Art Ache (18 page)

Chapter 20

Wednesday early evening. Patrick’s.

“Art is the most intense mode of individualism that the world has known.” Oscar Wilde.

I race from rehearsal, harmonies running through my head, duck home for a quick shower and then over to Patrick’s. Jack’s at Mum and Dad’s. Thank God for my parents, but I’m missing him like crazy. I’m having my gluten-free cake and eating it too, so to speak, but sometimes I just feel like I’d prefer a Sao biscuit.

Just breathe, Persephone.

Patrick is on the phone when I arrive. He gestures for me to come in. I think he’s talking to a family member. It’s all a bit hushed and Patrick sounds stressed. I feel awkward so I gesture that I’m going to duck to the toilet.

I duck off to the loo even though I don’t need to go and spend more time than I need to sitting on the dunny with my knickers around my feet, pretending I’m peeing and tapping out the harmony part to one of the songs from rehearsal on my thigh.

ME

(humming)

“I don’t wanna play house . . . ”

No, don’t go up at the end of the line, Persephone. Stay on the same note. In the harmony part,
play
is the same note as
house
. In the melody, the notes are different but in the harmony, they’re the same. Okay. Practise it again.

ME

(humming)

“I don’t wanna . . . ”

No, Persephone. Stop practising your harmony parts in the dunny and get back into the lounge room. Surely he’ll be off the phone by now.

He isn’t. He’s doing a lot of listening, but doesn’t appear to be enjoying it. I go to the kitchen and make a cup of tea. I feel nervous tonight. Anxious. Awkward. Out of place. I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I’m standing in his kitchen, which I have to admit is very neat and tidy, making a cup of tea that I don’t even want, while a man I hardly know is in the other room having a semi-heated conversation on the phone.

I’d rather be home in bed, by myself. I’m exhausted. Exhausted from juggling the demands of single parenthood with the need to sustain a career and income. I’m beyond exhausted. I’m so wiped out, my comfy bed or curled up on my comfy couch, watching a mid-week re-run of a bad British detective show while Jack snores in his racing car bed would be much more appealing. I push any thoughts of Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot out of my mind and take a deep breath.

Patrick enters the kitchen.

PATRICK

Ready?

Patrick looks tired and is feigning cheerfulness.

ME

Sure.

PATRICK

Sorry about that. My mum. She’s got . . . some issues.

We walk to the restaurant. I take some slow, long breaths and encourage the feelings of anxiety to go away. I feel borderline teary for no reason at all. I’m relieved to be in the fresh air. I love walking at night. Not alone. Too fearful for that, but with friends or family or . . . oh dear. I used to walk with Tom.

I’m assailed by a memory of walking with him at night, along the road at the beach. We were on holidays. It’s a nice memory. We were happy. We walked past an Italian man at the beach and he stopped and said something in Italian that neither of us understood. When he saw our quizzical looks he stammered in broken English.

Italian man: Beautiful couple. Young. In love. Stay that way.

Sorry to disappoint you, Italian man.

At the time, it felt very special. Like the Italian man had given us his blessing. But now, on reflection . . . oh dear . . . we didn’t stay that way. Beautiful, young, in love. I’m going to cry.

PATRICK

You okay?

ME

I’m fine. Just . . . you know . . .

PATRICK

You’ll feel better after we have some dinner.

ME

I like dinner.

What’s that got to do with anything? Some unrelated statement. You like lunch too, Persephone. And breakfast, and even snacks. You like an array of meals, but no one wants to hear about it.

ME

Do you mind if we don’t go?

PATRICK

To dinner?

ME

Yeah. I’m tired, I’m . . .

Crying before I know it.

PATRICK

Hey, what’s wrong?

We stop under a tree on the nature strip and he takes my face in his hands.

ME

I miss Jack.

PATRICK

The little fella?

ME

Yeah. I’m working so much and . . .

PATRICK

Let’s turn around.

ME

Yes.

PATRICK

I’m not feeling a hundred percent myself.

ME

The phone call with your mum?

PATRICK

Yeah. It’s complicated. I’m the only kid and . . .

ME

What about your dad?

PATRICK

Don’t have one.

ME

Everyone has a dad.

PATRICK

Let’s go back to my place. We can order in.

He has no other family? No extended family? I used to have an extended family, Tom’s family. Only one sister, who lives overseas, a dead father and a kind mother. Suddenly, I miss his mother.

