by Jane Lambert
‘Really. Your performance worked. You breathed life into Olga, and my heart went out to her. I wept at the end.’
‘I didn’t come across too whingeing, too bitter?’
‘Not in the slightest. You got the balance just right.’
‘It’s just that some nights, I feel my insecurity infects the audience and I lose them altogether. The more I think about it, the worse it gets.’
‘If you’re worrying too much about the audience, then you’re not concentrating. Believe in yourself more, Emily,’ she says, placing her hands firmly on my shoulders. ‘Never forget Shakespeare’s words in Measure for Measure: “Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.”’
She takes out a pen and jots the quote down on a Post-it Note, then places it firmly in my hand.
I look deeply into her face. She hasn’t just taught me about acting; she has taught me so much about myself, more than any therapist could have done, and I feel a stronger person for having known her.
‘Thank you, Portia,’ I say, hugging her, my warm tears running onto her cheek. ‘“Our doubts are traitors” will be my mantra from now on.’
‘Are you up for Waltzing Matilda’s karaoke bar later?’ interjects Dean, resting his elbow on my shoulder.
I smile at him. ‘Sounds great.’
‘You were fab!’ chorus Wendy, Rachel, and Faye, popping up unexpectedly behind me.
‘Emily, what are you drinking?’ calls Hugh from the bar.
‘Portia, come and meet …’
I turn around and she is gone.
Fighting my way over to our reserved area, I collide with Céline, making her way back from the loo.
For a long, long moment we just stare into one another’s startled eyes.
‘Chérie, I am so proud of you,’ she says quietly, kissing me tentatively on both cheeks.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ I say, biting my bottom lip, my tone perhaps a tad too cool.
‘Here we are,’ announces Hugh, returning from the bar with a tray full of glasses.
‘Sis!’ calls Susannah, patting the space next to her. ‘Come and meet Lionel, my agent.’
It’s almost closing time before Céline and I are able to have a few quiet words.
‘I’m so sorry for …’
‘Look,’ I say firmly, determined not to dredge up the past, and especially tonight, of all nights. ‘I don’t want to fall out with you. You had your reasons and …’
‘“Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas.”’
I look at her inquisitively.
‘“The ’eart,”’ she says, clutching her heart, ‘“’as its reasons, which reason knows nothing of”. This does not excuse my behaviour, but …’
‘I’ve moved on, Céline, and if you and Mike are happy, then …’
‘C’est fini,’ she mumbles.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Eet’s feeneeshed.’
‘Really?’
‘Oui.’
‘For good?’
‘Toujours.’
I look deeply into her sad, blue-lagoon eyes. I want to say I’m sorry, but I’m not, so setting down my glass, I impulsively put my arms around her and just hold her tight.
‘Eleven years of my life …’
‘I know.’
A huge tear rolls down her cheek and splashes into her wineglass. I rummage in my bag for a tissue, resisting the temptation of telling her she’s better off without that lying, cheating, arrogant bastard. After all, it’s not so long since I was in her shoes, and I know only too well how irritating those well-meaning break-up clichés are, and how they can make you feel even worse. You have to find your own way through the break-up maze.
Corny though it may sound, I’m now discovering the power of one and no longer feel lonely when I’m alone. I wish I could make her see that there’s a world of opportunity and adventure out there, just waiting to be found, but she has to have the courage to work it out for herself. As Céline is quick to point out, I have a passion for something that drives me and isn’t dependent on a man’s love. I’m the one responsible for making my dream come true. For Céline, the beautiful, hopeless romantic, her dream of becoming a wife and mother relies on finding a husband – and soon.
‘Drink up. You’re coming to Waltzing Matilda’s with us,’ I tell her. ‘I seem to recall we once made an awesome Agnetha and Frida at Kirk’s Karaoke Bar in downtown Dallas, did we not?’
‘Mon Dieu!’ she says, rolling her eyes and shaking her head at the memory. She then scrutinises herself in her compact mirror and runs the tissue carefully under her lower lashes. ‘On y va!’ she says, downing the last of her wine.
