The fitted black satin trousers sit just on my hips, revealing an inch of toned stomach, and the boned bodice pulls in my waist and pushes up my boobs with an impressive hoist. My hair has been curled and then fluffed out, giving it that full-bodied but natural look. I curse that I forgot my straighteners but I left in such a hurry after working on at the office that I just had to grab my bag and go.
As a character Balmy was great to play, a far cry from the usual roles I’ve experienced, and as for the subject matter, that’s definitely a first for my CV. The show will be pitched as a black satirical drama and black it is. The strangest thing for me is the realisation that this is no longer what I want to do. I thought I wanted it and now I truly know that, quite simply, I don’t. I really don’t. The lifestyle, the money, the parties, it’s all so glamorous yet at the same time it’s a complete joke. The industry is crippled with insecure wrecks who survive by feeding off compliments or by having people rally around after them massaging their egos and providing them with an air of injected self-importance. It’s become clear to me that so few of these people are happy, stable individuals. I know because I’ve been at both ends of it and still within reason I too can be a little self-obsessed with my external appearance but that I doubt I’ll ever shake off. One thing I can be sure of is that I want to go home and see my family, concentrate on my business and make the most of my life by moving forward now that this episode is almost out of the way. I will come clean once a plausible rationale has been devised and then move on with my life. And at least I can say ‘I did it’ whatever my motive was. Although in hindsight I’m not sure the motive was mine.
But I still did it wherever the idea came from!
Boom boom boom!
The music pounds and I shout to make myself heard.
No expense has been spared for this wrap party and anyone who’s anyone has turned up and in typical red-carpet style. I’m definitely not the belle of the ball but I’m confident I can hold my own and Raymond hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I walked in.
Nick struts over to me, kissing me on both cheeks. “I didn’t recognise you, Tina.” He stands back, taking in the full view. “You look fabulous. We’ll have to give Balmy a makeover if she survives.”
“Survives what?” I shout.
“The cruel hand of her fiancé.” Nick pulls a comedic face and pats me on the shoulder. “Thanks for your hard work, Tina.” He moves on, mingling sociably with the other guests.
I’m desperate to dance. The DJ is playing eighties music and it’s so reminiscent of my happiest years that I yearn to let rip on the dance floor and just release the anxiety which has been building up for some time now. It’s over and a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
I find Raymond and grab his hand, pulling him roughly onto the hard floor directly beneath the mirrored disco ball. His shirt sparkles with flecks of light.
“Re-light my fire ...” I screech at the top of my voice. My hips gyrate like a piece of elastic as I dance provocatively with my legs slightly apart. It’s the same old dance I’ve done since school. The only issue is that the older you get, the less you can get away with it.
Raymond closes in, placing his hand on the small of my back, and pulls me towards him. Our groins are practically touching. Loser! What are you doing?
I spin around, escaping his grip and break into my own dance once more, wild and free and light. You did it, Tina! It’s over now but you made it, my girl!
I fling my arms in the air to the ‘hey’ in the song. How can a girl survive without Take That?
Raymond continues to make his advances by dancing towards me. He evidently has two left feet and I’m not sure whether to burst out laughing or call an ambulance. I’ve never seen anyone take a fit before but this must be the closest thing to it. Perhaps he has epilepsy? As he reaches me his hands crudely grip my hips and he sways them rhythmically from side to side. I take hold of them in an attempt to remove them from my person but their grasp is firm and I struggle to wrestle free from his superbly glued fingers. Without warning he pounces on me, throwing his lips onto mine, and I feel his clumsy tongue forcing its way into my mouth. Horrified, the strength to remove him comes to me rapidly.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yell, tempted to slap his face.
He looks shocked and then embarrassed with rejection.
“It’s nothing we haven’t been doing all week!” he barks back as I lipread him.
“We were acting, you dickhead!”
I storm off the dance floor.
