Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame

by Alan McMonagle

  which puts me mind of the cherub-face looker who asked me for thirty seconds of my time hopped from leg to leg he did like a lad badly in need of release was awfully disappointed upon discovering i wasn’t going to be the one to facilitate this inevitability said i was crushing his heart his will to live still he stood there hopping for his cause which when all is said and done was lost on me so i walked leaving him hopping there by himself for all i know that’s what he’s still at hopping out his days

  the days come in the days go out that’s what the next lad said a contemplative type with a penchant for wham bars and go-fast cars come for a spin with me he said roger that i said and it was pedal to the metal along the straight and narrow round the short corner and slam! head-on into the wall he swore on his ruptured spleen had not been there last time he took someone joyriding that’s ok i purred stroking his scratched face with a broken nail all the go-fast excitement had gotten me in a hot and bothered kind of mood i had already helped him free himself rolling down the seats we were just as the engine caught fire a police siren sounded and he was out the back door of the car going gone vanished into nearby trees

  and the trees remind me of the time i was with a trunk of a lad from Bohola fidgeting with his buttons keep going he said keep going you beauty i bet you say that to all the maidens i said i do indeed he said but your hands are something else altogether your hands are extra special there should be an award going for your hands of course i was flattered curious and knowing full well it would send him up the walls i stopped fidgeting with his buttons to take a gander yes i said i do believe you are right my hands are splendid they are splendid he said put them back where they were instead i rolled him over helped him wriggle out of his stressed jeans leaned over myself to feast upon his buttocks like basketballs they were cantaloupes even cantering cantaloupes a good name for a band but better name for these miracle shapes i now beheld touched tickled all over poor lad beside himself he was couldn’t contain himself like that other one he was going gone vanished

  what is it with these lads i asked myself next time i am not going to touch any part i am going to lie back and discover what the brouhaha is all about yes i will do precisely that i said it to the lad i ended up backstage with after an am-dram production of macbeth sssh don’t call it by its name it’s bad luck now come here to me you beauty he said urging himself against me there is no going back now no going back! out out damn fool of a man i howled at the beefburger be gone with you

  and oh my yes just when i thought it was all a lost cause there appeared along the riverwalk what can only be described as an apparition my very own adonis oh a proper prince i’m talking the full bit arms feet shoulders legs and everything in between oh my his tasty lips and edible ears his blond curls his temple bones eyelash to toe he was dazzling opened his mouth and spoilt it all every girl i know wants a piece of me he said some pieces more than others he said all donkey-guffaw and beating-chest proud i’m vulnerable too he said i can be sensitive like fish and birds swim away i told him find the deep end of the ocean fly away i told him vanish into the oblivious sky

  and then just as i was most definitely on the point of forever calling it a day my man fleming turned up slid down alongside me hi baby he said that was all it took i was so hot and eager ready for him i wanted to scream i wanted him so so bad wanted him to put his mouth on every part of me wanted to watch his intent face as he kissed me clean do anything you want to me fleming and be quick about it yes I will he said oh when i think of his touch yes turn me over oh yes caress me caress me oh yes take me now big boy take me with tragedy and restraint oh yes let my howls drive you further and further oh yes faster and faster oh yes until i am beyond myself spinning spinning oh yes take me don’t stop go on go on oh yes oh yes oh yes further deeper fill me up oh yes make me beg for more more more oh yes please do anything you want anything so long as i live to tell the tale oh yes ecstatic i am throbbing and quivering oh yes gush all over me oh yes on fire i am my hands my heart my lips oh yes fleming oh yes oh yes oh yes . . .

  I am a few more orgiastic lines into my Molly Bloom tribute, have noticed that a few passers-by have stopped for a gander, to my delight Stephen Fallow and his ladyfriend have stuck around, and so for the finale I splay myself against the door of Nora’s house and slide up and down while slapping the walls either side of me for some extra dramatic effect, indeed so effectively that a couple of locals have opened their bedroom windows in order to listen in and another passer-by has actually stopped to enquire am I in need of medical attention. ‘Of course she is all right,’ whoops the minuscule woman from Minnesota. ‘She is having an orgasm!’ And she bids me to continue. And so instead of pausing mid-passion and with a little further encouragement I do as requested, with gathering enthusiasm it must be said and at greater length than is probably necessary. Everyone in the group hears me out, waits until I have given everything and, when at last I expel one final last-ditch Yes! and crumple in a theatrical heap at the foot of Nora Barnacle’s door, there is a spontaneous round of applause.