Nothing like a bit of ‘Dancing Queen’ to reseal a friendship and lift the spirits.
* * *
It seems I’ve only just drifted off, when I am woken by Rod Stewart belting out ‘Maggie May’. I open one eye. 0430. Slamming the OFF button on the radio alarm, I raise my head from the pillow. I feel like I’m drowning in a swirling, green, psychedelic sea. I fall back, holding my head in agony. The thought of overflowing bins and disinfectant makes me want to throw up. With rehearsals over, at least I’m free from nine until the evening show, I tell myself as I stagger to the bathroom, one hand grimly holding my head, the other my stomach.
The road approaching the office is riddled with bumps and potholes, and normally I manage to avoid the majority of them, but this morning, with my eyes half shut, I cycle headlong into each and every one, rattling my bones and jarring my nerves.
As I push the Dyson to and fro, gradually, agonisingly, fragments of last night seep into my fuzzy consciousness, torturing my mind. Last night I truly believed our rendition of ‘Voulez-Vous’ was worthy of a part in Mamma Mia! Now, in the cold, sober light of day, it’s dawning on me that we must have sounded like a pair of wild dingoes.
That night, and for the remaining ten performances, we are back to an audience of sleepy pensioners, uninterested GCSE students, and the odd drunk from the bar. We now know how it feels to have an appreciative crowd, and so the remainder of the run is an anticlimax – a bit like getting upgraded to first class once, and then having to revert to flying economy.
But I have been given a taste of how it feels to play a multi-dimensional character in front of an appreciative audience, and it’s made me hungry for Hedda Gabler, for… okay, maybe I’m a tad too old to play Hedda. I could play the likes of Lady Macbeth though, or Shirley Valentine. But how do you land that kind of role, unless some maverick director takes a risk on casting an unknown?
* * *
Dean turns up on the last night for our dinner date decked out in an ill-fitting, rumpled suit. He confesses he watched scene one then retired to the bar, so by the time the curtain comes down he’s had ‘a gutful of piss’.
‘The table’s booked for ten forty-five,’ he says, planting a slobbery kiss on the back of my neck. I stare at the floor and notice his trousers barely reach his ankles, and that he’s wearing a pair of shabby trainers (try to ignore this, Emily).
Pressing his hand firmly into the small of my back, he steers me towards the door. Why am I already starting to feel this was a bad idea?
* * *
The Thai, doll-like waitress, wearing turquoise silk and a hibiscus flower, smiles graciously and leads us to a dark corner of the cram-packed restaurant.
By the time our Tom Yum Goong soup arrives, I know this was a mistake. I should have insisted we just go for a drink. I vaguely remember Faye telling us that night at Waltzing Matilda’s that she’s joined a dating agency, and that one of the golden rules is to only agree to a coffee or drink on the first date. Then if you discover you haven’t got that much in common, you don’t have to endure an interminable and costly meal. Why didn’t this piece of professional advice register in my brain? (Probably because at the time it was otherwise engaged in ABBAville.)
‘You won’t believe it,’ Dean says, slurping
his soup noisily, ‘but see this little, bendable iPhone I picked up in Tokyo,’ he continues, throwing down his spoon. ‘It has voice dialling, I can switch between music tracks by twisting it, like this … and it takes fantastic selfies. Smile!’
‘Really?’ I say vaguely, eyes ghoulishly transfixed by the blade of lemon grass hanging from the end of his damp chin.
‘Now Mum and Dad can see my Mrs Robinson in the flesh.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what Mum and Dad call you. You know, older woman seduces younger man.’
‘What? You’ve told your parents about me?’
‘I can ask it questions too, just as you would a person. Listen!’ he says proudly. ‘Any good bars in this area?’
This-might-answer-your-question … squawks the virtual assistant.
God help me, how am I to survive beyond the Sou Si Gung? I sneak a look at my watch and stifle a yawn. This is so embarrassing.
‘Some of my mates are going to that new nightclub in Kingston. I said we might meet them there,’ he says keenly, his glassy-eyed stare glued to my breasts.