The night air is fresh and lovely, just like Patrick. We walk in silence, holding hands, each caught up in our own little world of cares and worries.

When we arrive at his house I realise I’m not up to it.

ME

I think I might just go home.

PATRICK

Sure. You need to rest.

ME

Yes.

I kiss him. He kisses me. His kisses are delightful.

PATRICK

I could use an early night, myself.

ME

Good night, John Boy.

Patrick laughs.

PATRICK

The Waltons.

ME

Yes.

PATRICK

Good night Marcia.

ME

I think you’re mixing your TV Show metaphors, that’s The Brady Bunch.

And this reminds me of playing ball in the house, and the vase that is my life, smashing into a million tiny pieces. I’m going to cry again.

ME

I’ll call you tomorrow. Sorry about tonight.

PATRICK

Don’t even think about it.

I get into my car. As I turn the key in the ignition, I let out a huge sigh of relief. I can breathe. Finally. For the first time tonight, I can actually breathe. I make it to the end of the street before the tears splash down my face.

I’m falling in love with this man. Madly, hopelessly, hair-twirlingly, daisy-chain-makingly in love. This wasn’t part of the plan. Not that there was a plan, but if there had been a plan, this wouldn’t have been part of it. Marjory suggested dating, not falling in love. I don’t want to have that discombobulated feeling you have when you’re in love, but I can feel it rising. Better put a lid on it, throw myself headlong into work and slow this runaway train down.

Chapter 21

Two weeks later. After rehearsal.

“Events will take their course, it is no good being angry at them. He is happiest who wisely turns them to the best account.” Euripides.

So far, the rehearsal process for the new play has been painless and incredibly enjoyable. Coincidentally, the director is a gorgeous guy I went to school with. He was in my sister’s year and I remember they dated for three weeks. That was before he realised he was batting for Dorothy. Yes, another gay male who works in theatre. Who would have thought?

He’s articulate, clear, competent and very professional. Justine is gorgeous too. Plays her cards incredibly close to her chest, but I think that’s fear. Nerves. Uncertainty. Our voices blend really nicely together and I’m able to hold my harmony parts. Thanks to Boofhead alerting all and sundry to my weakness in that area, I’m never short of a band member who wants to “run through those harmony parts just one more time.” It serves me well. It’s a beautiful play about friends who fantasise about a better life and act it all out through country and western songs. I learn how to get an ache in my voice; not quite Patsy Cline, but I do okay. And it sells out. Wisely, I manage to avoid Witchypoo for the entire rehearsal process. Marjory and I worked on this cunning plan.

MARJORY

If she “freaks you out” as you say, then you need to ask yourself why you allow her to be your agent.

ME

I’m not ready to leave her. She’s the best in town.

MARJORY

Says who?

ME

Says everyone.

MARJORY

Then don’t give her any power.

ME

How do I do that?

MARJORY

Deal with her in a businesslike fashion about business and then stay away from her.

ME

But she’s my agent.

MARJORY

So?

ME

So I need to talk to her.

MARJORY

About business, but apart from that . . .

ME

Avoid her?

MARJORY

I’m not suggesting that, but what I am saying is draw a clear boundary around her.

So I’ve drawn a boundary and I feel good. My tool kit is expanding. Witchypoo doesn’t own me. She doesn’t own my career. I am free to make my own decisions.

My phone rings. It’s Patrick.

PATRICK

Hey, wanna come along to the advertising awards?

ME

Not really my thing.

PATRICK

Pity. You’ve been nominated.

ME

Nominated? Me? I don’t work in advertising.

PATRICK

What do you think voice-overs are?

ME

They have awards for voice-overs?

PATRICK

And you’ve been nominated. Best New Talent. Should be Sexiest Voice-Over Ever.

ME

I don’t know.

PATRICK

Come on, it’ll be fun. And you can meet some of my friends.

ME

Fair call.

PATRICK

Next Friday. It’s Las Vegas theme. I’ll pick you up. But I’ll see you before then.

ME

No, you won’t.

PATRICK

Oh yes I will. I’ve booked you for a session. Hasn’t your agent told you?

ME

Not yet.

PATRICK

You should flick her. She’s so slack. Every time I book you for a job, she stuffs up the invoice. She’s charging you a commission to make mistakes. And I’m not the only person who thinks this.

