‘Of course. Please ask anything.’
But we’re interrupted by fingernail waitress who bounces back over to us and launches into what I can only describe as a stand-up routine about the day’s specials, I’m assuming solely for Serena’s benefit. She certainly addresses her and only her, completely blanking Barbara and me. If the whole situation wasn’t so surreal it would be comical: it’s like the girl is doing an audition piece, except with dialogue like, ‘pan-roasted chicken’, and ‘sautéed skate Grenobloise’, her flashy long fingernails all over the place. Honest to God, by the time she’s finished, I’m not sure whether to order or give her a round of applause.
Serena, however, is obviously well used to inspiring this kind of reaction, she just calmly orders the carbonara and calmly waits for fingernail girl to leave. Which she eventually does, but only after topping up Serena’s glass with mineral water, beaming brightly and telling her for about the fifth time that if there’s anything else she needs, absolutely ANYTHING, she’ll be right here. Hovering about two feet away, to be precise.
Bloody hell, at a time like this, I’m so delighted not to be famous.
‘There’s something I need to clear up,’ Serena says, when we eventually do get a bit of peace.
‘Yes, of course, go ahead,’ I say, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Barbara’s hands are trembling, as she almost knocks over a glass and just saves it from spilling all over the colouredy folder.
‘Ordinarily,’ Serena goes on in her measured, even tones, ‘I take approximately one year to mind-map a performance. I work slow. I like to experiment, improvise, use the text as a springboard, not as an end result. But if we want this to happen this summer, the pressure is already on. I’m gonna need to see the venue, speak to my costume and set designers, all of this takes time – and time, ladies, is not on our side. Most important of all, however . . .’
‘Yes?’ I say expectantly, although I’ve a fair idea of what’s coming.
‘. . . is casting. Getting that right is half my job.’
‘I completely understand, and of course, you must have absolute control over that. But . . .’ I shoot a do-you-want-to-jump-in-here imploring glance to Barbara, who just looks back at me ashen-faced. Right, nothing for it then but to go it alone. ‘We had envisaged that the performance would be a showcase for my friend here, who is classically trained and we feel, perfect for the show. A Midsummer Night’s Dream has so many terrific women’s parts . . .’
‘Oh, you’re an actor? Where did you train?’ Serena turns to Barbara, and puts the specs back on, I notice, heightening her scariness quota by about five levels.
I’m nearly on the edge of my seat, willing Barbara to blow her own trumpet a bit, how she won a scholarship to drama school and graduated with the gold medal, but God love her, she looks like a rabbit caught in the headlamps and just about manages to stammer a reply.
‘Emm . . . well, you see . . . I haven’t worked in a long time . . . and I’m such a big fan of yours . . .’
‘What’s the last job you did?’
‘I trained at . . . emm . . . the Central School of Speech and Drama,’ she eventually says, looking relieved that she is actually able to answer something, even if it is the wrong question.
‘And what classical theatre roles have you played?’
‘I was there from, emm . . .’93 to ’97.’
‘Who were your tutors?’
‘Two radio plays in January and a Benecol ad last year,’ she says. Then adds, ‘Emm, that’s, emm, this stuff you take for . . . ehh . . . lowering cholesterol.’
Oh my God, my bowels are withering up I’m so embarrassed for her; it’s like watching the worst job interview in history. Note to self: next task on project Barbara is to work on her presentation skills for about, I dunno, the next ten years or so. I’ve no choice but to jump in. No kidding, this is what rescuing a drowning person must feel like.
‘Barbara is very much a part of this project,’ I say slowly and firmly. ‘And I can guarantee you she will shine in whatever role you choose to cast her in.’
‘Well, you got one thing going for you,’ Serena eventually says, shrugging. ‘You’re not a star. I hate working with stars. Give me a passionate actor – with fire in their belly and willing to take any risk I can and will throw at them – any day, over a star.’
It’s the first time that Barbara visibly relaxes.
‘But of course,’ Serena continues, taking the specs off again, ‘you’ll have to audition, same as everyone else.’
An hour later, we’re saying goodbye to her under the canopy outside.
