by Andi Osho
Simi stared blankly back at Meagan. Typical, she seethed. No plan.
Chapter 7
Jemima
Meagan sped through a set of changing traffic lights, giving the finger to a motorist who’d dared to use the road at the same time as her. She rounded a corner crushing Jemima against the passenger door.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?’ Jemima whimpered.
Meagan grabbed her water bottle. ‘You drive like a blind cabbie in a funeral procession.’
Jemima inhaled in shock. ‘I am an excellent driver!’
‘Please. You get overtaken by rollerbladers,’ Meagan said swigging from the bottle.
‘At this rate, we’ll end up in our own funeral procession,’ Jemima grumbled as her boring life flashed before her.
Simi, who had been sat on the back seat in a deathly silence, finally spoke. ‘He knew I was there. He could feel me.’
‘He could probably smell you,’ mumbled Meagan.
Jemima threw a stern look across the car at Meagan as she violently swerved around a cyclist.
‘He did. He knew I was there,’ Simi said again.
Jemima checked her pockets for tissues in anticipation of the sorrow that threatened.
‘We had a connection,’ said Simi as a tear tumbled down her face.
‘Right, that’s it!’ Meagan said, skidding into a taxi rank and stopping inches from an idling cab.
Jemima and Simi lurched forward like crash test dummies as Meagan thumped the brake button and turned sharply to Simi. ‘Babe, you might have had a connection but it’s time to hang up.’
Jemima braced herself hoping that, for once, Meagan’s tough love might be administered kindly.
‘Wake up to yourself!’ Meagan barked in Simi’s face, flicking her forehead with a thock.
Nope, it was going to be angry drill sergeant all the way, sighed Jemima.
‘You weren’t living together. You were his lodger. Your stuff wasn’t even in the flat. It was in the boxes we dropped you off with A YEAR AGO!’
‘But—’ Simi started; however Meagan was on a roll.
‘No, Sim. If you’ve got this amazing connection and he knew you were there, why didn’t he fight for you? He was practically helping us pack. SCREW. THAT. GUY,’ she said punctuating each word with a handclap.
Behind them a black cab pulled into the rank, tooting at them. Meagan gave him a dismissive wave then turned back to Simi who sat in stupefied silence. Jemima looked at her and her heart lurched.
‘I’m sorry, darling. Meagan’s right. Screw him,’ she said.
‘Damn straight!’ Meagan boomed. ‘You HAVE TO TAKE CONTROL! You let every boyfriend set the pace of the relationship then you just dance to the beat of his drum! They decide when you get to see each other, when your first time is, when they meet your friends and family. It’s mental. Every guy you have EVER dated has made you into what they want and then they chuck you out when you ask for something. And it starts All. Over. Again.’
‘But I left him…’ Simi began.
‘Constructive dismissal, babes,’ Meagan snapped. ‘He creates the conditions to make it untenable but you have to do the deed. Full Metal Coward. Do you need Jemima to write it down in black and white so you can see how your history repeats again and again?! Change the backstory, Sim! Do a U-turn. Switch it up. Something. Please!’
Jemima watched Simi take it all in, her face unreadable. They’d both tried to say this to her for years but the message had never got through. Instead, they’d just taken their place on the sidelines ready to rush in the minute their player was down. But this time was different. The intent behind Meagan’s words shocked even Jemima. She held her breath watching Simi who was no longer crying. In fact, her face was… clear.
‘I am a disaster area,’ she whispered, as though seeing the whole picture for the first time.
‘You are not a disaster area. You just need to… love you,’ Jemima cooed trying to smooth over the crude, broad strokes of Meagan’s vitriol.
‘No, Jem, I am. I’m Fukushima, the Bermuda Triangle and a Primark sale all rolled into one. I keep picking guys who won’t let me set my boundaries,’ Simi panicked.
Meagan clutched her temples. Jemima had seen this before. It was like Simi had heard you but not heard you at the same time. Meagan often lamented that discussing relationships with Simi was like having a political discourse with a vacuum cleaner. A lot was going in but it was mainly rubbish.
‘It’s not about a guy letting you set your boundaries. You set your boundaries and if he doesn’t like it he can Foxtrot Oscar,’ explained Meagan.
