Art Ache (19 page)

Chapter 22

The following friday. The awards night.

“
Create your own method. Don’t depend slavishly on mine. Make up something that will work for you! But keep breaking traditions, I beg you.” Constantin Stanislavski.

We’re here, at the advertising agency awards do, Las Vegas theme. Possibly just an excuse for people who work in the agency’s office to live out their fantasies. Everyone is dressed up and there’s a distinct buzz. Not for me. I feel ridiculous. To me, the idea of turning up to a work function dressed as a character is crazy. It’s a timely reminder I’m very lucky to have a career that allows me to fulfil my dreams rather than saving them up for special occasions. I shouldn’t judge.

We’re standing outside a posh golf club. We’ve been here for an hour and have ducked outside for a cigarette break, even though neither of us are smokers. I used to be a smoker, years ago. Pre-Tom. Nowadays, I only resort to a puff when under severe stress or utter duress. This is uncomfortable, unenjoyable and annoying, but not utter duress. I just need some air, even if it is smoky air.

Jack’s at Tom’s and I’m allowed to let my hair down after full-time rehearsals, but I’m hating this. I feel ridiculous.

I’m dressed like . . . well . . . like something vaguely Las Vegas. I’m wearing a skintight black dress with a home-done Farrah Fawcett seventies flick, blue eye shadow, huge earrings, and stiletto heels. Patrick’s dressed like Elvis meets Benny Hill meets Danny DeVito. He’s wearing a safari suit that is too small so the pants are more three-quarters than full length, along with a gold medallion and huge Elvis glasses. We make a sight for sore eyes.

PATRICK

Shall we go back in?

ME

Sure.

PATRICK

I’ll get us some drinks.

I look around the room in an attempt to connect. Just smile and breathe, Persephone. Smile and breathe.

Some people here appear to be overly excited about this daggy event. I’m pretty sure this is the highlight of their year. But I have no right to act superior. I’m dressed as a poor man’s porn star. I’m a participant and I’d be more than happy to accept an award should they feel that’s appropriate.

But I’m preoccupied. I’m starting to get the impression that the poor man’s Elvis I’m with has slept with most of the female attendees at this shindig. Well, a sizeable portion of them, anyway. This certainly doesn’t sit well with the “I don’t do casual” message he gave me a few weeks ago.

Patrick comes back with drinks.

PATRICK

Everything okay?

ME

Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.

PATRICK

You’re worried about Jack?

ME

No. He’s fine. He’s getting used to staying at Tom’s. He’ll be fine.

PATRICK

Yeah, but will you?

As we sip our drinks, one of Patrick’s suspected harem approaches me, tits falling out of an electric blue mini dress she definitely shouldn’t be wearing.

OFFICE WOMAN

Hi!

She breathes her Chardy breath all over me.

PATRICK

I’m going to the loo.

He dodges her and offers me as the sacrificial lamb. Thanks.

OFFICE WOMAN

We haven’t met.

She’s already well on her way to being pissed and I’m strangely distracted by the fillings in her teeth.

ME

No.

OFFICE WOMAN

You’re dating Patrick?

ME

Well . . . yes.

OFFICE WOMAN

Been there, done that.

She takes a slug of her Chardy.

I just want to sit down. Actually, I want to disappear, but she’s bailed me up. She talks right in my face, far too loudly while
Caribbean Queen
blares in the background. While Billy Ocean reassures me that we’re sharing the same dream and our hearts are beating as one, she’s slurring, teetering and swaying, hovering in front of me like a plump, wilted praying mantis or some kind of beached dugong. She thinks now is the perfect time to share insightful information about the one-night stand she had with Elvis, sorry, Patrick. She’s wrong. Now is not the perfect time. Never is the perfect time.

She’s the third woman this evening to share this piece of insightful information with me. How many of these women has Patrick dated? And they’re not the lovely ones, the ones I know, the ones I work with from time to time when they book me for voice-over jobs. No, the ones Patrick seems to have known intimately are the painted ones from the back office or wherever it is they’ve crawled from. The ones we would have referred to at school as scrags.

Back to the electric blue wilted praying mantis come beached dugong in front of me. All I can concentrate on are her fillings. Her lips are murderously red, the lipstick bleeding into the pucker wrinkles around her mouth and she has already managed to smudge her kohl eyeliner.

I swerve around her as quickly as I can, pleading a full bladder.

ME

Excuse me. Need to . . .

She seems disappointed, annoyed that I don’t want to engage her inanity. I just want to get away from her. I’m hallucinating about my partner’s tongue brushing against her fillings while he snogs her. I definitely need to excuse myself. I duck under her arm, propped as it is against the wall, blocking my exit, and duck swiftly towards the ladies’ room.

I don’t need to wee, I need time to myself. This is becoming a recurring theme in my life. I don’t bother going into the cubicle to feign a wee, I just check myself out in the mirror and re-apply lipstick.

As I’m touching up my Las Vegas pout, Anna comes into the ladies’ room. She works with Patrick and I knew her before I knew him. She was one of the first people to suggest I get into voice-overs to supplement my acting work. She’s one of the lovely ones.

ANNA

Hey.

ME

Hi.

ANNA

Having fun?

ME

Bloody hell.

