All She Wants

by Jonathan Harvey

  But it was pointless even thinking about it. I’d never get the job. And even if I was offered it, I wouldn’t be able to take it. I’d be chucked out of drama school. Rupert would never speak to me again. I’d be blacklisted in the business and never be a proper actress. I’d have wasted the last three years; thrown my whole life away.

  No. No, I couldn’t do it. But then again, it might be really good experience to go for a professional audition. I headed off to the newsagents with a heavy heart, carrying a passport photo of myself to get a replacement bus pass.

  On the Monday morning I phoned in sick to college, even giving the performance of a lifetime to Moth to convince her I really did have food poisoning and couldn’t go in.

  On the Monday afternoon I was sitting in a damp room in Soho pretending to be able to smell a really nice barbecue in front of some advertising executives and a twinkly Laveenia.

  On Tuesday morning Laveenia called me to say I’d got the job.

  The Lord gives with one hand, and with the other he takes it away. There was just no way I could do it. I’d be kicked out of drama school.

  Unless . . .

  Unless no one at drama school ever found out.

  FIFTEEN

  Charlie Walsh was a cheeky chappy chef who had a string of subversive cookery programmes to his name with titles such as Serving Up Charlie, Everyone Loves a Bit of Charlie and Charlie Delivered to Your Door. A Liverpudlian by birth, he had worked in some of Europe’s finer restaurants, and at the grand old age of twenty-six was now a full-time celebrity chef with a penchant for rapping while he cooked. He was mixed race, had a skinhead, a swallow tattooed on his neck and the piercing green eyes of someone on lithium. Most people I knew thought he was a knob, but I must admit that whenever I channel surfed late at night and ended up watching one of his shows because there was naff all else on, I usually finished the half-hour hungry and contemplating emulating one of his recipes, such as Funky Fish Pie or Rack ‘Em Up Lamb. He made it look easy and, OK, I thought he was quite easy on the eye. In a borstal boy kind of way.

  He had recently become the face of a well-known supermarket chain, the same supermarket chain I had stacked shelves for before moving to London to become all thespianic. In an attempt to make him more user-friendly for the home counties (and not just the late-night pub brigade who might get the cocaine references in his programme titles), he was shooting a string of adverts for the supermarket showing him at home with his family and friends, cooking for them, partying with them, having barbecues and the like. I had been offered the part of one of his nameless best friends, who was meant to hang out in his back garden and ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over his tasty burgers and salad dressings, thus making him look popular whilst lining the pockets of the supermarket. The fact that I could ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ in an authentic Liverpool accent was the main reason I’d got the job.

  I had originally said no, I couldn’t possibly do it, and come clean to Laveenia, but when she’d explained that the adverts weren’t going to be shown on the TV until mid-August – long after I had graduated from L.A.D.S. – I realized it, and the small matter of two grand, was too good an opportunity to miss.

  Which is why I found myself in the back garden of a Surbiton semi on a Friday afternoon surrounded by cameras, cables, make-up artists and gazillions of blokes in windcheaters, commonly known as ‘crew’, waiting for the arrival of none other than Charlie Walsh. I had lied again to Moth and the school about another bout of food poisoning – prompting Moth to caution me about being careful what I put in my mouth – and then slipped away to Surbiton on a train from Waterloo.

  A hassled looking woman with a side ponytail and culottes was clapping her hands like a sea lion, trying to get everyone’s attention.

  ‘OK, listen up, guys! Charlie’s still travelling so we’re going to shoot some cutaways. If I can have Jodie, Max and Loll by the barbecue please? I thank you!’

  We shuffled over to the gas-fired barbie, where someone with red hair was concentrating hard on laying out some pre-barbecued food on the unlit grill, and we were ordered to generally tuck in and ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ to our heart’s content. There were cameras everywhere. The feel for the ad was going to be ‘edgy’, which I guessed meant there’d be lots of shots of us from different angles, having a great time and eating Charlies fantastic grub. Ten minutes later someone called, ‘Action!’ and a hush descended as we tucked in. We were ordered not to actually say anything, just make appreciative noises, which we did, making eye contact with each other as if we were bosom pals. The grill was magically lit and the food didn’t taste half bad, I had a chicken skewer and then grabbed something akin to a big fish finger. It was particularly nice, and as the voice called, ‘And . . . cut!’ I couldn’t help myself. I said, ‘God, them fish fingers are gorgeous.’

