Authors: Lucy Arthurs

Art Ache (24 page)

BOOK: Art Ache

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Chapter 28

Two days after amniocentesis. My house.

“Painful as it may be, a significant emotional event can be the catalyst for choosing a direction that serves us – and those around us – more effectively.” Louisa May Alcott.

There’s no way I’m having a termination!

SISTER

You could book yourself in, have it done, and move on with your life. What’s the biggie?

I take the phone away from my ear for a moment. I don’t want her to hear that I’m fuming. Sometimes her advice is so out there that I wonder if I’m consulting her to get confirmation of what NOT to do.

I could never do that. I’m not judging people who could.

SISTER

Sounds like you are.

I’m not. I just know it’s not part of who I am.

SISTER

It could be. The doctor suggested it, the obstetrician/

/NO. Jesus, I’ve met some of those cool, young Gen Y women who don’t think twice about it. It’s a form of birth control for them.

SISTER

Who are you calling Gen Y?

What do you mean?

SISTER

I’ve had an abortion. I’m not Gen Y.

You have?

SISTER

Yep.

When?

SISTER

None of your bloody business. If you think he’s dodgy, dump him. Get rid of the baby if you want and move on with your life.

I’m keeping the baby, no matter what.

SISTER

What if it’s got something wrong with it?

It didn’t cross the placenta. The baby will be fine. And even if it isn’t, I’m still keeping it.

SISTER

It’s the boyfriend you’re thinking about terminating then?

I wouldn’t put it quite like that.

SISTER

Harden up. So Patrick’s got a history. Big deal.

That’s what he said.

SISTER

Have you talked to him since he stormed off?

He’s been phoning, but I’m not ready.

SISTER

Look, princess, I’ve lost count of the number of people I’ve slept with. Does that make me a bad person?

No, but you don’t lie about it. You’re up front.

SISTER

Not always. I’d be prepared to lie if I knew telling the truth would cost me the thing I wanted most.

Pause.

Really?

SISTER

Of course. Patrick loves you. It’s as obvious as dog’s balls, Pers. And he’s probably just in the habit of hiding shit about his life. Once a Catholic . . .

He hasn’t been to church for years.

SISTER

He’s a deathbed Catholic. They all are. He’s ashamed of himself.

I don’t want him to be ashamed, I just want him to be honest. I know I said I’d raise the baby by myself, but I don’t want to unless I absolutely have to. I believe in marriage.

SISTER

Fuck, you’re conservative. Do you vote Liberal?

No.

SISTER

Thank God for small mercies.

Pause.

SISTER

Look. He’s fessed up that he has a history. Be grateful that it’s out in the open. Now you know what you’re dealing with you can just get on with it.

It’s not right. There’s got to be more. There’s something . . . I don’t know. I just have a feeling . . .

SISTER

You and your bloody feelings. One minute you’re Mother Teresa, swearing to love the sick and injured no matter what and the next minute you’re not sure about the so-called love of your life because you’ve got a
feeling
.

He’s not the love of my life.

SISTER

Big statement.

I thought Tom was the love of my life. Look how that turned out. I have no confidence in my choices anymore.

How can the love of my life be a man with a history as long as my arm?

SISTER

Stranger things have happened.

I don’t know yet.

SISTER

And if you dump him, you’ll never find out.

I start to cry. I’m a bundle of tears, hormones, mixed up feelings, thoughts of brain calcification, girls called Mirandaaaahhhaaaaah and possible limb deformity. The baby, not Mirandaaaaaaaaah.

SISTER

So he was dating other women the week he dated you. And the week before that. And he probably shagged all of them and he didn’t disclose that at the beginning of your relationship. Big deal. It didn’t mean anything. That’s why he didn’t disclose it.

It meant something to me. It meant . . .

A big gulp and an even bigger tear spills down my face.

It meant I wasn’t special.

The big Stanislavskian truth. What I liked about Patrick from the beginning was that he made me feel special. He cooked for me and sang songs for me and drew love hearts around my name. Now the reality of Mirandaaaahhhh et al has taken it away.

SISTER

Sweetheart, I need to give you a little reality check here. Weren’t you pissed as a newt and shagging some bloke who wore a bandana the week before you hooked up with Patrick?

I didn’t shag him.

SISTER

Really?

He had a bronchial attack and he had to leave. Anyway, I told Patrick about that.

SISTER

It’s still considered a hook-up. You’re being a hypocrite.

No, I’m not. I disclosed it. He didn’t.

SISTER

Oh, well. It’d be lovely if people disclosed all the things they were supposed to, but they don’t. It’s not an application for an insurance policy, you know. You’re not required to sign a bloody duty of disclosure statement.

You should be.

SISTER

It’s a relationship. They’re messy.

