Material Girl

by Louise Kean

  I sit up straight, roll back my shoulders, and address the building in front of me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  The needles pause. ‘It’s no problem,’ the old lady says. And then begins clicking again.

  I walk back to the station.

  I barely recognise the theatre as I walk up the aisle at ten fifteen. There are no discarded Starbucks cups or holders or brown bags or muffin wrappers or juice bottles. The stage has been swept, and polished as well I think. The aisles are clean. The rocks and the villa and the swathe of the ocean are lit by a bright white and pink glow. I spot Gavin and the electrician at the side of the stage sorting through wires. One of the runners polishes a mirror like it’s a Gestapo death-squad demand – any streaks and you die! – while another remakes the large bed that sits on the left-hand side of the stage, plumping up feather cushions to bursting point.

  Tristan is talking earnestly at his assistant while listing things on his fingers, as the boy makes notes on an A4 pad. Tristan isn’t wearing his funeral hat today, or his Jackie Onassis sunglasses, or his pink beads, or his Romford Market kimono. He is wearing a white shirt, a black tie, and a dark grey suit. He looks like Sammy Davis Junior’s cousin, just flown in from Mumbai.

  Everybody looks like they mean business today.

  I slip up the stairs at the side of the stage and go quietly down the corridor to Dolly’s room, and nobody notices. I feel partially invisible, as if some of me has been scrubbed out, albeit temporarily, although the exact length of time is yet to be determined.

  Dolly hasn’t arrived yet, as I expected. My stomach grumbles loudly in the quiet of her room. I place my box on the table and walk to the kitchen to make a slice of toast, determined to keep it down.

  Passing the toilet I hear somebody being violently sick on the other side of the door. It sounds loud and serious and uncontrollable. If I hadn’t already thrown up the food in my stomach this morning the noise itself would make me sick again too. I knock on the door timidly.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, but whoever it is retches again in reply. ‘Okay, well, I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,’ I tell them, and run away.

  I find bread for toast, but can’t stomach it, so I pour myself a cup of hot water and head back. The door to the bathroom flies open as I am about to pass, flooding the corridor with the stench of fresh vomit. It reminds me that I have smelt it here a few times already. I have to throw my hand violently over my mouth and nose and breathe in the moisturiser on my hands deeply to stop my eyes from watering.

  Tom Harvey-Saint adjusts his shirt and walks out of the bathroom. Cue gasps from his horrified teenage fan club. His eyes are red and swollen, and he looks pale like runny egg-white.

  ‘Tom, are you okay?’ I ask, alarmed.

  ‘Of course I’m okay. It’s just some bad prawns,’ he says, straightening his cuffs and tucking his shirt in to the tops of his trousers, over the flat board of his stomach.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, and a penny drops as he walks off. It’s not just the girls who are on show these days …

  A waft of lavender swarms over me as I reach the dressing-room door, and I know that Dolly has arrived.

  She is already sitting in her chair, shaking quietly. A pile of cards lay unopened in her lap, and two fresh bunches of orange and pink roses have appeared in vases on the counter.

  Her eyes look red and puffy as well. A single card sits in front of the flowers. It has a glossy photo of two young children on the front, a boy and a girl, and their mother in the middle, trying to keep them all together for a hug while the kids squirm and laugh for the camera. The woman looks like Dolly.

  ‘My daughter, Lulu,’ she says, nodding at the card.

  I pick it up and study the photo. She is haughty, and beautiful. I place it back down on the counter.

  ‘No, read it, Lulu. You can read it.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, and pick it up again, flicking it open.

  It says,

  Good Luck, Mum. Sorry we can’t be there.

  Chloe, Dan, Danny and Charlotte x

  ‘Well that’s nice,’ I say, placing it back down on the side.

  ‘I thought they might still come,’ she replies, and coughs.

  There is a rap on the door, and she whispers, ‘Come in.’

  One of Gavin’s runners pokes his head around the doorframe. ‘Sorry, more flowers,’ he says, carrying two more vases full of black roses.

  ‘Never apologise for roses, just put them over there.’ Dolly gestures to the corner.

  The boy backs out and closes the door behind him.

  ‘When do you want to start today?’ I ask her. ‘I mean, I don’t even know how this works – if the performance starts at seven thirty, do you need time on your own beforehand?’

