Art Ache

by Lucy Arthurs

  ME

  Yes.

  PATRICK

  I’m not feeling a hundred percent myself.

  ME

  The phone call with your mum?

  PATRICK

  Yeah. It’s complicated. I’m the only kid and . . .

  ME

  What about your dad?

  PATRICK

  Don’t have one.

  ME

  Everyone has a dad.

  PATRICK

  Let’s go back to my place. We can order in.

  He has no other family? No extended family? I used to have an extended family, Tom’s family. Only one sister, who lives overseas, a dead father and a kind mother. Suddenly, I miss his mother.

  The night air is fresh and lovely, just like Patrick. We walk in silence, holding hands, each caught up in our own little world of cares and worries.

  When we arrive at his house I realise I’m not up to it.

  ME

  I think I might just go home.

  PATRICK

  Sure. You need to rest.

  ME

  Yes.

  I kiss him. He kisses me. His kisses are delightful.

  PATRICK

  I could use an early night, myself.

  ME

  Good night, John Boy.

  Patrick laughs.

  PATRICK

  The Waltons.

  ME

  Yes.

  PATRICK

  Good night Marcia.

  ME

  I think you’re mixing your TV Show metaphors, that’s The Brady Bunch.

  And this reminds me of playing ball in the house, and the vase that is my life, smashing into a million tiny pieces. I’m going to cry again.

  ME

  I’ll call you tomorrow. Sorry about tonight.

  PATRICK

  Don’t even think about it.

  I get into my car. As I turn the key in the ignition, I let out a huge sigh of relief. I can breathe. Finally. For the first time tonight, I can actually breathe. I make it to the end of the street before the tears splash down my face.

  I’m falling in love with this man. Madly, hopelessly, hair-twirlingly, daisy-chain-makingly in love. This wasn’t part of the plan. Not that there was a plan, but if there had been a plan, this wouldn’t have been part of it. Marjory suggested dating, not falling in love. I don’t want to have that discombobulated feeling you have when you’re in love, but I can feel it rising. Better put a lid on it, throw myself headlong into work and slow this runaway train down.

  Chapter 21

  Two weeks later. After rehearsal.

  “Events will take their course, it is no good being angry at them. He is happiest who wisely turns them to the best account.” Euripides.

  So far, the rehearsal process for the new play has been painless and incredibly enjoyable. Coincidentally, the director is a gorgeous guy I went to school with. He was in my sister’s year and I remember they dated for three weeks. That was before he realised he was batting for Dorothy. Yes, another gay male who works in theatre. Who would have thought?

  He’s articulate, clear, competent and very professional. Justine is gorgeous too. Plays her cards incredibly close to her chest, but I think that’s fear. Nerves. Uncertainty. Our voices blend really nicely together and I’m able to hold my harmony parts. Thanks to Boofhead alerting all and sundry to my weakness in that area, I’m never short of a band member who wants to “run through those harmony parts just one more time.” It serves me well. It’s a beautiful play about friends who fantasise about a better life and act it all out through country and western songs. I learn how to get an ache in my voice; not quite Patsy Cline, but I do okay. And it sells out. Wisely, I manage to avoid Witchypoo for the entire rehearsal process. Marjory and I worked on this cunning plan.

  MARJORY

  If she “freaks you out” as you say, then you need to ask yourself why you allow her to be your agent.

  ME

  I’m not ready to leave her. She’s the best in town.

  MARJORY

  Says who?

  ME

  Says everyone.

  MARJORY

  Then don’t give her any power.

  ME

  How do I do that?

  MARJORY

  Deal with her in a businesslike fashion about business and then stay away from her.

  ME

  But she’s my agent.

  MARJORY

  So?

  ME

  So I need to talk to her.

  MARJORY

  About business, but apart from that . . .

  ME

  Avoid her?

  MARJORY

  I’m not suggesting that, but what I am saying is draw a clear boundary around her.

  So I’ve drawn a boundary and I feel good. My tool kit is expanding. Witchypoo doesn’t own me. She doesn’t own my career. I am free to make my own decisions.

  My phone rings. It’s Patrick.

  PATRICK

  Hey, wanna come along to the advertising awards?

  ME

  Not really my thing.

  PATRICK

  Pity. You’ve been nominated.

  ME

  Nominated? Me? I don’t work in advertising.

  PATRICK

  What do you think voice-overs are?

  ME

  They have awards for voice-overs?

  PATRICK

  And you’ve been nominated. Best New Talent. Should be Sexiest Voice-Over Ever.

  ME

  I don’t know.

  PATRICK

  Come on, it’ll be fun. And you can meet some of my friends.

  ME

  Fair call.

  PATRICK

  Next Friday. It’s Las Vegas theme. I’ll pick you up. But I’ll see you before then.

  ME

  No, you won’t.

  PATRICK

  Oh yes I will. I’ve booked you for a session. Hasn’t your agent told you?

