Authors: Lucy Arthurs
Art Ache (14 page)
ME
I would have been more than happy for it to be about a pash.
MARJORY
You were testing your desirability. What I’m talking about is allowing yourself to connect with people again, not just men.
ME
I’m not a lesbian . . .
MARJORY
I’m not suggesting you are. What I’m suggesting is connecting with people socially. If anything comes up, then it comes up. Just don’t rule it out.
ME
Maybe. See you next week?
MARJORY
Let’s make it a month.
ME
What?
MARJORY
I’ll see you in a month.
Terror! I can’t live without this woman. I need her. I need to see her. I need to be with her. She’s my SELF object, my security blanket, my . . .
Breathe, Persephone. Breathe.
ME
A month?
MARJORY
Yes. The time’s right. You have the tools. We’ll never know until we set the pigeon free.
There she goes again.
ME
Okay. So . . . I’ll see you in a month.
MARJORY
See you then.
I leave her office and exit onto the street. The heat hits me the minute I walk out the door, oppressive. I have the tools. And awareness that my SELF is important. “I” statements. Positive self-talk. Doing activities that fill up my tank. My mind’s gone blank. I’ve forgotten all the tools. The pigeon has been set free and now she can’t remember how to fly.
My mobile rings. It’s my sister.
SISTER
Hey, wanna have a combined party for our birthdays?
ME
Not again.
SISTER
It’ll be fun. Yours is on the 20
th
, mine’s the 22
nd
. Let’s do the 21
st
.
ME
You’ll get drunk and crack onto all my friends.
SISTER
No, I won’t. Promise. And I’ll give Mr. Gorgeous a wide berth. He’s all yours.
ME
He’s gone back to Sydney.
SISTER
Well, you can get drunk and crack onto all
my
friends then.
ME
Might not be such a bad idea. The shrink thinks I should start dating.
SISTER
She’s not a shrink. You’re not insane. She’s just a counsellor who is helping you through a transitional period of your life.
ME
Of course. I forgot.
SISTER
You aren’t completely, permanently fucked, just temporarily fucked.
ME
Thanks. Actually, I’m not even temporarily fucked anymore. I don’t have to see her for a month. I’ve graduated!
SISTER
Well done, you. Now you’re ready for dating.
ME
It’s not actually dating. It’s spending time with men and women socially and not ruling it out if it comes up.
SISTER
Sounds like sex to me.
ME
Very funny. How ‘bout that new place?
SISTER
Make sure you ask some cute boys.
ME
For me or for you?
SISTER
Both. You probably don’t know any cute boys.
ME
Probably not.
SISTER
Think about it. No theatre blokes. Most of them are gay/
ME
/no they’re not/
SISTER
/yes they are. Or they’ll just stand around regaling each other with their Shakespearean monologues. Mix it up a bit.
I love my theatre friends and I can’t think of anyone else. Of course, I’ll invite my voice-over friends and clients I work with, but most of them are married. I can’t think of anyone I’d be interested in.
Patrick!
ME
The cute guy from the advertising agency, Patrick, I’ll invite him.
SISTER
Cool. Is he single?
ME
Don’t know.
SISTER
Find out. You need to spread your wings a little. Put some distance between you and Tom.
Absolutely. It’s all part of reclaiming my space, I guess.
That phrase reverberates around my mind.
Reclaim your space, Persephone.
Yes, my space at the audition, my space in my work, my space in my emotional life, my space in myself. My space. My house. My life.
As a commitment to this, I collect Jack early and he helps me rearrange the house. Yes, Boofhead has moved out and taken his things with him, but he’s still here. I need to move him out.
I fill a bottle with water, give Jack a Chux superwipe and tell him he can polish all the furniture with the magic polish. He loves it.
JACK
Peronel’s Magic Polish?
ME
Very similar.
Enid Blyton would be thrilled. While Jack is polishing everything to within an inch of its life, I clean out cupboards, rearrange furniture, chuck out old clothes and generally reclaim my space.