‘So, we’ll talk?’ she says to me.
‘Yes, of course, I’ll be in touch,’ I smile back.
‘I’m in France for the next few weeks, but you can reach me on my cell.’
‘Thank you so much for your time. We’re so grateful,’ I say, just as her taxi pulls up. Then a sudden bolt of inspiration. ‘And I know the Children’s Hospital will be, too.’
A tiny hint of a half-smile as she gets into her cab. Then whaddya know, fingernail waitress is hot on her heels, bounding out of the restaurant, still with her apron tied around her waist. ‘Miss Stroheim? Miss Stroheim?’ she calls out as Serena lowers down the passenger window. Oh shit, I’m thinking, please don’t let this be what I think it is . . .
‘Just to let you know, Miss Stroheim, I’m a huge fan of your work, and if you’re going to be in town, I’m currently appearing in The Threepenny Opera at the moment, playing Polly Peachum, the lead role. Because as well as acting, I sing and dance, too, and, well, if you wanted to come along to see me, I’d be happy to organize complimentary tickets for you.’ Then, and I really wish I were joking here, she produces a flier and shoves it through the car window. Serena says nothing, just takes the flier, rolls up the window and off she goes.
‘The Times called my performance a tour de force!’ is fingernail girl’s parting shot, as the taxi disappears from view. Then she turns to Barbara and me and I swear you can practically see her weighing up whether or not we could be useful to her in her career.
‘You’re both very welcome to come along and see my show as well,’ she beams, mistakenly thinking we’re either producers or directors, too. ‘Here, have a flier.’
I mutter thanks out of politeness more than anything else, and shove it in my handbag. Barbara and I are just about to head off when she calls after us, ‘Excuse me, ladies? I don’t suppose you happen to know where Serena Stroheim is staying when she’s in town, do you?’
Chapter Fourteen
I HAVE, AHEM, another appointment not too far from here, so, as it’s temporarily stopped raining, Barbara walks me there, so we can do a post-mortem. And it’s not pleasant.
‘OK, Vick, as my oldest, closest friend, I need you to tell me the truth and nothing but. Just exactly how bad was I in there?’
‘Well . . .’ I break off, not having the first clue how to be tactful here. And, to put it mildly, she’s vulnerable right now. This could well turn out to be one of those instances where honesty isn’t refreshing.
‘Come on, Vicky, tell me. Because the whole time we were sitting there, it was like, I could almost feel myself fucking-up invisibly.’
I say nothing, just walk on in silence. Mainly because her self-assessment may sound critical, but it’s not too far off the mark either.
‘She kept asking me all those questions,’ Barbara goes on, still torturing herself, God love her. ‘You know, about where I’d trained and what I’d done, all of that. And on the inside, I just felt like that Edvard Munch painting, The Scream. There was so much on the tip of my tongue, and it just wouldn’t come out. Story of my bloody life. Before an interview, I’m OK, after an interview, I’m OK, during the interview, I just fall apart. Please Vick, tell me honestly, how did I come across? If you were her, would you want to hire me? Come on, I’m a big girl and I can take it. Promise.’
I glance over at her, but it’s hard to make out her expression because
she’s shoved her big, face-covering shades on. On probably one of the darkest, coldest days we’ve had in ages. She stops for a second to fish a cigarette out of the depths of her bag, and attempts to light up. Which is easier said than done as her hands are still shaking, and people keep bumping into her. And she doesn’t even tell them to piss off like she normally would. Which is unlike her. Worryingly unlike her.
We walk on and I make a decision. In her shoes, I would want the feedback, wouldn’t I? Course I would. It’s absolutely no different from me with fellas, is my reasoning: until I figure out where I’ve been going wrong all this time, how can I ever hope to get it right?
‘OK then, honey, it’s like this,’ I eventually say, picking my words carefully. ‘You’re a fabulous actress, no question about that. But . . .’
‘I was waiting for the but.’
‘. . . As they say in marketing, the product isn’t the problem, we need to work on selling you. Barbara, I don’t mean to rub salt in, but you walked into that restaurant with the job in the bag and you walked out without it. That waitress did a better job of selling herself. Yes, she was pushy, yes she was annoying, but you have to hand it to her, the girl saw an opportunity and went for it, acrylic fingernails and all.’
