Art Ache (5 page)

MUM

Men hate being told what to do. You have to let the silly bastards think they’ve come up with the solution. Sorry about my language, love. I’m upset.

Who’s common now?

MUM

You can’t lay down the law to them. They think they
make
the law. Even fancy new age men who drive a sports car/

ME

/hatchback/

MUM

/and have tattoos. They’re still men. Just.

Pause.

MUM:

Talk to him. Tell him you’re willing to give it another go.

ME

He doesn’t love me.

MUM

Love grows. Give it time.

ME

No. I’m worth more than that.

MUM

Another one of those modern sayings I can’t bear. You’re only worth what someone’s willing to pay, so to speak. What about Jack?

ME

He’ll be fine.

MUM

He deserves to grow up in a happy home with two parents.

ME

I can give him the happy part, Mum, but not the two parents part.

MUM

Think about it.

Toot, toot
! A breezy little red Barina pulls up outside my mum’s neatly manicured suburban dream home, breaking what would have been a moment of reverie.

MUM

Gotta go, love, May’s here. It’s craft day.

She checks her hair and face in the mirror and calls out to Jack.

MUM

Grandma’s got to go to craft now, Jackie. Come and give me a big kiss.

Jack races in and throws himself into his grandma’s arms. She squeezes him, giving him a strangely significant hug.

MUM

I love you, beautiful boy. You know that, don’t you?

JACK

Sure do.

Toot, toot
. May’s impatient today
.
Mum grabs her craft basket.

MUM

Lock the door behind you, love. Dad’s at golf.

Then she pauses to give me one of her smiles of encouragement. I know this smile, I’ve seen it many times. I saw it when I came stone cold, motherless last in the seventy-metre sprint the first time I attended Little Athletics. Mum and Dad had filled my head full of bullshit about being a good runner. I was faster than my sister so apparently that made me a borderline Olympian. It was decided that I should pursue my God-given gift by joining Little Athletics. Off we trooped one sunny Saturday morning, only to come face to face with my limitations as a runner and my first encounter with Mum’s smile of encouragement. You know the one—no visible sign of teeth, mouth drawn up at each side, head slightly tilted, eyes crinkled and eyebrows raised, accompanied by a small nodding of the head.

MUM

It’ll be all right, love. Think about it. I’m sure it’s not too late to tell him you were wrong.

And with that, she swans out the door to craft.

Chapter 5

The next morning. The kitchen.

“Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go.” Oscar Wilde.

My agent rings the next morning. She’s a demanding woman. Whip thin, with a shock of peroxided hair, far too much make-up, sky-high heels and a nuclear explosion of perfume. Her nickname throughout the industry is Witchypoo. Not nice, but apt. I’m all for the sisterhood, I believe we all have a place in the choir and beauty is more than skin deep, so it’s not Witchypoo’s physical appearance I’m commenting on, per se. It’s what I perceive to be going on
inside
of her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was concocting spells and curses and planning to eat small children. Witchypoo has a meanness about her, a stifled anger, a nastiness that seeps through. A nastiness she tries to mitigate by dropping the occasional
daaarling
, thinking this will soften her blows and make it all okay. It rarely does.

She has a voice-over for me to go to, but I have to be there in an hour. Everything is instant in this industry. They want it now. Or yesterday.

The last thing I feel like doing right now is reading some vibey voice-over. I don’t think I slept a wink last night. I felt so alone. Jack was there of course, but no Tom. I’m having trouble coming to terms with our household now being one of two, not three. I cried for most of the night and my face looks like I’ve had a histamine reaction to a bee sting. My eyes are almost swollen shut.

ME

Sure. I can make it.

WITCHYPOO

Good, darling.

It’s a pseudo-erotic video game. God help me. I have to be prepared to read one or all of the characters in either an English, Australian, or American accent. I can hardly wait.

I don’t have any daycare or nanny or babysitter so I’ll have to drop Jack at Mum’s. I make a mental note to ring around after the voice-over and find a daycare place for Jack. I plaster as much make-up on my face as I can muster and choose a nice, bright, spring pink lipstick to lift my look.

