Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame

by Alan McMonagle

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask him.

  ‘Four o’clock,’ he says, pointing to the clock on the wall.

  ‘Four o’clock in the morning. Perfect. It always tastes better after midnight,’ I say, already ladling into two bowls.

  While waiting for the soup to cool I grab a marker and batch of yellow Post-it notes. ‘This is something I used to do when I was little,’ I say, and invite Juan to copy me scribble numbers onto the Post-its and then slap them to various parts of myself. Wrists, calves, thighs and restless feet. My flimsy chest and pasty cheeks. The shallows of my ribcage and the hollows behind my knees. I don’t let him stop until every part of me gets a value. Then I do the tot and say it loud how much I am worth.

  ‘Let me hear you say it,’ I tell him.

  ‘Un millón de dólares,’ he says, flashing his teeth.

  ‘Correcto,’ I say, checking the temperature of the soup. ‘And you know what that means? It means I get to take my place along the Walk of Fame.’

  We sit with our soup for the next few moments. Then, and to my great surprise, Little Juan is the one to break the silence.

  ‘Where is my daddy?’ he asks me, his voice quiet and deliberate, wanting a response.

  ‘That,’ I say, smiling his way, ‘is a question I used to ask myself every day.’ And I allow my arm to rest around his slender shoulders and draw him closer to me.

  ‘You know what? I want to show you something. But you’re going to have to promise that this is going to be our secret. Deal? I need to hear you say it.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘OK, compadre. Alto cinco.’

  We high-five, I take his hand and gently open the front door. We cross the road. Stiff breeze and not-so-half-hearted rain. At the boathouse I point Little Juan towards the pier. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘This is the way.’

  We continue onto the pier. The breeze is stronger. I hunker down, grip a hold of Juan and point.

  ‘Can you see?’ I ask him.

  ‘Qué?’

  ‘Out there. The starry light. The Walk of Fame. Can you see?’

  He shakes his head, looks disappointed, worried even.

  ‘Sometimes it’s hard to see. That’s OK. There’s something else I want to show you. Over here,’ I say, guiding us to the pier wall. ‘Here,’ I say, using the light of my phone to find the carving daddy made all that time ago. ‘I’ve never shown this to anyone. Here. The words in the wall. Can you see?’

  Again, he shakes his head. It’s blowing hard now. The rain comes on fuller. One more time I run the phone along the wall so as he has a chance to see. Nada.

  ‘OK. Wait here for a moment.’

  I climb onto the wall. I look around me. I look down at the little fellow, at his expectant little face.

  ‘OK. Come on.’ I reach down my arm and haul him onto the wall beside me. I hunker down and point.

  ‘Now can you see?’

  He shrugs. Brings his hands to his face to ward off the rain. The wind is taking his hair every which way.

  ‘Tell you what. We’ll try something else.’

  I lift him down from the wall and haul the pair of us back as far as the boat ramp, and the partial shelter the quay wall now provides. ‘Come on,’ I say, taking Juan’s hand and leading us down the ramp to the water’s edge. ‘OK. Now we wait.’ And just as I say it, a swan rounds the bend and allows the current take its elegant form towards us. A second swan appears. A third and fourth. Moments later the entire flotilla has appeared. ‘Mira!’ Juan gasps, pointing with his finger. He stares at the all-white procession, his face a picture of wonder. I hunker down beside him and for I don’t know how long the two of us stay like that together, watching the swans glide over the surface water.

  *

  Someone is shaking me. Laura! Laura! Wake up! I open my eyes. Rub them. Open them fully. Look around. There is no one in the room except me.

  It’s bright out, sunlight on the window. I realize I am lying on the bedcover. Must have drifted off.

  What time is it?

  Jesus!

  I jump to my feet. Glance in the mirror. Hmm. I will have to do. There is no time. I hurry out of the room, and bound downstairs and out the front door.

  Ten minutes. I have ten minutes to get to the Town Hall.

  No time to sort my eyebrows. Do my hair.

  No time to swill a cuppa.

  No time to chow with my man, Juan.

