Art Ache (11 page)

Chapter 13

The after party. An inner city house.

“The truth, the absolute truth, is that the chief beauty for the theatre consists in fine bodily proportions.” Sarah Bernhardt.

I hate this party. I feel alone. I’m used to being here as an actor. Tonight I’m the writer. I feel like an outsider, held at arm’s length. Tom hasn’t made it to the party. Probably back at the theatre cracking onto the stragglers. I feel alone. And old.

MR. GORGEOUS

How ya doin’?

ME

Good! Yeah. I’m good.

Tell the truth, Persephone.

ME

Actually I’m . . . I need some air.

MR. GORGEOUS

Me too. I’ve got a bottle. Join me outside.

ME

Sure.

I should be excited. I’m walking outside with Mr. Gorgeous. It’s nighttime, we have a bottle of something that doesn’t look too cheap and nasty, and I’m officially single. Although no one at this party knows that and they probably think I’m going outside to cheat on my husband. Let them think what they like. Here I am with Mr. Gorgeous and he’s . . . well, officially, he’s got a girlfriend. He spoke about her during the rehearsal the other day. She lives interstate. But hey . . . I’m willing to change my moral stance on gorgeous men with girlfriends for one night.

No I’m not. Who am I kidding? I’m just talking tough.

I should feel sexy and pert and alive and brilliantly talented and successful, but instead I feel like a soon-to-be-forty mother who looks like a young Graeme Kennedy and doesn’t do it for her husband anymore.

MR. GORGEOUS

You should keep writing, you know. You’re really good.

ME

Thanks.

MR. GORGEOUS

I mean it. Just keep writing.

ME

Yeah.

MR. GORGEOUS

My daughter loved it.

ME

She was there?

MR. GORGEOUS

Yeah she comes to all my shows. Always has.

ME

How is she?

MR. GORGEOUS

She’s older now, but it’s still tough. She wants me to be with her mum. Probably always will.

ME

I know the feeling.

MR. GORGEOUS

What? Aren’t you one half of the glamorous loved-up theatre couple?

What have I got to lose? Play’s opened, rehearsal’s over and next year’s season was announced today. Not much in it for me, but maybe a small-scale musical thing. May as well fess up.

ME

We’re separated.

MR. GORGEOUS

You and Tom?

ME

Yep.

MR. GORGEOUS

When?

ME

Just before rehearsals started, actually.

MR. GORGEOUS

I thought things were a bit tense. What happened?

ME

Um . . . I don’t really know.

And it’s true. I still don’t know what the actual tipping point was. Maybe I never will.

ME

Um . . . I think he wanted other things . . . I don’t know. I’m still trying to make sense of it. I’m not saying it’s all his fault, but it was his call. I’m trying to work out what part I played.

MR. GORGEOUS

Must be hard. But I guess you were always a bit of a prickly couple.

Is that what people thought? Or is that just what he thought? Prickly. Hmm, I’d ask him to elaborate but I can’t be bothered. Irrelevant now. Prickles or no prickles, it’s over.

ME

I hope you’re referring to him as the prickly one. My facial hair is doing just fine, thanks.

He laughs. And I get to see his white teeth again and his very pink mouth. He exudes health. I want to sniff him. I imagine he’d smell like the sea and vanilla and musk lollies and fresh water. I’ve had the mid-range waft of sandalwood and coconut oil, but I’m wondering what a close-up would smell like.

MR. GORGEOUS

And Jack is so young.

ME

Too young.

MR. GORGEOUS

There’s never a good age.

ME

I guess.

MR. GORGEOUS

You think it’s tough now. Wait ‘til you find a new partner.

I kind of hoped that might be you.
Shit! Did I say that out loud? NO. Thank God!

MR. GORGEOUS

My daughter would run over my girlfriend if she knew how to drive. Maybe it’ll be different for you ‘cause you’ve got a son, but it’s tough.

ME

Maybe.

A long pause ensues. A comfortable pause. We both sip our drinks and look at the night sky. It’s a clear, starry night. The air is crisp, but not too cool.

ME

Do you think I’m pretty?

