Material Girl

by Louise Kean

  Dolly retreats stiffly to my side of the wings, where Tristan stands, beaten, the script in tatters at his feet. She snatches his hand and wrings it hard. Tristan has tears in his bloodshot eyes as he looks up at her, but she says nothing. She spies me in the corner, and says simply, ‘Come on, Lulu,’ and walks past me, back down the stairs towards her room.

  ‘Every third line,’ she says.

  ‘Pardon?’

  She slumps in her chair. ‘He gave me every third line, Lulu, that strange little man. Didn’t miss it, didn’t rush it. Didn’t crowd me, knew my signs. He was wonderful.’

  ‘Well, I’ve heard wonderful things,’ I say, soaking a cotton-wool ball in cleanser, before Dolly interrupts. ‘Don’t take it off tonight, Lulu. I want to leave it on for tonight.’

  ‘For the party? But I can do it again, now, quickly, if you want me to, and a little less heavy around the eyes?’

  ‘No, no. Call Tristan in here, will you, Lulu. I’m sure he’s lurking somewhere close.’

  Confused, I open the door to the rabble in the corridor, and Tristan practically falls through the doorway with his red glassy eyes, a shirt soaked in sweat, and hair so drenched in fear that it has frizzed into a giant fuzzy Shredded Wheat atop his head.

  ‘What in hell’s the matter with you? Ha! You look like you’ve fought an army!’ Dolly says when she sees him, chuckling. Her hands have stopped shaking.

  Gavin pokes his head around the door too. ‘There is a queue of people out here, Dolly – Jerry Hall, Prunella Scales … Tony Bennett …’

  ‘How kind, how kind,’ she says, ‘but Gavin, send them to the party, tell them I’ll be along in a little while and that they should drink, and I’ll see them there. But be sure and tell them that I love them, and thank them, Gavin, very much.’

  Gavin shuts the door.

  ‘He’s a lovely man’ she says. I smile and nod my head.

  ‘He has character.’ She winks at me, and then turns to face Tristan, who smacks his lips together and smiles.

  ‘I’m not coming to the party, Tristan,’ Dolly says. ‘And I’m not coming back tomorrow. I’m going to leave for New York in the morning. I’ve done what I could but I’ve had a call from the States and I have to go to my daughter.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’ Tristan asks urgently.

  ‘It’s personal,’ she says, ‘and besides, the smell of the greasepaint … the roar of the crowd – there will be another time for me.’

  Tristan slumps to the floor, devastated.

  Dolly ignores the dramatic gesture and carries on. ‘Audrey can fill in for me for the short term. She’ll be terrible, of course, but you’ll get another star, perhaps, soon enough. I do wish that I could stay, but I simply can’t. I have to go and see my daughter. I’ve had an urgent call …’ She is no less convincing this time than the last.

  Tristan looks up like a child sat on an assembly-hall floor. ‘One week,’ he says to her. ‘Just give me one week, we’ll be one of those amazing sought-after hot tickets, and we’ll pack them out for a week, and then we’ll say it was our choice to fold.’

  Dolly shakes her head and smiles.

  ‘I am very sorry. It’s impossible. I can’t. And besides, we all know it’s a ridiculous play. A vanity play – it was for him and it is for me. Enough is enough.’

  There is a heavy knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Dolly barks.

  ‘Your car is here, shall I tell him to drive around for a bit?’ Gavin asks.

  ‘No, I’ll only be a few minutes, tell him to wait.’

  Gavin nods and closes the door, and Dolly looks expectantly at Tristan, who takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet. There is a ring of dust on the seat of his trousers.

  ‘Is it worth me saying you have a contract?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘That was never signed,’ she replies with a soft smile.

  ‘Right. Right. Well, thank you for tonight at least,’ Tristan says sadly, his hands in his pockets, his chin down. He glances up at her and there is still a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘No. Thank you,’ she answers him, and Tristan turns and walks out.

  Dolly looks at me. ‘Lulu, will you ask Gavin, after I’ve left, to pack up my things and have them sent on via the Dorchester? They are very good, they’ll sort it out for me. Do you want some of these flowers?’ she asks me, gesturing lazily around the room. ‘Take the pink ones, Lulu.’