  No time to tell Jennifer to cut the sore throat she tells me she has acquired overnight.

  No time to raise my eyebrows at Peter Porter when I see him trying to slink downstairs upon letting himself out of mother’s bedroom.

  No time to swing by the Doc to collect my meds. Doesn’t matter. There is no time to get nervous.

  Don’t even have time to call by the cemetery for a pep talk with daddy.

  Just get to the Town Hall, Laura. Just get to the Town Hall and get the goddamn part.

  I’m out of breath by the time I reach the Town Hall. Camilla the Hun is on reception. She points upwards with her raised pen. Where else would I go? I push through the double doors and take the stairs in twos and threes.

  The bar is full. Quickly I size up everybody. A glow-in-the-dark redhead is taking turns biting her nails and scratching her elbows. A bobbed brunette in mismatched clogs is standing up and sitting down while throwing out her arms as though it is otherwise impossible for her speak. She should save her energy for something else. Operating a washing machine. Stacking shelves. Gardening. Another one is wearing a figure-hugging mini-dress and spray-on false-tan. Perhaps her audition is going to involve offering Stephen a lap dance. She has thin lips. Close-together eyebrows. Socks on her arms. Socks! A one-hundred-per-cent please-please-love-me-do if ever I saw one, probably Mr Sheens her breasts every morning. Beside love-me-do, a man or woman – it’s difficult to tell – is running hands through dreadlocked hair, muttering lines. Another one – all glitterlips and pissed-on-green eye-shadow – is yakking away into her phone as though she owns the place. Who died and made her la belle dame sans merci?

  I have no sooner sat down than someone is calling my name. Laura Cassidy. LAURA CASSIDY! ‘Yes, that’s me. Here I am.’

  Standing up again, that dizziness riffles through me and I feel a sturdy arm grip my elbow. ‘Are you all right?’

  Yes, yes. I’m fine. The door to the studio is held open for me.

  All right, Mr DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up. And I plunge into the darkness.

  Part III

  IMMORTALITY BECKONS

  LANA TURNER

  February 8, 1921 – June 29, 1995

  aka The Nightclub Queen

  Inducted: February 8, 1960

  Star address: 6241, Hollywood Blvd

  Father murdered after an all-night craps game

  Discovered aged sixteen sipping a Coke at the Top Hat Cafe on Sunset Boulevard

  Owned 698 pairs of shoes

  Real name: Julia Jean Mildred Frances Turner

  ‘I planned on having one husband and seven children but it turned out the other way around.’

  22

  Hello, daddy, I say, taking my usual perch graveside. I suppose you want to know how my audition went. I wish I knew the answer to that myself. It’s been ten days and still no word from Khaos. Every time I phone the Town Hall I am put straight through to the answer machine. There are no replies to my emails. They’ll get in touch when they have some news, Fleming says every time I bring it up, which is quite often. They – Khaos – are also getting ready to move into their new home. That’s right, daddy, any day now it looks like the Story House will at long last be ready.

  On audition day itself I showed up and did my scene – naturally I had a last-minute change of heart upon walking on and looking out only to see Stephen Fallow sitting in the front row all cosy-cosy with his ladyfriend. Giving Stephen all my attention, and before realizing what I was at, I had started into the scene with Blanche’s lovely observations about the rainy
New Orleans afternoons as she bids the youngster come inside and then tells him he is like a prince and that I want to kiss you – just once – softly and sweetly on your mouth. By which point I was moving stage right, and I walked down the steps and proceeded over to Stephen in the front row. He was so surprised when I leaned into him, took his face in my hands and kissed his mouth. I got the idea from Imelda, actually. Something she said she did at some gala event she was invited to. I closed my eyes for the kiss, allowed my lips linger, and by the time I had straightened myself up, reopened my eyes and took a look around to try and get a sense of how it had gone, Stephen Fallow was no longer in his seat. In fact, he had almost reached the door of the rehearsal studio. Where is he going? I called out. My director? But if the silence that greeted my query was anything to go by, no one seemed any the wiser. One of his assistants looked my way, someone I had never seen before. Thanks for coming in, we’ll let you know, she said, and busied herself with a couple of others seated in the same row.