I can’t believe I just said that. It leapt out of my mouth before I could stop it. I’m an idiot! Pretty or not, I’m an idiot!

Mr. Gorgeous turns his head to look at me, as if taking the words in. Maybe he didn’t hear me correctly.

Who cares if it’s a stupid thing to say? I desperately need to know. And I have nothing to lose. He has a girlfriend. I’ve been dumped. He’s a safe person to ask. I just need a male human being to affirm my femaleness. Although this pause is excruciatingly long.

MR. GORGEOUS

I’ve got a girlfriend.

ME

I know. I’m not cracking onto you. I just . . .

And there they are again—tears!

ME

Bloody hell. I’m sorry. I respect that you have a girlfriend. It’s just that you’re male and I’ve/

MR. GORGEOUS

/had the stuffing knocked out of you.

ME

Yes.

MR. GORGEOUS

You feel rejected.

ME

Totally.

I laugh.

ME

You know, I had a massage the other day and I asked the massage guy what he’d rate my legs out of ten. I’m pathetic.

MR. GORGEOUS

No, you’re not. It’s all part of the process. You need to learn how to function as an individual again, not as part of a pair.

ME

Yes.

MR. GORGEOUS

It takes time. And even if he’s left because of his issues, it’s going to feel like it’s because of you. Don’t take it on.

He moves towards me and puts his arm around my shoulder.

MR. GORGEOUS

For the record, you’re very pretty.

I laugh. How wonderful it feels to connect with a fellow human being.

ME

Thanks. It was a ridiculous question. Sorry.

MR. GORGEOUS

You’re a gorgeous girl, Pers, and you need to keep writing. That’s where your power lies.

And with that, he takes my other shoulder and turns me to face him. He leans in. He’s going to kiss me! Oh my God, he’s going for my mouth. He’s heading for my lips. I’m tilting my head to the side. I’m leaning in too. He’s really going to kiss me. A man other than my husband is going to kiss me. I can feel his breath. He’s going to . . .

Toot toot!

CABBIE

You book a cab?

And he redirects the kiss to my cheek.

MR. GORGEOUS

Thanks mate! Gotta go. Got an audition in the morning. Hang in there.

He blows me a kiss as he gets in the front seat. He’s sitting up front with the driver, a sure sign of his lack of a superiority complex. He winds the window down, puts his elbow out the window and calls out as the cab pulls away.

MR. GORGEOUS

I bet he gave you a ten!

I laugh.

ME

Eight and a half, actually. Bastard.

MR. GORGEOUS

Don’t take any of it on, Pers! Be kind to yourself.

Then he’s gone. I’m left with a bottle of red and a cheek I vow not to wash for at least a week. As I turn to re-join the party, I realise that I’m also left with a rumour that I have singlehandedly started. Three bodies scurry back into the house pretending they haven’t heard or seen my
Gone With The Wind
moment. And frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.

Chapter 14

Three weeks later. Agents’s office.

Oscar Wilde: “Do you mind if I smoke?” Sarah Bernhardt: “I don’t care if you burn.”

I arrange a meeting with Witchypoo for the de-brief. It’s at her office, a hot, cramped unit in some industrial estate. Noisy, dusty and chaotic. I’m determined to stay positive.

WITCHYPOO

How are you?

ME

Great. Good. I’m feeling good. How are you?

Shouldn’t have asked. She launches into an excruciating whinge about clients, her love life, her diet, her world view.

WITCHYPOO

Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about the work.

ME

I can’t believe how much people liked it. It was great.

WITCHYPOO

Well, it depends how you define great, doesn’t it?

ME

Really?

WITCHYPOO

It was fine.

ME

Fine?

WITCHYPOO

Yes. And the company has decided to offer you another commission.

ME

That’s fantastic!

WITCHYPOO

Don’t get ahead of yourself. Back to the play. The audience loved it but then again, they’re always going to.

ME

Are they? I’ve been to heaps of plays the audience didn’t love. But I’m thrilled that they loved mine. it’s a good thing.

WITCHYPOO

If you think so.

ME

I do.

