‘No worries. Take the call. I think we’re done for today.’
It’s Julia, who’s screaming.
‘He called me. We’re going on a date. He’s taking me to Ronnie Scott’s. Can I borrow your fuck-me shoes?’
I smile. I had an email from Carlos yesterday. He asked me for Julia’s number.
‘Course. Come round later.’
‘I thought you were going out with Paul?’
‘Yeah we were, but he’s got to work. Apparently.’
‘Oh bubba, I’m sorry.’
‘Yep. Shitty.’
‘Sare. I’ve been thinking, if it’s not going great with Paul, why don’t you go out with that number one fan guy?’
‘Jules! No way. He’s a smelly gaffer bloke from Casualty.’
‘What?’
‘He told me. Look, I’ve got to go.’
‘OK. See you later. Oh my God. I’ve got a date!’ she screeches before hanging up.
‘That looks like it was a good call,’ says Tristan, clocking my smile.
‘Yeah, my best mate’s got a date with a handsome DJ and I might have had a little hand in them getting together.’
‘I’d love a date,’ he sighs.
‘Are you single, Tristan? That’s criminal. You’re lovely. Perhaps I should set you up with someone. I’m actually turning into a bit of a matchmaker.’
Tristan looks terrified.
‘What about the pretty girl who plays the lesbian in the play? Amy?’
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘Oh,’ I start, surprised. ‘Yes, I suppose I have.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘Hmmm. He’s in advertising. He works all the time. I hardly ever see him.’
‘Is he coming to press night?’
‘Yes. I think so. He says he is. You know, work permitting.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Paul. Paul, Perfect Paul,’ I say, but I wish I could sound more convincing.
fifty-six
Normally I come on stage an hour and a half after the play has started. I say my one line and then go back to the dressing room to finish off knitting a woolly hat or carry on with my crossword.
But I open this play. I am on stage when the audience comes in. I rest on my knees in the middle of the stage, racking up lines of heroin and every so often yawning, scratching or fidgeting. Then the house lights go down and a spotlight falls on me alone. At which point I have to say a two-page monologue. Every time I look up I see a familiar face. Simon is on my left in the front row with my mum and dad. When I look in their direction with my druggy stare they all nudge each other and beam at me so I have to aim my looks out more to the right-hand side of the audience. But Selina Gutteridge, the casting director, is there on the right, next to Eamonn Nigels, so that’s not much better.
I can’t see Paul. I don’t know what I’ll do if he lets me down tonight. Aside from my birthday he has stood me up twice. Both times he cancelled dinner because he had to work late. Now that I’ll be doing a show every day for the next six weeks I don’t know what will happen. When he didn’t have me, he wanted me. Now he knows he can have me, he’s disappeared. I feel a like a gym he joined but can’t be arsed to go to. Focus, Sarah, don’t blow tonight because of a bloke, I tell myself as I finger a bit of the brown sugar and wipe it around my gums. I grimace and the house lights go down. I feel the warmth of my spotlight. I start to speak.
Suddenly we are all bowing. No one forgot any lines or fell over. The audience laughed at the jokes. Now they are clapping. We bow again. My left breast nearly falls out of my dress as I do but I catch it in time. The clapping doesn’t stop. We all bow again. In the front row, a small middle-aged man wearing glasses stands up. I assume he’s standing up to leave but he stands still and raises his hands to clap more. Two girls sitting behind him get to their feet and start to whoop. Then as though in slow motion the entire audience gets to their feet and claps us. It’s a standing ovation. It’s the best feeling in the world. If I could sell it in a bottle I’d easily be able to pay off my student loan. I hear a familiar voice shout, ‘Bravo!’ It’s Paul. He’s standing next to Julia about halfway back. He’s holding a bunch of roses. He plucks one free and throws it towards the stage. It nearly takes a woman’s eye out four rows in front of him. He makes an ‘oops’ face. I catch his eye and we smile.
I leave the stage door. Paul is there with the rest of the roses. He grabs me in a hug and whispers in my ear, ‘You were fucking brilliant. Fucking brilliant. I’m serious, Sare.’
I stand in his hug for a moment, feeling sublime. I kiss him on the lips.