  Outside the studio I had a good goo about the place, but there was no sign of him. Just a few wannabes still waiting their turn. Strange, I thought. I was about to go back inside and check if I had somehow missed him when I saw his ladyfriend. I was on my way over to her when her phone went off and she scarpered out of there faster than she had any right to considering the heels she had on. I wanted to return back inside the studio, but auditions were still in progress. I waited in the lobby until long after auditions were finished, until Billy the Lush wanted to lock up for the evening, at which point he told me Stephen and the crew were long gone, they had left by the actors’ entrance. I made my way out of there. And I have been waiting for word ever since.

  *

  Outside the cemetery and I get to thinking: Fleming is wrong. They must know by now. At very least they must have an idea who it is they want. It won’t hurt to swing by, let them know I was passing and just wanted to enquire if there is any news. That’s right, Laura. Be courteous and polite. Showing my face can’t do any harm, if anything it will further demonstrate my enthusiasm for the cause. And without giving the matter another thought I proceed toot-sweet as far as the Town Hall.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ I hear Camilla the Hun call out when I pass through the lobby doors and make for the stairs, not stopping until I am inside the bar.

  ‘Hi, Emily. Has Stephen been around at all?’

  For a second, Emily looks at me as though she hasn’t got a clue who I am. I am about to repeat my question when she decides to speak.

  ‘Oh, Laura. Hi. I think he was in. He might be around somewhere. I haven’t seen you since . . . the audition.’

  ‘It was quite the day.’

  ‘Yes, it was. I don’t remember seeing so many auditioning before.’

  ‘That is because everybody knows we were getting to perform for a master. I wonder where he is. Is he in the studio? I can wait outside if he is.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m not sure, Laura.’

  I have stopped listening to Emily when the young woman I have seen in Stephen’s company on one or two occasions high-heels up to the bar and collects a coffee.

  ‘Cheers, Emily,’ she says and walks away again, in the direction of the rehearsal studio.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘That’s Mia,’ Emily says, busying herself at the coffee machine even though no one bar myself is present. ‘I think they are planning to let people know very soon – about the auditions. You’re probably better off waiting until they get in touch.’

  ‘Thanks, Emily. I’ll do that.’

  I wave goodbye and leave the bar. Ignoring the stairs, I round the turn and continue towards the entrance to the rehearsal studio. Already, I can hear voices. Then the studio door opens. It’s Camilla the Hun, and before she spots me, I duck into the nearest available toilet.

  It’s the men’s toilet. I let myself into one of the two available cubicles, close and lock the door after me, flip down the toilet lid and sit myself down.

  Moments later, or maybe it is much later, I’m not fully sure, it feels as though I have been drifting, nodded off even, I can hear a voice. A man’s voice. I don’t need to tune in for too long to realize who it belongs to. He seems to be on the phone. And it is obvious he is quite keen on whoever he is speaking to . . . That’s right. Yes. We’re all set, I think. Yes. We’re letting them know tomorrow. Water flows as he chats some more. At some point he lets his phone drop to the floor, and it slides partially under the door of the cubicle I’m inside. With my foot I nudge it out of there, hear him gather it up again. Within the cubicle I bide my time, flush, tidy-up and nudge the cubicle door and peer through the gap I allow myself. It’s him. My director. He has put down his phone, is washing his hands.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, stepping over to the second sink.

  ‘Jesus Christ! My heart,’ he says, clutching himself.

  ‘It’s me. Laura. The actress. I did an audition for you the week before last.’

  ‘Oh, yes. How could I forget.’ He brushes his dripping hand across his lips.

  ‘And here I am.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘I suppose I just wanted to find out is there any white smoke yet?’

  ‘In the men’s toilet?’

  ‘Well, it’s really an accident I ended up in here. But here we are. So, I thought I may as well ask.’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything. Except to say we’re contacting the successful actors very soon.’

  ‘Great! How soon?’

  ‘Very soon. If you don’t mind . . .’

  He indicates that he would like to pass by me and be on his way. But I am not quite finished.