  The other actors nodded and I heard someone murmuring, ‘Did we get that? That was hilarious.’

  And someone else saying, ‘Yeah. Got that.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  I wasn’t really sure what was hilarious about me liking fish fingers, but waited to be told what to do next. We spent the following two hours tucking into more and more food – so much so I was starting to feel a bit nauseous – before someone announced that Charlie had finally arrived.

  He came into the garden in shades and a brightly coloured tracksuit top, and all I could think was that he was one surly bugger. He completely ignored me and the other people playing his friends, and got behind the various cameras to discuss shots, lighting and angles. When, eventually, he did some performing – he had to hand me a fish finger and say, ‘There you go, babe,’ – he continued to ignore me between takes and grin maniacally at me during them. Later on we had to dance to some music, like we were having the best time of our lives, with Charlie waving his barbecue tongs in the air like he just didn’t care, while I shimmed near a rose bush. Except they didn’t play any music for us to dance to, we did it to no sound at all, which was completely embarrassing and made us look like a gang of demented loons. As the sun faded we were told it was ‘a wrap’ and sent home. As he was leaving to get in his posh black car I said, ‘Bye, Charlie. Nice working with you.’ He looked at me, seemingly surprised that I’d spoken to him. He looked me up and down and, just as I thought he was going to say goodbye, said, ‘Nice tits.’ Then left.

  I got the train to Waterloo, then a bus back to the Oval, which is when I started to feel a bit queasy. I got a weird tingling sensation in my legs and realized I was getting very clammy and my top was starting to stick to me. When I finally got off the bus I felt my stomach spasming and buckled over and threw my guts up in the gutter.

  Those fish fingers might well have been gorgeous, but it seemed I had gone and got myself an unhealthy dose of food poisoning. Talk about karma. It was as if I’d brought it on myself by lying. Still, with two grand winging its way towards my bank account, I thought it was well worth it. As I walked up the Clapham Road towards the flat I swayed a bit. God I felt rough. I had to stop every now and again and clutch onto the railings as I felt the waves of nausea rise through me, but I reckoned I could make it back to the flat without chucking up again. Part of me was hoping no one would see me – just having vomited is not a good look. My fringe was plastered to my face, I was trembling and my breath smelled of regurgitated fish fingers – but the bigger part of me hoped someone from drama school would witness my hideosity so my food-poisoning claims could at least be verified. I toyed with taking a detour past L.A.D.S. and possibly shrieking loudly to get someone to look out of a window and gasp, ‘Jeez, poor Jodie looks dreadful!’ But the lure of my bed and the opportunity to wash my face and brush my teeth was too much.

  As I neared our flat I plucked my keys from my bag and stopped to take a deep breath as I thought I was going to throw up again. It was then that I noticed someone sitting on the steps up to the main door of the house. Maybe it was one of the Polish tenants from the flat above me, having locked themselves out again
. But they were dressed too well to be Bolek or Boleslaw (who Moth and I nicknamed Coleslaw – hilarious), in Adidas trainers, smart jeans, a Puffa jacket and a mop of blond curls. My stomach lurched. It was Greg.

  As he stood up I felt my knees buckle, my head pound and a familiar spasm in my chest. I gripped the nearby railing and vomited so violently that bile bounced off the pavement and splattered up my legs.

  ‘Jesus, Jodie, are you all right?’

  I coughed and spat some bits out. Greg was stepping closer to me. This wasn’t happening. I blinked quickly, hoping I was hallucinating, but no, he was still there, worst luck. I dry-retched again.

  ‘Oh my God, I knew you hated me, but I didn’t think you’d be sick at the sight of me,’ he added. I shot him some daggers.

