Who's That Girl?

by Mhairi McFarlane

  She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. Elliot was frowning at her.

  ‘Come on, come with me.’

  Edie noticed dispassionately that her legs didn’t work. It was as if she’d finally reached systems overload with psychological torment, and her body had temporarily closed down operations.

  She shook her head: ‘I can’t move.’

  ‘Edie?’ Elliot said, with a hand on her shoulder.

  Edie tried to diagnose what she was feeling. Was she going to be sick? Possibly. Faint? Also possible. It was oddly similar to the sensation when she’d over-eaten a rich bow-tie pasta carbonara as a little girl. She couldn’t work out what was happening to her or what she needed to do to alleviate it, only that she wanted to crawl out of her own skin. A kind of crucifying, overwhelming wrongness.

  ‘Edie?’

  ‘I can’t move,’ she said again, hoarse.

  ‘Are you going to faint? You’re very pale.’

  ‘I’m always pale,’ she said, weakly. ‘I don’t know.’

  She felt her knees rattle perilously, and thought, please don’t collapse here, now. Yes, Edie was going to faint. She remembered the warning signs from a couple of times in her youth: the feeling everything was coming closer and pulling away at the same time, like the Jaws special effect.

  She held on to Elliot to stay upright, bunching his leather coat in her hands. She momentarily wondered if wardrobe personnel were going to flay her for messing up a two-grand jacket. Were people looking at them? She guessed so but she couldn’t see and didn’t want to.

  ‘Do you want me to call a doctor? We have them,’ he said.

  Edie shook her head.

  ‘You need to sit down, and have some water.’

  Edie nodded.

  With surprising decisiveness and ease, Elliot moved his hands to her ribcage and picked her up. Edie was thrown against him with a jolt, instinctively putting her arms round his neck. He linked his arms under her backside, as if he was carrying a child across a supermarket car park, and set off towards the trailers.

  Edie hung on and stared over his shoulder at everyone staring back at them, and finally found out what it looked like when female onlookers almost ovulated.

  After a brief, bumpy stride, Elliot put her down by one of the coaches.

  ‘OK? Sorry if that was a bit Tarzan but you looked like you were going to keel over.’

  ‘S’fine, thanks,’ Edie said, rubbing at her face with her sleeve, at that moment more interested in making sure her gastric contents stayed in place than worrying if she’d felt like lifting a pissed-up sack of spuds. At least she didn’t feel as if she was going to faint now. The adrenaline rush surprise of being Mills & Boon-ed by a famous actor had obviously helped.

  ‘I got plenty of practice hoisting women aloft in Blood & Gold. Just be grateful I wasn’t rescuing you from your rapist royal husband’s funeral pyre, eh.’ Elliot cranked the handle open on the trailer door and ushered her inside.

  Edie could only manage a thin smile at this joke, but in the circumstances, that was incredibly high praise.

  34

  Actors’ trailers were like little luxury holiday homes, on wheels. A rock’n’roll caravan.

  ‘Here, sit down,’ Elliot said, gesturing to a banquette that curved round a lacquered veneer table. He opened a cabinet next to a large flat-screen television and said: ‘Water? Whisky? Whisky with water?’

  ‘Whisky, thanks,’ Edie said, with no idea whether this was a smart idea or an incredibly awful one.

  Elliot sloshed two fingers out and set the glass down in front of her, pushing his way behind the table from the other side.

  Edie said: ‘God, Elliot. I’m so sorry …’

  ‘Stop that. You have nothing to be sorry for. Do you want to talk about it?’

  Edie remembered what had been said, and her guts spasmed again.

  ‘Some man, someone I don’t know—’ she drew breath, ‘He said maybe my mum killed herself out of the shame of having had me.’

  Elliot’s eyes widened. ‘What a … Jesus. Wow.’

  ‘It’s just …’ Edie gulped back more tears and put her hand on her forehead, ‘I don’t tell anyone about what happened with my mum. I say she died but I don’t explain how. The only person I told was Jack.’

  ‘Who’s Jack?’

  ‘The man I kissed at the wedding.’

  ‘He told people?’