My phone starts beeping.

ME

That’s probably her on the other line.

PATRICK

See you at the session.

ME

See you then.

I hang up from Patrick and retrieve the other call. It’s her.

WITCHYPOO

I hear rehearsals are going well.

ME

Yes. We’re having a ball.

WITCHYPOO

You didn’t like your costume though.

What? How does she know I didn’t like my costume?

ME

My costume?

WITCHYPOO

The skirt. People tell me things.

ME

About my skirt? It was too short. I couldn’t do the choreography in it. It was no drama.

WITCHYPOO

But it could have been. Don’t push it.

ME

I didn’t.

WITCHYPOO

You’re very lucky to have this job, Persy.

I wish she wouldn’t call me that. Only people I like call me that.

ME

I auditioned for it. I earned it.

WITCHYPOO

But the actress they wanted for the role wasn’t unavailable.

Great. There’s always a catch with this woman. She always manages to get the boot in. How would Marjory handle this?

ME

Oh well, then. They’re stuck with tragic, old me.

WITCHYPOO

Yes. Make the most of it. Don’t be difficult. Wear the costume they say. Do your hair the way they want. Learn the harmonies. Don’t stuff it up.

As if I would. Well, not deliberately anyway. In the blink of an eye, I’ve gone from feeling good about this project to doubting my ability.

WITCHYPOO

And smile. Your face looks better when you smile.

ME

Better?

WITCHYPOO

Yes. It’s too angular when you don’t. Smiling softens it.

Smile though your heart is breaking. I like my angular face. It’s not the prettiest face in the room, but it’s okay. It works. It functions. Just before I start to sink to the bottom of an emotional pit, I remember Marjory’s words. Keep it businesslike.

ME

My face is fine, angular or not. My skirt will be just fine too. And I know my harmonies. Please concentrate on taking care of the contract and the payment.

Witchypoo is taken aback.

WITCHYPOO

No need to get narky, darling.

ME

It’s a public holiday on Monday. Please make sure that’s taken care of in the contract.

Bit by bit, inch by inch, I’m starting to draw a boundary around this woman. I take a deep breath as I hang up and then drive across town to collect Jack from daycare.

A huge part of me hates that he’s at daycare. The Martha Stewart, Betty Crocker, 1950s housewife who lives inside me is appalled that my child is being cared for by strangers while I’m away working. But what else can I do? I could blame it on Tom. I could say the reason Jack’s at daycare is because Tom left me and I have to work. The truth is, even if Tom and I were together, Jack would still be at daycare one or two days a week because I would still want to work and there would have been no way on God’s earth that Tom would have stayed at home caring for Jack while I went out and fulfilled my artistic needs and desire to earn an income. If I have a 1950s housewife alive and well inside my conscience, Tom has a 19
th
century man who is irate, enraged and disgusted when anyone suggests he play anything that looks like second fiddle to a woman. So Jack’s at daycare.

This evening, Jack and I have a special date planned. I’ve pre-prepared his favourite meal, spaghetti bolognese, followed by lemon delicious pudding, and then we’re going to assemble every puzzle we own, make the tallest tower we can out of Lego, build a mini-city out of Golden Books, read three of his favourite books, and then share a gorgeous bath filled with Buzz Lightyear bubbles. I can’t wait.

I managed to get away from rehearsal early. The director and creative team were having a production meeting so the actors were released early. Jack is delighted to see me.

JACK

Look what I built!

His toilet paper roll creation is indeed amazing.

JACK

It’s a rocket. You sit here and pull this bit here and then it flies. And when it flies, you hold on and then you go right up to the moon and then you get out and you walk around and you see stuff.

ME

Is there room in that rocket for me?

JACK

Nah. Just me. It’s my work. I’m flying to the moon. I’m a flyer!

My heart sinks. Maybe Martha and Betty were right.

ME

Come on handsome, we’re having our special evening.

JACK

Can I bring my rocket?

I look at Kel.

KEL

Of course you can, mate. He’s going really well, Pers. You’ve got a bright one there, that’s for sure.

JACK

(to Kel)

We’re building the biggest Lego tower in the world and doing all our puzzles and . . .

ME

Having spaghetti bolognese.

JACK

Yeah. Come on, Mummy!

KEL

(calls after us)

Enjoy every moment of it.

ME

Oh, we will, don’t you worry about that!