Just then the cabbie in front pulled out of the rank sending the drivers behind into an indignant, honking frenzy. Meagan blew them an inflammatory kiss which caused Jemima to scrunch down in her seat, mortified.
‘Set boundaries? Just like that? What if he doesn’t like those boundaries? What if he wants to change them? What if he likes me more with different boundaries?’ Simi asked oblivious to the drama unfolding around them.
‘No, Simi. I mean it. No,’ Meagan repeated with the futile strictness of someone talking to a baffled puppy.
Meagan suddenly stopped. She reached across and thocked Simi on the forehead again.
‘Awwwww!’ Simi wailed.
‘Meagan!’ said Jemima.
‘She wants to go back to Oscar and try setting boundaries. I can tell. She thinks if she says she doesn’t want kids and marriage and a house in the country, he’ll get back with her and then eventually they’ll have kids, a marriage and a house in the country,’ said Meagan.
Jemima looked back at Simi who was doing her best innocent face but looked more like a toddler caught with their hand in the biscuit tin. How was Meagan able to spot a seemingly insignificant detail and turn it into a three-act narrative?
Simi began welling up again. Jemima reached between the seats putting a reassuring hand on her knee. It broke Jemima’s heart to see Simi try so hard only for the happy-ever-after she longed for to elude her every time. However, perhaps there was a positive to come from this. Maybe it was a chance to take time away from men. It would be tough for Simi who would probably need some sort of relationship methadone – like Kettle Chips or Orange is the New Black, but if Beverly Blake could survive without a man, surely Simi could too.
Jemima went to speak just as a queuing taxi tooted at them long and loud.
‘Alright, alright,’ said Meagan.
Behind them, the cab drivers looked like they were about to combust. Jemima turned to Simi who was still staring at the floor. Seeing her crammed in the back seat with her scrunched up afro, Cat in the Hat pyjamas and knees practically around her ears, surrounded by her belongings, would have been comical had it not been so tragic.
‘Okay, Sim,’ said Meagan her tone finally softening. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Oh…’ said Simi.
Jemima knew exactly what that meant. Simi didn’t have anywhere to go so she would be coming to stay with her. Her heart sank. Of course she wanted to help her friend, it was just that after fourteen hours of planes, trains and automobiles, she just wanted to get home and close her door on the madness of the world. She was so delirious with jet lag, she could barely remember the alphabet. Jemima peered across at Meagan, who probably already had an airtight excuse teed up as to why Simi couldn’t stay with her.
‘It’s okay, Jem. There’s a MegaMotel ten minutes away. Just drop me there,’ said Simi off Jemima’s silence.
Jemima sank back in her seat. There was no way she could let Simi stay in a hotel more famous for Legionnaires disease than a good night’s sleep.
‘It’s fine, you guys. I actually like MegaMotels,’ mumbled Simi.
Jemima sighed and her face broke into a kind smile. ‘Don’t be silly. You’re staying with me,’ she said.
‘Great, sorted,’ said Meagan. ‘You know I would have let you stay at mine but I don’t want to jeopardise our client/agent relationship.’<
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Jemima peered past Simi out of the back window where the cabbies were now shoving a community police officer in their direction.
‘I think we should get out of here,’ she said.
‘On it,’ replied Meagan as she swerved out of the taxi rank, beeping indignantly at a bollard.
Jemima squeezed Simi’s hand, embarrassed she’d even considered abandoning her in her hour of need. Everything would be okay in the end, she reassured herself. As Meagan whipped through a red light, Jemima just hoped that end didn’t happen in the next thirty-five seconds.
Chapter 8
Meagan
Meagan looked around Jemima’s compact flat. The way everything matched was unnerving. Is that what happened once you passed 40, your entire life became more and more coordinated until you and your soft furnishing were indistinguishable, Meagan wondered as she deposited the last boxes in Jemima’s living room. Behind her Simi slowly shuffled in, her whiff preceding her.
‘Right, lady. Shower,’ said Meagan.
Enough was enough.
‘I don’t think I can, Meag,’ whimpered Simi.
‘It wasn’t a question, mate,’ said Meagan. ‘You’ve already lost a boyfriend. You don’t want to lose me and Jem too.’
‘Meag?’ blubbed Simi.
‘It was a joke,’ she replied steering Simi towards the bathroom.