  ‘Hot damn,’ calls out the cigar chewer from Boston. ‘I want to meet this Fleming guy. I want to shake his hand.’

  ‘I want to do more than that,’ says the minuscule woman from Minnesota.

  At which point I gather myself, bow, curtsy, dust myself off and politely enquire if anyone has questions they would like to ask.

  At once I hear Fleming pipe up in his best academic voice.

  ‘Was that really from the monologue?’

  ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t from the latest Mills and Boon,’ quips my woman from Minnesota, and I enquire if anyone has read the letters.

  ‘What letters would those be?’ she asks.

  ‘The love letters from James Joyce to Nora Barnacle,’ I say, raising an eyebrow when there are no takers. ‘It just so happens I have a printout of one of them right here. Would people like to hear a sample?’

  A loud whoop lets me know the answer, and I warm up my best butter-wouldn’t-melt voice. I am about to start in on Joyce’s earthy description of Nora and her effective hands and what she seemed capable of doing with them, when I notice that Stephen and his ladyfriend have started to move off.

  ‘Change of plan, everyone. The professor would like to take over.’ I shove the letter in Fleming’s hands. He splays himself across the door of the house, by and large everybody has a good chuckle, the Minnesotan cheers loudest. ‘Yes, goddamn it!’ she cackles, the others offer more applause and, between the letter and my lusty performance, mentally I congratulate myself for the large tip that will usher my way in the not-so-far-off future. At which point I make my excuses and scoot after Stephen.

  13

  Having marked the important September date, I need to find out more about the audition. Give Stephen Fallow a feel for the sort of roles I can do. Let him see that the part of Blanche DuBois has my name written all over it, that he need look no further for his leading lady.

  The young woman with him hangs off his arm and every word he utters. At a suitable distance I follow. They cross the Salmon Weir bridge, and walk as far as the canal, where they pause for a moment of happy-talk together before parting ways. The young woman continues straight ahead. My director strikes out along the canal and I am not far behind. He turns into the first side street, stops at the end house. He has keyed open the door and is about to disappear inside when I announce myself.

  ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘It’s me again.’

  ‘Hel . . . lo,’ he says, turning around.

  ‘You probably remember me. From the Town Hall. You know, when the press release went out about your new production. I think you paused for my little performance back there – with the terror . . . tourists. I’m Laura. The actress.’

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘I know, I know. I really ought to change it. I saw the notice in the paper about the auditions. This is going to be huge.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘And you are so modest. It
’s a very attractive quality. This town has been crying out for a decent production for ages and it is obvious you are the right man for the job.’

  ‘That’s very nice of you to say so. Now, if you . . .’

  ‘No need to thank me. Thank that remarkable CV of yours. The West End. The Royal Court. Broadway. Sydney Opera House, for God’s sake. I bet you’ve got some stories to tell. Have you? Some good stories to tell?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that.’

  ‘And I think someone is being modest again. Hmmm. A Streetcar Named Desire. I can’t believe you’re doing this one. It’s one of my favourites. I’d give anything to have seen the original on Broadway. The movie version is good too. My daddy played Stanley Kowalski. He was with the Claddagh Players. Perhaps you heard of them? Famous theatre group from these parts.’

  ‘No . . . no. Can’t say that I have.’

  ‘They disbanded several years ago. Oh, well. The star that burns twice as brightly and all of that. Would you like to see my Gloria Swanson or Barbara Stanwyck routines? I do a very good femme fatale. And a tomboy. An out-and-out thug even. My woman on the verge is pretty good too. I can do pretty much anything except a damsel in distress. I draw the line at those. I can do something now if you like.’

  ‘Well, I’m a little busy at the moment.’ Half-turning away from me, he pushes open his door.

