As a child I found it hard to promote myself and my artistic ambitions and had reclusive tendencies, albeit sporadic. The concern of forgetting lines, being outperformed or singing a dud note was often enough to stop me from auditioning for school plays or roles in my local youth theatre, whereas Kate quite rightly breezed through life without my deep and insecure analysis, which ensured her insecurities, if any, remained truly hidden, while mine sat exposed and vulnerable. Kate made it long before we had even left secondary school. She landed a small role in a local TV series which basically set her up in terms of equity membership and ink on her CV. I longed to follow in Kate’s footsteps and to achieve her certainty and status. We attended the same castings, auditioned for the same principal roles and every time I came a close second. I’ll let you guess to whom.
The entertainment industry was cut-throat. It simply wasn’t enough to go in guns blazing, smile dazzling, and charisma screaming; the industry was almost more about luck than talent.
Countless times I watched the finished commercial I had auditioned for, critical of the casting decision, mocking the poor quality of the actor, convinced that had they picked me, I would have been the selling point behind their marketing aspiration. I could have had orders flooding in for broadband, trebled the foot traffic at the Quayside shopping centre and every household fridge would have contained Dairy Gate butter supplies in abundance. It should have been me. I remember Dad throwing his head back in laughter when I told him about my casting for Dairy Gate butter. Giggling, as we reminisced about the previous advert with the talking cows, Dad wittily asked me, “Are you auditioning for the back end of it, love?” Charming. If my own parents couldn’t take me seriously as an actor who the hell could?
The most memorable audition I recall was flying over to Dublin for the role of a young mother promoting the calming effects of Eazi Tea. My agent had advised that, based on the profile shots, they were able to match me with two young children, a boy and a girl. I would simply meet them in the casting room.
After a hair-raising flight over the Irish Sea, less stressful if you’re a swimmer I’m sure, I arrived at Dublin airport. Still nauseous from the flight, I decided I was unable to cope with public transport and would risk the cost of a cab. But instead of the enjoyment of a leisurely journey learning Gaelic and finding out Michael Flatley’s innermost secrets, I found myself being thrown around the cab like a rag doll. Holding onto the car door with white knuckles, I prayed silently for my safe arrival, using a whole host of Hail Marys. Where the hell are a bunch of rosary beads when you need them? I mean, this is the Catholic capital of the world, isn’t it? Aren’t they supposed to be dangling from the street lights all year round like Christmas decorations? Not that I’m Catholic incidentally but still, you know, when in Ireland . . .
Anyway, arriving at the Courthouse studios looking wonderfully green, I scanned my casting brief and silently reminded myself that I could act my way out of nausea, mind over matter.
Entering the studio, which to my astonishment was nothing more than a glorified shed with, get this, a hole in the fence as the entrance, no kidding either, I was greeted by the noise of hundreds of children, yelling excitedly, their innocent facial features enhanced by soft make-up portraying the barely there effect; and that was just the boys! Each child was scrubbed and preened to their parents’ individual standards, some in school uniform, some looking chilled and unassuming in jeans and tee-shirts, while others had donned costly Irish dancing dresses decorated with ribbons and a million hand-sewn tiny mirrors. How a poker-like poise and unnecessarily tight ringlets was going to help sell tea, I don’t know. Honestly, parents, all it takes is a bit of common sense.
The heat was unbearable on one of the hottest days Ireland had ever known. The humidity filled the air with a light smoke effect and fresh pre-pubescent perspiration soaked into the atmosphere, the remains of any fresh air disintegrating rapidly by pure intimidation. Thank heavens the money was good, otherwise I wouldn’t have lasted more than five minutes and my hair was in severe danger of making Crystal Tips look smooth and sleek and very closely related to John Frieda.
As is typical at these events, the registration form was completed documenting height, weight, eye/hair colour, dress size, body-mass index and latest TV exposure. These things were so repetitive but at three thousand euro, plus expenses, it wasn’t to be sniffed at.
