The Motherhood Walk of Fame

by Shari Low

  I’d go down in Hollywood folklore as the woman whose bowels seized in front of Lee Stavorski.

  He was still looking at me with an expectant expression. Although I could now see a slight hint of wariness. Oh, this was all going to end so badly. The mortification of it. I’d have to leave here right now and go directly to LAX, fly home and never darken Tinseltown’s gilded door again.

  Then I had a revelation. It was like a blinding beam of light leading me to the promised land of articulate speech and superior presentation skills. Juliet Brookstein. Juliet Brookstein had pulled out several aspects of the book for further discussion–so surely they must be the pertinent areas. Surely, if I gave a synopsis of the book then summarised and recapped the points that Juliet had raised for discussion, then I had a good chance of, if not hitting the bulls-eye, then at least getting on the Hollywood dartboard.

  My arse left my chair like it was on fire. I could do this. Of course I could. I gave Mr Stavorski my very best grin then launched into a spiel. Those heady days of corporate presentations on the absorption levels of quilted three-ply came flooding right back. I gave an overview of my novel, then further comments on all the subjects that Juliet had raised: the characters, the plot, the settings, the market, what set this apart from every other rom com out there…

  And Stavorski was warming. I could see it in his eyes and in the hint of a smile that was playing around his lips. Maybe I wouldn’t have to offer up my womb after all.

  I finished with a smiley flourish and asked if he had any questions.

  He was quiet for a few moments, his gaze never leaving mine. I started to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Had I made a complete pork mammal’s ear of it? Had my professionalism not reached his exacting standards (I quickly discounted this one–after all, he was the man who couldn’t even be bothered reading the book in the first place)?

  ‘I like you.’

  What? It took me by surprise. Did he mean ‘like’ in a ‘You are the most talented woman to ever stand in front of me, I’m buying this book, making a movie and I’m calling Meryl Streep this minute?’ Or in a ‘Good move wearing the matching undies because I want you to get your kit off and spread-eagle yourself across my desk in a lustful manner this very minute.’

  ‘And I like the sound of what you’ve got there.’

  Phew, he was still on the book. Thank God–the desk was glass and I wasn’t sure it could take my weight.

  ‘Here’s what I want you to do: back here two weeks from now with a treatment and a script. Doesn’t need to be a whole one–first fifty pages will do. I just want to get a real good feel for the characters and the dialogue. Whaddya think?’

  What did I think? I thought, ‘You have got to be joking! What’s a treatment? How do I write a fifty-page script?’ The only script I’d ever written was for Mac’s nativity play, Big Puddles Nursery, Christmas 2004.

  Of course, I said none of this out loud.

  It was crunch time. I could say no, leave and abandon this mad, crazy mission. Or I could give it a go–an option that was a logistical nightmare, a stress-induced heart attack in the making and sheer bloody madness.

  So of course, the latter made perfect sense.

  I held out my hand. ‘Deal,’ I said with what I hoped was a confident grin.

  He took my paw and shook it.

  ‘Deal,’ he replied.

  This was it. This really was, finally, my first step on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Okay, so it was a baby step, but it felt good. It felt great! One day I would hopefully look back on this as being my big break. My first rung on the ladder.

  As I wandered back towards the car park to collect the Porsche, another thought struck me. When I told Mark that I’d have to spend the next fortnight working, it might just be the first step on the road towards divorce.

  I was right. I could have closed my eyes really tight and worn a balaclava backwards and still seen it coming.

  I’d given him a rundown on the day’s activities and until I dropped the bombshell it had gone pretty well–he’d even managed to listen for almost an hour without glazing over. He’d asked informed, perceptive questions. And he’d thrown in an enthusiastic (if a little clichéd) ‘Way to go–that’s my girl’ when I told him about the raging success of my spontaneous presentation.

  He seemed keen, interested, and like he was making an effort. Right up until the shock almost induced a stroke.

  ‘You’re what? What are you talking about?’

  I wondered whether repeating it all at the speed of a horse-racing commentator might soften the blow since he was bound to miss out on some pertinent words: like work, two, weeks, you, look, after, kids.