I can confess to her. I can let my guard down. I can be real.

ANNA

How you coping?

ME

I’m not. I just got bailed up by his ex.

Then the
Brady Bunch ball comes crashing back into my life.

ANNA

Which one? I’m thinking of five or six who might be here.

Five or bloody six? On top of the wilted praying mantis come beached dugong?

Anna picks up on the expression on my face.

ANNA

You didn’t know?

ME

No.

ANNA

Oh . . . sorry. He’s still a nice guy, just never been able to settle down. Troubled past. Not sure of the details.

Breathe, Persephone. Breathe. He must have lied about not doing casual. Put it out of your mind. You’re not committed to this guy yet so you’re free to walk away, if that’s what you choose to do. In the meantime, just go back to your table and wait for the awards to be announced.

So I do. Patrick’s there. And at this particular moment, he seems more Benny Hill than Danny Devito or Elvis. I’m repulsed by everything about him. But most of all, I’m repulsed by myself. I feel deeply disappointed that he appears to be a dishonest guy who does in fact do casual and that I didn’t pick it. I also feel disappointed that it matters to me. I’m a self-actualised woman of the 21
st
century. Aren’t I? But I’m thrown by this. Shouldn’t I be crashing through the glass ceiling, saying to hell with it? So what if the guy does casual? Who cares? But that isn’t who I am. I do care. Deeply. I hate it when people don’t tell the truth.

And then I hear my category announced.

ANNOUNCER

Best Commercial Talent Female Award. The nominees are . . .

I kind of tune in, but I still have flashes of nicotine-stained fillings floating through my mind. And the winner is . . .

Me! Me? I won an award. My husband no longer likes me, but someone does. I do it for someone.

As I make my way to the stage to collect the glass trophy, I offer up a special thanks to baby Jesus for keeping me sober tonight. The only thing that could have made tonight worse would have been stumbling up to collect my award, half-pissed, full of Dutch courage and giving all Patrick’s ex-shags a mouthful.

And then it happens. I arrive back at the table to a ringing mobile. Boofhead. What does he want? Jack!

ME

Hello?

BOOFHEAD

He’s broken his leg. We’re at the hospital.

ME

What?

BOOFHEAD

You heard me. It’s being plastered.

ME

Jack?

BOOFHEAD

Of course Jack.

ME

How?

BOOFHEAD

Jumping on the bed.

ME

Which hospital?

BOOFHEAD

Children’s.

ME

Of course. I’ll get a cab. I’m coming straight away.

A broken leg? It’s being plastered. That means he’s been there for quite some time. Why didn’t Boofhead ring me sooner? Why was he jumping on the bed? Tonight, I swear I could get a job on
Sale of the Century
. I’m full of questions. Everything about tonight has raised questions.

ME

How do I get a cab?

PATRICK

What?

ME

A cab. He’s broken his leg.

PATRICK

Jack?

ME

I have to go.

PATRICK

I’m coming with you.

I flee. I leave the award, my camera, my program, everything except my bag right there on the table. All I want is to hold my little boy and tell him that hot chocolate will definitely make it feel better.

Until now, I’ve managed to keep my two worlds separate. I deal with Boofhead, I live with Jack, and I date Patrick. Patrick doesn’t have anything to do with Boofhead or Jack. Separate worlds. But as I turn up in the emergency ward, suddenly acutely aware that I’m dressed as a prostitute-y version of Farrah Fawcett and that I’m with a man who could easily pass for my pimp, the worlds begin to collide.

Tom’s there.

ME

Where’s Jack?

BOOFHEAD

In here.

He leads the way.

ME

This is Patrick.

BOOFHEAD

Hi.

ME

And this is Boofhead.

BOOFHEAD

What?

Oh shit. I said that out loud.

BOOFHEAD

Is that what you call me? Boofhead?

ME

Not now.

There’s Jack. He’s prone on the bed with a very friendly looking nurse talking to him. I smother him with hugs and kisses.

ME

Sweetheart, your leg. How are you?

JACK

Mummy!

ME

I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I didn’t know. I . . .

JACK

Did you win?

ME

Yes. They gave me a trophy. Does your leg hurt, sweetheart?

JACK

Yes. A lot.

ME

Oh dear.

And now I feel I’m going to cry. No crying, Persephone. There’s only one patient in this room and that’s Jack.

I swallow down tears.

JACK

It hurt, Mummy.

ME

I bet it did.

Then the Ralph Lauren polo-wearing, squeaky-clean grammar school educated doctor turns up and looks at me as though I really am a three-dollar hooker or a full-bogan rather than just the half-bogan I so often feel I am these days.

ME

It was fancy dress. Las Vegas themed.

I offer this by way of explanation. He couldn’t care less.

DOCTOR

Your son has been in a lot of pain.

ME

I’m sure he has.

DOCTOR

You’re free to go now, but he’ll need these painkillers.

He hands me a plastic bag.

DOCTOR

Follow the instructions to the letter. And he’ll need a follow-up appointment in a week.

ME

Thank you.

Ralph Lauren leaves.

I turn to Boofhead, managing to remain calm.

ME

Why was he jumping on the bed?

BOOFHEAD

Just back off, all right?

Defensive.

ME

Sweetheart. You’ll be okay. Let’s get you home.