Who's That Girl?

by Mhairi McFarlane

  ‘Hi,’ Edie said, shading her view from the sun, trying very hard not to make eye contact with any nipples, ‘Just wondered if you wanted anything from the shops? I’ve a lust for a mint Magnum.’

  They looked at her blankly and Meg said: ‘Nah, we’re good, ta.’

  Good and NUDE. Whatever next, Meg.

  ‘Oh, kay.’

  ‘Excuse me!’ A woman’s head appeared, over the garden fence on the right-hand side, the other half of their semi. She was maybe late sixties, heavily made up, thin, dyed-brown hair in peaks, like a feminised Ken Dodd. She too was holding a fag aloft. The concept of ‘getting some fresh air’ around here was somewhat confused.

  ‘Excuse me. Why should we all have to look at your bits and smell your jazz cigarettes? Have some respect for others.’

  Edie’s jaw dropped. She was fairly sure Meg’s jaw dropped. The somewhat stoned-looking Winnie and Kez gawped.

  ‘Put some clothes on, for heaven’s sake. You’re women, but you’re not ladies.’ The woman who was apparently a lady took a drag on her fag, puffed and surveyed them. ‘Mind you, I’m not sure she’s a woman.’ She gestured at Kez.

  ‘We don’t care about your fascist ideas of propriety, you old ratbag,’ Meg said. ‘The Western sexualisation of breasts is not our concern.’

  ‘I doubt anyone will be sexualising Laurel and Hardy any time soon. The state of them!’

  ‘Oh, nice body shaming. This is private property, you can’t make us do shit.’

  ‘Are you asking men to put their tops on?’ Winnie asked the neighbour, shielding her eyes from the sun with a palm.

  ‘No, dear, because they don’t have knockers.’

  ‘Not all women have breasts and not all born men are men anyway,’ Meg said. ‘Don’t impose your preconceived gender normative assumptions on everyone.’

  ‘I think that wacky baccy’s gone to your head, love.’

  ‘Free the nipple!’ Meg said.

  ‘Well yours aren’t free. Not that I’m complaining.’

  ‘I have impetigo!’ Meg said.

  This was the first Edie had heard of it. She remained glad her sister was clothed though.

  The woman villain-laughed uproariously and her head disappeared again.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Meg shook her head, ‘I didn’t realise we lived next door to Margaret Thatcher.’

  Kez was unperturbed by the sickening tirade, squirting lurid mustard into a hotdog bun.

  Edie judged it safe to retreat. She was at the front door when she heard screaming from the garden, and not joyful high spirits screaming - bloodcurdling howls of shock.

  She dashed back through to see the woman from next door had returned, cackling delightedly as she drenched the three of them with a hose, which she wielded like a gun in a western, fag in other hand. They danced in the spray, holding their faces, chests bouncing. If any deviant was watching from a window, it was a wet dreams come true moment.

  ‘I’m calling the police, you mad old bitch!’ shrieked Meg, pink in the face, pale dreadlocks plastered to her wet face, as the drenching ceased.

  ‘You do that, my love. And I’m sure they’ll be interested in your drug-taking. In fact, I’m going to call them myself. How about that, eh.’ Her head popped away again.

  Meg dried her face on a grease-stained tea towel.

  ‘Mental cow,’ she muttered.

  ‘You don’t think she’s going to call the police, do you?’ Edie said, nervously.

  It wasn’t just the weed. She had long had a suspicion that her dad was falling behind on all sorts of necessary admin, like TV licences and that shattered brake light on his car. It was a consequence of being short of money, and possibly also a remnant of his breakdown. Edie nudged him when she could, but she wasn’t here to oversee it, most of the time.

  The police turning up on the doorstep, confronted with a toked-up Meg, two more traveller-types with their baps out, and a mouthy, pushy neighbour? Edie couldn’t see it ending well.

  As she passed her next-door neighbour’s front door, on her way to the shops, Edie paused. Maybe she could sweet-talk her sister out of this, pour oil on troubled water. On an impulse, she tapped on the flimsy wooden door with its whorl-like glass panels, somewhat apprehensive.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Who are you?’ said the woman. In full length, she was wearing a blue and pink housecoat of a sort that Edie didn’t think had been manufactured since the 1950s.

