by Lucy Arthurs
I use my credit card to pay for the parking. Who needs coins or notes when credit will do? So modern. I drive home by myself.
As I open the front door, I’m bruised by the silence of the house. It feels cold, empty, lifeless. I realise that I’m alone. Strangled tears start coming out of my throat. I’m turning into my mother.
Chapter 8
One week later. The rehearsal room.
“He who is incapable of feeling strong passions, of being shaken by anger, of living in every sense of the word, will never be a good actor.” Sarah Bernhardt, actress.
I’m early. I’m always bloody early. It’s a trait that’s hung over from childhood. And yes, I also lined my pencils up on my school desk, wore the right uniform and listened to what the principal said. I did, however, smoke Kent cigarettes with my sister after school and read erotic literature that I found hidden in my mother’s bedroom cupboard. I may have looked, sounded and acted like a dag, but there was a raunchy, racy, secret internal life going on that made me feel remotely interesting. Now, I just feel desperate and ridiculous. And rejected. Everyone knows. I can see it. I can tell just by the way they look at me. The smile is a bit too bright, the head is on an angle, the eyes are soft and encouraging, but I just know that they’re thinking one of two things: Thank God it didn’t happen to me, or, I always thought they were mismatched.
Breathe. That’s what the self-help books say. Too many bloody self-help books. Marjory’s got me reading all sorts. Conversations with God, He’s Just Not That Into You (don’t have to be Einstein to work that one out), The Yes Book, The Sweet Spot, The Power of Now. You name it, I’m reading it. The blurbs on each tome claim it will make the world of difference. I’m not convinced. I think the one my sister and I joked about writing after one of her break-ups would be way more effective. A no fuss, precise, shooting straight from the hip self-help guide with the catchy little title You’re Fucked, You Know You’re Fucked, and There’s Nothing You Can Do About It. Anyway, the common piece of advice I’m reading right now is breathe, breathe, breathe. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m breathing.
BOOFHEAD
Alright, people. Welcome.
He’s speaking. Maybe my sister’s right. He looks like he needs to burst out of that closet before he gets too big for it. He’s wearing Stovepipe jeans, Converse trainers, a communist cap, and God help us all, a cowboy shirt. But what’s that I spy under the cowboy shirt? His old T-Shirt. The one he bought from the nice guy in the valley. It’s a simple black and white one bearing a sketch of Jesus, emblazoned with “I found Jesus. He was behind the sofa the whole time.” I like that T-Shirt.
BOOFHEAD
I need to start today by thanking you all for participating in this project and I have to say how privileged I feel to have such an immensely talented cast working with me.
And so it begins, and will continue for the next four weeks. One of the bonuses of being the playwright is that by the time the rehearsal process has begun, your job is pretty much over. You’ve toiled over the computer keys and now you listen and watch as the company of actors and director bring it to life. There is no expectation I will attend rehearsal every day. I can pop in and out at will. A relief, given that Boofhead is the director. Seems every arsehole ex-husband has a silver lining.
BOOFHEAD
Okay people, before we embark on our first reading of the work, I’d like to talk a little about the play, the production and my vision for the work.
Theatre types always like to call plays “the work” or “the piece.” Saying “The play” is, apparently, too literal. He drones on in excess of fifteen minutes about his concept of theatre. He talks about audiences viewing a play through a metaphorical window. I was impressed the first time I heard this, but less impressed when I realised it was one prong of what is essentially only a two-prong philosophy about theatre.
BOOFHEAD
An audience can only view one scene at a time. They’re looking through the window and we’re deciding what they see.
Because they have no mind of their own. How bloody arrogant. I hope I didn’t say this aloud. Nah, no one seems to be reacting so I think I’m safe, although I’m buggered if anyone can read thought bubbles.
I digress. Back to Boofhead and his “philosophy.” Today, because I’m looking at him through a prism of abandonment and resentment, it seems to me that the basic premise of his theatre philosophy is that he’s a genius and everybody else is a cretin. He will either make it obvious that he thinks you’re a cretin if there’s no possibility that you could ever employ him, or conceal the fact that he thinks you’re a cretin if you’re in any position of power, perceived or otherwise. Unfortunately, I fit into the former category.
BOOFHEAD
This is a new work from a new playwright—a virgin playwright, if you will.
Spare me the oblique, sexual references. But the cast seems to like it. Polite chuckling at their self-proclaimed, genius director while low self-esteem and self-loathing leaches out my every pore.
BOOFHEAD
So we need to make sure we’re always one step ahead of the play.
Prong number two.
BOOFHEAD
We have to be running in front of the play, turning around and blowing raspberries back at it. So to speak. We need to lead the way. We can’t rely on the work to carry us. Or the writer.
Thanks for the vote of confidence.