  God, I hated doing this to him. I felt like he’d made a genuine concession coming over here, demonstrating that he was willing to go against his better judgement for the sake of our marriage, and now I’d just dumped a ton of manure on him from a very great height.

  But I really had no choice.

  After I’d left Stavorski’s office, I’d immediately called Sam again. Actually, that’s not strictly true. I’d waited until the panic attack had subsided, then I called him. I told him what I’d agreed to and there was a sharp intake of breath–the one that furniture removal men do when they’ve got a piano at the bottom of a flight of stairs and reckon there’s no chance of budging it.

  ‘I warned you he was a bit of a character,’ Sam had said, utterly unhelpfully.

  ‘Sam, I thought you meant “he’s a bit of a character–wears odd socks and can’t pronounce his r’s”. Or even, “he’s a bit of a character–might try to grope your arse every time you walk past him”. I didn’t realise you meant he was a character in the same sense as those slave-drivers who used to send children down mines.

  ‘Sam, I’m panicking, help me.’

  ‘Okay, let me think, let me think. I’ve got a mate who’s a screenplay writer–I’ll get him to come over to the house…’

  ‘No! I don’t want anyone else to help.’

  ‘But why? Are you mad? Carly, you’ll never write a treatment and fifty pages in a fortnight–not when you’ve never done it before. You’ll need someone to help you.’

  ‘Sam, I’m not letting anyone else do this. Number one: if someone else is involved then I’ll feel like a fraud. Number two: I’m a fast worker. If I really pushed myself I could write the first draft of a novel in just a few weeks, and that’s far more labour-intensive. For Christ’s sake, Barbara Cartland used to churn out a Mills and Boon every fortnight and she had the chronic disadvantages of being 165 and having her eyelids weighed down with all that blue eyeshadow.

  ‘If I’m going to do this, then I’m doing it myself.’

  I had heard him groan. ‘I’d forgotten how bloody-minded you were.’

  ‘Sam, I promise that I’m not being stubborn. It’s just that Nipple Alert is my book, it’s the story of my life, and nobody knows it better than me. If anyone else became involved then I’d have to explain it all to them and go through it with them and that would take days, and if it wasn’t exactly perfect I’d hate it.

  ‘Just tell me, strictly speaking, is it possible to do this in the time-frame he’s given me?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, forgoing basic bodily functions like eating and sleeping, and with the aid of performance-enhancing drugs?’

  ‘Yes,’ I’d replied with my fingers crossed and my brow furrowed. If I’d had Botox it would have surrendered under the pressure by now.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s possible?’ I’d checked.

  ‘Yes. But you’ll need a miracle, Carly.’

  ‘Oh, miracles are a doddle, I do them at least twice a day. Once when I fit into my jeans and then again when I somehow get Mac and Benny through a whole day without a visit to Casualty.’

  ‘How’re they doing?’ he had said, his voice softening.

  ‘Great. Mark’s had them down at Mother’s Beach for the last two days. They love it there–they’ve got a whole group o
f pals already. Mac says he’s never going home.’

  Long, long pause…and then a slightly strained, ‘And what does Mark say to that?’

  ‘Oh, he just ignores it–Mac’s got a history of rash and unreasonable demands. So far this week he’s wanted to fly a helicopter, go deep-sea diving and adopt a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. And he’s still not reverted to “Mac” yet. He informed us this morning that he’s now called Lex Luthor.’

  He’d laughed, then said, ‘I miss them.’

  ‘They miss you too.’

  Silence. I hadn’t said a word, I promise. I swear on my wedding ring–the one that had been burning a hole in my finger–that I’d made no inappropriate comments. At least not out loud.

  ‘And how are you and Mark doing?’

  For the last few years, every time Sam and I had spoken on the phone, he’d always say, ‘How are things with you and Mark?’ An innocent question, born out of genuine interest and friendship.

  This time it hadn’t seemed quite so innocent.

  ‘I’m not sure. Some good, some not so good. And I think it’s about to go rapidly downhill when I tell him about my new workload. Talking of which…’ I’d said, happy to steer the conversation back into safer territory, ‘where do I actually start with this treatment and script, Sam? Just give me a wee clue and I’ll take it from there.’