I hate mess.

SISTER

I don’t quite know how to put this, Pers, but you’re sounding a bit like you’re in kindergarten. I think you can’t understand Patrick’s behaviour because you have nothing to disclose. I mean, you barely have a sexual past.

I’ve slept with six and a half people.

SISTER

Bandana Bloke was the half?

Yes, and I think six and a half people is enough.

SISTER

People? You mean there were some women in there?

Don’t be ridiculous.

SISTER

Six is nothing to write home about.

And a half. I think it’s a lot.

SISTER

My point exactly. Welcome to the real world, Anne of Green Gables.

He had a love heart around their names. I thought the love heart was only for me.

SISTER

Kindergarten. The really important thing here is not that he lied or that Mirandaaaahhhh had a love heart. The really important thing is—how do you feel about this guy?

She’s managed to get to the heart of the problem.

I don’t know.

SISTER

There’s the real issue.

The more he reveals to me, the more I’m not sure.

SISTER

You want an illusion. That’s tough. For me it wouldn’t be an issue if he’d shagged the entire national women’s netball team. For you . . . it might be something you just can’t get past. And that’s fine.

Is it?

SISTER

Of course.

Children from two different fathers? I feel like such a bogan.

SISTER

Sweetheart, bogans are those rugby league players who celebrate their grand final wins by taking a shit in a pot plant at a posh hotel and glassing their girlfriends. You are not a bogan. Stop judging yourself and everybody else. Take it easy. Give yourself time. And termination could still be an option.

No, it couldn’t.

I hang up. She had me until she made that last statement.

I gingerly make my way to the kitchen to prepare a soothing, if flavourless, cup of chamomile tea. I put the wilted chamomile flowers in the small, green tea pot and wait for the kettle to boil. I’m out of the danger zone for the amniocentesis, but I’m still wiped out from the chicken pox. I need to rest.

Waiting for the kettle to boil, I feel so alone.
Alone Again, Naturally.
Gilbert O’Sullivan’s suicide ballad pops into my head. Then I remind myself I’m not alone. I’ve got my bun in my oven keeping me company and I want to get it together for this little being. But the Everest I need to climb overwhelms me. The issues that need to be confronted, the conversations that need to be had, the tolerance that needs to be found. Oh well, if you’re going to eat an elephant, Persephone, you need to cut it up into small pieces. And with the thought of eating an elephant comes the first of many trips to deposit my breakfast in the toilet bowl. God, I hate morning sickness!

As I lean over the toilet bowl, my sister’s words ring in my ears—how do you feel about this guy? Mixed. That’s how I feel. This certainly isn’t a fairy tale romance. Where the hell is Prince Charming? But who was this idealised man anyway? The man every little girl (well, every little girl in my suburb) dreamt of marrying? I’ve certainly never met him. I thought fairy tales tapped into the deep truth within the human psyche. That they came from the well of universal spirit or some other “Women Who Run With The Wolves” concept.

Well, if they’ve tapped into the collective psyche and come up with modern man, then I want my money back. Where are the men who are brave, courageous, strong, and willing to scale the castle walls to rescue their princess within the turret? Every man I’ve ever met got distracted by the whores and wine along the way, and left the poor old princess to perish. I want the original prince, not the modern manifestation of the fairy tale. Yeah, yeah, dream on, Cinderella.

Another deep retch from my gut spills into the toilet bowl.

I’m an educated, attractive (when I’m not racked by pre-menstrual insecurity) woman who studied one or two feminism subjects as an elective at Uni. So please tell me why it is that I couldn’t choose a decent partner if my Naomi Wolf-infused life depended on it. I even wrote a list before choosing this current partner. I somehow thought the list would prove to be my emotional flak jacket–protecting me from the bad, lust-influenced decision-making processes. It included gems like “someone I can be myself around” (I forgot to stipulate my “best” self), “someone who likes me” (I left out the bit about “all of me”), “a good communicator” (forgot to include “honest” in that one), “similar interests” (should have said “other than creating shit relationships that go nowhere”) and “someone who’s hot” (forgot to specify that I was talking about attractiveness and not a propensity for sweaty armpits). See, it’s the whole Louise Hay, self-help guru thing. You need to be very specific about what you are intending to manifest, or the affirmations you’re employing will sneak up and bite you on the Dalai Lama.

As I wipe my mouth, flush the toilet and drag my sorry arse back to what is now a tepid pot of chamomile tea, I realise that I don’t know much . . . but I know I love you . . . oh God! I’ve replaced Gilbert O’Sullivan with Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt! Get out of my head! What I meant to say was: I don’t know much, but I do know that I need to focus on health and relaxation and nutrition and grow a bonny baby. In the meantime, I just need to ride the wave of whatever this relationship is and see where it takes me. One breath at a time, Persephone. One breath at a time.

