Wise Follies (20 page)

Ambivalence is, I suppose, what I’m mainly feeling. Ambivalence about men in general. If James Mitchel does phone I suddenly fear I may exclaim, ‘How dare you! How dare you pester me like this when I’m seriously considering a proposal of marriage!’ – though I would, of course, just be addressing my own longings.

By Sunday evening I’m a little less leery of the phone, though as I study it I realize that, in a subtle way, it seems to have already acquired some of the characteristics of James Mitchel himself. For instance, there’s something almost smug about its silences now – as if it knows something that I don’t. Whether he called while I was out buying a Chinese take-away. Whether he’s the kind of man who tries to phone once and then gives up, or waits for a while and then dials again and again until he gets an answer. For a wild moment I wonder if I should plunge it ruthlessly into a bowl of cold water.

As Sunday evening dawns, hope has been replaced by a dull resignation. I am reminded of the country song that goes, ‘If nobody calls, it’s me.’ Listening to James’s silences while I try to paint is, frankly, boring. I finally reach a point when, if he does call, I’d be tempted to say, ‘I’ve lost interest in you now. Please go away.’

I’m enormously relieved when Mira returns, tanned from her weekend on the waterways. After I’ve made her a mug of tea I tell her, somewhat shamefacedly, what I’ve done.

She’s surprisingly non-judgemental. ‘At least it’s something real,’ she comments. She says women like me do things like that sometimes and I shouldn’t feel too bashful about it. She says she’ll field phone calls for me so at least I’ll know who they are from.

Now a week has passed and Mira and I are blissfully listening to good old Colin Derling going on about organic manure on Gardeners’ Questions. We rather like the idea of maturing into the kind of women who contact Gardeners’ Questions with simple dilemmas. Mira keeps telling me I should make my life more simple. ‘Simplify. Simplify.’ That’s what she says, though she often doesn’t seem to follow this advice herself.

‘How do you simplify things, Mira?’ I ask her anxiously. ‘It sounds like a rather complicated thing to do.’

‘You have to remember what you’ve learned. What you know,’ she says. ‘We all know what we need – deep down.’

I try to smile gratefully at this insight, even though I don’t feel like smiling at all. I don’t feel like smiling because I don’t think I know what I need deep down any more. I think my needs have got so mixed up with my wants and fears and hopes that they’re all jumping round inside me in a panic, like stray cats stuck somewhere far too small. They’re demanding all kinds of fish heads to distract them: love. Painting. Celibacy. Television. Emigration. Marriage. Snickers Bars. Oh, well, at least James Mitchel kept them entertained for a short while.

But how I long for a serene, sensible, uncomplicated life. I really do.

Chapter
18

I almost lost my
moustache a moment ago. It happened when we all had to cower after the shots rang out. It was most interesting.

I tried to cower with great feeling. I tried to reel in shock and then I covered my mouth – I gave a little screech and widened my eyes in terror too. I was trying to stand out in a small way, but I don’t think they noticed. There are just too many of us and there’s an awful lot of smoke. They’re blowing the smoke at us from some kind of machine. It doesn’t smell too bad – in fact there’s a tiny whiff of juniper aromatherapy oil about it.

So this is what being an extra on a film is like. I must say it’s a wonderful change from writing about sex, though I rather wish I didn’t have to be a peasant. I’d hoped I’d be one of the women who are wearing those nice long dresses with lace collars. The thing is, I arrived a bit late and they had enough women by then. So they put me in this scratchy ancient tweed suit with muck all over the knees. They put a bit of muck on my hands and face too. Not real muck – but it looks like it. Then they stuck my hair under a big tattered old hat and gave me a stick. The moustache came later. A young, driven-looking woman raced up to me and shoved it on.

There seems to be an awful lot of waiting around with filming – so I suppose in some ways it’s not that unlike real life. We wait around for something interesting to happen and don’t quite understand the pauses. We get rather bored and start grumbling about wanting cups of tea and things like that. Little posses are sent off to find a tea urn, which is eventually located. As we drink our tea we wonder what there’ll be for lunch and ask if anyone has seen the film’s big stars, Mel Nichols and Julia Robbins. I saw Mel Nichols just now actually. He’d found a quiet corner and was saying his lines into his polystyrene cup. He was picking at it a bit too – the way one can with cups like that. I liked seeing him picking at his cup. It was a special moment.

I think we’re supposed to cower again soon. The cowering we did earlier was just a rehearsal apparently. ‘Life is not a rehearsal’ – Sarah’s got that on a bit of sticky yellow paper by her desk. I’m so glad she sent me on this assignment. It’s almost made me forget that James Mitchel hasn’t returned my phone call, and probably never will. Even Eamon’s proposal seems like a distant dilemma. Maybe if I can cower with enough conviction a Hollywood producer will spot me and whisk me off to Beverly Hills.

I must try to get some quotes from Clara, the woman who seems to be in charge of us extras. She’s so busy; I haven’t seen her stand still all morning. She’s rushing around this set like a blue-arsed fly with a walkie-talkie. She’s taking care of small but crucial details, such as making sure we aren’t holding coke cans during filming.

We’re to take off spectacles and brooches and earrings and cover any glinting buttons too. The camera picks up these things, apparently.