I spotted the casting agent looking somewhat flustered, drowned out by the wannabe kids, completely deafened by the pushy parents gleaming with pride at their child on the verge of rising stardom.
“Christie Harding, Christie Harding!” he called, voice strained.
Christ, that’s me! Jumping up, I followed the rather lanky Irishman into the casting room, watching his bony shoulder blades jut out from beneath his soaked shirt, noticing his narrow waist and shapeless hips, which on a dry day would no doubt be hidden beneath his baggy attire. Painfully thin, obviously not enough Guinness. Catching sight of the camera and boom (or ‘dead squirrel’ as Kate and I call it), reminded me why I was there. I loved the thrill of it, the buzz, that feeling of undeniable euphoria, the desperate propulsion to be someone else, surrendering to its dominance.
At the back of the room, three guys hunched around what was no more than a glorified camping table, squashed into the corner to make room for the plethora of filming equipment. The director, creative director and producer introduced themselves briefly, very briefly; time is money in this industry as they say. Just as my agent had promised, my newly adopted children were there and were already in place. Quite painless really, the agony of childbirth is so exaggerated.
I studied them closely. My little girl, Cloada, had light-brown hair swept back into a single ponytail landing just on the nape of her neck – she was dressed in a denim pinafore to the knee with a baby-pink top underneath, matching ankle socks and black patent-leather shoes. My guess would be that she was no more than four and she really was so cute, particularly with her tiny gold-rimmed specs. She was paler-skinned than I but with a nose full of tiny freckles, and I could clearly see why they’d put us together. My son, an older boy, Kieran, was half-hidden beneath his baseball cap and had ‘attitude alert’ oozing from him. Personally, I struggled to see the resemblance. I’m no English rose but, please, someone tell me my own son will be better-looking. They took their turn first and, with the camera running, proceeded to communicate who they were, their ages and their agent details. Cloada decided she didn’t possess a surname, which sent my newly found son into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. The poor child was looking around frantically for her mother to help her, but her mother, oblivious to the stress put on her tiny child, was probably already replacing her bathroom and kitchen with the fee and royalties. Selfish cow. This is not an industry for keeping kids stable or sane. Nor adults for that matter.
“Cloada,” the producer asked gently, “do you think you could remove your glasses for me?”
“I can’t! I go a bit cross-eyed and me mammy won’t let me take ‘em off,” she squeaked in embarrassment. Bless her, I just wanted to get hold of her and squeeze her, even though our chances of portraying the aspirational family were reducing dramatically.
Anyway, mocking her with the sarcasm of an eight-year-old, Kieran confidently stated his name, age and agent, gloating at Cloada. For God’s sake, she was only a baby and if he were my son I’d have him adopted by now. Under orders, suddenly looking rather sheepish, he reluctantly removed his baseball cap for the profile shots, only to reveal a mass of shocking-pink spiky hair. I couldn’t believe it! Come on, what type of respectable mother allows a child to dye his hair? And pink, what on earth was going on there? I’m not suggesting the Irish are homophobic but how on earth his head wasn’t kicked in I’ve no idea. The baseball cap, the scruffy hooded sweatshirt, baggy jeans hanging below his underwear I could cope with, but surely it’s against the law to inject dye into a minor’s hair?
Needless to say, after a pathetic attempt to
be taken seriously as the young, overstressed mother of these two mismatches, I didn’t secure that casting, nor the next, nor the next and so it was that after years of door-knocking, with the odd opening, just not enough to pay the rent, I gave up.
I left my tiny bedsit after being evicted, with barely enough time to pack my belongings before I was turfed out and spent days on the streets, frightened, cold and lonely. My Thespian ambition had been tried and tested, and I had come to a point where enough was enough. I had to put closure on the insanity of chasing fame and fortune and, oddly, it felt right. I was tired of the travelling and the rejection and I knew there was something else that life had in store for me. Another purpose. Another pathway. My new life was out there somewhere and I didn’t know what or even how it would manifest itself, but I did know I was taking back control.