Chapter 29

A couple of weeks later. Dinnertime. My house.

“Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm.” Abraham Lincoln.

I’m feeling much better. My scabs are almost completely gone. Scabs. I’ve become a woman who has
scabs
. Life has changed so much. The doctor informed me that I’ll have a few pockmarks. Oh well, it’s not like I’m a supermodel who needs to sustain a career with Victoria’s Secret. Small mercies. But most importantly, the amniosentisis results revealed that the chickenpox had not crossed the placenta. The baby is in the clear and seems to have weathered the storm beautifully. He or she is hanging in there and doing well. If the little thing can live through this, then he or she is going to be a feisty little fighter.

I’ve decided to get on with it as far as Patrick is concerned. When I finally returned his numerous calls, he had his tail firmly between his legs and admitted that perhaps he’d been too vague about his sexual past. Since then he has reassured me it was now all out in the open and we can just move on. We’re back on track. I’ve even decided that Patrick can stay over while Jack’s in the house. We’re becoming quite the little family. That’s a relief, because this pregnancy is ticking by quickly and there is so much to do.

But now I need to put some time and effort into keeping my portfolio career alive. My voice-over clients have been very understanding and supportive, thank goodness. I unknowingly timed my life-threatening bout of chicken pox with a very quiet time in the world of voice-overs, although I do have a huge session today.

And the theatre company was very understanding. They used one of the girls from the previous production so their costs and inconvenience were minimised. They even phoned me to request my opinion about a company issue. They were recruiting for a replacement for Pirate Pete and one of the board members phoned, seeking my thoughts on the best person for the job. They figure I’m a well-connected industry member and it’s very valuable to have a creative artist’s perspective.

I endorsed a guy from interstate who really was the only one who had the national profile they were looking for. The company’s criteria were quite specific and according to those criteria the local candidates didn’t fit the bill. Very unfortunate, because there were some excellent local candidates, and employing a local would be my preference. I discussed all this with the board representative. I felt sorry for him, because he was in a real bind. In order to appease funding bodies and various other stakeholders, they needed to adhere to the national profile requirement, even though there was a strong belief amongst board members that a local appointment would be better. I listened intently to the pros and cons and then gave a frank and honest response. Local artists wouldn’t like the appointment, but if the criteria were immovable and they couldn’t go with a local, which I felt they should, then it seemed the interstate guy was the best choice. The only choice, really. He had a proven track record in terms of management, a genuine national and even international profile and considerable experience as a director. In the end, the company appointed him. Octavian. I’m worried what his name might encapsulate. Oh well, it’s just a name. As if I can point the finger.

Regardless of his name, right now, I need to touch base with him. I want to request a slight extension on the commission and to discuss my role as associate artist with the company.

I can meet the commission deadline and submit a first draft within the timeframe suggested, but it will be a shit first draft. It’s much better to address it head on and request an extension so I can deliver a better product. I’m sure he’ll be cool with that. Theatre companies do that all the time.

While Patrick cooks dinner and Jack draws a picture at the table, I send an email to Octavian. I affirm how thrilled I am that he has the position. I want to say that when approached by board members for my opinion regarding the best person for the job, he was my pick, but that would be blatant sucking up. Instead, I reiterate how thrilled I am to be continuing my relationship with the company under his artistic directorship.

His reply is immediate, curt and it floors me. He cuts straight to the chase. He cuts straight through my heart.

Dear Persephone,

I sent correspondence to your agent a number of weeks ago to advise them that I have reassessed the status of your commission. I officially informed them that the company no longer has you under active commission as a playwright. You are free to approach other companies with the commissioned idea, but we advise you will need to approach them as an individual artist and no longer as an associate artist of the company.

Pardon?

I read it again.

Have I just been sacked? Am I no longer an associate artist? No longer under commission? I endorsed the pretentious dickhead and now he’s sacked me!

The email throws me for six. Well, more than six, but I don’t recall cricket commentators ever mentioning an eight or anything higher in their commentary. I had merely been touching base regarding the commission and this is what I get in response.

Why didn’t my agent tell me this? I’m angry. I’m furious. But why is it I can feel a trip to the planet of self-loathing coming on? All those feelings that Marjory helped me through have now gatecrashed my present moment. No good standing at the fence telling them to bugger off. They’re here, they’ve got their Bacardi Breezers and they’re looking for trouble. I need to stand up to those overwhelming feelings of self-loathing but first, I need to stand up to my agent.

I don’t believe this.

Patrick enters from the kitchen.

PATRICK

What?

I’m already on the phone to my agent so can’t fill him in.

My agent answers promptly. I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.

Why didn’t you tell me my commission had been cancelled?

Patrick hovers and listens in.