He runs after me and yanks my arm. “Tina, I’m sorry.” He looks forlorn. “I picked up the wrong signals.”
“Understatement of the year!” I snap.
“It’s just that . . . well . . . you looked like you were coming onto me the way you were dancing.”
“That’s how I dance, Raymond.” I throw my arms up in frustration. “What do you want me to do? Stay glued to the same bloody spot? Look – just piss off!”
“I said I’m sorry.” He turns to walk away but hesitates and twists back around, offering his hand out for peace sake. “At least let’s be friends if we’re going to work together, Tina.”
“Raymond, I hope I never see you again after tonight.”
“There’s not much chance of that.”
I’m tired of this argument now and just want to pack my bags and think about my own bed and getting a much-needed fatherly hug from my dad. And I’m suddenly desperate to ring my mum or Kate and tell them how hard yet how necessary this week has been and how I’ve hated lying to them. I’m ready to come clean.
Raymond tuts. “Now you’re just being silly, Tina. At least let’s put this behind us for professional purposes.”
“What are you on about?” I fumble in my clutch bag for the hotel key card. “We’re finished. The series is finished. I won’t ever have to work with you again.”
“Finished?” He looks genuinely astonished. “What do you mean? We’re signed up for three series – we’re going to have to work together, Tina.”
“What?”
The room seems to have turned silent and my mouth dries up. I no longer hear the thumping music nor the hum of strained voices shouting over it. My ears ring hollowly and my stomach folds into itself, contorting and twisted.
“It’s in the contract.” He laughs sarcastically. “Did you even read it, Tina?” He turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, open-mouthed and gasping for breath.
“Wait,” I pant after him. “I don’t understand – it’s not even been aired yet.”
Raymond shakes his head cockily. “A pilot episode was put out to tender before we were even on the scene.” He remarks knowingly. “It was snapped up by a private investor who coughed up the rest of the production funds. Where have you been, Tina? This thing is going to be massive!” He glares at me as I stand there, gaping. “What planet are you on?”
I have no idea how I got back to the hotel. I must have floated or had the aid of an out-of-body experience because I’m definitely here sitting on the hotel bed, only I can’t recall the journey. “It’s in the contract. Did you even read it?” The contempt in his voice was bitter, his tone bore all the arrogance of a man with the leading role, a principal with a prima-donna personality to match it. “We’re signed up for three series!”
I’ve a business to run. A new shop to open. A staff member to console and a relationship to resurrect, plus I’m still in the process of carrying out remedial work on my sister after nearly ruining her wedding day. This really can’t be happening. I delve deep to find an answer that will help me unscramble what’s going on in my head, a logical solution to put an end to this illogical episode. I need to phone somebody even if it is midnight, I need to hear a friendly voice. Someone who I know and who knows me. I’ve been alienated from everyone and everything I love for the past seven days and I’m lonely, exhausted and confused. And tied into two more series!
I grab the phone but don’t switch it
on. Think, Tina. Don’t be hasty. You need a strategy. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail!
Kate! I’ll ring Kate. She has no idea I’ve taken the holiday I was too busy to go on, she thinks I’ve been working hard at the office.
I switch on the phone, ignoring the abundance of missed calls and dial Kate’s number, desperate to hear her cheery tones.
“Who the hell have you been talking to?” she snarls.
“Kate, is that you?” I must have misdialled.
“Of course it’s me!” she spits. “Now explain to me why the hell I’m on the front page of three tabloid newspapers labelled an anorexic lesbian!”
What?
“What?” I rack my brains but come back with nothing. Someone tell me this isn’t happening.
“Who have you been talking to, Tina?”
“No-one, Kate! You’re my best friend! I’d never betray you.” A feeling of paranoia sweeps over me. Who have I been talking to?
“Well, isn’t it funny how the papers have quoted you, Tina.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! It reads ‘My Perfect Pin-up’!”
“Uuh?”
