not.
Chapter 6
‘Darling, it’s me, Fenella. It’s about your audition…so sorry—they’ve just rung to say that you were soooo close for Trina, but in the end they decided to go back to their original idea of having her as a redhead. The babies are gingery, I understand. Lord knows how they’re going to manage with twins on set—I mean, what will they do for standins? Anyway, I’m sorry, darling. Hope you’re not too disappointed.’
‘I could have worn a frigging wig,’ I said, a dark mood stifling me like a mass of synthetic orange curls. ‘I mean, that’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard! Hair colour?’
I heard my agent spark up a cigarette, inhale, then exhale. I imagined the smoke billowing out of the receiver into my face and resisted the urge to cough. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, and as I lay in bed, I could still faintly smell the previous night’s smoky club on my own skin and in my hair. The thought of it in my lungs made me feel sick.
‘Well,’ said Fenella. ‘If you ask me, they knew who they wanted all along. I did tell them not to waste my time, or yours, but you know what the politics are like with these people.’
‘Whatever,’ I said. I pushed back the duvet and got out of bed, moving across the room to stand in front of the bedroom mirror in my pants, where I examined the faint silver stretchmarks on my belly. You could only see them in a certain light. ‘So, have you got anything else for me at the moment?’
Another inhalation, a nicotine sigh. ‘I promise you’re top of my list if anything suitable comes up. How do you feel about doing panto this year?’
I could have cried. It made me shudder to even think of it: the forced jollity and fake fairy-dust, the thigh-slapping and stupid hats. The tedium of bad puns twice a day for two months.
I climbed wearily back into bed again. ‘You know I loathe panto.’
‘Yes. Just thought I’d ask, though. So that’s a no, is it?’
‘That’s definitely a no. I’d rather be on the dole.’
After we’d said our goodbyes—mine somewhat grumpily - I rang Ken at the office to tell him that I hadn’t got the job. But his voicemail clicked on, after what seemed like an eternity. I hated leaving messages on his machine, it was such a palaver: press ‘1’ to do this, press ‘0’ to terminate the call (why on earth wouldn’t you just hang up, if you wanted to terminate the call?); listen to Ken himself running through a variety of options: ie. ringing his secretary on this number, trying him on his mobile on that number. Then eventually, by the time I’d lost the will to live - or at least forgotten what I was ringing to tell him in the first place - you got offered the chance to leave a message. I hung up long before that. It was hardly important, after all.
The day stretched ahead of me as all the others did, with not even the promise of the distraction of work. No lines to be learned, no research to be done, no cast to meet. I didn’t have the energy for a run. Lil had said she was going on a coach trip with her Women’s Institute friends up to the National Gallery—and, besides, I didn’t want to get too reliant on her company now that we were friends again. I thought of visiting Vicky, but then remembered that Wednesday was the day she took Pat to his toddler group.
So I decided to get up and go for a drive instead. I liked driving, it was a great de-stresser. I hadn’t left the house for ages after Holly, and had missed my car so much that once I was back behind the wheel again (Ken having discreetly disposed of the brand-new ladybird-print carseat), I found myself going out more and more. I could listen to CDs or the radio, and it somehow felt far more productive than doing the same sitting at home. I was covering miles, swallowing distance. And I admit, the first few weeks I went out there was more than a niggle of a self-destructive element to it: I was testing God. Or myself. If I pushed up
Chapter 6
‘Darling, it’s me, Fenella. It’s about your audition…so sorry—they’ve just rung to say that you were soooo close for Trina, but in the end they decided to go back to their original idea of having her as a redhead. The babies are gingery, I understand. Lord knows how they’re going to manage with twins on set—I mean, what will they do for standins? Anyway, I’m sorry, darling. Hope you’re not too disappointed.’
‘I could have worn a frigging wig,’ I said, a dark mood stifling me like a mass of synthetic orange curls. ‘I mean, that’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard! Hair colour?’
I heard my agent spark up a cigarette, inhale, then exhale. I imagined the smoke billowing out of the receiver into my face and resisted the urge to cough. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, and as I lay in bed, I could still faintly smell the previous night’s smoky club on my own skin and in my hair. The thought of it in my lungs made me feel sick.
‘Well,’ said Fenella. ‘If you ask me, they knew who they wanted all along. I did tell them not to waste my time, or yours, but you know what the politics are like with these people.’
‘Whatever,’ I said. I pushed back the duvet and got out of bed, moving across the room to stand in front of the bedroom mirror in my pants, where I examined the faint silver stretchmarks on my belly. You could only see them in a certain light. ‘So, have you got anything else for me at the moment?’
Another inhalation, a nicotine sigh. ‘I promise you’re top of my list if anything suitable comes up. How do you feel about doing panto this year?’
I could have cried. It made me shudder to even think of it: the forced jollity and fake fairy-dust, the thigh-slapping and stupid hats. The tedium of bad puns twice a day for two months.
I climbed wearily back into bed again. ‘You know I loathe panto.’
‘Yes. Just thought I’d ask, though. So that’s a no, is it?’
‘That’s definitely a no. I’d rather be on the dole.’
After we’d said our goodbyes—mine somewhat grumpily - I rang Ken at the office to tell him that I hadn’t got the job. But his voicemail clicked on, after what seemed like an eternity. I hated leaving messages on his machine, it was such a palaver: press ‘1’ to do this, press ‘0’ to terminate the call (why on earth wouldn’t you just hang up, if you wanted to terminate the call?); listen to Ken himself running through a variety of options: ie. ringing his secretary on this number, trying him on his mobile on that number. Then eventually, by the time I’d lost the will to live - or at least forgotten what I was ringing to tell him in the first place - you got offered the chance to leave a message. I hung up long before that. It was hardly important, after all.
The day stretched ahead of me as all the others did, with not even the promise of the distraction of work. No lines to be learned, no research to be done, no cast to meet. I didn’t have the energy for a run. Lil had said she was going on a coach trip with her Women’s Institute friends up to the National Gallery—and, besides, I didn’t want to get too reliant on her company now that we were friends again. I thought of visiting Vicky, but then remembered that Wednesday was the day she took Pat to his toddler group.
So I decided to get up and go for a drive instead. I liked driving, it was a great de-stresser. I hadn’t left the house for ages after Holly, and had missed my car so much that once I was back behind the wheel again (Ken having discreetly disposed of the brand-new ladybird-print carseat), I found myself going out more and more. I could listen to CDs or the radio, and it somehow felt far more productive than doing the same sitting at home. I was covering miles, swallowing distance. And I admit, the first few weeks I went out there was more than a niggle of a self-destructive element to it: I was testing God. Or myself. If I pushed up
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