by Ruth Jones
But he knew even if she had bought the dessert, and even if she had eaten it, it wouldn’t have been long before she was sticking her fingers down her throat in a private bathroom purge, ridding herself of the evil calories she’d been ‘weak’ enough to consume.
He’d once gone on the computer after she’d been using it. She’d accidentally left the page open – a horrific website featuring scores of anorexic women, celebrating their obscenely skeletal and flesh-deficient bodies. He’d panicked then and confronted her about it. Big mistake. She didn’t get angry, just told him calmly it was research for a script she’d been sent. To play the part of a therapist who worked with self-harmers. She managed to make Matt feel stupid for even asking. ‘You don’t think I’m anorexic, do you, Matt?’
‘What? No, it’s not that. I just … well, I don’t know what to think. Sometimes I don’t think you look after yourself properly, that’s all. I worry about you.’
‘I’m perfectly fine.’ She’d smiled. ‘Please don’t spy on me.’ Her tone had turned cold, unfamiliar, estranged, and it alarmed him. He knew never to mention her eating habits again.
She must’ve always had this side to her, he thought now as he slowed down for a red light. It had just taken a while for him to discover it. After all, Kate was an incredibly talented actress and knew how to hide her feelings well.
In the back, Tallulah was singing – ‘Happy Birthday, de-ar Mumm-ee, happy birthday to you!’ He looked at her in the rear-view mirror and sighed.
They’d first met at the gallery, he and Kate. Almost seven years ago.
It was pouring with rain outside, torrential, healthy, chunky rain that saturated clothes in seconds and made its victims laugh with disbelief. Matt was working on his own that day, Peter was away in France on a wine tour with Julius. It was a Wednesday morning and the downpour was out of the blue, considering the gorgeous Indian summer they’d been experiencing for ten days.
Matt stood looking out of the gallery window, coffee mug in hand, feeling safe and warm and dry. The perfect people-watching post. Outside, intrepid pedestrians either huddled in doorways or dashed from pillar to post, feebly shielding themselves with newspapers and carrier bags, very few holding umbrellas, very few having been prepared for rain.
Further down the road, three big vehicles were parked outside one of the houses: a camera van, a lighting truck and a minibus. They were part of the film crew that had been filming at Number 23, the front windows of the house covered with big swathes of blackout drapes. Passers-by had stopped to look, often standing there for an hour at a time. But there really wasn’t anything to see. An occasional electrician would wander out to the truck to fetch a lamp and have a sneaky fag while they were at it. Or a runner would come to the makeshift tea table to make a cuppa for one of the cast.
Three of the crew were erecting an emergency canopy over the table to protect the plastic cups and sachets of sugar from getting wet through. Matt watched them trying their best, failing, laughing – the rain was ridiculously heavy and had defeated them all.
He didn’t see her approach. Must’ve been looking the other way. He heard the confident ping of the door and in she flew, laughing, breathless, soaked to the skin and shockingly gorgeous.
‘Oh my God!’ She was bordering hysterical. ‘My make-up artist is gonna kill me!’ She stood there, thirty-two years old, hair dripping, face drenched, a puddle forming around her feet. Matt recognized her straight away but was oddly unintimidated by her fame.
‘D’you want a coffee?’
‘Of course I do.’ It turned out she’d been told she wasn’t needed for an hour but not to wander too far.
‘I’ve got a towel somewhere, hang on.’
Everything between them felt unexpectedly comfortable – as if he’d met her before. He couldn’t have, of course. It was just the peculiar familiarity that comes with seeing a famous face – a highly recognizable stranger. At least, he presumed that’s what it was.
Five minutes later, the rain had eased off and Kate was looking at the vast canvas on the back wall of the gallery, the towel round her shoulders, occasionally rubbing her hair with it. Matt handed her the coffee. She took it without looking at him, mesmerized by the artwork before her. A woman’s face filled the frame, eyes closed and head tossed back. She was laughing, joy unrestrained.
‘I wish I could paint,’ she said.
‘Me too.’
