All She Wants

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘Have you met Tom Cruise?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Now I don’t know if you’ve heard, but you’ve been—’

  ‘Nominated for Best Actress, I know.’

  ‘Oh well, yeah, there is that.’

  ‘Why, was there something else?’

  ‘No. Well. Yes.’

  ‘What? Mum, are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, it’s just you’ve been in the papers. I don’t know who, but someone’s sold a story on you claiming that Stu beat you up and you’ve had to take time off and you’ve got a drink problem and . . . Well, it’s tomorrow’s chip paper. That’s what I say.’

  Another spin doctor. My life was full of them.

  My stomach turned in knots as I realized. Oh my God, I’d become a proper soap star. A full-blown one whose personal life matched the turbulence of the storylines they acted in. Ergh, I felt like throwing up.

  ‘Are you still there, Jodie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They doorstepped us on Wednesday. Your father gave them short shrift.’

  ‘Right. Stuart didn’t tell me about that.’

  ‘Stuart?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s here with me now.’

  ‘You . . . you went on holiday with—’

  ‘No, he just turned up. I didn’t invite him.’

  Maybe he hadn’t told me because he didn’t want to hurt me.

  ‘Oh my God, he’s stalking you. I think there’s laws about that in that France, you know.’

  ‘Mother, he’s not stalking me. We live together. For now.’

  ‘Are yous getting back together again?’

  She sounded genuinely surprised. And I liked it that she assumed I had the strength of character to kick him to the kerb. It showed she had faith in me.

  ‘No. Well, not now anyway. I’m not sure what I want to do. We’re just gonna be flatmates for now.’

  ‘He’s telling all and sundry he’s going for the counselling and that.’

  I didn’t know what to say to that really.

  ‘So what’s the latest with the papers?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, you know, Eva and that lot have issued a statement saying you’d had a nasty fall and were having two weeks off recuperating, so it seems to have died down.’

  ‘Oh. Oh OK. Brilliant.’ And it did, it made me feel a lot better.

  ‘Though Val’s not convinced. Keeps asking how yous two are getting on and that, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, although I didn’t really. I could only imagine. But now was not the time to split hairs.

  ‘So when are you coming back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Stu’s going to Liverpool, I’m going straight to London. I spoke to Eva today; she’d rather I went and did some publicity and came back to filming after the awards. They’re putting me up in a nice hotel.’

  ‘Oh that’s nice. Coz I heard you were doing Brunch With Bronwen and all that. Oh I love that Bronwen.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She’s dead . . . down to earth.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Even if I can never really understand a word she says.’

  Bronwen is Welsh. I rolled my eyes.

  ‘Jodie?’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  I stopped. Thought. Then said, ‘Yes. Just roaring.’

  I thought it profound. Feminist. I thought it spoke volumes. I thought it said I may not have my mojo back completely but I’m getting there. I was very pleased with myself. I thought she might be, too. But she said, ‘Y’what?’

  ‘Yes, Mother, I’m fine.’

  And I allowed myself a little smile.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Mrs B kindly drove us to the airport, despite claiming that autoroutes were the work of the devil. She’d been polite and civil with Stuart over dinner the night before, as if she knew nothing about what had gone on between us, and I appreciated her upper-class restraint. She’d made up an extra bed in one of the spare rooms for him, which she didn’t charge for when I settled the bill. I’d asked her how come the place wasn’t full. It was a glorious house; it should have been packed to the shuttered gills. She’d told me, ‘I’m very choosy about who I put up. And there was something about your manner on the phone that told me we’d get on.’ And we had. Hoorah.

  She parked illegally outside the departures entrance and doled out hugs and kisses like we were her own children off on holiday. As Stu headed in through the zappy doors she grabbed me and whispered just one word in my ear: ‘Roar.’

  Somehow I knew we’d keep in touch.

  My flight to London was half an hour before Stu’s to Liverpool, and as I headed off to my gate we hugged. It was our first proper physical contact in weeks. He held me tight and gave me yet another apology, promising he’d never hurt me again.