‘What now?’ he says. ‘I’m starving. I want to take you to dinner.’
‘But there’s a do now with drinks and canapés and stuff, remember?’
‘Oh bugger. I forgot.’
‘You will come to the party? Please. Free champagne!!’
‘Yeah, OK, but I’d better get some canapés!’ he says, putting his arm around my waist.
Tradition clearly dictates that on the first night there shall be a first-night party. Tradition also kindly asserts that at the first-night party an actress can get inarticulately inebriated on free champagne and people who saw the show must approach said actress and call her ‘darling’ and tell her she was wonderful. Sarah Sargeant is a huge fan of first-night parties.
This party’s very glitzy. I feel like I’m in an episode of Sex and the City as I stand in the entrance surveying the room with Paul at my side. With any luck I’ll be getting some sex in the city tonight. I’m even wearing my wraparound dress. I look at Paul. He doesn’t look as though he is thinking about adult fun. He’s scanning the room rampantly with his eyes, a deep frown etched on his face.
‘Are you all right?’ I say to him.
‘I’m starving. Can’t we just go for dinner somewhere?’
‘It’s the first-night party,’ I whoop like a six-year-old girl who’s just been given something pink.
But Paul doesn’t look at me, he just keeps frowning and searching the room for something edible.
‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look in pain,’ I enquire carefully.
‘I’m hungry, Sare,’ he snaps. I gasp.
It was definitely a snap. I hate snapping. The only things I approve of snapping at are electrical. It is fine to snap at a remote control or a dodgy microwave but not a person, not even a dog. Maybe a wasp, but not a person. I wait for an apology. It doesn’t come.
‘Find Simon. He normally stands near the kitchen so he gets his hands on the canapés first,’ I mutter to him as we take a champagne cocktail each from a waiter-held tray.
‘Oh, right, yeah. Good idea. Because we’re great mates!’ says Paul sarcastically. Please, God, don’t make Paul a snapper and please don’t let him be a grumpy wanker who will ruin my night.
I locate my mum and dad and Simon and Julia. They’re standing with Eamonn Nigels and Selina Gutteridge. They’re obviously talking about my birthday because my dad is demonstrating his ‘big box little box’ dance to Eamonn, who’s nodding. I walk towards them. They start clapping me. It’s very embarrassing. I visit various armpits as I am enveloped in hugs. I come up spluttering for air.
Dominic, the director, appears before me. He squeezes me. I start to feel like a stress reliever belonging to a neurotic menopausal housewife.
‘Thank you for her,’ Dominic says to Eamonn.
Eamonn chuckles. ‘Well done, Dom. I loved it. Loved it. And I’m nearly always bored to tears in the theatre, as Sarah will verify. And Dom, I’d like you to meet Selina Gutteridge. She works for me.’ Eamonn gestures towards my Selina, who’s supposed to be very busy at Casualty, trying to get me a part as a midwife.
‘Pleased to meet you, Dominic. I’m Eamonn’s new recruit. I was at Casualty for years but he recently poached me.’
‘Healthier than frying,’ says my dad. Everyone looks at him for a second and then starts laughing. Only a man past ret
irement age could get away with a joke that dreadful.
‘Have you met my bad-joke dad, Dominic?’ I say.
Selina working for Eamonn is dire news. All hope of becoming a midwife in Casualty has just been surgically removed.
‘Smaller than a gnat’s twat! You need a bloody microscope to see what these are!’ Paul is muttering at a tiny brown thing he’s just picked off a canapé tray. Then he gives me a pointed look, which would imply that I had personally made the bloody thing to spite him. Paul puts the small thing in his mouth and walks off following the waiter with the canapé tray.
‘What’s up with him?’ asks Si, sidling up to me.
‘He’s hungry,’ I say flatly.
‘What is he, diabetic?’ asks Si.
‘I doubt it. If a diabetic person doesn’t get sugar they die. If Paul doesn’t get food I doubt he’ll die, unless of course I find a hatchet somewhere and throw it at his grumpy head.’
Simon laughs heartily. A bit too heartily if you ask me. I watch him sadly while he composes himself.
‘Whatever you do don’t let him ruin your night. You’ve worked hard to be here. You were brilliant in the show. I mean it. This is your night.’