  He’d thought for a moment.

  ‘Okay, here’s what to do. Go into my office and in the filing cabinet next to the bookshelf you’ll find a file marked “Treatments”. Read that–it’s movie treatments I’ve been sent over the years. Some of them have got notes in the margins that might help too.’

  Great. Halfway there already, I’d thought.

  ‘But that’s only ten per cent of it, Carly…’

  I had always been crap at maths.

  ‘The script is going to be the hard bit. Go onto my PC and open up a programme file called “Final Draft”. That’s script-writing software–it automatically formats everything for you. There’s also a whole shelf of scripts in there, so read through them to get a feel for it. Then go into the top drawer on the right-hand side of my desk and there’s a DVD called Syd Field’s Screenwriting Workshop. Watch that. It tells you everything you’ll need to know to get started. You already have the raw material, so you’re a few steps ahead of the game…’

  ‘Positive words at last,’ I’d interjected joyously.

  ‘But you’re still fucking mental.’

  I had still been giggling when I’d hung up. I could do this. I could.

  Couldn’t I?

  ‘Carly, there is no way on earth you’re going to be able to do this. It’s madness!’ Mark yelped. ‘People study for years to become screenwriters–you will not be able to do it in a fortnight, Carly, it’s impossible.’

  ‘Mark, I can, I promise. I can learn the script format and I already have the material–the action and dialogue is all in my book, all I have to do is adapt just under half of it into about fifty pages of script. Which is about fifty minutes of screen time. See, I already have some experience with this.’

  I didn’t tell him that I had absolutely no idea what any of my last statement meant–my ‘experience’ consisted of watching the Syd Field DVD once while waiting for my next of kin to return from the beach, and it hadn’t all quite sunk in yet.

  ‘Will it be easy? No. But I can do it, Mark. If you’ll help me,’ I pleaded.

  He started pacing up and down the kitchen going from the fridge to the cooker, back to the fridge, to the cooker, swearing repetitively…It was like watching Gordon Ramsay on fast-forward.

  ‘Help you how?’ He was raising his voice now. I waited for the building to start shaking and the San Andreas Fault to crack all the way to Mexico. Mark Barwick NEVER raised his voice–that was my job in our relationship. Mark didn’t do shouting. And now there was definite amplification. Dear God, what had I done to him?

  ‘By taking care of the boys for me. All day. Every day. Until you leave.’

  He went grey. I wondered if the marble floor tiles would crack under the pressure of twelve stone of hunk hitting it at speed. I decided to put a positive spin on it.

  ‘Actually, you’ll probably enjoy it because they’re great company these days.’

  Cue bad sitcom moment.

  ‘Waaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh.’

  Benny came flying through the door, wailing like a soap star. I scooped him up as Mark’s eyes widened.

  ‘Is he okay?’

  I nodded. This was a ‘I’m a victim of injustice and I’m not getting my own way’ cry, as opposed to ‘I’ve fallen off my bike and I have several broken bones’.

  At what point do mothers attain the ability to identify and analyse their children’s crying? I reckon it must get slipped in somewhere between the epidural and the post-birth tea and toast.

  ‘Mac hit me with the ball!’ he screamed.

  ‘Aw, honey, it’s only a ball. I’m sure it isn’t that sore,’ I said soothingly while administering medicinal kisses.

  ‘IS sore,’ he protested. ‘Hard ball!’

  I looked at Mark quizzically. Hard ball? Was this something he’d bought them at the beach? The only hard ball I could think of was a cricket ball and I didn’t think there’d be too much of a market for them in downtown LA.

  ‘What hard ball, sweetheart?’ I prompted.

  ‘Shiny ball,’ he wailed.

  Shiny ball? Now I was completely confused. Hard, shiny ball?

  Oh. No.

  When the penny dropped it was joined by my stomach. There was only one hard, shiny ball in this house.

  ‘Mark, go get Lex–I mean, Mac–right now. Now!’

  ‘Why? What is it?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘He’s playing touch football with Sam’s Golden Globe.’