  ME

  Not yet.

  PATRICK

  You should flick her. She’s so slack. Every time I book you for a job, she stuffs up the invoice. She’s charging you a commission to make mistakes. And I’m not the only person who thinks this.

  My phone starts beeping.

  ME

  That’s probably her on the other line.

  PATRICK

  See you at the session.

  ME

  See you then.

  I hang up from Patrick and retrieve the other call. It’s her.

  WITCHYPOO

  I hear rehearsals are going well.

  ME

  Yes. We’re having a ball.

  WITCHYPOO

  You didn’t like your costume though.

  What? How does she know I didn’t like my costume?

  ME

  My costume?

  WITCHYPOO

  The skirt. People tell me things.

  ME

  About my skirt? It was too short. I couldn’t do the choreography in it. It was no drama.

  WITCHYPOO

  But it could have been. Don’t push it.

  ME

  I didn’t.

  WITCHYPOO

  You’re very lucky to have this job, Persy.

  I wish she wouldn’t call me that. Only people I like call me that.

  ME

  I auditioned for it. I earned it.

  WITCHYPOO

  But the actress they wanted for t
he role wasn’t unavailable.

  Great. There’s always a catch with this woman. She always manages to get the boot in. How would Marjory handle this?

  ME

  Oh well, then. They’re stuck with tragic, old me.

  WITCHYPOO

  Yes. Make the most of it. Don’t be difficult. Wear the costume they say. Do your hair the way they want. Learn the harmonies. Don’t stuff it up.

  As if I would. Well, not deliberately anyway. In the blink of an eye, I’ve gone from feeling good about this project to doubting my ability.

  WITCHYPOO

  And smile. Your face looks better when you smile.

  ME

  Better?

  WITCHYPOO

  Yes. It’s too angular when you don’t. Smiling softens it.

  Smile though your heart is breaking. I like my angular face. It’s not the prettiest face in the room, but it’s okay. It works. It functions. Just before I start to sink to the bottom of an emotional pit, I remember Marjory’s words. Keep it businesslike.

  ME

  My face is fine, angular or not. My skirt will be just fine too. And I know my harmonies. Please concentrate on taking care of the contract and the payment.

  Witchypoo is taken aback.

  WITCHYPOO

  No need to get narky, darling.

  ME

  It’s a public holiday on Monday. Please make sure that’s taken care of in the contract.

  Bit by bit, inch by inch, I’m starting to draw a boundary around this woman. I take a deep breath as I hang up and then drive across town to collect Jack from daycare.

  A huge part of me hates that he’s at daycare. The Martha Stewart, Betty Crocker, 1950s housewife who lives inside me is appalled that my child is being cared for by strangers while I’m away working. But what else can I do? I could blame it on Tom. I could say the reason Jack’s at daycare is because Tom left me and I have to work. The truth is, even if Tom and I were together, Jack would still be at daycare one or two days a week because I would still want to work and there would have been no way on God’s earth that Tom would have stayed at home caring for Jack while I went out and fulfilled my artistic needs and desire to earn an income. If I have a 1950s housewife alive and well inside my conscience, Tom has a 19th century man who is irate, enraged and disgusted when anyone suggests he play anything that looks like second fiddle to a woman. So Jack’s at daycare.

  This evening, Jack and I have a special date planned. I’ve pre-prepared his favourite meal, spaghetti bolognese, followed by lemon delicious pudding, and then we’re going to assemble every puzzle we own, make the tallest tower we can out of Lego, build a mini-city out of Golden Books, read three of his favourite books, and then share a gorgeous bath filled with Buzz Lightyear bubbles. I can’t wait.

  I managed to get away from rehearsal early. The director and creative team were having a production meeting so the actors were released early. Jack is delighted to see me.

  JACK

  Look what I built!

  His toilet paper roll creation is indeed amazing.

  JACK

  It’s a rocket. You sit here and pull this bit here and then it flies. And when it flies, you hold on and then you go right up to the moon and then you get out and you walk around and you see stuff.

  ME

  Is there room in that rocket for me?

  JACK

  Nah. Just me. It’s my work. I’m flying to the moon. I’m a flyer!

  My heart sinks. Maybe Martha and Betty were right.

  ME

  Come on handsome, we’re having our special evening.

  JACK

  Can I bring my rocket?

  I look at Kel.

  KEL

  Of course you can, mate. He’s going really well, Pers. You’ve got a bright one there, that’s for sure.

  JACK

  (to Kel)

  We’re building the biggest Lego tower in the world and doing all our puzzles and . . .

  ME

  Having spaghetti bolognese.

  JACK

  Yeah. Come on, Mummy!

  KEL

  (calls after us)

  Enjoy every moment of it.

  ME

  Oh, we will, don’t you worry about that!

  Chapter 22

  The following friday. The awards night.