  Those words were meaningless, I knew that. Even if he never hit me again, we all hurt each other sooner or later, even if we don’t mean to. It might be a look when you put on a new dress, or a roll of the eyes when you espouse an opinion. Anything really. We’re all fragile beasts with an infinite capacity for pain, great and small. So promising never to hurt someone is like a bee promising never to sting. But now wasn’t the time to point this out to him, so I just murmured, ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘We’ll make this work, Jode. Promise. I ain’t going anywhere.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to Liverpool.’

  ‘You’ll never get rid of me.’

  And I wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat. I kissed him on the cheek, pulled down the brim of his straw hat, and headed towards my gate.

  Sitting on the plane I heard a text coming through on my phone. A bulldog of a stewardess pounced on me.

  ‘Madame, you’ll have to switch that off.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  She stood over me, waiting for me to do it. I assumed it would be a text from Stu offering a soppy goodbye etc., but when I looked it was Mandy, who said,

  I see you’re on Brunch With Bronwen tomorrow. If in London please come and collect necklace? I have found bag of your stuff in loft, too. Be good to c u.

  Jesus. Did she never give it a rest?

  Fortunately the bulldog was distracted by a guy fiddling about on his iPad, so I had time to write,

  Cool. See you tonight. XX

  Then I turned my phone off.

  The hotel that Crystal TV had booked me into was in the heart of Soho, tucked away down a polluted cul de sac, with SUITE SOHO picked out in fibre optic lights on its frontage. The staff all looked like they’d just hopped off the catwalk in Milan, and behaved as if they were keen to hop back on it at any minute. Dressed head to toe in Armani, hair styled to within an inch of its life, all wearing identical orange blossom scent. To put it mildly, they were scary. But ask them a question and their stern expressions quickly switched to happy smiles for the duration of their answer, before retreating to the modus operandi of surly bastards.

  I spent the afternoon shopping for an outfit to wear on Brunch With Bronwen and plumped for something white, sleeveless and floaty from Ghost, which would normally have made me look like a ghost, except that I was impressively sun-kissed from my time at Mrs B’s. Well, impressively for me. I decided to team the floaty white thing with jeans and my strappy cork platforms. Even I had to admit I was going to look good.

  The interview was the next day, Tuesday, and the awards were the same night. I didn’t need to bother about an outfit for the awards as Ming had emailed me to say there’d be loads of free clothes to choose from tomorrow. Killing time in my humongous suite, I checked Facebook to see if Matthew had rejoined. He hadn’t, so I read through all the emails I’d missed while I’d been in France and listened to the innumerable messages on my answerphone. Most of them were from Mum, wondering where I was and then panicking about what had been in the press about Stu. I deleted them all, then wondered what to do with myself that night, which was when I remembered my text from Mandy. Oh well, tim
e to reclaim that blessed necklace after all these years. And whatever she’d found in the loft. Which was bizarre in itself because, despite living there for a couple of years, I hadn’t even realized we had one.

  As I luxuriated in my second bath of the day – I couldn’t help it in posh hotels, I had to jump in the tub as often as possible – I thought about Stuart. The woman that roared would say enough is enough, but the Jodie I knew only too well wasn’t sure she could. Maybe the anger management would work. Maybe the counselling would, too. Maybe he would never hurt me, physically, again. Was it worth throwing everything away because of that? But the more I thought about it, the less clear I became. One minute I’d be valiant – yes, I would get rid. The next – oh, but he looked after me when I needed it. The question was, what did I need now? All I knew was, I’d still not made up my mind.

  I took a cab to the Oval and got it to drop me off outside L.A.D.S. I stood outside, remembering my first audition and how excited I’d been every time I’d climbed those steps. I also remembered staggering out, completely lost, when I’d suffered my big rejection. I looked up the street and saw the phone box where I’d called Stu. Bless him, he’d not given it a second thought that day, he’d just taken care of me and made sure I was OK. But then, that was a very long time ago now. I looked back at the red-brick building, hoping Rupert would come out. I wanted to tell him I’d done OK for myself, tell him I was nominated for an award tomorrow for my acting, but no one came or went. I turned and headed to my old flat.