  ‘I’m Edie. I’m from next door.’

  ‘Oh, are you sick of the boob show too?’

  ‘Er, no. I’m from that next door. That was my sister you were talking to. She was the one who was dressed.’

  The woman leaned on the door jamb and looked her up and down.

  ‘Not seen you around.’

  ‘No, I live in London.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘I just wanted to say – I know my sister can be a bit full on …’ Edie lowered her voice; Meg would kill her if she overheard this. ‘But please let’s not all start calling the police. It’s not necessary. There won’t be many days warm enough for topless sunbathing anyway. I’d say this was a one-off.’

  Edie sincerely hoped this wasn’t Incident No.702 and nudism was Meg’s new jam.

  The woman gazed at her with crepey lidded eyes, her eyebrows above plucked into croquet hoops, which gave her a slightly Hammer Horror look.

  ‘Are you back to London soon, then?’

  Edie couldn’t tell if this was conciliation or not, so played along.

  ‘Uh, no, I’m not. I’m working up here.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a writer. A copywriter. Right now I’m writing a book about an actor.’

  ‘Which actor?’

  Edie hesitated.

  ‘Someone from Blood & Gold.’

  The woman sucked on her cig and exhaled a train-like stream of puff from the corner of her mouth. Edie worked hard at keeping her face straight and not coughing.

  ‘Ooh is it the dishy Prince? I like him!’

  Edie couldn’t resist a small moment of showing off.

  ‘Er. Yes. The Prince.’

  ‘He’s from round here?’

  ‘Yes. Well, Bridgford.’

  ‘I won’t shop your sister, if you show me some of this book.’

  Edie was taken aback. ‘I had to sign confidentiality clauses. I’m not allowed.’

  The woman threw her head back and let go a cackle. ‘Who am I going to tell, dear heart? My birds?’

  Edie bit the inside of her cheek. It admittedly seemed unlikely this woman was a security leak. And the autobiog was anodyne. Still, Edie wasn’t in a risk-taking frame of mind.

  ‘I’m not allowed, sorry.’

  ‘No deal then.’

  The woman smirked evilly and delightedly. Ooh, you old rotter. Wait, Edie thought: she was loaded with Elliot press clippings. She could read any of those and she’d be none the wiser, right?

  ‘There’s not a lot of it and it’s not very exciting. I’ve not even done the first interview with him yet. It’s on Friday. So, go on then.’

  ‘Next week?’

  ‘OK. And you are …?’

  ‘Margot. See you next week.’

  The door closed in her face and Edie thought: This neighbourhood is nuts.

  20

  Edie did a circuit of the pub without spotting Elliot, before realising he was tucked away in a corner, doing a Hollywood version of inconspicuous. No cheekbones to see here, move on. He was in a dark sweater and jeans and wearing a black woolly hat pulled low around his ears. It was completely unseasonal and made him look like a male model playing a criminal fisherman.

  Lol, famous people.

  ‘You’re alright for a drink?’ she said, smiling. Elliot was sat in front of three-quarters of a pint of beer.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Sorry, I would get yours but I’ve found a safe corner, I’m best staying in it.’

  ‘Sure,’ Edie said, thinking, ‘lying
lazy arse.’ The Stratford Haven was hardly hostile territory: a real ale sort of pub, it attracted a mixture of middle-aged men and sports clubs from the university. At early evening on a Friday, it was busy enough, but not madly so.

  Once she’d obtained her civilian’s G&T, Edie got her Dictaphone out and placed it between them.

  ‘I’m going to take a paper note, too.’ Edie had learned that people said more to you if you broke eye contact while you wrote.

  Elliot nodded. He had an odd expression that Edie couldn’t quite read, a mixture of attentiveness and apprehensiveness. He was obviously uneasy. Perhaps he spent all his time in The Ivy now.

  ‘I thought we could start with your love of acting,’ Edie said, sipping her drink, feeling a little foolish. ‘When you first realised it was what you wanted to do.’

  She’d congratulated herself on this being a suitably grown- up and flattering first subject for them to tackle.

  Elliot sloshed his Harvest Pale around the glass.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘You don’t like the question?’ Edie said, very carefully, in the pause. She’d be handling him with kid gloves and sugar tongs.