  “Create your own method. Don’t depend slavishly on mine. Make up something that will work for you! But keep breaking traditions, I beg you.” Constantin Stanislavski.

  We’re here, at the advertising agency awards do, Las Vegas theme. Possibly just an excuse for people who work in the agency’s office to live out their fantasies. Everyone is dressed up and there’s a distinct buzz. Not for me. I feel ridiculous. To me, the idea of turning up to a work function dressed as a character is crazy. It’s a timely reminder I’m very lucky to have a career that allows me to fulfil my dreams rather than saving them up for special occasions. I shouldn’t judge.

  We’re standing outside a posh golf club. We’ve been here for an hour and have ducked outside for a cigarette break, even though neither of us are smokers. I used to be a smoker, years ago. Pre-Tom. Nowadays, I only resort to a puff when under severe stress or utter duress. This is uncomfortable, unenjoyable and annoying, but not utter duress. I just need some air, even if it is smoky air.

  Jack’s at Tom’s and I’m allowed to let my hair down after full-time rehearsals, but I’m hating this. I feel ridiculous.

  I’m dressed like . . . well . . . like something vaguely Las Vegas. I’m wearing a skintight black dress with a home-done Farrah Fawcett seventies flick, blue eye shadow, huge earrings, and stiletto heels. Patrick’s dressed like Elvis meets Benny Hill meets Danny DeVito. He’s wearing a safari suit that is too small so the pants are more three-quarters than full length, along with a gold medallion and huge Elvis glasses. We make a sight for sore eyes.

  PATRICK

  Shall we go back in?

  ME

  Sure.

  PATRICK

  I’ll get us some drinks.

  I look around the room in an attempt to connect. Just smile and breathe, Persephone. Smile and breathe.

  Some people here appear to be overly excited about this daggy event. I’m pretty sure this is the highlight of their year. But I have no right to act superior. I’m dressed as a poor man’s porn star. I’m a participant and I’d be more than happy to accept an award should they feel that’s appropriate.

  But I’m preoccupied. I’m starting to get the impression that the poor man’s Elvis I’m with has slept with most of the female attendees at this shindig. Well, a sizeable portion of them, anyway. This certainly doesn’t sit well with the “I don’t do casual” message he gave me a few weeks ago.

  Patrick comes back with drinks.

  PATRICK

  Everything okay?

  ME

  Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.

  PATRICK

  You’re worried about Jack?

  ME

  No. He’s fine. He’s getting used to staying at Tom’s. He’ll be fine.

  PATRICK

  Yeah, but will you?

  As we sip our drinks, one of Patrick’s suspected harem approaches me, tits falling out of an electric blue mini dress she definitely shouldn’t be wearing.

  OFFICE WOMAN

  Hi!

  She breathes her Chardy breath all over me.

  PATRICK

  I’m going to the loo.

  He dodges her and offers me as the sacrificial lamb. Thanks.

  OFFICE WOMAN

  We haven’t met.

  She’s already well on her way to being piss
ed and I’m strangely distracted by the fillings in her teeth.

  ME

  No.

  OFFICE WOMAN

  You’re dating Patrick?

  ME

  Well . . . yes.

  OFFICE WOMAN

  Been there, done that.

  She takes a slug of her Chardy.

  I just want to sit down. Actually, I want to disappear, but she’s bailed me up. She talks right in my face, far too loudly while Caribbean Queen blares in the background. While Billy Ocean reassures me that we’re sharing the same dream and our hearts are beating as one, she’s slurring, teetering and swaying, hovering in front of me like a plump, wilted praying mantis or some kind of beached dugong. She thinks now is the perfect time to share insightful information about the one-night stand she had with Elvis, sorry, Patrick. She’s wrong. Now is not the perfect time. Never is the perfect time.

  She’s the third woman this evening to share this piece of insightful information with me. How many of these women has Patrick dated? And they’re not the lovely ones, the ones I know, the ones I work with from time to time when they book me for voice-over jobs. No, the ones Patrick seems to have known intimately are the painted ones from the back office or wherever it is they’ve crawled from. The ones we would have referred to at school as scrags.

  Back to the electric blue wilted praying mantis come beached dugong in front of me. All I can concentrate on are her fillings. Her lips are murderously red, the lipstick bleeding into the pucker wrinkles around her mouth and she has already managed to smudge her kohl eyeliner.

  I swerve around her as quickly as I can, pleading a full bladder.

  ME

  Excuse me. Need to . . .

  She seems disappointed, annoyed that I don’t want to engage her inanity. I just want to get away from her. I’m hallucinating about my partner’s tongue brushing against her fillings while he snogs her. I definitely need to excuse myself. I duck under her arm, propped as it is against the wall, blocking my exit, and duck swiftly towards the ladies’ room.

  I don’t need to wee, I need time to myself. This is becoming a recurring theme in my life. I don’t bother going into the cubicle to feign a wee, I just check myself out in the mirror and re-apply lipstick.