At six o’clock Jack looks up at me with very tired eyes.
JACK
Mummy. I’m hungry. Can we have dinner?
I’d completely forgotten.
ME
Of course. Sorry honey. Of course. I was so wrapped up in cleaning . . .
JACK
Me too. It’s fun, but I’m hungry too.
ME
Let me run you a bath, love, while I whip up some pasta.
JACK
I love pasta.
ME
Me too. My favourite.
JACK
Our house looks new.
ME
I love you, Jack.
JACK
Because I’m a good cleaner?
ME
Because you’re you.
JACK
I am. I’m Jack. I am me.
ME
And I’m me too, Jack.
Chapter 16
The following week. At the audition.
“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” Shakespeare.
I am going to nail this thing. I’m remembering my conversation with Marjory. I’m reclaiming my space. I couldn’t care less if I get the job (well, of course I could) but ultimately, I am doing this as an act of reclamation. This is not about theatre, acting, career, work, job, or portfolio career. This is about me. Myself. I. My right to continue in this industry, or any industry for that matter, even though I’ve been dumped, rejected, replaced, have major responsibilities as a mother and need to pay my mortgage. I am going to back myself even though what I really feel like doing lately is staying in bed with the doona pulled over my head. Not an option, Persephone. If I’m to be a happy, balanced mother for Jack, I need to be a happy, balanced person for myself. And a huge part of that is working in theatre. Okay, we’ve established that I’m not going to be the next Cate Blanchett, but that doesn’t mean I have to give up. I would be a very different person if I caved in and took a ‘normal’ job, like a job in a bank. For a start, I can’t add up so the balance sheets would be interesting, but I’d be so frustrated and trapped and inwardly enraged I’d be a nightmare to be around. Jack doesn’t deserve that and neither do I.
My objective for this audition is to make sure I’m satisfied. Not them, me. They can discuss my choices, my suitability, my weight, my hair, my voice, my fingernails, my anything, but I am going to focus on my journey. I’ve got my song prepared and my audition piece is in shipshape condition. I just need to hold my head high, gird my loins, and remember that I may have suffered a huge personal rejection, but this is not a reflection of my worth as a person.
I’m shitting myself as I walk through the door into the cold, cold audition room. There’s a long table at the back of the room and a panel of people sitting there, sipping coffee and doodling on their notebooks. I remind myself that I have a right to be here. I’m allowed to reclaim my space.
The artistic director of the company greets me. I adore this man. I’ve known him for years. Pirate Pete. That’s not his name of course, but that’s how everyone refers to him, including himself. He has a glass eye. There’s so much mythology around how it came to be glass that it’s hard to fathom the truth. A motorbike accident; born that way; a cricket bat in the eye. He’s an old socialist with frizzy hair, a glass eye, and a love of anything whimsical.
There’s the designer, I’ve known him for years too. A very sweet, very talented guy. He’s also a very good designer. There’s the stage manager, Ramona, again. When you run a ship as tight as Ramona’s, you get a lot of work. There’s also someone I’ve never seen before who’s representing the Festival (they’re co-producers, along with the theatre company), and the musical director. I’ve always wondered about this woman. A very low-talking, understated woman, who is either incredibly calm and centred or suicidally depressed. She appears to have only one gear—comatose. But I love her. I’ve always loved her. I’ve never worked with her, just admired her from afar. She is so silently edgy and cool. So deliciously, quietly self-assured and charismatic, and a sublime musician.
And of course, smack bang centre, there’s Boofhead. He’s assistant director, apparently. Why didn’t he give me the heads up? Joy of joys! I now fear the diarrhoea I was successfully keeping within my anal canal through severe clenching of my sphincter has begun oozing down my legs. I surreptitiously squeeze my legs together to make sure. A figment of my imagination.