  ‘No. The question’s fine. Do people honestly care about this? My “craft”. Haha.’

  He took a sip of his beer.

  As Edie tried to work him out, Elliot glowered at her with his light eyes, framed by dark lashes, the look that had apparently unlaced bodices. Edie found him distinctly more chilly and forbidding than arousing and inviting.

  ‘Yes, they’re definitely interested.’

  ‘But you’re not?’ Elliot said, with a small smile.

  ‘What do you mean? I’m interested,’ Edie protested, suddenly a little embarrassed. He had an odd way of throwing out attitudes she didn’t expect.

  ‘A-right. Sure you are.’ The small smile spread into a laddish ‘caught you out’ grin.

  ‘You’re more northern-sounding than I was expecting.’

  Weirdly, the portcullis went down, at what Edie thought an innocuous remark. Elliot looked hard again, although his voice was merely level.

  ‘I’m from here. How was I going to sound? I didn’t go to RADA. Or did you not read the Wiki notes?’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean … I’m from here, and I sound more southern than you.’

  ‘You do,’ he said.

  Edie decided to say nothing. She kept getting it wrong, apparently.

  ‘Hey, here’s an idea …’ Elliot said.

  Edie smiled a polite tight smile. She’d like the general idea where she had a safe amount of intel in her recording devices, thanks very much.

  ‘How about I ask you questions, too?’

  ‘Uh … How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, to make this feel more like a conversation and less like an interrogation. You ask me stuff, I ask you stuff.’

  This wasn’t the snotty self-obsession she assumed was part of the thespian DNA.

  Still, she also assumed he’d be capricious, so she’d see how long this whim lasted.

  ‘… If you really want to.’

  Elliot stretched and sat straighter in his seat.

  ‘Acting … I didn’t like school much and I wasn’t very popular.’

  Edie raised an eyebrow without realising she was doing so. Every celeb seemed to have this Cinderella story.

  ‘Honestly, I wasn’t,’ Elliot said, reading her expression. ‘I’m no good in clubs or gangs. I’m not a joiner. Growing up male is one long team-playing exercise. Ironically, I’m bad at pretending to be something I’m not when I’m playing myself, if you know what I mean?’

  Actually, Edie did. In their first encounter, he didn’t do much dissembling.

  ‘Then a teacher I got on with suggested trying the drama club, and something clicked. It was amazing, I’ve never had that feeling, before or since. That sense of, “I didn’t know I was looking for this until the very moment I found it.’’’

  Edie scribbled this down. Elliot scratched his ear, under his hat.

  ‘Aren’t you hot in that hat?’ Edie said, as courtesy-code for: Why on earth are you wearing that indoors?

  ‘A bit. I can’t take it off.’

  Edie giggled.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll get hassle.’

  Edie had to tread carefully. They were on better terms, but only slightly.

  ‘I know you’re very well known, but we’re not in the Chiltern Firehouse. There’s only real ale fans in here. I think you’ll be OK, as long as a hen party from Rhyl doesn’t turn up.’

  Elliot looked at Edie steadily, jaw clenched in concentration as if he was trying to figure out if she was joking.

  ‘We’ll do it your way then,’ he said, and took the hat off. Edie felt a little smug. A bit of reality might be good for this man.

  ‘You?’ Elliot said. ‘How did you end up writing an actor’s ME-moir?’

  Edie laughed and thought, He’s sharper than I thought. Admittedly it had said he was smart in that Sunday supplement article, but given it had been such panting purple prose, no wonder she didn’t believe it.

  ‘I always had good language skills. I did an English degree in Sheffield and moved to London and fell into copywriting.’ She paused. ‘See, not very interesting.’

  ‘Everyone’s interesting,’ Elliot said. ‘Acting 101.’

  ‘They’re definitely not. Advertising 202.’

  Elliot laughed, showing very white, straight film-star teeth, and Edie smiled and chided herself for the small tingle it gave her. He’d have forgotten her name again by tomorrow. In fact, she wasn’t convinced he knew it now.

  A man with grey hair in a cagoule approached them.

  ‘Excuse me, me and my friend were wondering. Are you the man from the TV show? The one with the killer bats?’

  ‘Yes,’ Elliot said, with a practised smile, reaching over to shake his hand.

