. I’m so pleased you noticed.’

  ‘The boy in that scene. What happened to him?’

  ‘He put a gun in his mouth and blew out the back of his head.’

  ‘She really let him down.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You can do it again if you want. And this time spend a little longer on the lusty bit. Rough me up a little more, too. I liked it when you did that.’

  ‘I have to go now, Fleming.’

  ‘Hey!’ I hear him call after me as I skip restlessly out of there. ‘Good luck, Laura. I’m rooting for you.’

  *

  That night, I swallow my last remaining mirtazapine and make a note to swing by the Doc first thing. I run through my lines. I look at another scene or two. I watch the movie version on my laptop. I get up and go down to the kitchen and pull out the ingredients for the soup I decide to make. In the kitchen I run through my lines again, moving around as I go, here and there switching emphasis, occasionally adding a gesture to the beginning of an important line, a suitable reaction at the end. Upstairs again, I try to get to sleep running favourite movie scenes past my mind’s eye. Later, wide awake in bed, I think about the time daddy played Stanley. It gets me more antsy, and I stand out of bed and without turning on the light pace the room for the next hour or so. At some point, mother pokes her head inside the bedroom door, wants to know what I am at, hushes me, disappears again. For the next while I sit by the window. The west wind whistles and mist-rain swirls its way into nooks it hasn’t been in before. I look towards the pier, the lights are blurry, faintly visible. Still and all. They are there. I know they are.

  I open my laptop to discover that the rumours have started – Imelda Ebbing to play the lead in Martin Scorsese Gloria Swanson biopic. And not averse to this golden opportunity to fan the flames, Imelda seems more than willing to corroborate. It’s the role of a lifetime. I cannot think of a part I’d rather play. I am so chuffed to be associated with such an amazing project and to be working with such an esteemed director. A dream come true. It really is. Lest there be any remaining doubt she adds that she is already researching the famous star of Hollywood’s Golden Age. Her early roles in silent cinema. Her fading popularity with the emergence of sound. On the wall, Lana rolls her eyes and wonders what has me so obsessed with Imelda’s progress. Veronica scoffs and Gloria herself beckons me to her with that curling finger. Words. Chitter-chat. Gobbledegook. Nonsense. We don’t need dialogue, Laura, we have faces!

  Later again, I’m in the sitting room, flicking through the DVDs and am about to play Laura when I spot another I haven’t watched in a while. Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? I slip it in the player, watch it as far as the scene where Baby Jane serves up a dead rat to her wheelchair sister, and then go back into the kitchen to check on the soup I have left simmering.

  I’m stirring the saucepan when I hear the door open and in he pads. Barefoot. In a Spiderman T-shirt that is too small for him and shorts he has to hold up.

  ‘Well, hello to you. I suppose you caught a whiff of my delicious soup. Want to try some? My very own recipe.’

  I dip the ladle and hold it aloft for him to see.

  ‘Lunatic soup,’ I call it. ‘Please don’t ask me what’s in it.’

  I bring the ladle to my mouth and make a great show of slurping down a couple of mouthfuls and then wincing immaculately.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I say and throw in a couple more mushrooms. ‘What’s that I hear you say? You certainly like your mushrooms, Laura. Yes, I do. Must be all that pathos.’

  I grab the bowl of mushrooms and hand it to him.

  ‘Be my guest,’ I say, and motion what he must do. Quickly he empties the rest of the mushrooms into my seething pot. I dip and taste again. Juan looks on with gathering amusement.