Onscreen, hundreds of clips ran together, moving from black and white to colour. In the clips, women walk in and out of rooms; they are grabbed at by faceless figures. They sprawl on furniture and are photographed: tied to train tracks, being slapped hard across their faces. Hundreds of close-ups of women with tears in their eyes, their features unmoving, their faces all strikingly similar. At the end, a single scene plays again and again: a woman is punched in the face. Blood spurts from her nose as she smiles. ‘You love me,’ the woman says, as she lies on the floor. ‘This means you really love me.’ As this scene plays, Natasha pours red liquid all over the carpet until it becomes fully red and filthy, her feet soaked with the liquid.
‘What was I saying?’ Natasha turns back to face the audience. She is laughing. Some of the liquid gets caught in her hair and runs down her face. She is holding an award. ‘I guess I’m just happy to be here,’ she says, ‘because, despite everything, you guys love me. I mean you really, really love me, don’t you?’
She rolls up the carpet and pushes it offstage. She pulls the string and the screen disappears. She picks a sign up from the floor and shows it to the audience. The sign reads: ‘The Big Comeback Special.’ Natasha exits.
Lucy walks onstage holding a cigarette and a glass of wine. She looks relaxed in jeans and a black T-shirt. She carries a microphone stand under her left arm. She places the stand down and adjusts its height. She taps the microphone. She takes a drag of her cigarette.
‘Did you miss me?’ she asks into the microphone.
The audience claps.
‘You wrote me off, didn’t you? That was stupid. You shouldn’t have done that.’ She takes another drag. ‘I’m here to be humorous. It’s my “comeback special.” They made me call it that. Have you ever heard of anything so dumb?’ She rolls her eyes. She exhales and bats the smoke out of her face. She takes a sip of her wine. ‘Okay, so a girl walks into a bar,’ she says, smiling. ‘Wait, that’s not right, let me start again.’
Lucy exits. She does a silly little dance as she struts back in. ‘Okay, so a girl walks into a bar.’ She points her cigarette at the audience. She keeps a smile on her face throughout. ‘I know what you’re up to. I mean you guys act all innocent, like you just came here to see a girl tell a few jokes, but I’m not so sure about you sick fucks.’ The audience laughs, appreciating being called sick fucks. Lucy takes another sip of her wine. She claps her hands. ‘So a girl walks into a bar.’ She thinks for a few seconds. ‘Wait, let me start again.’
Lucy exits and dances back in with a newly lit cigarette. ‘Okay,’ she says, ‘I’m ready to go now.’ She hits the side of her wine glass. ‘It’s hot up here, isn’t it?’ she says, as if it has just occurred to her. ‘So what have you guys been up to?’ She gestures at the audience. ‘Just taking it easy? Relaxing?’ She nods. ‘Cool. See my problem with all of you, and this has always been my problem, is that I just don’t like any of you very much and I never have, you bunch of pricks.’ The audience laughs again at the insult. ‘I don’t think you came out here to hear me be funny at all. I think you came out to hear some pain. You don’t care what it is exactly, but you want it. You’re so competitive about it. And I just think—fuck you, you know.’ She takes a long drink. ‘You never, ever get tired, do you? You take one look at me and you need to know I’ve been punished.’
Natasha enters, dressed as a stagehand, and takes the cigarette and drink off Lucy. She puts her hand on Lucy’s shoulder before she walks off.
‘Well, you asked,’ Lucy says. ‘You want to know. So here it is.’
She moves to put her hand on the microphone stand, but Natasha swoops in and takes the microphone stand away. Lucy grabs at the microphone before she can take it.
‘A girl walks into a house. She’s sixteen,’ she starts. Natasha returns and takes the microphone out of Lucy’s hand. Lucy can’t be heard. She starts crying, tears moving down her face. After ten minutes, when Lucy is finished, when her mouth has stopped moving, Natasha walks back onstage with Lucy’s cigarette and glass of wine. She readjusts the microphone stand for Lucy’s exact height. She puts her arm around Lucy’s shoulder before she exits.
Lucy steps up to the microphone.