  She looks up at me sadly. ‘Of course, none of them think I’ll go on, Lulu.’

  ‘Oh.’ I place the blusher brush that I have been playing with back down on the side. ‘Do you think you will?’ I ask.

  ‘I will. Of course I will! I have never been afraid of anything. I’m not going to start now.’

  ‘It’s probably okay, though, if you are a bit afraid, Dolly,’ I say, and shrug.

  She shakes her head, biting trembling lips closed. ‘Why are you so sad?’ she asks, glancing up and noticing the tears in my eyes.

  ‘Ben moved out last night. I ended it, yesterday. In front of a paddling pool of penguins at London Zoo. Well, that’s not strictly true. I didn’t end it. I asked him if he loved me and he just said “No”. So, what else could I do?’

  I shrug and try not to cry.

  ‘Nothing else, Lulu. You could do nothing else. And how do you feel now?’

  ‘Terrified,’ I say with a laugh, tears streaming down my face. She reaches out and takes one of my hands. We are both shaking.

  ‘The terror will pass, Lulu. But the strength remains.’

  I nod my head. ‘But I feel like I failed,’ I say, my lip crumbling.

  ‘Do you love him?’ she asks sternly, her eyes red too.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, pressing my lips together to control myself.

  ‘Well then, you didn’t fail. Do you hear me, Lulu? You must never see loving somebody as a failure. Not loving somebody: now that’s entirely different. Now put Ella on and let’s make me look beautiful! Ha!’

  Ella sings ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’ while I dust her with make-up and blot both her eyes and mine every now and then. I chuck twelve tissues away in total.

  ‘Well, I have a cast talk to attend,’ Dolly says, pushing herself to her feet. ‘You stay here, Lulu, you don’t need to go outside today. It’s cold!’

  Twenty minutes later I take my third gulp from Dolly’s hipflask and shudder violently. I look at my phone. I shouldn’t call him. Everybody always says, ‘Don’t call them, let them miss you, leave them alone to realise their mistake,’ blah, blah, blah. But they don’t know me, and they don’t know Ben. And they don’t know Dutch courage until they’ve tasted whatever it is in Dolly’s hipflask.

  I hit Ben’s number in my phone.

  ‘What if I took it all back?’ I say, as soon as he answers.

  Silence, and then, ‘We can’t, Scarlet, can we? It’s done now.’

  I think he sounds relieved. Then he says, ‘Don’t be sad, Scar, we had a great three years.’

  If he were here I’d slap him. It occurs to me like a bucket of water thrown in my face that he may be oblivious to the pain that he has caused. He just doesn’t feel it, and it enables him to say things like that. I want to scream, ‘But I feel ruined! Like a goddamn overcooked steak!’ And I want to say, ‘No, we didn’t have three great years. I am exhausted! And I’m damaged! And it was a waste of my time!’

  But I don’t say it, and I don’t even know why. Maybe because I feel like I’m a little drunk, and maybe because I don’t want to hurt him, even now, when I really think that he deserves to know. He’ll be happy soon enough, whether I tell him or not: he left us a
long time ago.

  ‘I’m scared,’ is what I say instead.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he answers, but he doesn’t sound it.

  ‘God, Ben,’ I whisper, I can’t shout any more, ‘you just sound so … so ambivalent about the whole thing …’

  He raises his voice. ‘I’m not ambivalent, Scarlet, but we’ve broken up.’

  ‘Don’t say it like that, it was only last night! Don’t say it like it’s been months and it’s a done deal!’ I say, raising mine too.

  ‘But it is a done deal,’ he replies, exasperated again.

  Silence.

  ‘You took the first get-out I ever gave you, didn’t you? But you never did it yourself …’ And now it’s Ben’s turn to fall silent on the other end of the phone.

  I sit in his silence for twenty seconds before he says, ‘Well …’

  Maybe it’s the last thing I’ll ever hear him say.

  ‘Fine. It’s done,’ I snap, and hang up.

  Scene III: The Half

  ‘It’s the half, Dolly, what do you want to do?’

  Dolly stares at herself in the mirror without acknowledging Tristan, who jumps once on the spot in the doorway and squeezes his eyes shut. I lean against the back wall and watch the scene nervously. Tristan is standing in front of Gavin, who fills the doorway completely. Like Little and Large, Gavin towers head and shoulders above Tristan, even when Tristan jumps. Gavin looks down at Tristan’s crown, once, alarmed.