She turned to him, surprised. ‘I thought that was a prerequisite for the job. Didn’t your boss insist?’
‘Er, no, well because … well, I am the boss. It’s my gallery.’ He felt himself uncharacteristically blush. As if he was showing off.
‘Good for you!’ She turned back to the canvas. ‘How much for this? It’s spectacular.’
‘Yes, it is. But it’s already been sold. Four grand.’
‘Ah, shame. I’d have given you five.’ She winked at him then, and when she did, something unexpected stirred inside him. Just momentarily. She looked at her watch. ‘Oh bollocks, I better get going. Thanks for the coffee.’ She drained the mug and handed it back to him. ‘You’ve got a lovely place here. Little oasis.’
‘Yeah, I suppose it is.’
She was gone as suddenly as she’d arrived. Matt stood there lemon-like, holding two mugs, a damp towel over his arm and a feeling inside that he’d just been taken captive by some inexplicable and deeply pleasant force.
He spent the next two days surreptitiously glancing out of the window towards the film-set house, hoping he might catch a glimpse of Kate. He went online and googled her – he was amazed at how many TV dramas she’d been in. He’d seen a few of them, of course, but it looked like she’d been acting pretty much continuously from day one of her career. He clicked on ‘images’. A variety of photos came up, some of them of Kate in character, others taken at red-carpet events, awards ceremonies and the like. He noticed she was with a different guy in practically every shot and when he looked up her relationship status it starkly shouted out at him ‘single!’ He slammed his laptop shut. Oh God, what was he becoming? Was he stalking her?
When he told Hetty, she calmed him down. ‘Of course you’re not a stalker, you silly sausage. You’re just a bit fascinated by fame – we all are. And you had a famous person in your shop and she’s pretty and you fancied her …’
‘Hey come on, I wouldn’t say I fancied her.’
‘Of course you did, Matt! Half the population does. She’s stunning! And because she’s famous you can look her up on the internet. Unlike ordinary stunning women like me! Who remain sadly undiscovered.’ And she laughed and threw a ball of wool at him – Hetty was knitting a scarf. She’d been at it for eighteen months and it was only thirty centimetres long.
‘She’s older than me, y’know. By three years,’ Matt said.
‘Well then, you don’t wanna be getting involved with an older woman, now do you?’
Matt had laughed. He was glad he’d told Hetty – it somehow dispelled the myth and stopped him obsessing about Kate Andrews.
He ought to go out more. Literally. He’d been seeing a girl called Gillian up until a couple of months ago. She was nice enough, and the sex was rather good. But they’d both agreed it wasn’t going anywhere fast.
‘The trouble with you, Matthew,’ his mother had said to him once, ‘is you like your own company more than other people’s.’ This wasn’t strictly true. He just couldn’t be bothered to spend time with people who didn’t interest him. And for a few flashing moments when Kate had come into the gallery, he thought he’d found someone he did want to spend time with. Still, it wasn’t to be. Pull yourself together, lad, and find yourself a new girlfriend.
The next day he took a phone call from Fiona Barker, the buyer of the Laughing Woman canvas. She was ringing to say she’d changed her mind and was terribly sorry but she hoped he’d understand. Under normal circumstances Matt would’ve been cross, a deal’s a deal and all that.
But the moment she told him, he
found himself saying, ‘No problem at all, Mrs Barker. These things happen.’
As soon as he put down the phone, he scribbled a note on a piece of gallery paper – ‘Laughing Woman’ back on sale if you’re interested, Matt – shoved it in an envelope with his business card and headed outside, locking the shop door and leaving a Back in five minutes sign stuck to the glass.
Outside the film-set house, people were milling back and forth. A couple of the cast were by the tea table smoking and laughing, and a costume assistant was giving one of the props guys a shoulder massage in a camping chair. Electricians and camera crew were going back and forth from the house carrying big bulky equipment, and someone who looked like he might be the producer was talking animatedly on his mobile. ‘Get it here as SOON as you can, Barry. This isn’t on, mate, it just isn’t on.’