BOOFHEAD
No offence, but that’s how it is with emerging playwrights.
ME
None taken.
Keep it fresh and friendly.
BOOFHEAD
The design presentation.
He has completely dismissed me. Then Jackson appears. A painfully thin, boyish man also wearing Stovepipe jeans, a “cool” cowboy shirt, Dunlop volleys, and Coke bottle glasses.
JACKSON
Shaazam! Yeah. Um . . . whoa . . .
Apparently, it’s cool to lose command of the English language.
JACKSON
Here it is!
And he unveils the model box of the design. A miniature version of what the set will look like in the theatre, complete with little figurines of the actors and tiny, little props. It is gorgeous. This guy designs children’s toys or fabric or something in his spare time and his attention to detail is a sight to behold. He has come up with a fully modular design that captures the essence of the play and the characters beautifully. Maybe a decommissioning of the English language is forgivable for some people.
ME
Jackson, that’s beautiful.
JACKSON
I’ve really worked the aesthetic.
ME
Absolutely.
BOOFHEAD
It’s cool, yeah. Totally informs the work. Okay, the piece.
Now that the formalities are out of the way, we’re onto our first read-through of the play. For the first time, I am experiencing first hand that this can indeed be a truly harrowing experience for a first-time playwright.
BOOFHEAD
Okay, people. Let’s give the work its space and listen to what it has to say to us.
You’re a wanker! That’s what it’s saying to you, but I don’t think you’ll ever hear it. I want to scream at him. I have that urge a lot lately. I want to scream in his face. I know who you really are. You abandoned me! Love don’t live here anymore. Why is a Rose Royce, later covered by Kate Ceberano, song floating through my head? Concentrate. Concentrate.
MR. GORGEOUS
Persephone?
That’s my name. Someone’s saying it. Turn down Rose Royce and engage.
MR. GORGEOUS
I wonder if I could ask a question of the playwright before we start the reading.
It’s Mr. G
orgeous! He’s speaking. To me. Don’t blush, Persephone. Don’t blush. Just let him ask his question and maintain a professional façade, no matter how handsome he looks.
BOOFHEAD
Sure.
MR. GORGEOUS
What was your main motivation for writing this play?
BOOFHEAD
I think it’s a good question to consider before we embark on the first read. Persephone?
Yes, it is my name and they’re looking at me. They want me to answer his question, but I’m distracted by just how gorgeous Mr. Gorgeous is. I take a juvenile delight in realising that he is way more attractive than Boofhead.
BOOFHEAD
Persephone? What was your motivation for writing this piece?
Why is he asking me this question when he already knows the answer? Why isn’t he giving it the brush off like so many other questions he brushes off? Namely mine.
ME
Sorry?
BOOFHEAD
Your reason? For writing the play?
ME
Oh, of course. Yes, um . . . I wrote this play because . . .
Get your thoughts together, girl. Get that Ceberano song out of your head.
Ohh, why you look so sad? The tears are in your eyes . . . I’ll stand by you.
What! Now I’ve replaced it with a Pretenders song. I hate that song. No, I actually love it, but it makes me cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Whatever you do.
ME
Um . . . this play . . . because it’s about children and society and choices and . . . when I had my baby it really became clear to me just how important children are. They’re the future . . .
Teach them well and let them lead the way. Whitney Houston, for God’s sake!
ME
. . . they’re very important . . . and family is . . . um . . . there was a quote I read somewhere. An African saying. Um . . . it takes a village to raise a child. Yes. Um . . . and this play is about that village. The village that raises the child.
Because the father has shot through. Arsehole! Mongrel! Bastard! The father has shot through so the mother has to rely on the village. The village. The mother has to . . .
And then the tears are there. I can feel them. My eyes are brimming and people are looking at me. I’m wearing my hurt on my sleeve. I’m suddenly see-through. I’m suddenly Susan. Suddenly Seymour. Suddenly, the wheels are in motion. Suddenly, I’m sobbing.
ME
Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m very connected to the subject matter and I/
BOOFHEAD
/I think we should just start the read. Don’t you?
A strong German accent comes out of my mouth.
ME
Jawohl!
Oops. I said that aloud. Harking back to his EIN numberplate.
ME
I mean, yes. Yes, that sounds good.
BOOFHEAD
Great.
MR. GORGEOUS
(to me)
Thank you.
BOOFHEAD
Ramona will read the stage directions.
RAMONA
Act One, Scene One. A children’s playground. A woman enters, full of hope.
Chapter 9
Early evening same day. The lounge room.
“As to marriage or celibacy, let a man take which course he will, he will be sure to repent.” Socrates.
I was the first one out of the rehearsal room. I longed for the comfort of home. I longed for Jack and the backyard and late afternoon sun on his hair and a warm bath, a book, bed for Jack and then bed for me.