  ‘Okay, I will.’

  She grabs her bag up off the floor.

  ‘Bring me the black roses, just that bunch, Lulu, will you? And walk me up?’

  I grab the bunch that her daughter sent her, and wrap a plastic bag around the bottom.

  ‘Perfect,’ she says, walking ahead of me.

  ‘Have you got everything?’ I ask as she leaves.

  ‘I think so,’ she replies, walking out without looking back.

  Everybody has gone to the party, and the backstage area is finally quiet. The back door is deserted. Gavin helps Dolly into her car, guiding her head into the back seat gently as if she were a genteel criminal being ushered into a squad car.

  ‘Where do you want the flowers?’ I ask, standing at the car door.

  ‘I’ll just take them here on my lap, Lulu, no fuss,’ she says.

  I hand them in to her and she puts them down on the seat, and grabs my hand.

  ‘Lulu,’ she says quietly, and squeezes my hand in between both of hers.

  I crouch down at the door.

  ‘I think that we pooled our strength, didn’t we?’

  ‘We did!’ I reply, hardly able to look her in the eye, trying to fight the tears off.

  ‘Toughen up, Lulu,’ she says, her voice breaking. Dolly pulls the back of my hand up to her mouth and gives it an old, squashed kiss. Her lipstick stains my skin and I feel the tears tumble out of my eyes.

  ‘I will, I promise,’ I say. She lets go of my hand as I stand up.

  ‘The Dorchester, one last time!’ she says to the driver, with a wink. I close the door and her car pulls away.

  Back in the dressing room I grab my bag, and wrap newspaper around the wet stems of the pink roses, and head upstairs again without lingering. I find Tristan sitting with his legs stretched out at the front of the stage, resting on the palms of his hands behind him.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, as I walk to the centre of the stage, and lean.

  ‘Hey,’ I reply. ‘Don’t you want to go to the party? Don’t you want to read your reviews?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, they’ll be average, Make-up, the critics hate this play anyway. And what does it matter? Dolly’s gone. We’re a one-night stand. A quick cheap thrill, gone tomorrow. The show will close when people realise she’s not coming back.’ Tristan looks up and around him, leaning his neck back, and shouts, ‘This bloody theatre! Damn you, damn you!’

  I don’t know what to say and we stand in silence as I search for a silver lining. After two long minutes of sighs, I find one, of sorts.

  ‘But now you can do Death in Venice! With the priests! You won’t have sold your soul for nothing, Tristan.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he says, sitting up and brightening slightly.

  ‘As long as, you know, the priests will get on a bus with a man with no soul.’

  ‘Oh why not, love, they’ve all sold theirs to the same guy,’ he replies.

  ‘Don’t say that on the bus,’ I tell him, alarmed. ‘Anyway. How do you think it went? The applause was wonderful, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it was. She was wonderful. The bastard is she only had the one performance in her.’ Tristan sighs again, and examines his fingernails.

  ‘Tristan, I can’t come back tomorrow either. I have to leave too,’ I tell him apologetically.

  He looks up and smiles. ‘An urgent call from New York for you too, Make-up?’

  ‘Not quite. Rottingdean.’

  He looks perplexed.

  ‘It’s near Brighton. On the coast. I have to go and see my mum.’


  ‘Oh, is she okay?’ he asks, pushing himself to his feet, wiping down his trousers.

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine. It’s not her, really, it’s me.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tristan stops dusting himself down and looks up at me. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m … okay, yes. It’s nothing fatal. It hurts at the moment, but I’ll be fine.’

  Tristan smiles and winks at me.

  I smile and wink back.

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Ha!’ he shouts, and walks off backstage.

  Gavin coughs. I turn and see him standing by one of the stalls’ entrances.

  ‘Gavin, you are always standing behind me, coughing,’ I say.

  ‘Why are you going?’ he asks, walking forwards slowly.

  ‘I just have to get out of London for a while, Gavin. Everybody should, sometimes. I have to clear my head. I think I’ve got a bit cloudy and I need some seaside air to wash those clouds away.’