Matt waited for a while, conscious that he looked like all the other rubber-neckers having a nosy. There was no sign of Kate. He thought about giving the envelope to one of the runners – but wouldn’t they just think he was some weirdo groupie, a deranged fan seeking Kate’s attention just like a million others? And then he saw a familiar face – Les the Sound guy. Les had come into the gallery the day before – a dour and unsmiling chap in a baseball cap and wet-weather gear. He’d talked for half an hour about why he adored Gauguin so much, before going on to spend ninety quid on a print for his wife. ‘Wedding anniversary,’ he’d muttered, still unsmiling. ‘Twenty-seven years and I still love the very bones of that woman.’ Matt had taken a shine to Les, but it might have been because he recognized his native South Yorkshire brogue. Yorkshiremen could do no wrong in Matt’s book.
‘Les!’ he called out, a little desperately. At first, Les looked daggers, annoyed that someone should intrude upon him like that.
But then he recognized Matt and a sea of warmth swept over his face. He almost smiled. ‘Ey up, Matt lad!’
‘Do me a favour, mate, give this to Kate Andrews. She was in the shop the other day – it’s about a painting she were after.’ Matt was conscious he’d launched into a broad Yorkshire accent in his bid to win Les over.
‘Aye, no worries. She’s not in today.’ Momentarily Matt’s heart sank. ‘But I’ll see she gets it next week.’
The following Friday evening, Matt found himself helping two removal men unload the giant canvas, now wrapped in protective fabric, from the back of their large van. He oversaw them carry it into Kate’s three-bed Pimlico apartment and affix it to the wall of her spacious living area. It looked spectacular. She knew what she was doing when she chose it. Matt refused to accept the five grand she’d originally offered, taking only a cheque for four. She told him he must be a very honest person but was probably a rubbish businessman.
He laughed and their eyes locked. That stirring again. When the removal men had finished, they all stood back and admired their handiwork. Matt paid the men and they left. As soon as they were alone, Matt turned to Kate and, pointing at her new acquisition, said, ‘I hope you’ll both be very happy together.’
That was his cue to go, but he stood still; that was her cue to say goodbye, but she remained silent. After a few seconds, she simply held out her hand and he took it. He didn’t leave the flat again until five o’clock the following afternoon.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ asked Tallulah – the prerequisite question for any car journey.
The guy behind him was banging on his horn. The lights had been green so long they were about to turn amber again. Matt snapped out of his sad reverie, held up his hand in a pointless apology and moved off. ‘Not far now, petal.’
17
That afternoon, Kate could barely concentrate, her head in turmoil after hearing Callum’s voice. She didn’t really know her lines and, unluckily for her, the scene was an intense two-hander demanding total commitment and her wits about her. She had no idea where her wits had gone and she longed for the day to end.
It didn’t help that the other actor in the scene, Ellis Marks, was one of those annoying worthy types who was word perfect and clearly judged her for not being as up to speed as he was.
Ellis had this annoying habit of interrupting the take if Kate got a phrase wrong or missed out a line, looking at Benno with a supercilious, pained expression and whining, ‘I’m so sorry to stop, it’s just Kate should have said I won’t be going there any more rather than I doubt I’ll go there again.’
Benno was good at hiding his frustration. It wasn’t Ellis’s place to point out anyone else’s mistakes. Benno had worked with plenty of actors like him: those who rarely did TV work and, when they did, insisted on showing the world they knew all about the mechanics of filming.
The third time Ellis stopped, Kate just sighed a ‘Fuck this!’, got up and left the set, mumbling ‘I need five minutes’ as she went.
Benno, conscious that they were all walking an emotional tight-rope today given Kate’s fragile physical state, was only too keen to go along with her.
‘No worries, babe. You want a coffee? Jase! Get Kate a coffee, will you?’ he shouted, before Kate had even answered him.
The on-set crew, aware of an atmosphere brewing, busied themselves with jobs that didn’t need doing, staying well out of the firing line. Ellis looked round for an ally, caught the eye of the young camera assistant and whispered with camp innocence, ‘Was it something I said?’ The camera assistant just blushed, not daring to conspire. He’d had it drilled into him by the director of photography never to engage with cast members on set unless it was life or death.