  He turned and raced off in the direction of the loud crashing noises. And as he went, I heard a distinct, disdainful echo of, ‘Yep, they’re great company these days.’

  Family Values Magazine

  PUTTING THE YUMMY IN MUMMY

  THIS WEEK…MAINTAINING A

  WORK/FAMILY BALANCE

  We’re all juggling far too many things these days, and for those of us who choose to work and bring up our family at the same time it can be especially fretful. Sometimes there just aren’t enough hours in the day, and of course there is the guilt–we all know what it’s like to miss little Cosmo’s poetry recital because we’ve got a crucial board meeting in Zurich on the same day. But ladies, banish those negative feelings by reminding yourself that by working you are giving your child a dynamic, successful role model to aspire to. There are positives and negatives of both full-time motherhood and combining motherhood with a busy career, and I’d say that both options can work wonderfully if the most important factor is present: BALANCE.

  For a working mother it’s crucial to get the balance right, and to do this takes planning and preparation and delegation, delegation, delegation. Housework? Engage more cleaning staff. Cooking? Employ a housekeeper. Or for those with a little extra in their budget, a chef is a wonderful investment. Childcare? A nanny is, of course, indispensable, and a tutor can be invaluable for those older children who are laden down with the grindstone of homework.

  Try when possible to leave for work after the children have gone to school, and to return home no later than 6 p.m., thus allowing you time to share in the stories of their day. And ladies, no matter how important the task, never, ever work in the evening. That’s YOU time and it’s FAMILY time.

  And you’ll need to recharge those batteries for another tough, demanding but ultimately rewarding day of work and family life.

  Step Fourteen

  ‘Ding dong!’

  It was 7 a.m. on Sunday, day five of my frantic work-induced isolation from the world. I was frazzled, confused, disheartened, and I now understood why Batman installed a Batphone in the Batcave. This was about the seventy-eighth time I’d called Sam to ask him a question about some technicality
or other of the script-writing process and my button-pressing finger was red raw. If this was going to continue then we definitely needed a direct line.

  He answered on the second ring, but before he could even speak I heard that very familiar, distinct ding dong in the background, followed by an announcement that I couldn’t quite make out.

  ‘Are you in an airport, Sam?’

  ‘I am.’

  Great–he must be coming back.

  After day one of studying the technicalities of script writing, all my stoic resolve about not letting anyone help me had crumpled into a pile of desperation. At this rate I’d soon be dragging the postman in to explain the concept of ‘plot points’. Actually, that wasn’t so farfetched. The postman was probably only delivering the mail until his first blockbuster got snapped up, since everyone but everyone in this town was just an Oscar winner waiting to happen. You’ll notice I said Oscar and not Golden Globe. We were still trying to find somewhere that did invisible mending for Sam’s pride and joy.

  I was desperate to ask Sam to call his script-writing mate and appoint him as cavalry, but I was too embarrassed and–okay, I admit it–too stubborn and proud to confess defeat. But now, no need–my script expert in shining armour was on his way home.

  ‘So when will you be back?’ I asked with just a slightly overenthusiastic gush.

  ‘Carly, I’m not coming home, I’m going to Italy. George has been bugging me for ages to visit, so I thought this was probably a good opportunity.’

  I was speechless. I read Hello! I read OK! George. Italy. It had to be Clooney. Sun. Gorgeous. In swimming trunks. Drool at mouth.

  I think Sam interpreted my silence as disappointment–which it was, of course. But I’m not sure it was solely for the reasons he suspected.

  ‘I’m sorry, Carly. I just think it’s better that I stay out of the way right now. And to be honest, I could do with the break.’

  I didn’t argue. Actually, if I deployed my sensible head for a few moments, I had to agree that it was probably the best thing. Tensions in the house were already on the vicelike-grip side of tight, so the last thing we needed were any confusing emotional undertones. Or should I say, any more confusing emotional undertones. So I put on my best breezy voice and asked him for clarification on a couple of screenplay-type things and then hung up. And I decided to completely ignore the dull ache that I felt in my stomach for a few seconds when I said goodbye.