  ‘He must’ve done.’

  ‘Well, you already knew he was a dick.’

  Edie’s tears restarted and she wiped at her face hurriedly.

  ‘Hey, y’alright …’

  It still surprised her whenever Elliot sounded more Nottingham lad than fantasy fighting prince. This was such a surreal scenario, sat in his trailer, weeping. He put an arm round her.

  ‘Everyone despises me. I already can’t remember what it was like when I wasn’t hated, now,’ Edie said. ‘It’s torture.’

  ‘Stop for a second. They hate you? Someone made a savage remark about the way you lost your mother, and you’re feeling bad about yourself? They’ve revealed themselves as someone who’s going to need a LOT of therapy to resemble a human being.’

  Edie nodded.

  ‘Look. That –’ Elliot picked up his phone, lying on the table in front of them, and put it down again ‘–isn’t real life. That person they’re talking about isn’t you. There’s another version of you, multiple versions, other people’s versions, walking around out there. You have to let it go, or you’ll go mad. Trust me on this. Keep these words in your head: Those who know me better, know better.’

  Edie nodded again.

  ‘How could anyone be that cruel, to bring my mum into it? I know I did a shit thing, but I’ve not killed anyone …’

  ‘Because you’re not real to them, online. You’re abstract. They don’t think you’ll ever see what they wrote, or care if you do. You’re a game. A story. And the more of them there are, the easier it becomes for them. The snowflake doesn’t feel responsible for the avalanche. Honestly, I can relate to more of this than you might think.’

  ‘At least everyone likes you.’

  ‘Not true. Angus McKinlay at Variety said I had the gift of making acting look difficult.’

  Edie smiled and saw Elliot was trying hard to make her laugh and in that moment she adored him for it.

  ‘OK. You’re well paid though,’ Edie said.

  ‘True,’ Elliot said. ‘And those strippers don’t buy their own brunches, let me tell you.’

  Edie finally laughed, a weak, wet gurgly noise because of all the snot and sob.

  Elliot squeezed her shoulders before withdrawing his arm and Edie sipped her whisky. Oof, that was strong. It did steady her a little, though.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  There was a knock at the trailer door.

  ‘Yeah?’ Elliot called.

  A stout blonde woman with a headset put her head round the door. ‘Elliot, we need you.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, max.’

  The woman gave Edie a hard look, jerked her head in acknowledgement and withdrew.

  ‘Elliot, go. Honestly. I feel awful I’m holding everything up …’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I needed a breather anyway.’

  Edie still felt discomfited and her discomfort increased when, minutes later, the blonde woman reappeared, looking flushed and anxious.

  ‘Elliot. Archie is asking for you, sorry.’

  ‘Tell him I’m on my way,’ Elliot said, calmly.

  The woman was clearly itching to say more, but couldn’t quite decide who to risk pissing off in the pecking order.

  ‘Thank you,’ Elliot finished, with a pointed intonation, as code for, ‘so go away’. Edie had forgotten he could be steely.

  ‘I like the George Michael beard,’ Edie said, once they were on their own again.

  ‘Haha. It’s meant to be the tortured detective, “I sleep in my car” look. Not the “I d
rive my car into Snappy Snaps when stoned” one.’

  Edie burst out laughing again and Elliot looked gratified.

  ‘Feel any better?’ he said.

  ‘Much, thank you.’

  In truth, it would crowd her mind as soon as she left, but this kindness still mattered. Edie drank more of her whisky, finding when she tried to breathe normally, the air still hitched in her throat.

  Outside the trailer, they could hear a male voice, presumably shouting into his mobile. It got louder as he got closer.

  ‘… Exactly how simple do I need to make it for you? Do we need to start with how a baby is made? When a man’s feeling especially loving, his penis becomes large, that sort of thing? WELL FUCK THE WHOLE FUCKING THING THEN, YOU BUM FUCK. CONSIDER YOUR BUM FUCKED.’

  Elliot put a palm over his eyes and sighed.