‘For several months, when I was sixteen, I thought I was going to die.’ Lucy takes a slow drag. The smoke rises upwards. ‘But when I was twenty I sat on a balcony in Spain. A storm was starting, but I didn’t move. I could hear the thunder. The rain came down and soaked the paper I was working on. Some of the words ran. And I was so happy.’ Lucy pauses. ‘For several months when I was sixteen I thought I was going to die.’ She smiles, a huge, broad smile. ‘But I didn’t die.’ She stubs out her cigarette. ‘And that’s it from me tonight, ladies and gentlemen.’ She bows. ‘That’s it from me. It feels so good to be back. Honestly, you have no idea.’
As Lucy exits, Natasha walks onstage holding a wooden desk. She is wearing a school uniform, a blue jumper and tiny, tight blue skirt. She sets the desk down. She puts her feet up. She fixes her hair. She writes something on a sheet of paper.
Lucy glides onstage in a nun’s costume. She is wearing a pair of tiny spectacles. She holds a bucket in each hand. She stands still like a statue behind Natasha. She wears an expression of absolute beatification.
‘Don’t let me stir you from your slumber, my child,’ she says, quietly.
Natasha jumps.
‘Take your feet down off that desk.’
Natasha puts her feet on the floor.
‘Now, my sweet child, you know why I’ve brought you here today.’
‘I think so.’
‘You’ve been accepted into the most elite college. A place apart.’
‘I have.’
‘Have a sweet in celebration.’ Lucy takes a sweet out of her pocket and offers it to Natasha.
Natasha eats the sweet.
‘It’s an achievement. That’s why I gave you a sweet,’ Lucy-as-nun explains.
‘It is delicious.’
‘You’re the only girl in your year to go to this elite college. Do you feel any pressure?’
‘Not really,’ Natasha says.
‘Don’t tell lies.’
‘I’m not lying.’
‘Maybe you should,’ Lucy-as-nun says, thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you should feel some pressure. Hold up the paper. Show everyone your results in the examinations.’
Natasha holds up the paper to the audience.
‘Now, my dearest child, those are great marks but don’t get ahead of yourself.’
‘No,’ Natasha says, seriously.
‘Don’t lose the run of yourself.’
‘I won’t.’
Lucy-as-nun rests her tiny hands on the side of the desk as if she is interrogating Natasha. She lowers her spectacles. ‘Do you promise to leave this place and never look back.’
‘I promise, Sister.’
‘So you swear to leave this slum, the giant quarry in which you were born, and never to gaze upon it again?’
‘I swear, Sister.’ Natasha smooths down her skirt as if in preparation.
‘Do you promise to rise to moderate heights with a quiet and civilised personality?’
‘I do, Sister.’
‘Do you swear to find a good man and accompany him to all social occasions where you will have only one single brandy over the course of the evening?’
‘I will do that to the best of my abilities, Sister.’
‘Now, if you find out your husband has been living a sort of double life and he buys you a car as compensation, what do you say to that?’
‘I say: “Is that Unleaded or Diesel?”’
‘Very good, my child.’ Lucy adjusts her habit and gazes out proudly. ‘Now, before you leave this school forever, I’m going to impart some information about college.’
‘I would appreciate that, Sister.’
‘There is no bell in college. No bell like this.’ A school bell screeches out. ‘But that doesn’t mean you can just stand up and
leave whenever you want.’
‘No, I agree, Sister.’
‘No vulgarity, no ugliness, no stupidity.’ Lucy-as-nun ticks the rules off on her fingers. ‘And finally you must swear not to get sidetracked by hormones, false promises and immoral behaviour, and never to just do whatever with whoever comes along at the time.’ Lucy throws a bucket of ice water over Natasha’s head. An ice cube bounces off Natasha’s noise. It barely registers with Natasha. She wipes water from her face, but her expression doesn’t change.
‘Pray for me, Sister,’ she says, water dripping onto the floor.
‘I will pray that you turn into a magnificent young woman in a place that doesn’t have time for the second rate. One final thing,’ Lucy-as-nun says, ‘you’re going to need this.’ She dumps the second bucket over Natasha’s head, sending paper money flying through the air, the sheets settling onto Natasha’s hair and soaking wet uniform.
‘Thank you, Sister,’ Natasha says and stands up. ‘All of this has been very useful.’
Lucy blesses herself. Out of her robe, she pulls a toy gun. She slips off her nun-costume and underneath wears a stripy T-shirt and jeans. She grabs Natasha’s hand. She shoots her toy gun into the ceiling. It emits a gentle flare. ‘This is a stick-up,’ Lucy shouts.
Natasha giggles nervously.