The Rolling Stones were onto something when they told us you don’t always get what you want. I managed the backyard bit, the warm bath, the book and bed for Jack, but instead of the full Martha Stewart ending to my first day of rehearsal, I have my soon-to-be ex-husband turn up at my house to debrief about the day.
However, before he gets to the reprimand I feel sure is in the offing, first he chooses to obliterate my self-esteem just a little bit more.
BOOFHEAD
I’m knocking dates back, left, right and sideways at the moment.
He’s lying. I can see it in his eyes. But still I want to stab him in the chest. Where’s a metalbolic Freemason’s medieval replica sword when you need it?
BOOFHEAD:
I’m going through a bit of a purple patch.
I want to cut him into tiny pieces and feed him to the cat next door. The one that keeps pissing on our—no—my back deck. No, I’ll feed him to our goldfish instead—Frank Finatra. Yes, hilarious play on words, I’m aware. A light-hearted name for a young fish, bestowed upon him when I was a light-hearted young woman. Bugger that, I’m fond of Frank Finatra. He hasn’t done anything to deserve freshly hacked up Boofhead.
BOOFHEAD
People are throwing themselves at me. I’m mixing it up a bit.
ME
Spare me the gory details.
BOOFHEAD
Well, spare me the mental breakdowns at rehearsal.
And here comes the reprimand.
BOOFHEAD
It’s embarrassing.
ME
Embarrassing?
BOOFHEAD
Yes. We’re there to rehearse, not to watch people . . .
ME
What? Have feelings?
BOOFHEAD
Leave that to the actors.
I want to elaborate. I want to tell him we’re supposed to be there to delve into the richness of the human psyche. To explore human connection and emotion within the framework of a theatrical performance. I want to rave on about Dionysian rituals and artists being the healers within the community. I want to . . .
BOOFHEAD
You were crying, for God’s sake. Leave it out.
ME
A rehearsal room is the perfect place to express emotion.
How lame. I sound like some pious do-gooder who thinks she actually has some control over the universe. Why do I sound so lame? Because he’s right. Because it was embarrassing. I was embarrassing.
BOOFHEAD
It’s a comedy, for God’s sake. We’re doing a bloody sitcom about a bloody dysfunctional family, not bloody Chekhov.
ME
More’s the pity. At least then, I’d be able to throw myself under a train or something.
BOOFHEAD
If you can’t handle it, don’t come.
ME
I can handle it.
BOOFHEAD
Then keep it together. I don’t want anyone knowing we’ve broken up until next year’s season’s finalised. I don’t want it affecting professional opportunities. If people think we’ve broken up/
ME
/think?
BOOFHEAD
If people know we’ve broken up, they might think we can’t work together.
ME
We can’t.
BOOFHEAD
People think we can.
ME
You mean, you haven’t told anyone?
BOOFHEAD
A few people, but not the whole bloody rehearsal room. Have you?
ME
Of course.
BOOFHEAD
Who?
ME
My family.
BOOFHEAD
Yeah. And?
ME
No one else.
BOOFHEAD
Just keep it together at rehearsal, or don’t come at all.
Once again, I am reminded why not being married to this man is a marvellous idea.
The phone rings. A great excuse to extract myself from this co
nversation. I grab the phone before the answering machine clicks in.
ME
Hello.
MR.GORGEOUS
Hi.
It’s Mr. Gorgeous! He’s on the phone. My phone. He’s talking to me! I feel like a child. Like an adolescent. Like a love-struck teenager. Like Gidget or something. I should have toe separators on my feet, a cucumber-scented skin mask on my face and be wrapped in a towel while I paint my toenails coral pink. Mr. Gorgeous is talking to me, on my phone!
I freeze. I want to take the phone into another room but I feel self-conscious. Clandestine. Naughty. Ridiculously, I feel as though I’m being unfaithful. I press my ear to the phone to ensure Boofhead can’t hear who it is, although my beet-red face and girlish giggle have probably already given it away.
MR. GORGEOUS
I just thought I’d touch base with you. Today must have been tough.
ME
Um . . . yeah. It was, a bit.
MR. GORGEOUS
You did good.
A sexy actor who also happens to have written the occasional award-winning play is talking to me on my phone and using bad American grammar. I love him even more.
MR. GORGEOUS
It’s not easy. It’ll get harder, believe me. Wait ’til the actors start tearing it to shreds. But what you’ve got is good, so hang in there.
ME
Thanks.
MR. GORGEOUS
My pleasure. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, I’ve got a box of Kleenex.
Another Americanism.
ME
Sure.
MR. GORGEOUS
Don’t be afraid to use them. I can always buy another box.
ME
Thanks.
MR. GORGEOUS
No worries. Hey, see you tomorrow.