When I drop Jack at Mum’s, she isn’t home. Another craft day. How many coat hangers can one woman cover? So it’s Dad. That’s a relief. Even though Mum will have told Dad all about it, he either won’t remember or if he does remember, he won’t remember if he’s allowed to know. Or if he does remember that he’s allowed to know, he won’t feel comfortable enough to raise it. So I’m safe. No impending uncomfortable encounter made all the more awkward by having to watch him choke back tears.

DAD

Jacky and I will do some woodwork in the shed. Won’t we, lad?

Oh no. He’s choking back tears.

DAD

And maybe have a few of those treats we’re not supposed to have.

ME

No treats, Dad.

DAD

You’re only young once. Let him enjoy himself. He’ll be an adult soon enough.

Mum has definitely told him.

ME

Okay, but not too many.

DAD

We’ll be good. Promise.

He touches me on the shoulder.

DAD

I love you, Persy. I know I don’t tell you often enough, but I really do.

Now I’m the one choking back tears.

ME

Thanks, Dad. (To Jack) And I love you too, my little darling. Be good for Granddad.

JACK

Okay.

I’m early to the voice-over. I skedaddled out of Mum’s. Dad’s rare display of emotion was just too much to handle. He expresses his emotions so infrequently that when he does, it’s as if he’s farted in front of me. Too weird. And I couldn’t bear the thought of Mum coming home unexpectedly from craft and once again seeing the disappointment on her face. Yes, I know I’ve failed, but do I have to see it reflected in the eyes of the people I love? So, in order to avoid the discomfort of feeling the full weight of my marital demise, I’ve arrived ridiculously early for my last minute voice-over session.

The guy who owns the building is always there. He isn’t involved in the creative side of the business at all, but is often caretaking the building. He has metabolic issues and always offers me a cup of tea, a Mars Bar, and half a packet of biscuits. He says he needs to keep snacking to keep his metabolism in balance. I’m not convinced, but I’m always grateful for the biscuit binge, although the crumbs can hardly be considered good for my voice. Oh well, I’m being polite.

On this particular morning, we’re going halves in a packet of Montes, my favourite chocolate biscuits. They’re not your full blown sugar hit like a Tim Tam, more a balanced mix of crunchy biscuit with just enough chocolate to make it worthwhile, washed down with warm black tea. Not bad. The client hasn’t arrived yet and the sound engineer is intently working away in the studio on another job. It seems the voice-over wasn’t as urgent as anyone thought, but that’s the nature of the industry—hurry up and wait.

As we hook into our mid-morning feast, the caretaker confesses that he’s bought his wife a gorgeous pair of earrings for their upcoming wedding anniversary. Would I like to see them?

Sure I would. Nice to know someone’s capable of making their marriage work. But I’m worried it might push me over the edge into another bout of uncontrolled crying. Suck it up, Persephone. Just look at the earrings the man’s bought for his wife.

CARETAKER

They’re bloody beautiful, if I do say so myself.

He takes a box out of the bag hanging from the back of his chair.

CARETAKER

Got these amber stones all through them. Really nice.

I nod in agreement. They’re sweet, although I can tell the stones are actually citrine, not amber.

ME

I think they’re actually citrine. Just like my engagement ring.

I give myself a mental pat on the back, having successfully said the phrase “my engagement ring” without choking or bawling.

CARETAKER

That’s what you call it? Citrine. Sounds even nicer than amber. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?

ME

They sure are.

The front door buzzer goes off.

CARETAKER

Your client’s here. I’ll get back to keeping things in order.

He packs the biscuits away and downs the last swig of his tea.

CARETAKER

Bloody clients, hey. Your job would probably be perfect if it wasn’t for the bloody clients.

I chuckle along encouragingly. Sometimes I have to agree.

The Gen Y’er engineer shuffles out of the studio and meets us in the foyer. I’m left in his capable hands. He’s a morose, mute Gen Y’er who never makes eye contact and barely speaks. He greets the client with a nod, but it turns out the actual client isn’t coming today. They’ve sent the guy from the advertising agency instead, Patrick. We meet him in the foyer. I’ve worked with him a few times. He’s cute. If only I wasn’t married . . .