‘Look, Dean, I’m really sorry, but nightclubs aren’t my thing,’ I mumble, covering my chest with my napkin.
‘Cool. We could go somewhere quiet for a drink – just the two of us.’ He lurches forward and reaches across the table for my hand, knocking over my wine and sending the basket of prawn crackers into orbit.
‘It’s been a long day.’ I squirm. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but do you mind if I give it a miss?’
His face clouds over and an awkward silence falls between us.
The evening has got to end NOW. I stand up and fish in my bag for my purse.
‘Oh, my God! I just remembered, I promised to feed my landlady’s cat while she’s away. Poor thing will be starving. Please take this towards the meal,’ I say, clumsily shoving a twenty-pound note into his hand.
‘No, please, this is my treat. Look, if your landlady’s away let’s buy a bottle of wine and have it at yours.’
Subtlety is obviously getting me absolutely nowhere, so there’s nothing else for it: Emergency Evacuation Procedure to be deployed pronto …
‘Great idea, but not tonight, eh?’ I say, giving a staged yawn. ‘Now I really must go. Thanks for the meal. It was lovely.’
‘But what about your main course?’
I hesitate, then spying a taxi, I leg it out the door and do a death-defying dash across the road. As I jump into my getaway car, I heave a sigh of relief, not daring to look back.
* * *
I push the living room door open a fraction.
‘I’m home, Beryl.’
‘Nice time?’
‘So-so. Glass of wine?’
‘No, thanks, dear, I’ve got my Johnny Walker,’ she says, shaking her tumbler of scotch, ice clinking.
‘Okay then, goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, sweet’art.’
Flopping onto the bed, I take a huge gulp of wine, pop open some Pringles, pop in my earphones, switch off the light, and close my eyes. Ah, bliss!
Mobile rings. It’s Wendy.
‘Hi, hon. Sorry, I didn’t expect you to pick up. I was going to leave a message. Don’t want to interrupt your hot date.’
‘It’s okay. I’m lying on the bed with …’
‘Sorry, sorry. I’ll ring tomorrow.’
‘… Sam Smith and a tube of Pringles.’
‘What? No Dean? What happened?’
‘Aargh, don’t ask. It was a disaster. I left him at the restaurant.’
‘Why? Look, I know we’ve pulled your leg unmercifully about the age thing, but who cares? If you both …’
‘It’s not just that. We simply don’t have anything in common. Truth is, I agreed to go out with him because I was flattered to be asked out by someone so much younger – gave me a bit of an ego boost after Nigel. But, eeuw! He dribbled his soup and spilled wine everywhere.’
‘Give the guy a chance, Em. He was probably nervous, poor lamb. How sweet of him to treat you to dinner, when he probably doesn’t earn much.’
‘And he wears Bart Simpson socks.’
‘So?’
‘I know, I know, I’m being a heartless bitch. But he’s made me realise how much I like being single. Ironic, isn’t it? I used to be like Olga: desperate to marry, but if only the Olgas of this world could see you don’t have to have a man in tow to prove to the world how special or wanted you are.’
‘But what about romance, Em?’
‘I’ve got a more realistic approach to romance these days, Wendy. I don’t buy all that fairy-tale nonsense.’
‘It’s early days yet, hon. Never say never. Mr Darcy may be just around the corner.’
‘I’d forgotten what a minefield the dating game is. All that wondering what to wear, what to say, trying to be someone you’re not; I’m getting too old for all of that. Besides, I’m focused on my career now. Enough of me. What about you?’
The ensuing silence is charged with emotional intensity. Wendy and I are so close on so many levels, just like the sisters we longed for as little girls, yet the door to one area of her life is firmly barred to me. Sometimes, like now, I give it a gentle push, in the hope that it may open a fraction.
‘Wendy, it’s been seven years. Steve wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life alone.’
‘I know, I know,’ she says, a slight tremor in her voice.