  A brief silence, then a hammering at the trailer door and the wiry frame of Archie Puce was in front of them. He looked very like Dobby the House Elf, and favoured a hat that did look as if he’d put a sock on his head. He planted his hands on his hips. Edie quailed. Only Archie Puce would have a row on the way to a row.

  ‘Elliot. We’re stood around holding our dicks here. Put the girl down and join us.’

  ‘Archie, I won’t be much longer. This is important.’ Elliot squeezed Edie’s arm firmly as he said this, to stop her protesting. Edie now felt sodden with guilt but saying ‘no it isn’t’, seemed too ungrateful.

  Archie’s gimlet gaze moved to the tearstained Edie.

  ‘Without sounding a heartless wankrag, can she not have someone here to cuddle her who isn’t on your hourly rate? Like her fucking mum, for example?’

  ‘Archie,’ Elliot said, standing up.

  ‘… Let me check the cast list, is her mum in my show? OH NO WAIT SHE’S NOT. NO MUM. LET’S CALL MUM.’

  ‘Archie! Shut up and get out of here this second unless you want to get someone else to play my fucking role in your fucking show!’

  Archie looked startled to have got a Puce-ing himself. He glared at Elliot, who glared steadily back.

  ‘Alright. No need to become exhilarating.’ Pause. ‘You kids enjoy yourselves, put your feet up.’

  The trailer door slammed after him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, go, please go,’ Edie said, aghast, as Elliot sat back down, shaking his head.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. A row with Archie is a rite of passage. I’d been worrying ours was overdue and I was going to get a reputation as a walkover. Greta and him have been daggers drawn over the standard of catering since day one,’ Elliot said. ‘Also he really won’t be getting anyone else. He wanted Jamie Dornan first and then when he told his agent the fee, they thought it was a prank call.’

  Edie was still desperate for Elliot to go back on set.

  ‘You’ve been so generous. I’ve come to your workplace and caused you massive amounts of trouble …’

  ‘Hush. No trouble.’

  ‘And I haven’t even done any interviewing.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll email you. I saw “relationships” looming in the list of topics. I’d rather just hammer out a few thoughts on that and be done.’

  Edie thanked him profusely, although her treacherous wicked brain did whisper: And that’s convenient, so I don’t get to ask the gay question.

  ‘Please, go back to work.’

  Elliot checked his watch: ‘Yeah, Archie’s sweated enough now, I suppose.’

  He paused at the trailer door. ‘You’re a good person, Edie. Goodness will get you through this.’

  Edie said a heartfelt: ‘Thank you. That means a lot, Elliot.’

  She was alone. Or as alone as she could ever be, with her phone. As gratifying as it was to hear Elliot say she was nice, Edie couldn’t help feeling that it was as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike.

  A famous person she’d never see again, in a few weeks’ time, liked her. While the world at large loathed her. She knew one thing. She wouldn’t rest until she found out who ‘Ian Connor’ was.

  35

  Edie was having strange dreams about being rescued naked from burning pyres by men in ritual sacrifice masks who turned out to be Lucie Maguire, when she was woken by a noise. Because she was woken by it, she didn’t know what it was.

  After a few seconds of bleary blinking it occurred to her to check her mobile.

  Nice birthday wishes from Hannah and Nick, the occasion delaying discussion of her latest online shaming.

  And a text, from Jack.

  Hey you. HBD. Doing anything fun for it? Hope all’s well. Jx

  How on earth did he of all people remember this date? He didn’t even have the Facebook prompt any more. Smoother than Smooth FM. She remembered the latest betrayal, with a lurch. Pale, puffy-faced and newly thirty-six years old, Edie tapped her fury into her phone.

  You told people about how my mum died? How could you? I can’t believe the person you turned out to be.

  Seconds after she’d pressed send, Edie’s phone lit up with a call from Jack. She didn’t expect that, and licked dry lips. She couldn’t let it ring out, she couldn’t be the coward here.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Edie. What do you mean? Told who?’

  She paused and gathered herself at the sound of his voice. It was light and gentle, and still had some power over her.

  ‘I saw a vile Facebook group, ripping the stuffing out of me. Some bloke I’d never heard of made a “joke” about how my mum killed herself because of me.’