‘Hmm.’ I attempt a smile.
Tristan appears.
‘You must be Paul and you must be proud,’ he says, offering a hand to Simon.
‘Nah, mate, I’m Simon, Sarah’s flatmate. But I am bloody proud of her. That’s Paul over there,’ he says, pointing. We all turn to look at Paul, who is standing on his own pulling the face that men pull when they are forced to stand in women’s shoe shops. Eamonn joins us. ‘Sarah, Selina and I are going to make a move in a moment. Can we have a quick word before we do?’
‘Sure,’ I say, leaving Simon and Tristan.
‘I thought you were terrific tonight. Really,’ he says.
‘Thank you, Eamonn. That means a lot coming from you.’
‘There’s a part in Eamonn’s current film that you’d be perfect for,’ Selina says. ‘We’d like to offer it to you. It’d mean flying out to LA though. Would you be OK with that?’
I stare at her.
‘Say that again,’ I say quietly.
‘We’d like you to fly to LA to play a part in Eamonn’s next film,’ she laughs.
I continue to stare at her. Then I smile. But it’s not a normal smile because as my lips stretch outwards I start to cry. ‘Really?’ I squeak.
They nod and smile at me.
It takes two seconds to go from glamorous first-night actress to snotty mess. I wipe the tears from my eyes and my hands are black from running eye make-up. I start to laugh and cry while attempting to say thank you. They sit me down and refresh my glass. Selina rubs my back to stop the hiccups when they start.
‘I’m so pleased. I really wanted to cast you in something good. What with the Rachel Bird incident and you only having a few lines in that Casualty episode.’
‘Rachel Bird?’ enquires Eamonn.
‘Oh, just some scrawny blonde actress with a boob job and a kiss-and-tell blog.’ Selina turns her nose up as if the mention of Rachel Bird smells slightly of rectal waste. I glance at Eamonn. He looks thoughtful. I need to stop crying now and change the subject. I do a big snotty sniff.
‘So tell me all about the film,’ I manage to say.
Selina looks at her watch and then at Eamonn.
‘We really need to go. Eamonn’s dropping me at Charing Cross so I can get a train home. We’ll call you tomorrow and courier a script over to you.’ She gathers up her bag and coat.
‘Yes, we must speak,’ says Eamonn to me. Then he raises his eyebrows.
I know he’s clocked the fact that this Rachel Bird could be his Rachel Bird. A quick glance in my crystal ball tells me that I have an imminent interrogation with Eamonn Nigels coming on and I’m not looking forward to it at all.
fifty-seven
‘God, that’s good,’ he enthuses.
‘God, that stinks,’ I mutter, brushing away the small piece of unidentifiable kebab meat that just journeyed out of his mouth and landed on my skirt.
Paul and I are in a black cab heading back to Mortlake.
‘Do you want a bit?’ he says, moving the soggy stuffed pitta towards me.
‘No, I’m fine. I’m drunk but not that drunk.’ I smile. He shrugs.
‘Don’t you wonder what you’re actually eating? It could be horse willy and pig toenail,’ I pontificate.
‘Sare,’ he chokes. ‘I’m trying to eat.’
‘I just hope you live to see the morning,’ I say wisely.
I lean back in the taxi and watch London careering past. I can’t believe that I’m going to do a film in LA. My dad had a tear in his eye when I told him. My mobile phone is ringing.
‘You’ll be famous soon, LA actress.’ Paul smiles and starts singing along.
I giggle as I take my phone out of my bag. It’s Rachel Bird. Bugger.
‘Hi, Rachel,’ I say quietly.
‘I’ve fucked it up, Sarah. I’ve fucked it all up. I’ve fucked it up the arse with a strap-on!’
‘Steady on, Rachel, I’m getting a picture there.’
‘I’m so stupid! I’m so stupid!’ On a hysteria scale from one to ten she’s already at eight and a half.
‘Breathe, Rachel, breathe.’ I hear her trying to take some deep shaky breaths. ‘OK, now tell me what happened,’ I say gently when I think she’s down to six.
‘Ahhhhh, oh my God I’m so stupid!’ she stammers then starts to hyperventilate again.