‘But I have an audition! With Serena Stroheim!’ she splutters at me in a cloud of smoke. ‘An hour ago, she’d never heard of me, and I’m going to get to do a classical piece in front of her. I mean come on, that’s some progress, isn’t it?’
‘Honey, my point is, you were a shoo-in for just about any part you wanted, and now you have to audition. God forbid and I hope I’m not tempting fate here, but worst-case scenario, suppose . . . just supposing . . .’
A tough sentence to finish but Barbara does it for me.
‘Supposing I flunk the audition?’
‘Then . . .’
Shit and double shit, I can barely finish that sentence myself. Then all of this will have been for nothing. All of my hard work, all the hours I put in and will certainly be clocking up over the next few months, will count for naught. Like it or not, we’re committed now. We have Serena Stroheim on board, we’ve the Children’s Hospital on board, and the ice cold reality is that, with or without Barbara, the show must go on. The only thing I’ll have succeeded in doing will be making stars of other actors, a gang of total strangers most likely, and if Barbara’s audition goes anything like today did, she’ll be doing well if Serena lets her hand out programmes or help with costume changes backstage. And that’s if we’re very lucky and she’s feeling charitable.
We cross the street, and keep walking on, each of us wrapped in thought. Or in my case, that sickening sense of frustration you get when you’ve worked your arse off on something and then realize, in spite of all your blood-sweating efforts, the kite just won’t fly. It’s only when Barbara stops to stub out her cigarette that I realize why she has the shades on.
Oh sweet Jesus, she’s actually crying. Barbara, the one who never cracks, at any time, EVER. In fact, I could be mistaken, but I think the last time I saw her shed a tear was when John Lennon was shot. And that was only because he was her favourite Beatle. And at the time, she was only about, like, six.
‘Oh, now come on, it’s not that bad,’ I lie, slipping my arm around her waist.
‘Yes, Vicky, it is that fucking bad,’ she snaps, pulling away. ‘In fact, I don’t know how it could be much worse. You don’t understand.’
‘Now, that’s not true, OK, so you were a bag of nerves in there, but . . .’
‘No, Vicky, I mean you don’t understand what it’s like for me. I am so completely bloody sick and tired of being a failure. And make no mistake, that’s what I am, a useless, bloody, washed-up failure.’
‘Come on, honey . . .’
‘Just hear me out, will you? No one knows more than me how you slaved over this, to get every tiny detail right. And I just went in there and buggered it all up on you. And you know what the worst thing is?’
‘Shhh, shhh . . . here, love, have another ciggie.’ But the tears are tumbling down now and there’s no stopping her.
‘Time was, I used to be a good actress. I know I was good. I was confident in myself. It was all out there for me. I could have gone the distance. But, right now, I have to face up to the fact that I have wasted the best years of my life on a pathetic career that didn’t work out for me the way I wanted it to, the way it should have done. Look at me: I’m well into my thirties, the death years for any actress; I live in a rented flat which I share with a couple that are slowly driving me more and more mental every day; I’ll never own my own home, I’ll never be famous. Christ alive, I’ll be doing well if I ever get another acting gig ever again. I’m somebody that could end up homeless, Vicky, sleeping rough. And what I don’t get is . . .’ She breaks off here, voice trembling, to suck on a fag. ‘I followed my dreams. I mean, I thought that was what you were supposed to do in life? I look at you, with your booming business, and Laura who’ll go back to the Bar in a couple of years and just pick up where she left off, and what have I got to show for myself? Nothing, absolutely big, fat nada, because I’m worthless and hopeless and useless, useless, useless.’
‘Hang on one second, you are NONE of those things,’ I say firmly, stopping to fish a hanky from my bag, which she reluctantly takes from me, as if by doing so, she’s acknowledging just how upset she is. ‘And, let me tell you, “project Barbara” is going to work. You are going to do the best audition you’ve ever done in your life, and you’re going to be cast in a leading role, and that’s all there is to it. Yes, OK, so we had a setback today, but on the plus side, now we’re clear about one thing: it’s not your acting that’s been the problem all this time . . .’