  ‘I was wondering, could I have an autograph for my daughter? She’s a big fan.’

  ‘Of course. Do you have pen and paper?’

  ‘Ah … No.’

  Edie fumbled to tear off a sheet of her notebook and hand over a pen. Elliot inquired who he was making it out to and wrote the dedication, doing a well-practised one-loop-and-line scribble for his name. The man seemed as if he wanted to stay but couldn’t think what else to say, and backed off.

  ‘There you are. I’ve been made. Assume you know numbers of local taxi firms?’ Elliot said. Edie nearly laughed in his face.

  ‘I don’t want to be, an, uh, Doubting Thomas but that was one man. We’ll probably be alright.’

  ‘You honestly don’t get it, do you? It’s like being out with my gran. “Ooh, Elliot, they won’t all have seen your Bloody Gold series, it’s not even on the proper television channels.’’’

  He said this with enough warmth that Edie had to laugh. Elliot rubbed his eyes.

  ‘It’s mobiles. Nothing was as bad before mobiles, I’m sure. What’s he doing right now?’ Elliot said, inclining his head towards the autograph hunter.

  Edie glanced over. ‘I can’t see … wait. He’s talking to his friend and looking at his phone.’

  ‘There you are. Pretty much everyone under seventy has a mobile now, right? He’s texting where he’s seen me.’

  They stopped talking as the barmaid came over to clear Elliot’s now empty pint glass. Oh. She wasn’t taking his glass.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, could I get a photo?’

  ‘Sure. Do you want to take it?’ Elliot said to Edie, smoothly, and Edie dumbly accepted the woman’s iPhone, steadied the frame and snapped, the barmaid in her work shirt leaning in, Elliot smiling with one arm slung round her. Edie handed the phone back.

  ‘I think you’re amazing,’ the woman said. She was trembling slightly. ‘And could you sign this?’ she pushed a beermat towards Elliot.

  Elliot picked up Edie’s pen and scribbled across the beermat.

  ‘There you go,’ he said, and the barmaid backed off, hand over mouth,
muttering I can’t believe it, thank you so much.

  ‘And the cameras on phones, of course. Magic,’ Elliot muttered.

  Edie suddenly sensed many pairs of eyes boring into her back at once. She glanced over her shoulder and saw everyone in the pub looking at them. A few phones had come out too, and Edie sensed they were being photographed.

  ‘Found any love for the hat, yet?’ Elliot said.

  Edie felt as if she was in a zombie film and had given them a sniff of her live human flesh. The sense of everyone being silently hyper-aware of you, while pretending not to be, was creepy in the extreme.

  ‘Uh,’ Edie tried to concentrate on her notes and not fear that everyone was now craning to hear her every word. ‘Acting. Your drama club …’

  They made it through another five minutes or so of school years before the pub door flapped open, noisily. A group of girls spilled into the room. There was an instant craning of necks and whispering and scanning. The man in the cagoule was saying hello to them and doing the world’s least discreet ‘ee’s-over-there head jerk. Oh, bollocks. Elliot was right.

  ‘How many?’ Elliot said, unable to see what Edie was looking at, round the wall.

  Edie counted: ‘Five, no, six,’ as if they were in the NYPD. (Half a dozen perps at three o’clock, cover me.) I mean, it was silly, not as if high school girls wearing lots of liquid eyeliner and glittery trainers were going to be wilding and monstering them. It was curiously intimidating though.

  Elliot said: ‘You can get out of the doors at the back there, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes?’ Edie said, looking at the rear exit.

  ‘Can you call a taxi and ask it to pull up in the car park? I’ll hide in the men’s. Text me when it’s there.’

  ‘Alright,’ Edie said, bizarrely nervous at being on her own with this. Elliot moved towards the toilets, all heads turning in his wake. Edie called the taxi. She kept the phone pressed to her ear even after the call was over, to keep the girls at bay who looked poised to approach as soon as she’d finished talking.

  Edie stuffed her things in her bag and minutes later, felt a wash of relief as a car with the taxi company livery could be glimpsed out of the back window. Wait. Bugger. She was supposed to text Elliot, but she didn’t have his number. With the room watching, she legged it into the back corridor and tapped at the door of the men’s loos. No answer. She pushed it open nervously and saw a man using the urinals, and a locked cubicle door.