Pirate Pete is squeezing my hand. He’s too overtly happy to see me; methinks he might be compensating for the rejection that is about to come. I vow to stay strong and work my plan. Remember, I have a right to be here. I’m an artist. I’m reclaiming my space.
Stay strong, Persephone. You, my friend, were named after a Greek goddess. You’re a powerful woman.
PIRATE PETE
I’m sure you know everyone.
Loaded statement.
PIRATE PETE
So, let’s get straight into it.
ME
Okay. I’ve got an Australian piece and a song.
PIRATE PETE
A country song?
ME
Yep.
Your Cheating Heart
.
PIRATE PETE
Perfect.
I set up the room for my piece. This just involves dumping my handbag in a corner and placing my imaginary scene partner just right of the audition panel, so I don’t make eye contact with any of them. Then I get into it. It’s a good piece. They laugh. They enjoy it.
PIRATE PETE
Gee, I love your work.
A rather perplexing statement, because he has only employed me twice in my career. I guess he thinks of me as top shelf liquor he can only imbibe once a decade, for fear of compromising the exclusivity of the taste.
ME
Thanks.
PIRATE PETE
So let’s just launch into the song.
I’m suddenly terrified. I can sing. I’ve always sung, but now I’m terrified. What if my voice doesn’t come out? What if I hit a bum note? Boofhead is watching me sing a song about lost love. This isn’t fair. Why is he here? Well, because he’s assisting the director, but why does everything I do have to get so bloody complicated and stupid? My sister’s right. Nothing is straightforward with me.
PIRATE PETE
Do you need accompaniment?
ME
I’ll sing a cappella.
I start off in the wrong key. Pull up. Pull up. I stop. What am I doing? You can’t just start again in an audition. You’re supposed to be perfect first time.
Says who? I’ve stopped.
ME
Sorry. I’m a bit nervous. Wrong key.
PIRATE PETE
That’s okay. Not the first time that’s happened today.
I start again. Right key. This is all part of reclaiming my space.
ME
“ . . . but sleep won’t come the whole night through. Your cheating heart will tell on you.”
It went well.
PIRATE PETE
Hey, you can really sing.
ME
Thanks.
Boofhead is just looking at me with a smug, bald-man expression on his face.
PIRATE PETE
I’m going to send you off with our musical director, Ruth. You know Ruth, don’t you?
ME
I know your work, Ruth, but I don’t think we’ve ever actually met.
RUTH
No.
PIRATE PETE
You two go off next door and get acquainted. Ruth, really put her through her paces.
RUTH
Yeah.
I’m now alone with Comatose in the next room. She sits at the piano. She sighs. Her energy is so calm I find it reassuring and so relaxing.
RUTH
Sing on an “AH”.
I do. She does scale after scale and arpeggio after arpeggio. I keep up well. I like singing. I like the technique of it and the sound. It’s very easy to measure success or lack thereof. Not as subjective as acting. Did you hit the note? Did it sound good?
RUTH
Wait here.
She’s off. Slowly. She shuffles out of the room, probably using up half her daily energy allowance. I twiddle my thumbs, stare out the window and try to actively let go of any attachment I feel to this project. Just because you did a good piece and sang a good song and did some scales effectively doesn’t mean anything. That’s the wonderful thing about acting, I say to myself with a droll voice and a raised eyebrow. You’re constantly talking yourself out of getting too attached to it. You’re constantly letting it go and pretending you don’t care when in fact, you care deeply but if you let on, they can smell it. The attachment. The hope. The vulnerability. You kind of need to play it cool without appearing to be a wanker. Or go the other way; become so compliant that you send a message to them that you will do anything that is required. I’ve never been able to master that one. Fear, I guess, about what it is they might ask me to do. And it’s so ugly watching a grown man or woman become a pleasing, compliant, snivelling child. I’m trying to find a middle ground. Friendly, but still within my own space and power without being arrogant and over confident. Well, I’m swinging between that and shitting my pants and running out the room.