  ‘She is driving me crazy, crazy! Edelweiss, edelweiss, edelweiss …’ Tristan whispers, tapping his cheeks with his fingers.

  Dolly’s eyes, reflected in the mirror, cannon across the room to address him, as she growls, ‘Get out! Get out! Get them out, Lulu, will you?’ Dolly spins around and shouts at me, wringing her hands. ‘It’s the half, don’t you people know anything about actors, anything! I need my space. I need time alone! Get out!’ She turns to face the wall and covers her eyes.

  Tristan and Gavin look at me for direction.

  I shrug and shoo them back through the door and into the corridor.

  ‘I’ll be outside if you need me, okay,’ I say, pulling the door closed quietly behind me.

  ‘Not you, Lulu!’ Dolly says, and spins around. ‘You can stay.’

  ‘Are you sure? Don’t you need to be alone?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘Just stay here. Please?’ she replies.

  I take a step back into the room, and turn around to push the door closed on Tristan, who looks wounded: his mouth falls open like his jaw has just lost the springs that held it together.

  I mouth ‘sorry’, and close the door in his face, wincing when he fails to move even an inch backwards and the wood softly shunts his nose.

  Dolly is sitting in her chair, facing the mirror again. She stares at herself in distaste. ‘Look at me,’ she whispers. ‘Look at me. Who wants to see me now? Look at the state of me. I’m a sight, a wreck, aren’t I? I’m the bloody Blackpool Tower. Nobody is bothered about me. It’s Tom they’ve come to see, or Arabella. Nobody is here for me anyway. What does it matter?’

  ‘Gavin thinks you’re the reason they’ve sold the theatre out,’ I say, looking down at my feet innocently.

  ‘What does he know?’ she whispers.

  ‘I don’t know, but he’s worked here for a few years, and they don’t normally sell out, he says, but now they have, and anyway, that’s just what he said.’ I shrug and smile like it’s unimportant.

  Dolly gives me a weary look in the mirror, and then addresses her reflection again. ‘Getting old is terrible, Lulu. Terrible. Don’t do it.’

  ‘Do I have a choice? Besides, I think you look fine.’

  ‘Ha! What woman wants to be described as looking fine? That’s the kind of foolish thing a man would say!’

  ‘Okay, I think you look wonderful, but I didn’t think you’d believe me if I said that because it is too obvious a compliment tonight, so I just shot for something you might believe. Is that good enough for you?’ I study a vase of orange roses on the side as if I’m interested, delicately playing with their petals, lifting each of them up one by one and letting them fall again. I feel like I’m the one acting.

  ‘Do you? Do you think I look wonderful?’ she asks, straight-faced, stark with desperation.

  ‘I honestly do. I’m not so sure about me, but I know that you look wonderful, Dolly.’ I take a step forward and cross my finger over my heart as a promise.

  ‘Oh isn’t it funny, Lulu, right now, this very second, this moment, faced with the prospect of stepping out onto that stage, I’d trade the whole world to look like you again.’

  I fold my arms and shake my head, leaning back against the wall. ‘No you wouldn’t, Dolly, not really.’

  ‘Oh you don’t know, Lulu, you’ll see. In time, you’ll see.’

  ‘You’ve had a lifetime of looking beautiful, of looking like you. Most people only get a series of moments. How’s that for lucky?’ I ask.

  ‘Moments,’ she smiles, with familiarity. ‘That was my line,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  She smiles again, but when she turns back in her chair to face the mirror her smile slips like it’s too big for her face, and falls off her.

  ‘I can’t, Lulu, I just can’t. I have to go home.’ She pushes herself to her feet, and her hands have begun to shake again, but violently now.

  I am desperate, and running out of options.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t, Dolly. People have paid, and they are excited at the prospect of seeing you, and … you know that you can do it! That is what is so annoying, what are you so scared for, suddenly?’

  She slumps back down in the chair and holds her hands up in front of her and watches them tremble. ‘I just … Lulu, I don’t know how I’ll get through it tonight.’

  ‘Have you taken anything?’ I ask quickly.

  She looks at my reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Where is your bag?’ I demand.

  She keeps looking at me sadly.