WITCHYPOO

You see, the problem is . . .

And then she begins her diatribe. She opens up the ‘how to write a play’ box and lets loose. To cushion the blow, I find myself distracted by her hair. Last time I saw her it was peroxided. Now it’s a bright, orangey red. As her denunciation of my ability continues, I make an obsessive comparison between her hair and her eyebrows. I want to give her a bit of friendly advice:
hey love, next time you’re at the salon, get them to tone it down a couple of shades and maybe ask them to smear a bit on your brows.
But my distraction doesn’t last very long.

WITCHYPOO

You’re going to have to be careful. And I mean reeeally careful.

Does she have a slight English accent? I’ve never noticed it before. But then again, she does have an annoying trait of picking up a hint of the accent from whichever country she’s visited recently, or more likely, watched on telly. At least the English accent is better than the American one she contracted last time she watched
The Bold And The Beautiful.

WITCHYPOO

You’re going to have to be very careful with your next piece that you don’t fall into the trap of just trying to please an audience like you did with this one.

ME

They loved it.

WITCHYPOO

That’s the problem.

ME

Problem?

WITCHYPOO

An audience doesn’t know what’s good or bad. We need to teach them. Educate them about the difference between what they like, what they think they like, and what they should like. You were lucky this time.

ME

Lucky?

WITCHYPOO

Yes, you got away with it. You won’t be so lucky next time.

ME

But it went really well. People liked it. The reviews were good. It made money.

WITCHYPOO

And you think that’s important?

ME

Well, it’s part of it, isn’t it?

WITCHYPOO

It’s not. You need to embrace theatre as theatre.

I thought I had. I wrote a play for theatre that was performed in a theatre and people sat in a theatre, watched it and enjoyed it. They cried in bits, laughed in other bits and went away thinking about it.

WITCHYPOO

You need to aspire to something like . . .
The Goat
.

ME

The Goat
? As in Edward Albee?

WITCHYPOO

Did you see it?

ME

Yes.

And I want those two hours of my life back
.

WITCHYPOO

It’s a masterpiece.

ME

It’s about a man who has sex with a goat.

WITCHYPOO

Exactly. Brilliant metaphor.

Long pause. I can’t quite believe what I’ve just heard. I remind myself to breathe.

WITCHYPOO

Oh, by the way, I thought Tom did a brilliant job with what he had.

ME

What?

WITCHYPOO

He really lifted it from the page. Made something out of not much. He really . . .

Treated it like the goat in that play you were talking about.

I can feel tears stinging my eyes and a lump thumping in my throat. I have to get out of here. Don’t cry in front of her. Walk out with some level of self-respect and dignity.

WITCHYPOO

You’ve got to pick up the metaphor and run with it.

ME

I’ve actually got to pick up my son and run with him.

WITCHYPOO

Think about it. And by the way, rehearsal room affairs are never recommended.

ME

What?

WITCHYPOO

He is an undeniably handsome and very talented actor, but he’s out of your league. I’ve heard about the breakdown of your marriage.

ME

Heard? How?

WITCHYPOO

I’m not at liberty to say. It’s probably best for you to take time to heal privately and not let yourself be flattered by handsome actors who will of course be interested in the writer if they think the writer is connected to a theatre company and can give them work.

Heal? Flattered? Privately . . .

WITCHYPOO

Be discreet.

I grab my handbag, head for the door and race down her rickety, industrial stairs, hunting for my mobile phone like a woman possessed. I have to call my sister.

ME

My agent knows about Mr. Gorgeous.

SISTER

Of course she does. I bet everybody does.

ME

No one said anything to me.

SISTER

I’ll bet it was the talk of the dressing room.

ME

So, each time I went in there . . .

SISTER

Yep. You were probably the hot topic, my sweet. How’d the meeting go?

ME

The company’s commissioning me to write another play.

SISTER

That’s great!

ME

But she hated this one. She wanted it to be more like
The Goat
.

SISTER

That crap show about the guy who fucks a goat?

ME

Yep.

SISTER

But your show’s a sitcom about a dysfunctional family.