I bolt upright, sending my feathered enemy, the duvet, flying. Beads of sweat surface on my forehead and I swallow hard.
Why then? Why on earth am I even thinking about the past? A failed past! It was put to bed when my business opened. It was firmly put to bed when we won the contract. I witnessed it floating away. I waved it goodbye. Farewell forever. Have I gone mad?
I became an estate agent by a fluke.
When I eventually plucked up the courage to go home and tell my family that after years of trying I had only what I stood up in, I signed up with a local temping agency looking for work. Any work.
“What skills do you have?” they had asked me.
Skills? Well, I can recite you Helena from A Midsummer Night’s Dream? Not what you’re looking for? Okay.
It was established with impressive speed that I was useless. I couldn’t type. I knew nothing about bookkeeping. I’d only ever used a mobile phone and had no idea how to operate a switchboard. My data-input scores were rock bottom and, as for words per minute, remove the plural and I’d say I did quite well. I waited for the phone to ring. But it didn’t. So I rang them. I rang them every day, reminding them that I wanted, needed to work. More for the sanity than the actual monetary factor although I fully intended to repay my family for the abundance of Western Union transfers. One day I begged them, I told them I’d do anything. Anything at all just to get me out of the house and to avoid looking in the mirror at the useless, pathetic effort of a human being I had become.
“Well, there is one post. It’s an office junior role – but they usually hire teenagers,” she told me.
“I’ll do it,” I answered without hesitation. “When do I start?”
And there it was. The irony of helping people buy and sell homes when just weeks before I was homeless. I loved it. I loved the social aspect of getting to talk to new people every day. I loved the importance of being given a task and completing it with alacrity. I loved the working relationship with my colleagues, sharing gossip about the management and other such immature sentiments. But most of all I loved the certainty of it, the stability of a meagre but regular income and the consistency of having purpose and a central focus in my life. It was after a few years of hard grafting and a brain full of appropriate subject matter that I took the opportunity to buy into the franchise and I’ve never looked back.
Until now. But I just can’t figure out why I’ve changed.
22
“Chantelle, do you know where the holiday chart is?”
She lifts her head from a mountain of paperwork. “I moved it to the kitchen – it’s taped to the back of the door.”
“Thanks.”
The office is empty. Generally, the early morning is our quietest time but it gives us the opportunity to tackle the mass of paperwork we’re hit with every day.
From the kitchen, I shout to Chantelle. “Kate and I are going away in a few weeks,” I tell her excitedly. “We’re going back to Stalis in Crete to relive some old memories.” I take the whiteboard marker and mark crosses on the chart right through the days I need to take as leave.
It’s worked out perfectly. Chantelle and Heather won’t be off until July and August which is a great time for them and for me. People typically want to move in the summer but in terms of viewings or putting their own property on the market, they tend to do this months earlier, some even at the start of the new year, so peak holiday weeks are a perfect opportunity for the girls to get a much-needed break. I’m taking mine earlier to fit in with Kate’s filming, plus I can’t do extreme sun with the curse of fair skin so it suits me fine.
“Good for you!” Chantelle shouts back. “You really deserve it, Tina. How long has it been?”
I push the lid firmly on the marker, placing it back on its plastic shelf and wander onto the sales floor.
“Three years it’s been,” I answer, shaking my head in disbelief. “But it’s been so busy I just didn’t realise it was that long.”
Chantelle is still working away. Her black-framed glasses complement her black tailored suit, nipped at the waist and classic in style. Her dark hair has been recently cut and sits just on her shoulders in a contemporary-style bob, curling under ever so slightly towards her perfect jaw-line and touching her flawless, velvety skin. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to be so beautiful. And to be so unaware of it. I tell her constantly she’s gorgeous as I’m sure does Colin. But the best endorsement has to be the head-turning and general reactions from the opposite sex. Even my dad fancies her though he wouldn’t say so, but he did manage to get flustered when I ask him what he thought of her. “Very nice. Erm, very nice,” was all he managed. And then his face and neck turn a wonderful shade of scarlet.