  Pause.

  ‘Oh my God, that’s horrific. But why would that have come from me?’

  ‘I never told anyone else.’ This was a difficult admission to make.

  ‘No one?’

  Edie said a terse: ‘Nope.’

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone …’

  Edie let out a sour noise of disbelief as Jack said: ‘… Except Charlotte.’

  ‘Oh, right. Who hates my guts. Thanks for breaking my confidence.’

  ‘Only because after what happened, she was in full flow and I said she didn’t know you and didn’t know what you’d been through.’

  ‘So it wasn’t “don’t blame her for what I did”? It’s “cut her some slack, her mum died!” Jesus Christ! Some defence lawyer.’

  Edie hated the subtext. She’s an unmothered hot mess, don’t expect normal social mores from her. ‘What’s it got to do with anything?’

  ‘Edie, Edie – it wasn’t a considered thing, it was … you’re so much a mystery to people and keep yourself to yourself and I felt if she understood you better she wouldn’t be so critical.’

  ‘Could’ve accomplished a lot more by telling her that you kissed me, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Believe me, I tried. This was in Hour Twelve of the crisis talks.’

  Believe me. Easier said than done.

  ‘If you really care about the treatment I’m getting, you’ll find out who this “Ian Connor” is, who made that comment. I’m going to find out one way or another.’

  This was showboating. Edie had steeled herself, gone back and clicked his name. She was taken to a completely locked down profile, not even a friends list available, with a profile photo of Daffy Duck. A Google name search didn’t bear any fruit either, unsurprising with a needle-in-haystack of a name. She was at a dead end.

  ‘Ian, Connor. OK. I will if I can.’

  ‘Right then. I’ve got a birthday to have, so if you’ll excuse me.’

  Edie hung up, the way people only did in films.

  Coughing and shuffling outside her door, a timid knock, and she realised with a stab of horror that her dad had overheard that exchange. Oh God, please don’t let him have caught the part about her mum …

  ‘Come in!’

  ‘Happy birthday, darling daughter!’

  Her dad appeared round the door with shaky Game Face on. He must’ve heard a lot. He looked for a moment like he was considering asking about it, while Edie non-verbally tried to vigorously convey: DON’T. When she was ele
ven, they’d managed to have a conversation about where he’d put spare change to pay for sanitary wear without ever using the words ‘period’ or ‘tampon’, like a game of charades. Edie saw no reason to become sharers now.

  He was holding a bunch of pink peonies, the blooms still in tight acorn buds, a box of Green & Black’s chocolates clamped under one arm and in the other hand, a bottle of pink champagne. Edie realised this occasion merited even more acting happy from her than usual, and broke into a huge beaming smile.

  ‘Dad, you didn’t have to! They’re gorgeous.’

  ‘I know how much you like flowers,’ he said, standing awkwardly as Edie took them. ‘I didn’t know what else to get you. Do you want vouchers?’

  ‘Vouchers would be perfect,’ Edie said, putting her champagne and chocolates in front of the mirror.

  ‘Meg’s at the care home but she’s left you a stack of her contraband Nutella sandwiches.’

  ‘That’s nice of her.’

  Edie thought: Though I do know you ordered her to do it and she sulked the whole way through making them, Dad.

  ‘What do you want to do tonight? Shall we get togged up and go out for dinner?’

  ‘I was hoping for takeaway pizza and a few pints in The Lion, if that’s OK?’

  ‘It’s fine, if that’s really all you want?’

  ‘Definitely, definitely what I want.’

  There was something to be said for ‘performative’ cheerfulness. It didn’t make Edie cheery, exactly, but it was much better than wallowing. After Edie had showered, dressed, put her flowers in water and had two types of chocolate for breakfast, the gloom had lifted a little.

  ‘What are you going to do with your first day of thirty-sixness?’ her dad asked, from behind his days-old newspaper.

  ‘Hmm. I’m going to do some shopping and treat myself to lunch in a park and maybe find some ducks to look at.’

  ‘Sounds marvellous,’ her dad said, and they shared a genuine smile this time. ‘See you later, once I’ve got some marking done?’