‘We’ve got a girl here … ’
‘Me,’ Natasha says.
‘Who has been accepted to the best college in this country.’ Lucy turns the gun to the front row, directly at the acting troupe. ‘So you’re going to need to put the money in the bag. We can’t have her mucking around up there like a child from an uncultured and ugly hick town. Take a look around you, she’s a long way from home. So let’s get on with it.’ She fires the gun two more times and, as she does so, Natasha and her separate. Natasha pulls the string and the screen fills the background once more. She puts a phone on the desk. She takes off her wet jumper and sits down. She wipes her face. She puts on Lucy’s abandoned spectacles. Lucy drags in her own chair and sits opposite Natasha.
‘It’s so great to have you at this college,’ Natasha says, ‘and, as you know, we like to mind our students. So, Lucy, we’re going to help you find your parents.’ Natasha leans over and grabs Lucy’s arm. ‘We do this because we care. Lucy, are these your parents?’
Onscreen appears a picture of an elderly man and woman standing in a field of corn.
‘No,’ Lucy says.
Natasha nods in deep consideration. ‘Lucy,’ she says, seriously, ‘are these your parents?’
A still from the film Man of Aran pops up. A black-and-white man and a woman standing in front of a sunken ship.
‘No,’ Lucy says, baffled.
The phone rings. ‘Excuse me. I have to answer this but so help me God we’re going to do everything in our power to find your parents, Lucy.’ Into the phone, Natasha shouts: ‘I don’t care, get her down off that building. That would be the fourth this year. Get her down.’ She slams the phone down. ‘Hahahahah,’ she laughs falsely, ‘just a bit of business there. So where was the last place you saw your parents? Was it outside your shack?’
‘My what?’
Natasha looks tortured. ‘It’s terrible. So terrible. A lot of the country girls come up here – they don’t even have running water and electricity in their homes.’
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ Lucy says.
‘We try to do what we can for them. We give them these little boxes at Christmas, it’s just a little something, a token, but it helps.’ The phone rings again. ‘Excuse me,’ Natasha says, and answers. ‘She did WHAT? Why would she do that? That’s dreadful. That’s just dreadful. Clean it up.’ Natasha hangs up. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘we’ve lost another potential alumna. So, Lucy, tell me more about you. How did you find out about this college? You and your eighteen siblings were gathered around the television set and you saw a picture of it onscreen. Your heart was set on it.’
‘That wasn’t it.’
‘That’s actually a moving and beautiful story. We should put it in the newsletter.’
‘But I—’
‘So when the time comes and you’ve been out in the world for a while, we will be asking you for a donation to our establishment. Do you think you will be able to contribute?’
‘I think you’ve got me all wrong,’ Lucy says. ‘Wait.’ She walks offstage.
Natasha sits looking at the phone as if daring it to ring again. Lucy returns wearing everything she has ever stolen and been gifted. She can’t be seen, her face and body are obscured by the pile of clothes and jewellery. She can barely walk. She clears a space in which only her mouth appears.
‘Do I look like a lowlife to you?’ she asks.
‘You look good,’ Natasha says. ‘You look very good. But you’re annoying me now. You’re annoying me. Can we have some fun? I want to have some fun.’ Out of the desk drawer, Natasha takes a sign that reads: ‘Saturday Night.’ She holds it up for the audience to see. Lucy waddles offstage. Natasha smoothes down a white tablecloth over the desk and places a vase of flowers on it. She also sets down a silver bell. She bows and exits.
Lucy swans back in, wearing her pink negligee and see-through robe. It is dirtier, more worn. She staggers in her heels and carries a comically tiny purse. She pulls out a chair and sits down.
She sits for two minutes before she shouts, ‘What is taking so long?’
Natasha enters wearing a suit and a moustache. She sits down opposite Lucy.
‘Why don’t you eat something?’ Natasha says to Lucy. ‘You look so good but why don’t you eat something?’
Lucy presses the bell. ‘Next!’
Natasha changes quickly into a looser costume; a huge, white shirt.
‘I have a poetic soul, you see.’
Lucy presses the bell. ‘Next!’
‘It was a transformative experience.’
Lucy presses the bell. ‘Next!’
‘Next!’
‘Next!’
‘Next!’