  I’d only met Mandy a handful of times over the years, when I’d been out on works dos with Stu’s lot. Seeing her again I found it laughable that I’d ever considered her a rival for Stu’s affections. She had a bit of an Elvis quiff and, as she showed me up the stairs, I wondered if she’d dressed up especially for me as the price tag was still attached to the back of her top. Her combat pants looked like they’d not long come out of the dryer. Everything smelt new.

  ‘I’ve got a few mates round, hope you don’t mind.’

  Mind? Why would I mind? She could do what she liked in the flat, within reason, it was nothing to do with me.

  But when I got upstairs and entered that which was once my love den, I realized she’d had a bit of an ulterior motive. She’d clearly got a few mates round to show off to them that she knew someone on the telly. She offered me a beer and was quite surprised when I asked for a cup of tea. As I sipped it genteelly her friends produced various Acacia Avenue memorabilia from about their persons and asked me if I’d mind terribly signing them. I posed for several photos, their arms round me like we were long lost friends, and there was general chit-chat about what I was going to wear to the awards and how I was going to ‘kick Colette Court’s fat arse’. They were quite sweet really, but it did feel like a P.A. rather than a visit to my tenant’s. In the end I invented an appointment I had to go to and Mandy grabbed a plastic bag from the side and said, ‘Here’s your stuff. You could wear the necklace tomorrow.’

  I smiled politely and had a quick look in the bag. I saw the emerald necklace – a present from Stu – and also a load of envelopes. I recognized the handwriting immediately. My heart seemed to stop. I felt faint.

  ‘Where . . . where did you find these again?’ I stammered.

  ‘The loft. I was putting some shit up there the other day and found that bag in the corner. I hope you don’t mind, I saw they were addressed to you.’

  ‘Have you mentioned this to Stu?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, they’re all addressed to you. I’ve not read them. They’re not love letters from Stu, are they?’

  I shook my head, tried to keep it together as I bid my farewells, then stumbled down the stairs and out onto the pavement. Although I’d not had a drink since I got back from France, right now I felt drunk. The street seemed to be moving around me. The traffic lights ahead appeared to bend towards me, forcing me out of their way. I was gasping for breath. I felt hot, then cold, and suddenly realized I was going to be sick. I was. In the gutter. I stood, feeling no better for it, and retreated to sit on the steps to the house.

  No. This could not be happening.

  I looked again at the bag and pulled it open. All those envelopes. I pulled one out from the middle of the pile and opened it. Inside was a birthday card. It had a picture of a nun on the front. I didn’t read the logo, I just snapped it open. On the right hand side it said:

  Happy birthday, Jodie,

  Love Joey xxx

  And on the left hand side it said:

  I don’t care if you’re not speaking to me. I’m going to keep sending you birthday cards and Christmas cards and letters until you give in and decide to be my friend again. I love you. I fucked up. I miss you.

  PS Off for a nightcap. Hope it fits xx

  I looked at the postmark on the envelope. It was dated two years ago.

  I pulled out another envelope. My hand was shaking as I ripped open the still-sealed envelope and pulled out a three-page letter. It was dated three years ago. For God’s sake!

  Dear Jodie,

  I just had to write to say I thought you were BRILLIANT tonight on the show. You made me and Paolo cry.

  Paolo? Who the hell was Paolo?

  He sometimes has difficulty understanding what they say on Acacia Avenue, but when I looked at him tonight he was sobbing his heart out. And so was I!

  I rummaged in the bag and pulled out the letter at the bottom of the pile.

  Dear Jodie,

  Well you can’t say I didn’t try. I get the message, and though it pains me I’ll leave it at that. You can’t blame a boy for trying. You reckon you’re not speaking to me? Well guess what, bitch, now I’m not speaking to you. LOL. I respect your wishes. Take care and I hope life brings everything you wish it to. Dead proud of your success.

  Joey x

  PS I’m so over nightcaps.

  Joey had been writing to me. Regularly. And someone had been intercepting the mail. Not even throwing them away, but saving them in the loft. Why? To throw in my face in the future and say, ‘See how much I controlled you?’