Today’s filming is being done in a small country village. They’re using real buildings only they’ve altered the exteriors to make them look the right period. They’ve done a brilliant job. You really would think you’d stepped back in time. The film is set in Ireland during the early part of this century. It’s a love story, but there are skirmishes in it too. In fact, I’m waiting to take part in one of the skirmishes right now. It happens when a man is addressing an outdoor meeting about Irish freedom. Shots ring out and the crowd – that’s me and about four hundred others – cower for a moment but don’t run away. I myself would have run away. I would have scuttled into the local bar before you could say ‘Steven Spielberg’ – but this moustache seems to have changed my character enormously. Maybe I should keep it.

The film’s love story starts straight after this outdoor meeting. One of the men in the crowd goes into the local hotel and meets a mysterious and very beautiful woman who’s taking refuge in an alcove off the reception area. They fall in love immediately – which, of course, is how it should be done. But after this happens the handsome man discovers that the woman’s father is a high-ranking officer in the British Army. This is a right pain in the arse because the handsome man is devoted to the Irish cause. Love does win out in the end, apparently, but not before they have caused themselves, and piles of other people, a considerable amount of heartache. Frankly, I wonder if they wouldn’t have been better off saying ‘so long’ when things got so complicated – but, of course, there wouldn’t be a film then, would there? I have a tendency to back away from difficult situations, but maybe you have to face them if you want your life to have some glory.

Goodness – is that Elsie over there? Liam’s girlfriend. She’s got a lovely velvet dress on and loads of make-up. Her hair looks as if it’s been styled too. Maybe she’s one of the extras they’re using in a close-up. They have to look just right. She’s with a man in a smart brown suit. She’s eating an ice-cream, and he’s sharing it. He’s taking long suggestive licks from her cornetto. They seem to know each other very well. Goodness, he’s nibbling her ear! He’s brushing a stray hair from her face, and now they’re kissing! Perhaps it’s a rehearsal. No. I doubt it very much. It seems entirely authentic. Poor Liam. She’s cheating on him. But then, of course, he cheated on her too. They obviously deserve each other.

The director is shouting into his megaphone again. He says he wants us to look scared when the shots ring out. We weren’t looking frightened enough before apparently. I’m sure I was. I’m good at being frightened. I’m not that great at uncertainty, and there’s a lot of it about.

What on earth can be holding things up? The director told us we were to look frightened and then he went off somewhere. People are starting to slouch around again and are looking for somewhere to sit. I simply must have a pee. I can’t wait any longer. I’ll dash into that pub and be back in a second.

Oh darn – there’s a queue. Still, they can’t have started filming yet. The crew all looked very engrossed in obscure matters a moment ago and Mel Nichols wasn’t even on the set. I better check my moustache is on right. Little details like this do matter. The camera could just turn in my direction. Some people must get singled out – even in a crowd.

But as I sit down on the toilet seat I hear a loud English voice shout ‘Action’ and I know my moustache and I are not going to be part of this Hollywood epic. I’ve missed it. Missed the final ‘take’. The one they must be using because now, as I pull up my scratchy tweed pants I hear the director shouting through his megaphone: ‘Perfect. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’

I can’t believe it. It’s just not fair. I cowered more convincingly than any of the others. If only they’d waited for a moment I would have been back in time. But life doesn’t wait for you, does it? That’s what I’ve been learning lately. If you straggle too much you miss things. I’ve missed piles of things. It’s quite possible that I’m even going to miss love – the thing I want most of all. Because life isn’t like romantic movies. If I was Julia Robbins I probably wouldn’t even see Mel Nichols when he walks into the hotel where they’re supposed to meet. I’d probably be buttering a scone or something.

I push my way through the crowd in the pub, my eyes misting. Once I get outside I stand, blinking in the sudden sunlight, wondering what to do. I suppose I should go home. I’m good at that. But I have to hand this scratchy suit and other stuff back to wardrobe first. I’m so disappointed. My big day on a big film is all over and I’m not even in the thing. I’ll just have to face the fact that I’m not a Hollywood kind of person. I live a small life, and must adjust my dreams accordingly. There is a certain comfort in resignation, not just about this but other things too. Some of them swim in front of me now, almost taunting me for my stupidity: James Mitchel will never ever phone me. Beautiful letters do not arrive in my post. There is no Wonderful Man out there waiting to meet me. I will spend most of my honeymoon learning how to play golf.

I feel like throwing myself, wailing, to the ground, but I know I must practise stoicism. Most people ‘live lives of quiet desperation’ – that’s what Thoreau said. It’s true. I see Clara. She’s studying some notes on her clipboard. She looks very busy. Too busy to be interrupted by the likes of me. I can ring her for those quotes if necessary. I walk humbly by her, my resignation less scratchy now. Less painful. I’ll go home and give the herbaceous border a good weeding. Yes, that would be a sensible thing to do.

Then, just as I’ve almost reached wardrobe, I hear Clara calling, ‘You. You there. Come here for a moment.’ I turn around and see she’s pointing at me. I go back to her. What on earth can she want?

‘You missed the last scene, didn’t you?’ she says, looking at me sternly. ‘I saw you coming out of the pub. What were you doing in there?’

‘I went to the ladies.’

‘Couldn’t you have waited?’

‘Not really. I must have drunk about five cups of tea.’