Stephen Fallow is well on the mend. The knife barely grazed his arm. But I hear he is considering a move. Another outfit is keen to avail of his services – as soon as he is ready to take to the stage again. I wonder what Khaos will do after his departure. I wonder if Mia is going with him.
Doc was around to check in on me. He was happy to sit down and listen to me talk theatre and movies and television. And once I mentioned her, he was especially keen to hear all about Imelda. When was she discovered. The name of the hotshot director dying to work with her. Her middle initial. He smiled at everything I told him, as though I was confirming lots of stuff he already knew. And so I asked him straight out how much he did know. He was silent for a moment, and when at last he did decide to speak, he said it was his turn to ask a question. But by then I didn’t want to play any more.
Who in their right mind calls themselves Imelda Ebbing anyway? Fleming’s words when he swung by. Next time, he suggests I come up with a better name, and I am not inclined to disagree.
Jennifer and Little Juan have been in. To everyone’s relief her existence has finally been confirmed by the Mexican bankmen. And so her cards are finally working – now all she needs to do is persuade the same bankmen that she had nothing to do with the series of transactions responsible for more or less depleting her account. If you stuck to not existing you were home free on that score, I said to her and she laughed. There is still no sign of Alonso. I really know how to pick them, don’t I? she said. Sign me up if you need him taken out, I told her and she laughed again. Her new contract start date has also been given the OK. She and Juan are leaving in a few days and so her luggage turned up at a very timely moment. I returned the bits and pieces I had taken. She laughed, was chuffed even, that I had deemed them useful. She insisted I keep the octagonal sunglasses and smiled approvingly when I tried them on again. Juan has a present for you too, she said next. And the little man handed over a multipack of Chipsticks.
The three of us were still chomping away when mother and Peter Porter arrived. Mother pressed my hands and stared intensely at me, as though eventually she might be able to see inside my head, spot the bad part and yank it out once and for all. Peter Porter drew up a chair for her alongside my bed. Then he mentioned the trip he and mother are planning. Guess where to, he asked me, and winked. As soon as you’re better, Laura, mother added. I told them not to delay their trip on my account. If you do, I told them, I am going to find a way out onto the rooftop and stage a sit-down protest. Mother didn’t like the sound of that at all, and I had to reassure her I was joking. I even got out of bed and threw in a hug for good measure. She didn’t want to let me go.
And, as I said, Fleming has been by. Has been on a daily basis. What did she have that you don’t, he asked me after I had told him all about her – Imelda, that is. I shrugged my shoulders and fed him lines about talent fame beauty success. Not much, then, he said.
Today he lies up on the bed beside me. All he can talk about is the result of the American presidential election and the surprise victor, or maybe not so surprising. I find myself listening to everything he has to say. I even start quizzing him about his television show, the one that features American presidents.
‘So, Fleming. Once Elected. And all they do is watch television. What show is loofah-face watching? You never told me.’
‘I’ve decided to leave him out of the show,’ he replies.
‘Oh? So he doesn’t watch television?’
‘No. He plays golf and tweets.’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea, Fleming? I mean that loofah-head is such an imbecile. Think of the possibilities . . .’
‘I know . . . but some people aren’t worth the effort. Know what I mean?’
‘. . . and Obama. You never said what TV show he’s watching either. It’s a really good idea, Fleming, maybe you’re on to something after all with this television malarkey.’
He nods, smiles at what I am saying. His eyes look so blue. And until this precise moment I’ve never realized how fine his hair is. Cutting it could do wonders.
‘So? What show is Obama watching?’
Fleming smiles my way – it takes years off him – leans into me and whispers the name of our show.
Apparently we’re starting dramatherapy tomorrow. Which suits me perfectly as I have something rather special I intend to share. It concerns a girl who wants more than anything to be a star. There is plenty at stake. Lots of characters – both from my own life and from the world of movies. I have even started casting. Rita is perfect for Lana Turner. Sharon Fyffe I think has the makings of an excellent Veronica Lake – provided, that is, she can get Angelina Jolie out of her head. Margaret has already confided in me that she fancies herself as a bit of a Gloria Swanson. And I might try one of the Kitties as purring and conniving Barbara Stanwyck. It’s going to have everything. Thrills. Spills. Jeopardy. Suspense. Highs and lows. Sadness and joy. Hope and despair. I fully intend to both direct and play the lead role. Though I might seek some consultation on some of the finer points in the script. I can’t wait to tell daddy all about it. Already, I have a title. It’s a good one. It’s called – well, perhaps I’ll keep it to myself until I speak with daddy. It’s going to be a big hit, I just know it is.
IMELDA J EBBING
July 16, 1991 –
aka Melly Dearest
Inducted: February 8, 2030
Star address: off-Hollywood and Vine
Father drowned when she was ten
Discovered performing monologues while gigging as a tour guide
Held her director at knife-point during an opening-night performance
Fan of Oatfield chocolate emeralds and Chef brown sauce
Oscar glory for Martin Scorsese musical Glorious Gloria!
Real name: Laura Cassidy
‘A girl can’t always have the fairy tale.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Once again, thanks to Ansa Khan Khattak for inspired involvement on this one, and to Paul Baggaley and everyone at Picador.
To Aoife Casby for an early read; to Cormac Kinsella, Davy Adamson and Jamie-Lee Nardone; to Ivan Mulcahy.
A shout out also to Padraig Stevens for kind permission to use a lyric from his wonderful song The Streets Of Galway.
About the Author
Alan McMonagle has written for radio, published two collections of short stories – Liar, Liar and Psychotic Episodes, both of which were nominated for the Frank O’Connor Award – and contributed stories to many journals in Ireland and North America. His debut novel, Ithaca, was published in 2017, was longlisted for the Desmond Elliott Prize and was shortlisted for the Bord Gáis Energy Irish Book Awards. He lives in Galway.
Also by Alan McMonagle
Psychotic Episodes (short stories)
Liar, Liar (short stories)
Ithaca
First published 2020 by Picador
This electronic edition published 2020 by Picador
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-2991-0
Copyright © Alan McMonagle 2020
Jacket Design & Illustration by Mel Four, Picador Art Department
The right of Alan McMonagle to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The lyrics here are a slightly tweaked version of ‘The Streets Of Galway’ by Padraig Stevens.
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Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame Page 22