  ‘Of course you are. The Advertiser said you are on the list of people to look out for. Well, I’m on the lookout. Be in no doubt about that. Are you sure I can’t do my woman on the verge for you? It won’t take a minute.’

  ‘Maybe next time.’ The door suitably ajar, he takes a step inside.

  ‘Something else, then?’ I say, taking a step after him. ‘Go on, just say it. Anything you want. Quiet. Loud. Listening. I can do a great listener. Someone who is just waiting for the other person to shut up so I can start. I can convey plenty with my eyes. If I’m in the mood I can have an entire world going on behind them. You know, like Garbo.’

  ‘Now is probably not the best time.’

  ‘A quick accent, perhaps? Not a problem. A southern belle? The way Vivien Leigh does it?’

  ‘I better go inside,’ he says, stepping fully into the house.

  ‘Before you do, can you tell me a scene you have a particular fondness for? Something with Blanche and Stella? Or Blanche and Stanley? All three together, perhaps? Like I say, I can do it all. Oh, I’m so glad we have you. You’re what our town has been crying out for. A breath of fresh air.’

  ‘Well. Goodbye now.’

  ‘Oh, yes. You have a masterpiece to put together. See you at the audition. You sure you can’t give me any tips?’

  ‘Just give your name in at the Town Hall.’ He closes his door on me. I understand. He’s a busy bee. Needs to be by himself, serve himself some creative time. I step up to the front window of his house, give him a friendly wave when he appears inside his sitting room. He looks like he has seen a ghost, and for the next minute or two he makes a great fuss of looking for something. He locates his phone and starts calling someone. But there is no need to stick around to find out who it might be. I’ve gotten to say my few words. Make an impression.

  It’s going to be fun.

  Isn’t is, Laura?

  Yes, it is, Laura. Indeed it most certainly is.

  14

  I don’t believe it. Imelda has been in touch again.

  Dearest Laura, rather thought I might have heard back from you. That’s OK. If you’re anywhere near as busy as I am right now I completely pardon you. Where do I start? I mean where do I start? What am I saying, I know exactly where to start. Venice. Where else! Unhitched won the Golden Lion (how the Italians laughed when I called it a tiger, thought it adorable). And – wait for it – guess who won the Volpi Cup for best actress? That’s right. Can you believe it? Jennifer L was the hot favourite – the shoo-in – and needless to say she wasn’t best pleased when my name came out of the envelope. Everybody else, though. They were thrilled for me, gave me a standing ovation. Oh, Laura! It was all so surreal. I can’t even remember what I said in my victory speech, who I thanked, where I ended up that night. I’ve attached a pic. And, yes, that is a Donatella Versace number I am squeezed into. But enough about clothes. I was a huge hit in Venice. And I think I’ve fallen in love – with Venice, I mean. The canals. The bridges. The coffee. The wine. And maybe one or two men. Ha ha!

  I got back to London late last night. Oh, Laura! It is not even Monday afternoon and already this week I have given three phone interviews, done copious face time with the latest gaggle of vloggers, ignored I’ve lost count of how many calls from Sir Henry wanting me to sit down with myriad moneybag producers. Time and time again I’ve had to put off meeting with some perfume company that wants to give me a million dollars for salivating at some putrid new fragrance a rabid skunk would most likely skedaddle from. Oh, and wait for this. My publicist has presented me with an agenda which decrees I be in not one not two not even three but four places at identical times on Wednesday afternoon. How are we going to work this, I said to Falstaff (my publicist, and I know what you’re thinking, but yes, that is his real name). Work what, Melly? (That’s what Falstaff calls me.) And I had to point out the flawed schedule to him, the schedule he himself had drawn up. He didn’t even realize! And here. Just as I write this, along comes yet another request to go on morning television. Hello and goodbye! Don’t they realize I like my beauty sleep? And the offers! They are rolling in. (Today alone: some kitchen-sink nonsense about a self-harming woman and her kleptomaniac little boy. A magical-realist fable involving some kind of forest-woman certain in her belief that no one ever dies. A voice-over in something called The Marzipan Hippo. Oh, and a television adaptation of the play that made my name.) Television, Laura! Can you believe that? Utter insanity. Oh, and I have a stalker. A hack from some gutter press. He’s been trailing me for I don’t know how long. We had a showdown at the airport, actually. I still don’t know who let him into the VIP lounge. Anyway, Ennio (yummy! – more about him anon, I hope) came to my rescue. OK. They are actually screaming for me now. Get in touch, please – I want to hear from my favourite understudy. Kiss, kiss. Bang, bang. You’re dead! Mel. x

  PS Don’t forget the premiere. Leicester Square on the Thursday!

