by Sophie Lee
'Oh, brilliant timing,' Alice groaned, regarding her florid nose in the rearview mirror. 'I think I'm coming down with a cold.'
'Go into Jamba Juice and ask for an Echinacea Boost. Anyway, I've got your details for tomorrow. So exciting. Your Lithium meeting is at 10 am.'
'Yes,' said Alice. 'Okay, but Bek? Just so you know, that's for the part of Colleen, not Maisie.'
'I knew that,' said Rebekah, without missing a beat. 'You're to learn scenes forty-three and fifty-five.'
'Rebekah, I think those are probably the only scenes Colleen has.'
12
'Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I'll come up: if not, I'll stay down here till I'm somebody else.'
Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
'How do you like the smell in here?' asked Alice, gesturing gaily at the piles of kitty litter in the laundry.
'Sure, it's lovely,' Nick winced, pulling his shirt up to cover his nose. In the process he exposed an expanse of flat stomach.
'Right, I'll get on with it,' Alice said, reluctantly averting her eyes from his bare skin. 'Change of clothes, something for tomorrow . . . that is, if it's cool for me to stay the night at yours?' she asked, keeping her tone nonchalant.
'Oh, let me see,' Nick replied, pretending to mull it over, 'I think it should be okay . . . but just this once.'
Alice turned away, blushing. 'Well, I'll be needing my pyjamas then. Come to my room while I throw some crap in an overnight bag.'
A large grey ball of hair screamed down the hallway as they approached her bedroom door. 'Holy shit! Are they actually domestic, or are they, you know, feral?' Nick asked.
'I've no idea. Hey, I'm just going to check my emails. You never know when Orson Welles may have been in touch.'
'Alice, I don't know how to break this to you, but I don't think he ever will be.'
Alice sat on the retractable chair and logged onto her webmail. 'Just a sec,' she sang out for Nick's benefit. There was one message waiting.
Dear Alice,
You're right. We must get a mobile phone.
Dad and I are driving up to Sydney to see the other specialist. We will stay with your Auntie Bev. Cousin Penny has finally met a young man and has decided to move in with him, much to Bev's consternation! Anyway, Bev is turning Penny's room into a guest room for us which is kind of her. Nana's joining us for tea.
Dad is a bit down in the dumps. He's not looking forward to the treatment, or to Auntie Bev's cooking.
Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.
I know it's only a matter of time until someone believes in you dear, and gives you a job!
Dad sends his love.
Love Mum
PS: You can call us at Auntie Bev's.
Alice spun around in her chair and yelled out to Nick again.
'Make yourself at home in my room, Nick. There's plenty of reading material in there for your amusement. I'm just going to call my Auntie Bev, see if I can track down my folks, okay?'
'Sure, and don't worry about me. I helped myself to one of your scripts and all,' he called back. 'I'm just going to stay put here. Those cats are making some crazy noises in the backs of their throats. D'ya think they're trying to tell me something?'
'Just that they're the buck wildest of all the damn cats in the Miracle Mile!' Alice ferreted through her wallet for her international phone card. She punched the code into the home phone, followed Bev's number.
'Yes?' said a woman's voice. She managed to make 'yes' into a polysyllable with her broad Australian accent.
'It's Alice. I'm calling from America, Auntie Bev. Are they there yet?'
'Sorry love, they've gone to that private clinic in Macquarie Street to see the other hotshot doctor. You've just missed them.'
'Oh, that's a shame. I wonder when they'll get with the human race and get a mobile phone?'
'They don't know about the rays yet, do they? Anything could be happening to your brain, with the rays. You know, I never did understand why your father didn't pay for private health insurance . . . now he's seeing this one and the other one at the most expensive of all the clinics and he's forced to dip into his pension. You reap what you sow, I suppose.'
Alice swallowed an urge to swear at her. 'Perhaps you're right,' she managed. 'How have you been, Auntie Bev? What're you making for dinner tonight?'
'Mutton,' she said airily. 'Cauliflower cheese, mango pudding . . . your dad's always loved mutton, hasn't he?'
'Sure has.' Alice winced. 'He just can't get enough mutton. Listen, will you tell them I called and that I'll try again tomorrow? Give them my love, and thanks so much for putting them up, Bev.'