Hang on, I’m not married! Ah, the ironies of life. Now that I have the freedom, I don’t have the desire, the self-esteem, the time, or the energy. I need to focus on the fundamentals of life: survival. Jack. Not falling apart.

Patrick is sporty, tall, handsome in a totally unaffected way, and has messy brown hair. He’s representing the computer game client for the advertising agency he works for. I can’t quite get my head around the network of stakeholders involved in this project so I settle for being sociable.

It turns out the pseudo-erotic computer game is pretty dodgy. I have to grunt and groan and deliver lines like, “All right, bad guy.” Oh, and I have to do three versions of each line. Australian accent, American accent, and then something else that doesn’t sound like either, my choice. I opt for some sort of Russian accent. I can barely believe I’m doing it. The fake Russian accent just adds to the absurdity of the situation, but it’s good to be employed and now I’m the sole breadwinner in my family of two, so every penny counts. This is no time to be choosy.

When I’ve finished the read, we check everything is okay, and leave the editing in the capable hands of Gen Y while Patrick and I make our way to the foyer. The metabolic caretaker is in the foyer chatting with his wife, who has popped in to say hi.

He introduces his wife and we exchange pleasantries. Given that she’s standing in the doorway, I bide my time instead of making my exit straight away. I continue my role of compliant, easy to get along with voice-over artist while I listen to her share details of their plans for the evening. A quiet dinner, followed by a night away on the weekend. A wedding anniversary celebration. Sounds nice. Keep it together, Persephone. Keep it light and bright and breezy. Just because your marriage is over, it doesn’t mean other people’s have to be.

As the wife is telling her story, she flicks her head and the sunlight catches the earrings she’s wearing. They cast a gorgeous sparkle through the foyer. Oh! They’re not just any old earrings, they’re THE earrings. He must have given them to her while we were doing the recording. Couldn’t wait until tonight. How gorgeous is that? True love. I express genuine delight.

ME

Oh, he gave them to you!

I say this as I gesture towards the earrings in her ears.

THE WIFE

What?

ME

The earrings. How lovely.

THE WIFE

What?

The penny drops for her.

THE WIFE

Oh, shit. You haven’t bought me another pair of earrings, have you? It’s twenty-five bloody years, you know!

Now my penny drops. I have totally put my foot in it. I try desperately to cover.

ME

Earrings? Anniversary? Present? No . . . don’t know what you’re talking about.

The metabolic caretaker knows what I’m talking about and he looks both livid and desperately disappointed. Patrick looks like he might laugh.

I keep trying to dig myself out of the hole I’ve inadvertently blundered into.

ME

No . . . I just mean . . . what a lovely pair of earrings. How lovely. Um . . . I only mentioned it because they’re . . . um . . . the same colour as my engagement ring.

This time, my voice breaks when I say “my engagement ring” but I push on nonetheless.

ME

Your earrings, the ones in your ears, are . . . um . . . citrine. It’s . . .

THE WIFE

It’s bloody amber. If you’ve bought me another pair of bloody amber earrings, you can forget it. And bugger the weekend too. Bloody hell.

She storms out of the foyer and slams the glass door behind her. Needless to say, I’m mortified.

ME

I am sooo sorry. Oh my God. I thought/

CARETAKER

/They’re beautiful earrings. I thought she’d like them.

ME

/you’d already given them to her. That’s what I thought. While we were recording. I saw them sparkle, they were so pretty . . . I am so sorry.

He runs out after his wife.

CARETAKER

Rebecca! Rebecca!

I’m left alone with Patrick. I’m speechless.

PATRICK

Awkward.

ME

I can’t believe I did that.

PATRICK

You weren’t to know.

ME

This is so bad.

PATRICK

Hey, you did a great job of the read, though.

ME

Thanks.

Patrick checks his watch.

PATRICK:

Gotta go. Might see you at a studio some time?

ME

That’d be great.

He leaves.

My face is beet red and my linen shirt is soaked through with sweat. I can’t believe I put my foot in it so badly. Twenty-five years and some bloody idiot voice-over artist blabs about the present. Marriage and I are not getting along very well at the moment.