‘It’s me. Go on, you’re thinking it, so you might as well say it.’
‘I was going to say your presentation skills let you down, that’s all. Come on babe, don’t shoot the messenger.’
‘The messenger had it coming,’ she sniffs, but I notice the tears have stopped. Which, at least, is something.
‘You’ve got to help me, Vicky. I watched you in there and thought, “God, I wonder if she ever realizes how amazing she’s being?” You were so cool and articulate and unafraid. I need you to train me to be like you for this bloody audition. Cos the way I feel now, you’re more likely to get a part in this than I am.’
‘You can count on me, you know that,’ I say, squeezing her arm. ‘We’re in this together, and I’ll never let you down. We just . . . have our work cut out for us, that’s all.’
Two cigarettes and a lot more walking later, Barbara’s heart rate seems to be back into double figures. But as we slowly turn down street after street, all the while getting closer and closer to the scene of my, ahem, next appointment, guess what, now it’s my turn to start getting antsy.
We turn a corner and now we’re on the street where the Café en Seine is, scene of my scheduled rendezvous. With Peter. Handsome, funny Peter, guy number two from my miraculous night of the hat trick. And it’s just the freakiest thing. It’s like every shred of nervous tension that poor old Barbara had to deal with has, by some mysterious osmosis, left her and taken over my body, like in an Alien movie.
‘Now remember, you’re just trying him on for size, to see how he’ll fit, that’s all,’ says Barbara, sounding an awful lot stronger and more assertive again, now that we’ve moved into her particular field of expertise; and nothing like the gibbering wreck she was only a few short minutes ago. ‘Just think of this guy as the flesh-and-blood equivalent of a Donna Karan dress. You know it may not necessarily suit you, you probably won’t end up buying it, but it’s there, so you try it on anyway.’
‘Right, yeah, OK,’ I say, a bit short of breath, but otherwise no visible panic-attack symptoms. Well, not really. ‘Right, here I go, once more into the fray. Check me for mascara gloop, will you?’
‘You’re perfect. Want me to stay with you till you’ve made a connection?’
‘I’d
love you to stay with me for the entire date, except it might look a bit like I’m clinging on to my security blanket.’
‘OK, so here’s your instructions. See how you bond in daylight hours, only stay for forty-five minutes and not a minute longer. I’ll ring your mobile and you can pretend it’s the office and that you’ve a crisis you have to go and troubleshoot.’
‘Why the time limit?’ I ask, a bit panicky, thinking, suppose, just suppose, we’re getting on? Won’t I look a bit aloof and snooty by just abruptly getting up and leaving?
‘So he’ll realize just how busy and important you are, dopey. Haven’t you ever heard the old showbiz saying, “Leave them wanting more?” Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve never cut a date short before.’
I’m too embarrassed to admit that I haven’t. Even with Eager Eddie, I stuck out an entire three-course meal. The triumph of optimism over experience, that’s me. When it comes to fellas, I’ll stick anything out, no matter how miserable, because there’s always the hope that things might improve.
‘Let him pay,’ Barbara continues, ‘then, when you’re back at work, send him a short text message saying thanks for coffee, and see you soon. Nice and vague, so it’s up to him to make another arrangement.’
‘Right, got it.’
‘Oh, and remember, don’t talk about yourself too much, just keep asking loads of questions, like with Eager Eddie. Tell yourself you’re Jonathan Ross and he’s a reluctant guest that needs the answers coaxed out of him.’
‘OK. Got it.’
‘Remember your ultimate goal is to take him as your date to the PR do in a few weeks time.’
Shit, I was kind of hoping she’d forgotten about that.
‘Don’t forget, he’s already survived my incredibly thorough screening process, so before you even go in there you know he’s single, available, interested and straight.’
‘Got it.’
‘And like the law of attraction book says,’ she goes on, ‘just believe in your own fabulousness and you’ll attract guys to you that think you’re fabulous, too.’
Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 18