Ruth comes back in. She has another actress with her. I know her, Justine. She’s sweet. I’ve never worked with her, though, but she’s tall, thin, gentle, and at the moment even more nervous than I am.
ME
Hi.
JUSTINE
(squeaks)
Hi.
RUTH
I’d like to hear you together. Follow me.
Ruth starts playing.
RUTH
It’s
You Are My Sunshine
. Sing.
Justine and I look at each other. It’s as if we’re mentally holding hands, willing each other to get it right. To make magic. To blend. To connect. We sing.
BOTH
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . . .
It’s a lovely song. We sound good together. Easy to listen to. A nice fit.
RUTH
Justine, take the harmony.
I can do a harmony after about three weeks of listening to a tape recording of my harmony part, but I certainly can’t pull one out of the hat at a moment’s notice. Justine can. It sounds great.
The song ends.
RUTH
Great. Thanks.
She closes the piano, gets up and shuffles out of the room. Justine and I look at each other.
JUSTINE
Can we go now?
ME
No idea.
We stand there in awkward silence for a second or two. I check my watch.
ME
Well, I have to. I’ve got to pick Jack up.
I don’t want to be late just in case the new woman has her finger poised over the phone, ready to dial Family Services! Hopefully Kel will be there.
ME
You sounded really good.
JUSTINE
So did you.
ME
Best of luck with it.
I race off to get Jack, shaking my head about what just happened, but giving myself an internal pat on the back for reclaiming my space.
As I’m pulling into the Child Care Centre, the mobile goes. It’s Boofhead. I quickly park the car and answer.
BOOFHEAD
I told them you can’t do harmonies.
ME
Thanks.
BOOFHEAD
But I still reckon you’ll get the part.
ME
Don’t get my hopes up.
BOOFHEAD
I’m not. They thought you were great. I think you’re a bit old for it, but if they cast the whole thing up in age, you’ll be fine.
My self-esteem begins to evacuate. Find your SELF, Pers. Hold your space.
ME
Is this the reason for your call?
I sound borderline sassy and forthright. A step in the right direction.
BOOFHEAD
I thought you’d like to know.
ME
That I’m too old?
BOOFHEAD
That you’ve probably got the gig.
ME
Well thanks, but I’m not getting my hopes up.
BOOFHEAD
Put Jack on.
ME
I haven’t got him yet.
BOOFHEAD
It’s a bit late, isn’t it?
The judgmental, authoritarian tone makes me want to reach for a knife and stab him. Deep breath, Pers.
ME
I’m doing my best.
BOOFHEAD
Settle down. Can’t see him on Sunday, that’s all.
ME
Why?
BOOFHEAD
Doing a film course.
ME
Film?
BOOFHEAD
Yeah. Will you get him to ring me?
My face is flushed and I can guarantee it isn’t due to any sort of pleasurable sensation. I’m livid. But I don’t quite know which part is making me angriest. His reference to my age, his revelation to the audition panel that I can’t do harmonies, the sharing of confidential information that I might get the job, or the fact that he has the luxury of pursuing other possible career paths as a weekend activity while I will no doubt spend the weekend drying the tears of his son while he tries to sort through the myriad of emotions he feels towards a father who would rather be doing film courses at the weekend than spending time with him!
As I get out of the car, I swear that if that supercilious bitch is there today, I’ll knife her. I’m in luck. It’s Kel, short for Kelvin. He is such a nice bloke. Unfortunate name, but then again, who am I to talk about awkward names. I decide then and there that I love the name Kel, short for Kelvin.
KEL
You’re doing such a good job with him, Pers. He is such a gorgeous boy. He helped me put all the tables away today and he told me the most amazing story about a three-legged grasshopper called Gus. Didn’t you, mate?
JACK
Yeah. He can run really fast because he’s got three legs instead of two. Do you think I could run really fast if I had three legs?
ME
You don’t need three legs, sweetheart, you’re already the fastest runner I’ve ever seen.
JACK
Really?
ME
Yeah.