  Gavin stops a couple of steps away from me.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ he says.

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Very much,’ he replies, and I am amazed.

  ‘What?’ he asks, at the incredulous look on my face.

  ‘Nothing, really, it’s just that it’s funny. I’ve only known you, what, a week? And nobody has ever told me they’ll miss me before. I mean, apart from my mum, and she has to.’

  ‘Not even Ben?’ he asks, baffled.

  ‘Oh my God, especially not him! Sometimes I’d even ask him, “Did you miss me?” This was before we were living together, and he’d gone camping or walking with Iggy for a week, and he’d just say “No”. I think he thought I should admire his honesty …’

  ‘It explains a lot,’ Gavin says, placing a huge palm facing downwards on the stage as we stand in front of it, studying his fingers. He seems nervous.

  ‘Maybe it does. How many signs can a girl ignore? But not any more …’ I try to laugh, but it won’t quite come out.

  ‘How was the zoo?’ he asks.

  ‘Conclusive. Sad. But overdue.’ I say.

  ‘So … can I call you?’ Gavin says, and stops looking at his fingers, looking at me instead. I knew that the question was coming, in the way that you always know. Sometimes you can just see people’s hearts through their jumpers.

  ‘I don’t know, Gavin …’ I reply, looking him in the eye.

  ‘Well, I’ve got your number so maybe I’ll just call you anyway,’ he shrugs.

  ‘Okay, well, that’s another approach,’ I say, and give him the biggest smile that I can muster. ‘Dolly asked if you’d get somebody to pack her stuff up and send it to the Dorchester to forward on?’ I continue, picking up my flowers wrapped in newspaper.

  He nods.

  ‘Bye, Gavin,’ I say, grabbing my bag, walking back down the aisle on my own, and away.

  The Evening Standard seller is clapping his hands against the cold, outside Covent Garden tube station.

  I check my watch. It is eleven fifteen. ‘Shouldn’t you be closed?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘I’ve got one paper left,’ he whistles.

  ‘Well I’ll take it!’ I say.

  ‘Forty pence please, my lovely,’ he replies.

  I root around in the bottom of my bag for change.

  ‘Have you found it?’ he lisps. I look up and notice that another two teeth have disappeared, and now only two remain like an odd couple at the front of his mouth.

  ‘I’m just looking now,’ I say, concentrating on what my hand can feel in my bag.

  ‘But it looks like you’ve found it: what you lost,’ he persists.

  I stare at him, and feel two twenty-pence pieces fall into my hand in my bag.

  ‘Maybe I have,’ I tell him.

  ‘It took a while,’ he comments, and offers me the paper, folded in half.

  ‘Bye,’ I say, accepting my Standard and walking away backwards.

  ‘Goodnight, my lovely,’ he replies, and I turn away before the rest of his teeth fall out.

  Scene IV: Refuge

  Tuesday. I take a train to the seaside. I manage to sleep a little during the hour that it takes us to fly, metal sparking on metal, to Brighton. Last night’s sleep was fitful at best. I dozed in twenty-minute bursts, woken suddenly, consistently, violently, by night falls, or jumps, or spasms. I’d lurch forwards and wake myself up, over and over again. It’s not as if I miss the hugs, they weren’t there to miss. I miss his back, a little. I feel like I’ve misplaced something.

  I am obviously overtired. When we speed past a cemetery I am overwhelmed by the peculiarity of keeping our dead in boxes in holes in the ground. When will there be more bodies in the ground than people walking on it? When will the dead bodies reach critical mass? Does the day draw near? Meanwhile we lose somebody and we store their bones and skin in a box and bury it somewhere to rot, and sometimes we go and see the space where they rot, and talk to it. Our dead are gone: if we want to we can talk to them anywhere, and just pretend we are on hands-free to Heaven. There are no polystyrene cups with string attached: one cup resting at one end on their grave plots, the string shooting high up into the sky to heaven, and our dead friend or lover or relative cross-legged on a cloud with the other foam cup pressed to their ear, chatting away on the other end. Sometimes you lose people, and it’s better to let go. Retain a symbol, perhaps, of what they meant to you, but don’t keep turning back. You have to look forwards. It’s the only way to have a future, in anything!