ME

Apparently, there’s room in there for a goat.

SISTER

God help us all. What sort of tosser would write a play about some loser fucking a goat?

ME

You’re being simplistic. Edward Albee is a brilliant writer, but
The Goat
. . . bloody hell. I know all the theory behind it. It’s about desire, the nature of theatre, drawing on images from Dionysian festivals, blah, blah, blah. I get all that. And it’s written by the grandfather of modern American theatre, but . . .

SISTER

It’s essentially about a man who’d rather fuck a goat than his wife!

ME

Pretty much.

SISTER

It’s bad enough that women hardly ever feature in theatre but when they do, they’re being rejected in favour of a fucking cloven-hooved beast. And she wants you to write shit like that?

ME

Apparently.

SISTER

Maybe that’s not what she meant.

ME

That’s what she meant.

SISTER

Are you sure? Is that exactly what she said?

ME

Pretty much. She called it a masterpiece. She used it as a reference point for excellence.

SISTER

Dickhead. Always told you she was a wanker.

ME

Why are you such a retrospective authority on the people in my life?

SISTER

Perspective. I stand back and look. You’re in the cage with them. No perspective.

ME

Great.

SISTER

Look, you did a great job. People loved it. You’ll make more money out of the royalty payments for that one show than you’ve made in your whole theatre career and now you’ve been commissioned to write another one. You’re successful.

ME

God, I can’t stand her.

SISTER

Maybe you should find another agent. It’s probably not healthy to have the same one as your ex-husband anyway. You need distance. Space. Your own identity. You need to run wild in your own paddock for a while. Without any goats. Did you shag the cute actor?

ME

No. But I did kiss him.

SISTER

Bullshit.

ME

I did. Why do you find that so hard to believe?

SISTER

Because nothing is ever straightforward with you. You’re not normal. Normal people break up with their husband, go out, get drunk, shag a cute guy from work and get on with their life. You go into a rehearsal period with your ex, pine over the gorgeous actor in the play like you’re Gidget and then get the shits when your loser agent wants your play to be more like some fucking “masterpiece” about fucking goats for fuck’s sake.

ME

Your language is dreadful.

SISTER

You sound like Mum.

ME

I’ve got to pick Jack up.

SISTER

I want to hear all about the pash.

ME

It wasn’t a pash. It was a peck.

SISTER

See? Nothing is ever straightforward with you.

I hit the end call button and check my watch. Three-twenty. I’ve got a session with Marjory and then I have to be at the childcare centre by five. I’ve dropped Jack’s days back to two now that the play’s finished. I can get some work done on those days and if I need a last minute babysitter, I can ring them and book Jack in for an extra day.

I wait in Marjory’s courtyard, reading the Buddha messages and remembering to breathe. She thinks, in a metaphysical kind of way, that I wanted Tom to leave. Maybe she’s right. I don’t know, but I do know that I feel better each time I’ve seen her. She’s teaching me what putting my lifejacket on means.

My mobile rings and I recognise Boofhead’s number. I answer it, against my better judgment.

BOOFHEAD

I can’t have Jack on Friday.

ME

What?

BOOFHEAD

I’m busy. I’ve got plans.

ME

He was the plan.

BOOFHEAD

Can I do Sunday instead?

ME

A sleepover on a Sunday night?

BOOFHEAD

No, just see him. During the day.

ME

But he’s meant to sleep over.

BOOFHEAD

If you can’t handle having him, I’ll drop him at my mum’s.

ME

Of course I can handle having him. I handle it every day. It’s just that he’ll be disappointed.

BOOFHEAD

Don’t start. Can we change the day or not?

ME

Are you working?

BOOFHEAD

No.

And now he adopts a too-cool-for-school tone.

BOOFHEAD

I’ve got a commitment.

ME

A date?

Did my voice really come out that loud?

ME

Another one?

BOOFHEAD

Kind of.

ME

Who with?

Why did I say that? I don’t need to know who he’s dating.

BOOFHEAD

Does it matter?

ME

Of course it doesn’t matter. I was just . . .

BOOFHEAD

It’s . . .

He takes his time.