‘That’s it, Rachel, have a good cry,’ I instruct her.
She starts to mewl.
‘That’s pathetic, Rachel. Come on now, I want tears and noise.’
She starts to giggle.
‘No, it’s not funny, Rachel, I want pained wailing,’ I tell her, acting cross.
She giggles some more.
‘Right, what’s happened?’ I say when I think she’s plateaued at four.
‘Selina knobbing Gutteridge told him I was a dirty actress blogging whore.’
‘Hmmm,’ I say, admiring Rachel’s succinct eloquence under the circumstances. ‘So what did he say?’
‘He asked me if I was an actress and I said that I used to be but I wanted to give it up.’
‘Well that doesn’t sound too bad,’ I say.
‘Then he asked me if I had a blog and I said yes and, Sarah, he sounded so hurt. Then he asked what it was called and I said Confessions of a Convent Girl and he sounded quite scared but I told him I hadn’t written anything since I’d met him and I was going to delete it but I just hadn’t got round to it yet.’
‘Well, to be honest, Rachel, it doesn’t sound that bad.’
‘But he’s reading it! He said he wanted to read it and call me back!’ she screams.
‘Hmmmmm. Just relax, Rachel. Tell him you’ll delete it all and that you love him and then give him some time to think it all over.’ I know it’s not great wisdom but it’s the best I can think of under the circumstances.
‘OK,’ she says weakly. ‘And, thank you, Sarah.’
‘Any time, Rachel.’
‘What was that about?’ asks Paul, scrunching up his kebab wrapper into a ball.
‘Complex,’ I tell him, shaking my head.
‘Come here, agony aunt actress sexy woman,’ he says, opening his arms.
‘OK, but I’m not coming too close, honky kebab man,’ I say, avoiding his puckered lips and settling in for a cuddle instead.
fifty-eight
Paul’s in the shower. I’m searching his room for porn. I’ve looked under the bed, under the mattress, in the top drawer of his bedside table and down the back of the radiator. So far all I have found is a skateboard. He’ll be out of the shower in a minute. I’m not sure how I should behave when he returns. My options are:
1)
Taking off all clothes and getting into bed. Pros: he’ll know I’m up for it. Cons: it misses out sensual undressing
2)
/>
Staying fully clothed and texting Julia. Pros: will appear popular. Cons: Julia is bound to call me and start screaming loudly down the phone
3)
Putting on one of his T-shirts and having a go on his skateboard. Pros: will appear playful. Cons: huge risk of injury as can’t skateboard and can’t do the play with a broken leg or ruptured spleen
Playing with my mobile wins. I get my phone out of my bag. It starts ringing. It’s Eamonn Nigels. Oh God, what should I do? Answer it, Sarah, he’s just cast you in his film. But be quick. There’s serious nakedness to be getting on with.
‘Eamonn,’ I say, trying my best to sound surprised and delighted.
‘Sorry to call you so late, Sarah.’ Deadpan delivery.
‘Don’t be silly, it’s so lovely to hear from you.’ Stop sounding as though you’re a member of the WI, Sarah, he’s obviously calling to ask you if his girlfriend is a crazed sexual nihilist.
‘Did you know?’ Deadpan delivery again. I rub my hand hard over my forehead, and then rest my head heavily on my hand. What am I supposed to say?
‘Sarah, I’m asking you. Did you know?’ he says again in his calm slow manner. I can’t think of a lie so I tell the truth.
‘Yes. Rachel saw you at Club Whack that night you found out about Marcus. She thought you looked lovely and we had a good chat about the situation. She told me I was mad to let you go and you sounded like the nicest man on the planet. Then I didn’t see her again until I bumped into her on the day I came over and accused you of bringing down my blog. You were all in love and so was she, so I thought it best not to interfere.’
I hear Eamonn sigh as Paul enters the room. Wet. Small towel. Perfect. I clock his look of surprise that I’m on the phone. I make an apologetic face and mouth the words ‘Eamonn’ and ‘Nigels’ and ‘nightmare’. As Eamonn starts to speak I leave Paul alone in the room to get undressed or dressed or have a play on his skateboard or whatever he wants to do and take a seat outside on the dark stairs.
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 25