  I scan the train carriage and wonder if anybody else has been dumped in the last few days. Dumped. It’s such an absurd and terrible phrase. It makes me sound like trash. I know that there was more to it than that. I am sure Ben thinks we both did the dumping, by mutual consent, and consoles himself with the fact that it was us both somehow, like he gave me a choice that was more than ‘hurt or stop hurting’. Maybe that’s what men do, when they can’t face the fact that they are hurting somebody? Women acknowledge, through their own tears, that people get hurt. Ben, with his lack of tears, pretends that they don’t. Perhaps he was only able to continue behaving in the way that he did by not admitting that he was hurting me. It’s as old as the hills. There is a Japanese girl with huge headphones two seats in front of me, facing forwards. I wonder if she has just been dumped. She doesn’t look particularly melancholy, she looks like a student. I am pretty sure she is fine, but then I can think what I like about her really. You can violate anybody’s character with your own thoughts, if you want to. It’s strange and reassuring. Maybe she did get dumped this morning, because she is needy and desperate and clawing and whining, all of the time. Maybe she was that way after a month! At least it took me six months to get to the needy, desperate, whiny stage with Ben. Then I simply managed to drag that out into two and a half years. You’ve got to admire my stamina in a way. I should consider marathons. They say it’s a wonderful day. It’s the atmosphere that helps people finish, they say. It’s bizarre when you think of it. Loads of people just running through town. Just running. And loads of other people standing around cheering and waving and clapping, while the other people run. I think a lot of people must simply go for the cheers. Who cheers you on normally, in everyday life? ‘Go on, Scarlet, dig deep! You can do it! Another ambivalent phone call! Another thoughtless gesture! You can stand it, go on! Another argument where you apologise for just being you, for even feeling something! Go on, girl! Another random cheating embrace that makes you hate yourself even more, desperate for affection! – go on, go on, go on!’ Where have my bloody cheers been?

  There is a man, thirty-five maybe, except I always get ages wrong. He gave my red swollen eyes a suspicious look when he sat down opposite me at the little train table. They are the glory seats, the train tables. If you can get one whole one to yourself then you win! But he didn’t look away. He gave me a smile. Maybe he thinks I am going to a funeral or to see a dying aunt, travelling sadly out of town. In my head I can make him anything. In my head he can be the ty
pe of man who cares about people, and isn’t self-absorbed and self-obsessed. He has an iPod nano, and he is listening to something melodic, leaving it alone, not fast-forwarding through every track to get to the next one, in case it’s better. He looks relaxed. Ben used to make play lists for his iPod, loads of them. He liked his dad rock. I would go so far as to say he almost loved it. Note the almost, let’s not get carried away.

  I said to him once, ‘Do you know why I think you love your music so much, Ben?’

  And he said, ‘No, surprise me!’ just like that, sarcastic straight away.

  So I said, ‘Because it’s the closest you get to emotion. You think it’s “genius” that somebody had a feeling and wrote it down, because you could never do the same. And you sing their feelings with emotion, but you do know that they actually felt them, right? If you think about that, Ben, all these people writing down their emotions, does it put you off the songs a bit? Like mould gathering around the top of them? Because, you know, being you, you’d think that it would …’

  ‘Another fascinating dissection of my character, Scarlet, thank you,’ he’d said, sighing and weary and bored and not really listening. He should have listened sometimes.

  ‘You know what’s really sad? You couldn’t write a line of one of those songs,’ I’d say, under my breath and behind his back when he’d walk off into the kitchen, singing. ‘The closest you get to expressing your feelings is singing what Jon Bon Jovi feels. Now that, Ben, is sad.’

  It occurs to me that I will need to stop having these thoughts soon. When should I leave him alone? Stop picking apart his character to find the bit that explains my rejection? Maybe this is me sitting at the grave of our relationship with the foam cup to my ear and the string in the air, a ladder to the sky, hoping he’ll pick up. Maybe I need to look forwards. Out of the window I glimpse the sea.