'What's family for, Alice?' she pronounced sanctimo niously. 'Good luck over there. It all sounds a lot more glamorous than I'd know how to cope with. Bye for now,' she concluded, and hung up.
'Mutton, cauliflower cheese and mango pudding,' Alice groaned. 'A lovely post-diagnosis meal if ever there was one.' She stood up, putting her phone card back into her wallet and headed for the bedroom.
Nick's mouth was agape as he read a slim script.
'Jesus, is it that bad? Oh, I forgot, you're in publishing and may find some of this stuff aesthetically offensive,' Alice remarked.
'Have you read this one? It's a sitcom set in a meatworks.'
'Sounds . . . original, I guess,' said Alice crossing to the bed and peering over his shoulder. The belts and chains jangled on the door behind her.
'Oh, but it's not, Alice. It's awful. It's like King of Queens or something, except there's a lot of sausages.'
'I'm auditioning for that next week, I think,' Alice admitted quietly. She could feel herself flushing.
'But it's terrible, Alice,' Nick continued blithely, 'you're way too good for . . .' He stopped when he saw the expression on her face. 'Ah . . . it's not so bad, I guess . . . But since when did you look like you could have three kids, one of them a teenager?' he demanded, unable to control himself.
'When I turned twenty-five,' Alice replied, packing her toothbrush into her overnight bag. 'You start being appropriate for the mum roles way earlier than you'd like. And I suppose it's true of the grandmother roles too, although how many films about sixty-something women are there? Hmmm, is there a grandma in that pilot? Maybe that's the role they want me for. After all, I am over twenty-seven and
I'm not a size 0.'
'I'm serious, Alice, you can't want to do this, can you?'
'I don't know what I want, or what I deserve, or where I am in the pecking order,' Alice replied vehemently, folding her blue-and-white pyjamas and placing them in their matching cloth bag. 'Whether I'll ever be A-list or whether I'll languish on the Z-list for years. All I know is my dad's got a meal of roast mutton and mango pudding awaiting him in Mona Vale when he gets back from consulting with some incredibly expensive doctor in the city. It should be me falling asleep in the carpark waiting for his appointment to be over, bringing him home to my own house for spaghetti bolognaise and a shandy.'
Nick looked at Alice, who was stuffing her pyjamas into her overnight bag with frantic jabs. 'You know, Alice, in my experience, doing something purely for money doesn't come to any good.'
Alice spun round to face him. 'What are you saying? I'm here because I love acting! It's what I do. This is a natural progression.'
'But Alice . . . your primary motivation is to get a job, any job, to recover these missing funds. That can make you desperate and it creeps into your demeanour, doesn't it? People sense it. This is what I found so difficult about making a living through a career in the arts. You have to do it solely because you love it, and that passion has to exist, to be above all else, so that you'll sleep on the floor of a loft without complaint. You'll turn down the shitty gigs as a matter of artistic integrity. What matters is you get to do the thing you love.'
Alice rubbed her forehead. She could feel her brow crinkling underneath. 'I don't understand. I'm trying to make the best
of it, aren't I?'
'You're on a mission to get this cash back for your dad in a matter of weeks. I just don't think it's going to work any better than it would if you went to Las Vegas for the weekend and bet the remainder of your life savings.'
'Nick, I've come so close,' Alice insisted, rejecting his sentiments. 'I've gotta just keep on truckin'. Okay? Now do you want to line-run with me or not?'
'Alice, I'll run your lines,' Nick sighed, shaking his head. 'Just forget what I said, okay. I just . . .'
'You just don't think Orson Welles will ever call me back, I get it.' Alice managed a smile. 'But he will.'
'To be honest, I don't know whose place smells worse,' Nick observed, throwing the key down on a small formica table in room six of the Secret Palms Hotel.
Alice glanced at the denim bedspread and smiled. 'I dunno, I like it,' she said, stepping through the door. 'If it's good enough for Raymond Chandler . . .'
Alice stood very still for a moment, staring at the light-fitting on the wall. It was fashioned out of twisted metal and looked dangerous.