  ‘Would you like some water?’ I say, leading her to the answer by the hand.

  ‘Oh, Lulu, you know I …’ She shakes her head, but her eyes plead with mine.

  ‘Look. I’m not saying it’s an answer forever, or for the whole damn run, or even for tomorrow. But get up there! Get through it tonight – you do want to do it, don’t you?’

  ‘Very much,’ she replies, nodding.

  ‘Well then. You know that if you want something you just want it, and you shouldn’t be ashamed to admit it or make it happen. So,’ I reach into her bag, retrieve her hipflask, and snatch the glass up from the counter. I pour a long measure in and pass her the glass.

  She takes it without question, and gulps it down.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Okay. Give me fifteen minutes on my own, Lulu.’

  I leave her staring at her reflection in the mirror, pulling the skin back at the sides of her eyes, giving herself temporary and painless surgery.

  I pull the door closed behind me and Gavin and Tristan jump on me.

  ‘Well?’ says Gavin.

  ‘Well?’ says Tristan.

  ‘Well?’ I reply, enjoying the moment. ‘I think she’s going on. I think. But she’ll need you in the wings, Tristan. You can’t let a kid do it, it has to be you. You have to look after her up there, you can’t leave her vulnerable or open to ridicule.’

  Tristan is nodding his head enthusiastically. ‘You’re right, Make-up, you’re right, aha, yes, whatever it takes. If she goes on …’

  The three of us stand in silence for a while. Gavin leans against a wall. I sense him staring at me, and glance up quickly to catch him, but his eyes dart away. Tristan looks from me to Gavin to me again, and shakes his head slowly, smiling. I inspect my shoes. Tristan jumps on the spot. Gavin shoves his hands into his pockets. I inspect my tights for ladders. Tristan coughs once, nervously. I inspect my nails for chips.

  The door opens and Dolly steps into the corridor.

  ‘Dolly! I t
hought I might prompt tonight,’ Tristan says loudly and firmly.

  ‘Fine,’ she replies, and holds her head high. She is wearing an old white lace gown as Gavin takes her hand and leads her upstairs to the wings.

  I stand stage-side. You can hear the audience barely feet away, behind the curtain, perilously close and loud like a wall of water, building into a mighty terrible wave about to crash down upon the stage. Dolly’s hands shake a little by her side. I retrieved her glass from the room and now I hold it for her. Everybody buzzes about, and then an expectant silence falls in front of the curtain, and Dolly looks at me nervously.

  ‘Do you need another slug?’ I ask.

  She takes a sip.

  Gavin gives me a look like I’m crazy but I brush it off.

  I don’t think I can watch.

  I spy Tom on the other side of the stage and he looks green like mushy peas. Arabella stands feet away from Dolly and I, giving the impression of a woman completely composed. Dolly eyes her jealously. Arabella has a bonus confidence, certain as she is that whatever happens tonight she looks wonderful.

  Tristan stands beside me, script in hand, wide-eyed and still. ‘Dolly, I’m here for every line. If you need me. On this side.’ He licks the ball of his index finger and runs it down the page.

  The lights dip.

  A voice on the PA system says, ‘Due to the nature of the play, there will be no interval.’

  The curtain is dragged up.

  I walk down the stairs backstage, and away.

  I hear it first. A swell of approval that might bring the house down. A stamping, thudding roar of applause threatening to burst the roof off the theatre and into the London night.

  I leave the room and walk quickly upstairs. I have to stop myself from running, but I want to see it.

  I spot Tristan first, holding himself up at the side of the stage, looking on as his cast take their bow. He looks appalling: devastated, exhausted, frazzled, sweat-drenched.

  The cast file off into the wings. Dolly is on the opposite side of the stage. She reaches out and grabs Gavin’s hand to support herself. The cheers from the audience get louder. Dolly straightens her back and walks back out on stage, alone.

  The volume threatens to shake the foundations. The slow hand-clap like cannons being fired over and over, the screeched whistles, the throaty cheers. Dolly stands in front of them all, smiling easily. She gives the audience her own small round of applause. Tom brings on a vast bunch of wild flowers, and Dolly accepts them graciously, with a kiss to both his cheeks. She nods her head slightly at the audience, and smiles warmly. The claps and cheers continue. Then Dolly shrugs. Did they expect anything less? The delight explodes from the stalls.