  ‘I just want to let you know that I am ready. You might have heard about my mishap last time out. But I am as good as new again. I want you to know that you can count on me.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear all that . . . Laura. Can I go now?’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something,’ I say, leaning against the sink and gesturing with my eyes. He looks uncertainly at me. ‘Your phone.’

  He turns, picks it off the washbasin. I stand aside, and without another glance in my direction, he leaves. I take a quick look in the mirror. A shred of toilet paper dangles from the side of my head. Doesn’t matter. He remembers my audition. I made an impression. And what was the line I overheard?

  We are letting them know tomorrow.

  Well. It looks like I have some big news to look forward to. It won’t be long now. I will be the one cosying up to our illustrious director in the front rows of the auditorium. I will be the one accompanying him on harbour walks, through the streets, along the canal, talking through the possibilities for my character. He’ll be so impressed with my suggestions he’ll insist we take it back to his for further exploration. He’ll offer me a second nightcap, a third, fix himself some while he’s at it, make himself comfortable beside me. Of course he’ll now be a little distracted – the short skirt and strappy top I am wearing are interfering with his concentration. He’ll move himself a little closer to me, allow his hand brush against my hip and I’ll have to remind him that we are here to read over some scenes from the play. And for the next few minutes he’ll stick to the drill, be on his best behaviour. Another nightcap or two in, however, it all gets the better of him, he can no longer contain himself, and now he is all wandering hands and foraging fingers while in the throes of declaring me the most remarkable acting talent he has ever been around, and well, oh my, Stephen, do you really think so . . . We are getting really into it when Billy the Lush walks into the toilet, interrupting my pleasant scene-making. Not to worry. It is safe to say that I can now call it an evening. No need to linger. After all, there will be plenty of evenings days nights to look forward to in the company of my director. I make my excuses to Billy (girl’s gotta go, Billy, doesn’t matter where) and skip happily out of there.

  23

  The following morning I check my emails. Nothing as yet, but it’s still early. I should give them anoth
er hour. A couple of hours even. That’s not too much to allow them on this momentous day.

  Is it, Laura?

  Why, of course it isn’t, Laura. I think we can afford to be a tad forbearing at this point.

  There is, however, something from Imelda. Of course, there is.

  Dearest Laura, how are you? Me? I think I might just have to pinch myself. Falstaff knocked on my bedroom door earlier (Falstaff! What did I tell you about disturbing me before noon?), entered and then presented me with an open copy of Total Film. Look, he said, gesturing wildly while prancing about the place with the elan of a frenzied chicken. Look, Imelda! Look! And there he was. Marty. Telling the whole world that he has finally found his lead for what insiders are mooting as his movie swansong. (Swanson swansong!) That’s right. It’s official, no longer a secret. Tell everyone!

  You should read the press release. Imelda Ebbing is a screen icon in the making. So why shouldn’t she play one of the early greats. That’s what Marty said about me, Laura. Oh my. I started crying. I really did. Blubbering all over the wonderful image of myself adorning the front cover. (Don’t you just adore monochrome?) Falstaff didn’t know what had come over me. And with nothing better to do he started blubbering too. Then my phone started going and it hasn’t stopped, Laura. It has not stopped.

  Just as well I am on location this week and next. Rome. Vienna. And then Budapest. It’s this television show I’ve been asked to do. Did I mention it? I know, I know. After all we said at acting school. Television! Bah! But I suppose I will admit to there being – how shall I put it? – an extra incentive for my taking the part. And something tells me you have already guessed his name. That’s right. Ennio. Things have been moving pretty quickly on that score. He’s touring with his opera (my word, you should hear his Rigoletto) – and it just so happens he has performances scheduled in these very same cities. Actually, he was under the covers when Falstaff arrived into my bedroom brandishing that film magazine. I could feel his fingers dancing up and down my thigh while Falstaff was talking. He was so happy for me he insisted on whisking me off to his villa in Tuscany for the remainder of the weekend. (‘I can rescue you some more!’) I can think of worse ways to pass time until Marty needs me.