  ‘I’ve got food poisoning, knobhead.’

  ‘Oh,’ he sounded almost disappointed. God, I wanted to get inside and clean myself up, but he was standing there, blocking my path to the door.

  ‘How did you know where I live?’

  This was the worse possible scenario imaginable. When I met my ex again I wanted to have arse-length sun-kissed Hollywood hair, an amazing complexion and Tom Cruise and our three triplets at my side. Oh, and an Academy Award poking out of my tote bag, which I’d won for a hard-hitting, gritty role playing a drug mule or a saviour of abused children. Not bedraggled and covered in sick.

  ‘Your mum told me.’

  I’d kill her. I would, I’d kill her. Not only had she given Our Joey my address at college to write to, she’d gone and told my cheating bastard of an ex-husband my personal address. She’d clearly set up a booth on Liverpool’s main shopping street, handing out business cards with my personal details on, shouting, ‘Roll up, roll up! Anyone who wants to know where our Jodie lives, come and get her details here! Preferably those of you who’ve done her head in or broken her heart. One day only. Roll up, roll up!’ How could she?

  ‘What do you want, Greg?’

  It was so weird seeing him. Thus far every time I’d thought of him I’d seen him in the boiler room at his farm, eyes closed in pre-orgasmic ecstasy, Our Joey kneeling before him. And now here he was, in front of me, in human form. Larger than life. He hadn’t changed a bit. He’d had at least two and a half years to change. Why hadn’t he changed?

  ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Yeah, well you should’ve thought about that before you started copping off with Our Joey.’

  I tried to brush past him, but he stuck his arm out and grabbed mine.

  ‘Please, Jodie. Can we talk?’

  ‘About what? There’s nothing to talk about. You’re gay. End of.’

  ‘I’m not!’

  ‘My brother had sex with you. On more than one occasion.’

  He blushed, realizing that Our Joey had obviously filled me in on everything.

  ‘Doesn’t sound particularly straight to me,’ I added.

  ‘OK, I fucked up. But don’t we all fuck up at some point?’

  ‘There’s fucking up and there’s fucking your wife’s brother. Leave me alone, Greg.’

  ‘I’ve thought about you non-stop since the day it happened.’

  ‘Our wedding day,’ I pointed out bitchily I was on fire, literally, this food poisoning was really kicking in.

  ‘Some days I’ve felt like me head was about to explode.’

  ‘Oh spare me the poetics, Greg. I’m not gonna help your guilty conscience. You’ve got it for a reason.’

  ‘I was confused. I’m not now.’

  ‘What? You think I’d take you back?’ I sounded hysterical now and he backed off.

  ‘Course not. But, surely we can be . . . friends?’

  Which is when I hit him with my handbag. It was a pretty pathetic hit – Joe Bugner wouldn’t be quaking in his boots – so I hit him again with more venom.

  ‘Friends? Friends?! Are you MAD?’

  ‘What we had was good, Jodes.’

  ‘Don’t call me that! I’m nothing to you!’ And I hit him with my bag again, which is when I heard a strangely familiar voice behind me.

  ‘Everything all right, Jodie?’

  I swung round. It was him. It was Stuart from a few doors up, looking concerned as I battered Greg with my tote bag. His chest was puffed out like he was itching for a fight. Oh my God, he was stepping in to defend my honour. And he’d called me ‘Jodie’!

  ‘Is this muppet giving you hassle?’

  Essex, he was from Essex. I’d not been able to pinpoint it the day I’d stood on his doorstep, but now it was ringing out loud and clear. We’d done the Essex accent in dialect class.

  ‘Who’s this?’ said Greg, frowning at Stuart.

  ‘This’, I said to Stuart, pointing at Greg, answering the question as if he’d asked it and not Greg, ‘is my ex-husband.’

  Stuart nodded. ‘Ah, the one who was shagging your brother.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  Greg looked mortified. Clearly his misdemeanours were known far and wide in London town. Even random blokes on the street knew what he’d been up to. I couldn’t help but give a valedictory smile.