WITCHYPOO

Who is this?

Persephone. Why didn’t you tell me my commission had been cancelled? That I’m not an associate artist anymore?

WITCHYPOO

You’ve been very busy with life issues, illness, divorce, babies, you name it. I didn’t think you’d want to be bothered.

Bothered? You didn’t think I’d want to be bothered? This is my career!

My anger is automatically connecting me to my assertiveness. The boundaries are well and truly being drawn. I think Marjory would call this “honouring myself.” Patrick gives me the thumbs up.

WITCHYPOO

You’ve been busy.

I’ve been ill. That’s not a crime. It happens to many people. You’re supposed to be representing my career. Representing me. Representing my work. Not belittling, minimising and undermining me, or keeping me in the dark.

WITCHYPOO

Persephone. You can’t have births, divorces, illnesses . . . and expect people to take you seriously.

Yes, you can. What goes on in my personal life is irrelevant. Your job is to represent my professional life. If my personal life impacts my professional life, your job is to manage it. It is not your job to judge my personal life, determine it has come up wanting and then choose not to tell me significant information about my career. I am very disappointed in this level of representation. You’re supposed to be my champion.

WITCHYPOO

When you’ve calmed down, call back and we can talk it through. It was a very weak idea anyway, the one you were writing. No wonder they didn’t pick it up.

I hang up.

PATRICK

Well done.

I have had enough. Enough of the new artistic director, Octavian, even though I haven’t even met him yet; enough of not knowing where my next creative project is going to come from; enough of being treated like crap and not being taken seriously by my agent; enough of being sacked as an associate artist, without so much as a meeting.

I will now have a clause in my life contract that I will not allow myself to be treated like crap by boyfriends, ex-husbands, new artistic directors of theatre companies, theatre itself, and definitely not by agents.

I need to break up with my agent. I need a new one. A decent one. One who’s my champion. My support. My genuine representative. I need a new agent to just ring me up out of the blue and say they’d love to represent me because I’m amazing. I need . . .

My mobile is ringing. Patrick picks it up and hands it to me.

PATRICK

Sydney number.

My reverie is broken. Patrick hands me my mobile.

Hello, Persephone speaking.

WOMAN

Hi. It’s Susan here. I’m a voice-over and acting agent from interstate. I’m currently extending my business to include other states. I’ve heard great things about you. I’d like to represent you.

Is this Candid Camera?

Are you kidding me?

She sounds taken aback.

WOMAN

Of course not. We’re only taking on a handful of new people and you’re our number one choice for your age bracket. Would you be interested?

Absolutely. I’m currently represented, but . . .

WOMAN

I know. Think about it, check out my website and get back to me. We can talk further. I’d like to work with you.

Is the universe messing with my mind? Did this woman really just ring me and offer to represent me?

An agent just . . .

PATRICK

I heard. That’s fantastic. Flick that other idiot.

But I don’t want to upset/

PATRICK

/are you kidding? You should have given her the arse years ago.

I just need to talk it through with her.

So I ring again, but this time I can’t get through.

RECEPTIONIST

She’s in Sydney.

I just spoke with her.

RECEPTIONIST

She’s not taking calls.

I’ll call her mobile then.

RECEPTIONIST

She’s not taking calls.

It’s very important.

RECEPTIONIST

Send her an email and she’ll get back to you at the end of the week.

I need to talk to her now. Can you get her to ring me?

RECEPTIONIST

I told you, she’s in Sydney.

There’s mobile reception in Sydney. I just spoke with her.

RECEPTIONIST

Send an email.

Clunk. Beep, beep, beep in my ear.

PATRICK

I think you’ve got your answer.

I think you might be right.

We sit together and check out Susan’s website. I’m looking at a new agent’s website while Patrick sits beside me offering support and encouragement. I could get used to this.

Jack finishes his drawing and crawls onto my lap. I smell his hair as I look at the website.

JACK

What are you looking at?

A website for work.

JACK

Nice colours. I love blue. But I like rainbow colours best.

PATRICK

Me too, mate.

The website looks good. She’s professional and organised and even though I’ve never heard of her, she’s been working in the industry for over thirty years and is extremely well-connected.

I’m doing it. I’m going to jump into the wild blue yonder with a new agent.

PATRICK

Mad if you don’t. If you need to go interstate for work, I’ll bring the kids.

I automatically pat my belly.

You’d do that?

PATRICK

Of course I would. You’d do it for me, so why wouldn’t I do it for you? Ring her back.

I do. She answers her phone promptly and professionally. Already, she’s miles ahead.

Hi Susan, it’s Persephone here. I’ve checked out your website and I’m very interested.

SUSAN

Fantastic.

I’d like to meet to go over the finer details, but in essence yes, I think it would be great.