“Don’t play stupid, Tina. It quotes you saying ‘We’re way past all that now’! Who the hell were you talking to?” Her voice breaks and she stops mid-sentence. She is upset, painfully upset. And then the penny drops.
“Oh God, Kate.” I shudder. “I know who it was.”
I tell Kate about Raymond, omitting how we came to meet, explaining the innocence behind the misinterpreted remarks, describing how we agreed unanimously about her beauty.
“That bastard!” she yells. “I turned him down for a date last year and he’s trying to get back at me! He is a conceited sly little prick who was looking for an opportunity like this!”
Kate blows her nose loudly and a single tear runs down my face. I’ve humiliated her. Embarrassed her in front of her family and work colleagues and all because of a sly little man whose path should never have crossed with mine.
“And you set it up nicely for him, Tina.”
“Kate, it was all so innocent! I swear on my life!”
I start to cry as the weight of everything lands on my shoulders with an almighty thud. “Of all the people to have bumped into, it just had to be him . . . I didn’t know who he was or what he would do . . . it was innocent, Kate.”
Kate clears her throat. “Where did you meet him?”
“What?”
“Where did you meet him?” she repeats coldly. “He usually hangs out at strip joints and seedy places and I can’t see you at one of those.”
Think, Tina.
“I was at a seminar in Manchester, with, erm, work,” I lie. “I went into the hotel bar for a drink afterwards and he was there.”
This seems to satisfy Kate but her distance tells me that she is totally overwhelmed by the exposure and not quite with us. This happens to other celebrities but Kate keeps herself squeaky-clean to avoid any negative headlines – she says it upsets her parents too much.
“Kate,” I whisper, “are you okay?”
“Mmhh.” She sounds emotionally drained. “My agent had a go at me yesterday over this. He had asked me if I had any skeletons in the closet and of course I said no . . .”
“But you haven’t!” I shout in defence.
“I know that, Tina,” she snaps. “But to have a quote from your best friend doesn’t look good, does it? I just pray he doesn’t drop me.”
Oh God!
“I am sorry from the bottom of my heart, Kate. I’d never do anything to hurt you.” My voice breaks. “You know that, don’t you?”
The silence prolongs and my stomach cyclones.
“Yes,” she sighs after a lengthy pause. “I know that, Tina . . .” Then she adds almost absently before hanging up, “But I could still kill you . . .”
My head is pounding. I knew I’d regret that extra bottle of wine I had sent up to the room, but in light of the devastating news I so needed it. Once upon a time, in fact, little over a week ago, the news of a long-running series would have been met with absolute euphoria, but after having a taste of the long days and a blatant reminder of that feeling of isolation and not quite belonging, I no longer want it or need it. Neither do I wish to work alongside sly, sneaky individuals who will sell a story for the guts of a few quid. Maybe Kate was right? It wasn’t the money for him, it was the revenge – how dare she knock him back, doesn’t she know who he is? And I handed it to him on a plate which wouldn’t have happened if I was on holiday or working at the office where I belong or doing something with didn’t involve a pack of lies. It’s taken this experience to appreciate just what it is I have and what it is I want out of life but it’s all a little too late now. I’m tied into two more series, I’m ruined for good. It could be months before I’m freed up and there is no way I can expect Chantelle to keep the business going and who else would I get to manage the new shop? The work has already started. I’m completely ruined and it’s all my own doing. Stupid, stupid girl!
I consider the potential damage to Kate’s career. They’re clamping down hard on actors who have eating disorders in an attempt to promote responsibility within the industry. A friend of Kate’s was turned down just for being too thin, so determined were they to promote healthy eating. She doesn’t have an eating disorder, she watches what she eats, that’s all. Don’t we all?
The tears roll down my face and my shoulders tighten as I try to suppress them but it’s impossible. I’m killing my business, I’ve alienated my chances of marrying the aspirational man, I am going to be stuck working twelve-hour shifts for God knows how long, my sister has only just come around to forgiving me and my best friend is consumed with saving her career while our relationship may have suffered permanent damage. And after a lifetime of dreaming about this very juncture, I find myself in the rare position of trying to give my acting career away.