One day, Meagan groused, the world would get her sense of humour and life would become infinitely easier for everyone. She closed the bathroom door behind Simi and listened. There it was: the sound of running water – followed not long after by a pitiful rendition of Toni Braxton’s ‘Un-Break My Heart’.
‘You got her to take a shower?’ said Jemima as Meagan walked back into the living room.
‘She smelt like a steak bake, babes.’
‘Well, now she needs something to eat,’ Jemima murmured like a soap opera surgeon proposing a life-threatening procedure.
She pulled a twenty pound note from her purse, ‘Let’s get some food and cook her something.’
Meagan stared at the money then back at Jemima.
‘Cash, cooking? This ain’t the Seventies. If you tweet a pizza emoji to Domingo’s they’ll be round in twenty minutes with a nice hot meat feast,’ she said pulling out her phone.
‘Fine,’ Jemima moaned. ‘She needs something. All I’ve got in that fridge is a block of parmesan and some vaginal probiotics.’
‘You don’t want her thinking about her vagina. That’ll just remind her of Oscar,’ said Meagan.
‘Everything reminds her of Oscar.’
‘Maybe because he is a vagina,’ said Meagan coldly.
Jemima snorted as she went back to tidying Simi’s belongings. Meagan watched, bemused. Even though these weren’t her things, Jemima was still determined to find a place for everything because – everything had its place. It wasn’t personal. It was just Jem. Luckily for Meagan, Jemima’s love of her personal space would play nicely into her scheme to get Simi back to work and, specifically, auditioning for the IPC role she’d been waiting to discuss. She just had to play it very, very delicately. Meagan nudged Simi’s box of bongo drums with her foot.
‘Be fun having Simi’s drumming circle around,’ said Meagan as she leafed through an old copy of The Stage.
The record scratch in Jemima’s brain was almost audible.
‘Eh?’ said Jemima.
Meagan tapped out a paradiddle on one of the bongos and grinned at Jemima.
‘Tell you what would get her back on her feet and moving on – a date. The best way to get over a bloke is to get under another one, right,’ she said.
‘Then that’s sex. That’s not even a date!’ Jemima interrupted as she popped up from behind a pile of Simi’s things.
‘S’right. Cut to the chase.’ Meagan beamed.
She knew this was a bad idea. Suggesting it was merely a stepping stone en route to her long con. If she’d been alone she’d have let out a cartoon evil laugh.
‘I mean, I want Simi to find her own place eventually but that is a terrible suggestion,’ said Jemima.
‘What’s a terrible suggestion?’ said Simi now trussed up in towels.
‘Nothing,’ said Jemima, darting a stony glare at Meagan.
‘Tell me,’ said Simi, hope flickering in her eyes.
Jemima disappeared behind the boxes.
‘Well,’ began Meagan, metaphorically cricking her fingers, ‘you know what they say is the best way to get over someone?’
‘Therapy?’ suggested Simi earnestly.
‘No, dummy. Getting under someone,’ said Meagan with a wink.
‘Terrible suggestion, terrible suggestion!’ Jemima moaned from her box fortress.
Simi looked at Meagan confused as though her brain were literally buffering.
‘But… I just…’
‘You need to get back on your feet and a date would be a great way to do it,’ said Meagan.
‘That’s an awful idea,’ said Simi.
‘Told you,’ came a muffled rebuff from behind the boxes.
‘I couldn’t ask someone out. What would I say? “Hi, I’m damaged goods. Want to spend an evening speculating on why my ex didn’t want children?”’ said Simi slumping into Jemima’s sofa.
‘Good point,’ said Meagan as she pretended to think though alternative solutions. ‘What if we ask guys out for you?’
Jemima poked up from behind the boxes, looking horrified, ‘Nice. Nightmare upgrade.’
Meagan stifled a smirk.
‘You’re right. My bad. I’m just trying to help,’ she said putting an arm around Simi’s shoulder, ‘Wait, here’s a thought – why don’t you try getting stuck into work?’
‘My reception job?’ Simi asked, puzzled.
‘No, not your survival job. Your real job. Acting,’ said Meagan.
Simi’s face crinkled. ‘I don’t think I can…’
‘Sweetheart, I don’t think you can’t. What is it you actors say? Let Doctor Theatre work his magic. What better tonic is there than the smell of a crowd, the roar of the grease paint. Jemima was just saying that work might take your mind off things…’
‘I… I… did I?’ stammered Jemima.