  PPS There’s some footage of me almost falling out of the gondola – look it up!

  Vloggers. Premieres. Television talk shows. My, my. Isn’t it well for some? Not to mention all the offers she seems to feel are clogging up her days – anyone would think her a little ungrateful the way she is going on. And what is this understudy nonsense she keeps banging on about? Venice gondolas! Look it up, she says. Afraid I don’t have time at the moment, Imelda – or should I say Melly – sort of busy myself, so if it’s OK with you I’ll take a rain check.

  *

  It’s Friday. A day I use to set aside a couple of hours for my weekly trip to the cemetery. I am going out the door when mother hijacks me. At once, as I knew she would, she starts in at me about making more of an effort with Jennifer. She cares about you. She wants the two of you to be friends. And there is a mini-sermon about how tough a time Jennifer has been having. ‘You didn’t mention Alonso, did you?’ I hear her say when I tune in again. ‘I did last night, and she became very upset.’ And I have to stand there and listen to another saga. Something to do with Jennifer and her man, Alonso, deciding to return to Mexico recently. The plan being that Alonso would travel on ahead, find a place, get settled, then send for Jennifer and Little Juan. They said goodbye to each other at the airport and that’s the last Jennifer has seen or heard of him. ‘I think she’s given him most of her money,’ mother whispers at the conclusion of her story. ‘Don’t say a thing to her.’

  ‘Mum’s the word,’ I say, continuing towards the door, but mother hasn’t quite finished yet.

  ‘Invite her somewhere. Do something together.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ I say, wanting it to stop, and go take a look for her.r />
  To my great relief Jennifer is busy chasing her luggage, her Mexican bank account, and organizing some forms for her next work contract. I am loath to interrupt such important goings on. Assuring mother I will check in with her again, I leave her to it. And carry on out of there.

  *

  Stepping through the rusty cemetery gates, I make my way as far as the grave I have come to visit.

  ‘Hello, daddy,’ I say, when I reach the headstone. ‘The bother of the house is back.’ I set down the brandy I’ve brought and perch myself on the gravesite’s granite edging, adjusting my bony posterior to ensure the best possible position.

  So, daddy. Today I have three pieces of news for you. Two important pieces and one not-so important. The important news has to do with the theatre here in town. That’s right, Khaos Theatre. And before you say anything, yes, I know this is the same theatre company that put on that nonsense version of Virginia Woolf. And yes, it is the same theatre company with a certain director who wondered was I the right fit for his theatrical vision. But listen to me. That imbecile has hightailed it to another outfit unlucky enough to secure his services after his vision flopped like a weeping willow. And now this very same company is suddenly all talk of a different approach and the first thing they have done is hire a brand-new hotshot director.

  I’ve already met with him a couple of times – he reminds me a little of you, actually, except his nose isn’t as manly as yours, and his hands are smaller. He has some great ideas, daddy. He says he’s going to shake up the theatre in this town. And listen to this, his first idea is none other than a Tennessee Williams classic from the 1940s. That’s right. Streetcar. Can you believe it?

  His name is Stephen Fallow. I like that name. It oozes respect and admiration. Just the right amount of authority. It has an aura. And I am certain that, as we become better acquainted, it will be clear to Stephen that he and I were born to work together. I tell you, daddy, he is cut from a very different jib than the washout he has replaced. He has oodles of experience, has done important work in London and spent time in New York and parts of Europe, and – wait for it – has been a fan of old movies since he was a boy. I really get the feeling he thinks I have what he is looking for. He was even good enough to hear me out while I ran a couple of my own ideas past him. This is it, daddy, this is the chance I have been waiting for.