  ‘Is he giving you hassle?’ Stuart asked, stepping closer to Greg, so that I was in the middle of them. Oh God, if I didn’t feel so lousy this might almost be exciting.

  ‘A bit,’ I bleated.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ asked Greg, perplexed.

  Stuart smiled a rather nasty smile and folded his arms across his chest. ‘She’s my girlfriend.’

  Greg looked shocked. I probably looked shocked, too. Even Stuart looked quite shocked that he’d said it. But his ploy worked; Greg immediately seemed to shrink before my eyes.

  ‘So,’ added Stuart for good measure, ‘why don’t you fuck off back to Fazakerley?’

  Gosh, his knowledge of the Liverpool suburbs was good.

  ‘I’m not from Fazakerley,’ said Greg like a petulant child. ‘I’m from Hunt’s Cross.’

  I lasered Greg with a steely look. A look that said, ‘Well, you might have thought I’d’ve been sat in like an old maid pining for you, but no. Consider the evidence. I have been sowing my seed, throwing caution to the wind and my knickers to the floor.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Greg. ‘I just . . . came to apologize.’

  ‘Well take your apologies, mate, and shove ‘em where the sun don’t shine,’ Stuart replied. Gosh he was good at pretending, I had to give him that. Rupert would have been proud. I nodded in agreement as he added, rather melodramatically it had to be said, ‘You’re nothing to her.’

  I shook my head in agreement. God this was the best outcome I could have hoped for when meeting Greg again, especially after the vomit-look start. This was excellent. Greg stuck his hands in his pockets and started shuffling down the street. He looked back sadly and added, ‘See you, Jodie.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ said Stuart. Greg narrowed his eyes at him, then kept on walking. Stuart looked at me, grimacing, as if he was checking he’d not overstepped the mark. I gave him the high-five equivalent of a grin, after which he relaxed.

  ‘I’d better go into yours. Looks more real then.’

  I nodded and stuck my key in the door. I don’t know if Greg was looking back to see us retreating into my building, but if he had he’d have assumed we were living together, which was brilliant with me.

  Once inside the hall I closed the front door behind me. Stuart smiled awkwardly. ‘You all right? You look shocking,’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘I’m fine.’

  Then another wave of nausea hit me and I vomited all down the front of his shirt.

  He took my bag for me, which looked so wrong but felt so right, and led me down the stairs to the front door of our flat, took my keys and let us in. Then he guided me to the bathroom, put the shower on and said he was going to make me some black tea. Before he left the room I said, ‘When I’m better, can we go for a drink?’

  He smirked – such a cheeky face – and said, ‘Guess we’ll have to, seeing as how I’m your b
oyfriend now.’

  I smirked back.

  It was only after he’d gone to the kitchen and I’d locked the door so I could shower in privacy that I realized I’d never even told him my name. And yet he’d called me Jodie. How had that happened?

  SIXTEEN

  ‘Mum? What on earth did you think you were doing giving Greg my address?’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry, Jodie. I didn’t think it would do any harm.’

  ‘D’you not think you should at least have warned me you’d given it to him?’

  ‘I . . . just thought he’d send a letter or something.’

  ‘He turned up on my doorstep. He came to London, Mum.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘Yes he . . . he came round last night and told us.’

  ‘He came to your house?’

  ‘Bungalow.’ She sounded accusatory, then added almost apologetically, like she knew she didn’t have to say it but couldn’t help herself, ‘Dormer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, Jodie, he’s a broken man. He’s never gotten over you. He didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  ‘Gotten? Did you just say gotten? Have you changed your name to Tammy Wynette?’

  I heard her tut. The receiver shook in my hand. Had the world suddenly gone mad? I spoke, incredulous, ‘Why are you suddenly taking his side in all of this?’

  ‘Jodie I’m not. It’s just . . .’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Well, I think he regrets it.’

  ‘Er, rewind a second here, Mother. Why’s he even going round to yours? How come you know so much about how he’s feeling all of a sudden?’

  ‘We did get close to him, Jodie, when he was marrying you. I tried to make an effort to get to know him and—’