‘Well, you said that dating was a bad idea,’ Meagan corrected.
‘But that doesn’t mean…’
‘Do you think it would work, Jem?’ asked Simi.
Meagan sat back and let the rest of the conversation take its course. This was an inelegant hustle but it had worked. Jemima was always a soft touch for Simi’s doe eyes. She wouldn’t tell her no.
Jemima pulled open a box of books. ‘Do you want me to alphabetise these?’
‘It’s just there was an interesting development…’ Meagan said, drawing Simi back in to soft-sell her the idea of going to this audition.
For the most part, Meagan was enjoying this relatively new challenge of being Simi’s agent. Because they were friends there was a shorthand that made things easier. Sometimes, however, like today, where the lines were blurred, it made things take ten times as long. Given Simi’s current state, Meagan had to keep it light but that was going to be tough given that the casting director who had offered Simi the audition was none other than the esteemed Antonia De Silva. Even Meagan knew what a big deal she was. It was the first audition to come from her office and not a contact to be squandered. And if Simi made a good impression, it could mean big things for Meagan’s comedian clients who had thespian ambitions too. However, if Simi no-showed, who knew when or even if Antonia would offer any of Meagan’s clients an audition again. The most frustrating thing was, Simi was perfect for the role and this IPC show had BAFTAs written all over it. Meagan just wished opportunity had knocked when Simi was not a walking power ballad. She took a breath.
‘So, it’s called Clash of the Crown. It shoots in Ireland and it’s a new fantasy period drama.’
‘Yeah. I heard you fibbing to Oscar about it but it’s too soon,’ said Simi, towelling her hair.
‘It’s a really great role,’ Meagan said with a clenched jaw, ‘and they’ve already confirmed it’s going to series.’
‘Can I see them next month?’
‘Next month?’ Meagan growled about as breezily as a force nine gale. ‘Darling, they’re shooting in five weeks. You’d be playing Bradley Tyson’s lover and you’d have at least one scene with Cameron Christiansen.’
Meagan looked at Simi, fuming. Most actors would bite her arm off at the elbow for this.
‘I can’t, Meagan. I’m sorry. What if I have to do a scene about a break-up? Or a scene with a character called Oscar? Or worse, play a character who’s won an Oscar? Who’d pick up the pieces of me then?’
Meagan listened to Simi’s bizarre logic and gradually softened. Dealing with hardened comedians all day, she had forgotten that actors were a different breed – their vulnerability, much closer to the surface.
‘You’re right, Sim. I’m sorry.’
‘Thanks, Meag. I really appreciate it,’ said Simi, dropping her wet towel onto the sofa.
At the sight of this, Jemima let out an unintentional squeak, her eyes locked on the soggy towel. ‘Maybe you should… consider it.’
Meagan looked over at Jemima, then back to Simi and the towel slowly depositing a damp stain on the sofa.
‘I mean it’s not every day you audition for BAFTA-winning producers,’ Jemima added.
Meagan smiled innocently. ‘I’ll ping you the details and you can decide in the morning.’
Chapter 9
Jemima
Jemima sat up in bed sipping her coffee while Simi sang to herself in the living room. Last night after Meagan had shared details of Simi’s big audition and, as always, ladled on her unsolicited acting advice, Simi had definitely brightened. She’d dispensed with the power ballads and this morning had graduated to revenge songs.
As Jemima pondered a leisurely stroll to Nostromo to shake off the jet lag, her phone grrrr grrrred insistently, jolting her from her ruminations. Shit. It was Eve. She’d been expecting her call but not for at least a fortnight. Just before leaving LA, Jemima had sent Eve an inflammatory new draft she’d been working on throughout her trip. If all went to plan, it would end the ‘romance’ conversation once and for all. Instead of resisting Eve’s ‘suggesteroos’ as she had done for so long, Jemima’s new tactic had been to lean into them – hard, giving Eve everything she wanted. In fact, she had given Eve so much of it, Jemima hoped she would decide she didn’t want it after all. But how had she read it so quickly? Jemima had only sent it ten days ago. Perhaps, she speculated, Eve had got just a few pages in before realising the error of her ways. She could be calling to apologise for ever mooting concerns about the amorous content of Jemima’s books.