The bell rings out again and again as Natasha scrambles to change costumes faster and faster. She sways left and right as she pulls trousers and shirts on and off. She becomes more and more frantic until she collapses, lying motionless on the floor. Lucy just looks at her. Natasha stands up and calmly dusts herself off. She exits stage left.
Lucy is left alone at the table. ‘Intimacy is hard for me,’ she says, ‘but I think I speak for all of us when I say it’s hard for all of us.’
Natasha returns dressed in a coat and tails. She pulls a drinks cabinet behind her. She polishes a glass and places it in Lucy’s waiting hand. She opens a bottle.
‘How was your evening, Miss?’
‘It was alright.’
‘You tell me when now, Miss.’
Lucy holds out her glass and Natasha fills it to the top. When it begins to overflow, Natasha keeps pouring. She opens a second bottle and continues pouring until the liquid is all over the floor, all over the tablecloth and all over Lucy. Lucy stares straight ahead.
‘When,’ Lucy says.
Natasha takes a grey wig and waistcoat from the drinks cabinet and places it on the table. She pushes her drinks cart offstage left.
‘What could be possibly worse than this on a Saturday night?’ Lucy asks the audience. ‘This set-up. You know I’ve thought some pretty distasteful stuff in my life, and actually done worse, but I don’t deserve this. I’m generous. I try. What could possibly be more awful than this?’
From the other side of the stage, Natasha carries in a small table and a newspaper. She sits at the table. She is wearing a prim cardigan and a long skirt. Gentle, refined music begins to play. Lucy carries over her chair. She puts on the grey wig and the waistcoat. She picks up the newspaper and sits down, clearing her throat. She opens the newspaper. Lucy and Natasha sit in total silence as the refined music continues to play.
‘What music is this?’ Natasha asks.
Lucy raises one finger to silence he
r. She keeps reading the newspaper.
‘What are you doing this weekend?’
Lucy raises a finger to silence her.
‘What are you doing this weekend?’
A finger is raised again.
‘What are you doing this weekend?’ Natasha asks again, more quietly this time.
Lucy lays down her newspaper. She looks aggrieved. ‘Why do you come into my house and ask what I’m doing this weekend, Natasha. I’m not your boyfriend.’
‘What are you doing this weekend?’ Natasha repeats.
A photo pops up onscreen: a blurry Lucy, her breasts on show.
‘I’m working on my marriage,’ Lucy-in-the-wig says, and picks up the paper again.
The lights go down to complete darkness. Lucy and Natasha switch costumes. They sit back down at the table where Lucy places a lamp and a tape recorder. The light from the lamp is all that illuminates the stage. Natasha switches on the tape recorder.
‘So, Lucy tell me what happened?’ Natasha says, business-like.
‘I—’ Lucy struggles.
Behind Lucy every photo she has ever taken flashes up on the screen in fast succession, a long parade of images. Lucy’s hands clutching her breasts, spreading her legs apart.
Natasha watches the screen for a while. ‘That’s a problem,’ she exhales slowly, in the manner of a weary detective. ‘That’s a problem, for sure.’
‘What?’ Lucy doesn’t turn her head.
‘We’ve got ourselves a slapper,’ Natasha says. ‘You know you should leave a polite amount to the imagination. Wipe that make-up off your gob. Stress your innocence, but not loudly, because that makes people suspicious. This is tricky. Don’t be caught anywhere you shouldn’t be. Spend a lot of time in the library. There are a lot of books in the library you can look at. Don’t linger near any of the sexual stuff. Lead a normal, daily life. Be seen living a normal, daily life. Ride a bicycle. That’s a good, carefree way of getting around. You trust a woman on a bicycle. That’s essential, the bicycle. Try not to think about any pain. Are you paying attention? These things matter. Don’t reply to any messages. Don’t even think about replying to any messages. Don’t get up in the middle of the night and send recriminatory and accusatory emails. Nothing good will come from that. Bury yourself, but at the same time be reborn. They will find your worst insecurities and they will kill you with them, so don’t have any insecurities. Look after your family. Love all animals. Be respectful. Be seen to be respectful. Make some fairy cakes. This is image rehabilitation. Take a good, long look at yourself. Not here, but in another building, away from me. Spend time in the garden. Reconnect. Change in every way, but don’t be seen to be doing so. Do you have any questions? Are you tired?’ Natasha turns off the tape recorder. ‘I think once a few things are straightened out, we’re in with a good chance of winning this thing.’
Show Them a Good Time Page 11