Outside, the October sun was still shining. Just. Kate sank down into the discomfort of a camping chair and shut her eyes, drinking in the afternoon’s lukewarm rays. Tears threatened to sneak down her cheeks but she forced them away. She was just tired, she convinced herself. She wanted to blame it on Ellis Marks, but in all fairness to him, he had a point. She didn’t know her lines, didn’t even care about work today, and that was irresponsible of her.
She’d always managed in the past to put her work first. No matter what else was going on in her life, she never let it affect her work. But now everything was unravelling. She thought how much simpler things would have been if she’d never made that trip to the school. How much easier it would have been to carry on with life, using her well-worn coping techniques, her mechanisms for expelling the demons. But the truth was, seeing Callum again had shown her how dead she’d been. All these years. Christ only knew how this was going to play out. The only thing she could focus on was seeing him one more time. It was a need, not a desire.
Jason the runner came striding up, breathless, holding a cup of black coffee. Kate smiled at him. Jason, like Becky, lived in fear of Kate and she knew it.
‘Thanks darling, you’re a saint,’ she said, momentarily fazing him. And she took a big gulp of the warm, tasteless liquid.
‘Benno said you’re to take your time, but when you come back there’s a little surprise for you.’
Kate knew straight away what this meant. Nobody ever escaped having a birthday without some kind of fuss being made. Almost on a daily basis, greetings cards were passed around set and signatures surreptitiously collected. Everyone knew it was her birthday today. They’d make no exception.
‘How intriguing!’ Kate managed to look excited and handed Jason the half-finished drink before making her way back on set. She was prepared for a cake, she was prepared to see the entire crew gathered smiling and singing the inevitable ‘Happy Birthday’.
What she wasn’t prepared for was seeing Matt and Tallulah stood there with them – Tallulah proudly standing behind the cake she’d so lovingly helped to make.
‘Oh my goodness! What are you doing here?’ Kate knew what was expected of her and Tallulah wasn’t disappointed by her mother’s ‘surprised’ reaction, giggling delightedly.
‘Mummy, look what me and Daddy made you!’
There were lots of oohs and aahs and Doesn’t she look like Kate? from the costume and make-up girls.
�
�Wow! That is spectacular!’ And she gave Tallulah a huge, slightly-too-hard hug.
Matt leant over and touched her arm, kissing her cheek politely. ‘Sorry, she insisted on coming to see you.’
Before Kate had a chance to convey some kind of apology for the way she’d behaved, Tallulah was shouting, ‘Blow out the candles quick and make a wish!’
Matt pulled back, letting Tallulah have her moment as Kate dutifully did what she was told.
Everyone watched and smiled. Kate couldn’t be more in the spotlight if she tried. She looked at Matt, and the look he returned spoke volumes, silently willing her to keep up the front for Tallulah’s sake, to play the game. This was the first time they’d spoken that day, so they’d had no chance to discuss what had happened to her last night and why she’d so monumentally let him down. Matt’s look caught her off guard and she felt her throat tighten. Jesus, she was going to cry.
No. Stop it. Keep. It. Together. She blew out the candles and everyone clapped. She wanted to speak, to say, ‘OK, can we all get back to work now, because I know where I am if I’m working,’ but she knew the instant her voice came out it would crack with sorrow. So she kept smiling. The rictus grin of a woman battling her tears.
‘Make a wish, Mummy. You haven’t made a wish!’
Kate shut her eyes and made a wish. Thank God she’d never have to tell anyone what it was.
‘Speech! Speech!’ shouted Benno, keen to get back to filming but careful not to offend his leading lady. And once again all eyes were on Kate.
‘Oh God, no!’ She tried really hard to look faux annoyed and everyone laughed. Finding her voice from somewhere, she started to say a few words and it seemed for all the world that she’d got away with it. ‘Well, thank you everyone for that incredible singing. Especially you, Rocky,’ she looked directly at the boom operator, ‘those dulcet tones were a bit of a shocker!’