“Are you and Colin going to get away this year?” I ask her.
“Nope.”
“Why not?” I probe nosily, perching on the end of her desk and invading her space. She hates it when I do that.
Chantelle continues to look down, deliberately evasive. I know her so well. Something is going on.
“We’re saving up.” She looks up at me. “So unless you want to double my salary, we’ll be going to our gate and back.”
“God, I haven’t heard that expression in years!” I laugh. “You know full well that as soon as some of this commission starts coming in you are so set for a pay rise. I give you my word.”
“Ooh!” She chews the end of her pen.
Please don’t do that when the punters are in. It looks obscene.
“What are you saving for then?” There’s no stopping me today.
Her eyes peer over the glasses, their blackness challenged by even blacker eyelashes and plucked-to-precision eyebrows.
“We thought we might get married.” She says this with total nonchalance and a complete lack of excitement.
What?
“What?” I pull the pen from her hand and shove the paperwork to one side to get her full attention. “Hello? Is anybody home?”
She simply shrugs her shoulders. “It’s all very low key. I don’t even want an engagement ring and we just want a small wedding.”
I catch a fleeting glimpse of a sparkle in her eye.
“That way we can put more down on a house.” As usual, her practical and pragmatic approach sums her up beautifully and predictably. What a bride she’ll make! Me, I’d go for the full shebang! The best of the best. A no-expense-spared truly lavish ceremony and I don’t mind admitting that I’d be at the heart of it all. It really would be all about me!
“Get up, you fool!” I stand in front of her, pulling at her arms, but she remains firmly put. “I can’t hug you while you’re sitting down! Chantelle, if I didn’t know you better I’d think you were playing hard to get!” I tease, knowing this will create a reaction.
She dives up from the chair, shuddering, and allows me to give her what I class as half a hug.
“Thanks, Tina.” Her smile is serene and calm and I can see how happy she is even if it is being kept under wraps.
“Hey, I usually charge for such physicality but, given it’s you, let’s call it a freebie.” I smack her cheek with my bare lips, watching her look of repugna
nce.
“Don’t be so homophobic,” I tell her sternly. “That’s your only downside, Mrs.”
“Yep, that and working with you!” she giggles.
The phone shrills and I grab it in a millisecond, crossing my fingers as I answer.
“Hello?”
“Tina, there’s someone here to see you,” Chantelle says. “Are you free to come downstairs?”
“On my way.”
It wasn’t the call I was hoping for but maybe this is even better? I slam the phone down and rush to the small mirror hanging on a piece of string, held in place by a badly hammered-in nail. My version of do-it-yourself. I give my face the once-over and smooth down my skirt.
I know it’s just got to be Brian. I knew he’d come around. I’m not after an apology or anything but it was a bit silly him leaving like that. I don’t know what came over him. Perhaps it’s a touch of the old mid-life crisis. Satisfied with my appearance and grateful that Touche Éclait has taken away the sleep-deprivation look I had just seconds ago, I make my way downstairs slowly and calmly, collecting my thoughts as I travel and catching my breath before I come face to face with Brian.
He is standing there with the usual grin from ear to ear and he waves at me as I make my way onto the sales floor.
Simon!
“Simon?”
“Well done,” he smirks. “You remembered my name. Not just a pretty face.”
I try to be short with him but his impish grin and usual wit loosens me up and I decide not to give him a hard time. He doesn’t deserve it.
“Ha ha, very funny.” I smile at him. What have I got to be cross about? “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Mr Heath-Jones?” It’s quite safe to be friendly towards him – once I drop in Brian’s name once or twice, he’ll know I’m definitely no longer on the market.
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