'Nick?' she said finally, placing her overnight bag carefully on the bed. What was she thinking packing her pyjamas? Maybe he didn't want her to stay? Alice told herself she could always pack up and drive home if need be. They just didn't have much time . . .
'Yes, Alice,' said Nick, pulling his computer up from under the bed. 'I'm so canny! Thieves would never search under the bed, now would they?' he grinned, unpacking it and plugging it into the powerpoint.
Alice perched on the denim bedspread.
'What were you going to ask me?' His large frame was hunched over in the plastic chair, making him appear even more slender and gangly, like a big skinny monkey.
'Um . . . what drew you to publishing, when you'd been a musician all that time?'
'I dunno. Are you thirsty, Alice?'
'No.'
'You look thirsty.'
'How does someone look thirsty?' she wanted to know.
'You just do. Let me think,' he continued, trying to get comfortable in his seat, flexing his back muscles. 'I've always been an avid reader, I guess, I've always loved books and music. I had a BA and . . . let me think. Do you know, I didn't really know what I'd do next, so I quit the band and ended up working in the university bookshop for a while. Then I just sort of decided to look into doing a short course in publishing. It was after that I applied for a job with Carousel Books. I was bloody lucky to get it, I'm the only male in the office, you know.'
'Really?' smiled Alice. 'Lucky ladies.'
'I suppose, in retrospect, you start with the germ of an idea of how you want to change, and take small steps forward. It doesn't happen overnight, as they are wont to say in this town.'
'Don't they say it does happen overnight?'
'Of course, that's it. It does happen overnight, but then again, the Hollywood system of time dictates that overnight actually equals ten years. It's like dog years here, isn't it? Have you never done anything else you loved apart from acting?' he asked, looking back at the computer screen.
'No,' Alice replied, immediately.
'Beard,' said Nick.
'Huh?'
'Beard,' he repeated, tugging at an invisible one on his chin and raising an eyebrow.
'Nick, it's all I ever wanted, ever since Sister Bernadette, way back when I was twelve.'
'If you say so,' Nick shrugged, answering an email. He seemed unwilling to believe her.
Alice thought for a moment. 'You know,' she conceded, 'I did this drama course once. You had to devise your own text to perform. Well, essentially, you had to write something. I enjoyed it,' admitted Alice. 'But I suppose I only really thought of it in the context of performing it myself.'
'What was your one-woman show about, then?' Nick asked.
Alice laughed and shifted uncomfortably on the end of the bed. She felt the denim bedspread bunch up under her bottom. One of Nick's old T-shirts lay beside her within reach and she unconsciously stretched her fingers out to stroke it.
'Promise you won't do that thing with your imaginary beard again?'
'Go on, I'm all ears.' He'd stopped typing and was looking sideways at her.
'Well . . .' Alice began, 'there were a few characters. One was a girl in a bar trying to tell a joke but getting it terribly wrong,' she said. 'It went on like that for ages.'
'Sounds like a laugh.'
'She also had a speech impediment,' Alice added, trying to sell the idea more convincingly. 'The next was a character who was afraid of insects on a bushwalk. She fell and injured her leg and was gradually bitten to death by angry arthropods.'
'An entomolophobe!'
'You made that word up,' Alice scolded. 'And the final character was a woman cleaning her kitchen cupboards, quite methodically, after having just murdered her husband.' She winced at the memory. She wondered what she had done with the manuscript. 'You know, I really enjoyed the experience. I just never thought about writing without it being attached to acting.' Also, Conrad had thought very little of her efforts, critiquing them to a point where she felt stupid for having tried.
'It's a bummer to think you'll be auditioning for the role of meatworks mom, when you could be writing a one-woman show about women with club feet who can't tell jokes.'
'I said she had a speech impediment, you nut,' said Alice. 'Although, there's nothing like a long un-funny monologue by a woman with a club foot, is there?'
She stood up and began to improvise, dragging her foot behind her. 'Two men walk into a bar, no, wait, I mean, three men walk into a pub, wasn't it? Hold on, I'll start again . . .'
Alice sat down and cleared her throat. 'What's happening in the world of Dublin publishing, then?' she asked. Her ears were hot and she fiddled with the lobes. She suddenly felt very peculiar, hot then cold, and had a sudden urge to sneeze – which she did, uncontrollably.