Wendy was a supernumerary hostess on her first flight to Mombasa. Steve was a photographer and painter, on an assignment for a wildlife magazine. The moment their eyes met over the crushed Coke cans and empty nut packets of Wendy’s drinks trolley, they were smitten. They shared the same humour, love of sport and travel. He encouraged her to paint. She taught him to ride horses. Before long they were living together, and finally, thirteen years into their relationship, they decided to tie the knot in a private ceremony in the place where they had met.
A chill still goes through me when I remember the night I got the call, telling me that Steve had drowned in a windsurfing accident. How could he have? He was a strong swimmer. There had to be some mistake. But the tidal currents can be strong and unpredictable in that part of the world, and when Wendy saw him waving to her on the shore, she had no idea he’d run into difficulty.
She says she’s grateful to have known such tender, respectful, kind, mutually supportive love just once in her life, as some people – even married people – don’t ever experience that.
And that’s the only kind of love I would like: not to settle for someone because time is running out, but the type of soulmate love Wendy and Steve shared; someone who’s my friend first, my equal, and accepts me for me and doesn’t set out to change me. But I know that kind of love is hard to find, so if it never comes my way, that’s okay, because I’d rather be on my own and look after me, instead of trying to rescue and fix the man in my life, which can be, quite frankly, exhausting.
‘Is there any truth in the rumour that you went on a date with a certain LA fitness trainer?’ I venture.
‘Might be,’ says Wendy coyly. ‘But don’t get excited. He’s just for fun – not husband material, before you ask.’
‘And? Are you seeing him again?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘When?’
‘I’ve got a three-day LA next Thursday.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Randy.’
‘Randy. That’s very … American. Attractive?’
‘Yeees … in a kind of Action-Man-doll way.’
‘You mean he has bendy arms and legs?’
‘Naturally. And swivelling head.’
‘Chiselled cheekbones? Dimpled smile? Designer scar on his left cheek?’
‘Yep.’
‘Muscular torso?’
‘Of course. This model also comes equipped with detachable designer shades.’
‘Fuzzy, GI haircut?’
‘And plastic, moulded pants.’
‘So,
not detachable then?’ I quip, choking on a Pringle.
‘Absolutely not!’
CHAPTER FOUR
Little White Lies
I CONFESS. I AM A COWARD. There, I’ve said it. But how else was I supposed to avoid the embarrassment of seeing Dean again? And depending on which way you look at it, my sudden allergy to Mr Muscle could be considered a legitimate excuse for not being able to return to work. Besides which, what hope do I have of securing an acting role with a posture fast resembling the Hunchback of Notre Dame?
So, Job Centre, here I come! Then it hits me like a slap in the face with a wet flip-flop: I have made myself unemployed and am therefore not eligible for benefits; unless chipped nails, and an embarrassing liaison with a security guard young enough to be my son, qualify as extenuating circumstances. Oh, God, why do I never think things through?
I spend the next three weeks see-sawing between positivity and a nervous breakdown. I fall into bad habits: going to bed late, getting up at lunch time, and horror of horrors, am hooked on Loose Women, frequently shouting at the telly when one of them says something outrageous.
The rest of the time I’m checking my phone and e-mail, making sure I haven’t missed that life-changing message from the casting director who was blown away by my performance in Three Sisters, and wants to cast me in his next project. I try unsuccessfully to resist looking at Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram, which are full of ‘#busydayonset’ and ‘#feeling blessed’.
Faye tells me I’m caught in something called a ‘ludic loop’ and need to break this addictive cycle if I am to have a clear and focused mind, so invites me over to hers for some green tea and meditation.
Whatever life throws at Faye, she always manages to radiate positivity (though not in a smug, #grateful way). She’s walking proof that yoga, chanting, and candlelight meditation really do work. (I tried this once, but fell asleep and the candle dripped wax onto Beryl’s shag pile, so decided not to risk it again.)
‘Hey you,’ she says with a warm smile as she flings the door open. ‘Come in.’
I negotiate my way past the bike, wellies, Lego, and school satchel cluttering the hallway, to the kitchen at the back.