  It could only be one person. I took out my phone to call Stuart, but I just couldn’t bring myself to dial. I was angry. Outraged. Gutted. Bewildered. How could someone do this to me? How could he do this to me? I had written a letter to Our Joey, had he not got it? And then I remembered. I was laid up in bed with a broken leg at the time, so I’d asked Stuart to post my letter. He must have thrown it away. Why? Did he want to control me that much that he wanted to kill anything I had with Our Joey? Was our potential friendship that much of a threat to him? It didn’t make sense. And to keep the letters like this was just bizarre. Years and years of contact thrown away by his desire to control me. Missed chances, missed opportunities, missed happiness. And it was all down to Stuart.

  I stood, invigorated suddenly. I had to see Our Joey. I had to find him. Tell him what had happened. Tell him I had no idea. I checked the address on one of the letters. I checked another. Two years ago he’d been living in Streatham. I hailed a cab.

  My mind was racing, my heart was racing, sadly the cab wasn’t. I was going to go up to his front door, bang on it loudly, throw my arms open, do a showbiz wiggle and scream, ‘SHE’S BACK!’

  He would collapse, crying into my arms, grunting, ‘I never thought I’d see the day!’ And everything would be all right with the world.

  I had so many questions I wanted to ask him, but more than that I had a zillion and one that I wanted to ask Stu.

  Why had I felt sorry for him? Why had I thought him worthy of my pity? Even when he’d hit me I’d still been in two minds about whether to get back with him or jib him? Even when he’d hit me for the second time.

  I was a fool. I was an idiot. I was a loser. I was everything bad in the book of bad words to describe stupid people.

  Or, put that in the past tense. I had been. Not any longer. I wound down the window of the cab and screamed out of the window.

 
My driver looked petrified.

  ‘You all right, love?’ he asked, eyes piercing me through the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Fine thanks,’ I said. I had roared.

  Our Joey didn’t throw himself at me like the wailing wall, nor did the nice woman in the burka who answered the door. At first I thought she might be his housekeeper, sticking a stew on for him after one of his crazy nights out on the London club scene. No doubt soon I’d be joining him on it, partying hard and wedging myself behind the DJ’s decks like I understood what he was doing. Maybe he’d explain to me how it all worked. Maybe he’d get on the mic and shout, ‘MAKE SOME NOISE, PEOPLE! SISTER AGGIE IN DA HOUSE, YEAH!’ or something similar. That’s the sort of thing I’d do if I were a DJ. If he was Mr Milk, I’d be Lady Cream. Oh dear, I was getting ahead of myself.

  ‘Hello, is Joey in please?’

  ‘Jo-eey?’

  ‘Joey McGee? Joseph McGee? Mr Milk?’

  She shook her head. Her veil shimmied. Jeez she had a lot of eyeliner on.

  ‘I am Rashida. Have you come about widow?’

  ‘Sorry? No.’

  ‘Widow not opening.’

  ‘No, I’m trying to find my brother?’

  Oh anyway, to cut a not-that-long story very short, she eventually told me that she had been living there for six months and had no forwarding address for the previous tenants who, she informed me, had left a terrible mess in the bathroom. She didn’t give details.

  I’m not sure why, but I sprang to Joey’s defence.

  ‘Oh that wouldn’t be Our Joey. He’s meticulous about personal hygiene. I imagine that was Paolo, his life partner. Well, I assume it’s his life partner. It could be his cat for all I know.’

  ‘No. We not allowed animals here.’

  ‘Sorry to have troubled you.’

  I saw more white in her eyes. It was a bit unnerving. She pointed at me.

  ‘You. It is you. Nun.’

  I almost curtsied and nodded, giggling with embarrassment.

  ‘Yup. Anyway, nice meeting you Rashida. Good luck with your window. I think that was the word you were looking for.’ And then, just to be even more patronizing, I pronounced it for her again. ‘Win-dow. It’s got an ‘N’ in it. N-n-n-n-n-n. OK?’