I break into a sob, a heartbroken uncontrollable sob. I don’t ever recall feeling such a failure, not even when I was on the streets. I knew then that I’d worked as hard as I could have, turned up on time for every audition and gave it one hundred per cent with consistency. But this present comedy of events, this ridiculous method of existing, is all down to me. I can’t blame anyone but myself for the dangerous position I’m left in. There really is no such thing as having it all and I curse myself for always learning just a little too late.
My hand scans the bed for the remote control and, eyes still closed, I feel the soft rubbery buttons and make a stab at guessing the power key. This one feels bigger than the rest. Bingo. God, it’s so loud.
I can’t believe it’s eleven o’clock. The room needs to be vacated by twelve o’clock but at this rate I can’t even see me being out by twelve tomorrow.
I force myself to roll out of bed, literally, and I crawl on my hands and knees towards the kettle, praying there is water inside, given I’m not sure I can make it to the bathroom and back. There is a God! I try to stand but my legs shake and the room is spinning. Hurry up, I need coffee! Gripping the bed, I pull myself up and perch delicately on the end, staring into the mirror opposite. I’ve aged a decade over night. My face looks like it’s been painted with a permanent worried fix, deeply rooted and cemented in to give it longevity, red eyes sit between swollen lids and dark circles and my face is dry and tight and salty.
My hands tremble as I empty the coffee sachet into the plain white cup, spilling most of it onto the saucer below. I try to pull back the foil of the tiny milk carton but my motor skills are on go-slow and I can’t quite manage the required level of coordination.
I’ll drink it black.
Time to face the music.
Dressed and almost ready to leave, there is one more thing I need to do: ring my mother and tell her I need her advice. Because I do.
Unplugging the charger, I switch the phone on. What the . . . ? Twenty-seven messages and thirty-eight missed calls! Someone is taking the piss and I’m not in the mood f
or it. I listen to the first couple of messages left by Chantelle getting her knickers in a twist over something or other. I’ll soon be there to put it all right. Oops, they found the title deeds on my desk! That one will take some explaining.
I delete the messages one by one until I hear my mother’s frantic tone. She knows! She knows I’m not away on holiday. Shit! They all do. Where am I? I listen on as the messages become more hysterical – from her, Sam, and Chantelle, each one of them begging for me to contact them. But it’s my dad’s voice that gets to me and crushes me to the point of no return.
The messages grow more bizarre. What are they talking about? Press coverage? Radio and TV appeals for my safe return? What?
The contents of my stomach explodes through my mouth and splatters across the room. The nausea cripples me and I continue vomiting until there is nothing left but bile. The back of my throat feels like sandpaper and as I swallow a burning liquid acid trickles down into an empty stomach with eroded lining.
I don’t understand it. I’m on holiday. I’m not a missing person. How has it come to this? Chantelle knows I’m not missing, I only spoke to her the other day. I spoke to Kate at midnight and she didn’t mention it . . . I’ve only been gone a week.
What have I done?
Perhaps it might be better for everyone if I was missing.
27
Down on all fours, I scrub the carpet with the complimentary facecloth, removing the bulk of the mess which unfortunately does very little to alleviate the hellish stench. Every now and then I have to run to the window and hang out to avoid a repeat performance, and even the dirty Manchester air is better than the putrid smell of this hotel room.
With the facecloth in the bin, I scrub my hands and splash ice-cold water on my face, not even caring that it’s gone in my hair and will frizz up by the time I’ve counted to ten. On a scale of what’s happening in my life right now, I don’t think I’ll ever care about my personal appearance again. Besides, nobody will see me in Siberia which is where I belong, on my own where I can’t fuck things up. I can’t understand how they think I’m missing. I’m in Crete.
Crystal Balls Page 30