'Nothing,' he sighed, 'Well, something, but . . . bloody hell, is that the world record for the most number of successive sneezes ever in a two-star Hollywood establishment?'
'Possibly,' croaked Alice. She was seized by a sudden bout of coughing and struggled to catch her breath. The bed shuddered beneath her. Nick looked at her with concern. 'Seriously, are you okay?'
'Oh, bugger it,' she sighed, finally, when she could actually speak. 'I admit I don't feel in tip-top condition. I can only imagine how attractive I must look,' she added, reaching for a tissue in her bag, and finding Nick's handkerchief. 'Do you mind?'
'I was going to offer you my old T-shirt,' he said.
'You couldn't!' she cried, 'it's too special for my snot!'
Nick laughed. 'You're an eejut, Alice-girl,' he said affectionately, closing his computer. 'I can tell you feel miserable. I'm going out for some cold and flu medicine for you,' he added, standing up and stretching his legs.
'But . . .' protested Alice.
'Uh uh uh,' he scolded, waving a finger to silence her in an imitation of ghetto-fabulousness. 'Now, have your silly balloon girl dialogue learned for when I get back so we can get it out of the way and focus on telly and pizza instead.'
He picked up his car keys and wallet and tucked in his shirt.
'What about this glamorous dinner out we keep promising each other?' Alice asked, face down in his hanky.
'Do you really feel up to that?'
'No,' she admitted in a small voice.
'Well, then.' He turned to leave, bumping his head on the light-fitting. 'Ow! That thing's lethal.'
'Do you know where you're going?' Alice asked with concern. 'They don't call them pharmacies here, you know, they're called . . .'
'Drugstores, I know. There's one just down a few blocks called Sav-On. Bloody huge.' He winked and closed the door behind him.
Alice blew her nose and pulled the well-thumbed Lithium script from her bag. Nick's dirty T-shirt lay beside her on the bed and Alice lifted it to her face. It was old, decaying almost, and filled with tiny holes. Alice wondered why he held onto it, and
poked her finger through one of the openings on the hem. She brought it up to her nose but her head-cold made it impossible to smell anything. She laid it down again and smoothed it out on the denim bedspread. The faded words on the front said something about a Jesus and Mary Chain tour of Ireland. She couldn't make out the dates as the numbers had completely faded with time. She wondered whether Banana Crucifix had been the support act. Maybe he missed music more than he was willing to let on.
She turned the script pages to Colleen's scenes. It wasn't so much a great character role as a slightly larger cameo, and Alice wondered how Conrad planned to get her extra money for a part of this size. Oh well, you've got to start somewhere, she considered. She focused on the work and had all her lines learned in around fifteen minutes.
Alice checked her watch. There was still no sign of Nick. She had a short-lived compulsion to test her erring sense of smell on his other shirts but stopped herself. How would it look if he arrived back from the chemist to discover her nose in his dirty laundry? Alice turned back to scene fifty-five.
It was set in an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting that both Maisie and Colleen were attending. Maisie had a full-page speech, a monologue of power and depth, about her struggle with addiction and her messed-up childhood, while Colleen said virtually nothing, save to ask how Maisie wanted her instant coffee before the meeting was called to order, and to chant the serenity prayer with the entire cast.
'Fuck it,' said Alice, and began to commit Maisie's speech to memory. Just for the hell of it.
Nick arrived half an hour later with a variety of flu medicine, a tall bunch of orange lilies and a bottle of red wine. 'Also medicinal,' he said, putting the bottle down on the table.
'Oh, Nick, they're gorgeous!' she exclaimed, standing up and taking the flowers from him. She could feel tears welling in her eyes and quickly concealed them by fussing over the waxy green foliage. How long had it been since somebody gave her flowers? Alice shook her head and sniffed, trying to attribute her watery eyes to her cold. 'Beautiful,' she said quickly. 'Ta.'
She looked around for something to put them in. 'Aha!' she said, spying an almost empty Evian bottle. 'I'll just cut the top off this. Perfect! Now, if only they hadn't confiscated my Stanley knife.'