*
I spend the best part of the week in my room. Staring at the walls. Making small talk with Lana and Barbara and Veronica. I watch The Killers, Night and the City, Mildred Pierce, Criss Cross, Pickup on South Street, Stranger on the Third Floor, The Woman in the Window, Scarlet Street, The Big Combo, Key Largo, Dark Passage, Shadow of a Doubt, The Third Man, Angel Face, Sweet Smell of Success (twice), Where the Sidewalk Ends, Gun Crazy, Murder, My Sweet, The Glass Key, This Gun for Hire, half of Laura, Touch of Evil (three times) and They Live by Night (note to self: watch this one again with Fleming). But mostly I just want to drift into a sleep that lasts for quite a long time.
At last, Jennifer seems to have gotten over what happened with Little Juan. If not, she does a remarkable job pretending she has. When she is not on the phone to the Mexicans, to her boss, to the airline, and now Doc Harper about her worsening throat, she expends an inordinate amount of energy trying to coax me out of my room. She deploys all manner of temptations. Cinema. Shopping. Coffee and cake. A trip out of town, to Dublin, out to Connemara, anywhere. ‘Come on,’ she says, ‘Juan wants to spend some time with you.’ And so every time she appears I hold up my copy of the play I am pretending to be poring over, and without even looking at her, utter the words, ‘Sorry, too busy.’
Mother shows up too, knocking on my door before entering. Here, no doubt, to remind me of her own concerns regarding my behaviour with Little Juan, grill me about my meds (I’ve missed a couple of appointments with the Doc), and while she is at it, harp on about my return to the theatre, not that it matters one whit what she has to say or how vehement she is with it. Like Jennifer, her tactic seems to be to lure me into a false sense of security. She asks about the play, and about my part. She is even ready to heap kudos on me. I have given myself time to get over what happened before, heeded all the advice given to me, this new opportunity could be the best of things. When all is said and done, it is what I love, am passionate about, and who is she to pour cold water on what I most want to do. Next she proceeds to pass on well wishes from Yoohoo Lucy and Dolores Taaffe, ‘and Odd Doris wants you to get her a front-row ticket,’ mother says, now throwing in a laugh. ‘And Peter is delighted for you. He reckons this is the start of something. Something really good.’ I smile at her and everything she says. Part of me even wishes I could believe her. But all this well-wishing is too good to be true. It has to be a ruse.
That right, Laura?
‘Thank you, mother. Now please,’ I say, once again grabbing that oh-so-useful paperback and holding it aloft. ‘I’m preparing for my part.’ For a moment or two, she stands at the threshold, her thoughts suspended in another place. I am almost tempted to come clean, let her know that I did not get the part I auditioned for, that all I was offered and in no uncertain terms turned down was a token part no one even needs to audition for. Then she is talking again, a softness in her voice I haven’t heard in quite a while. ‘If only,’ she begins, ‘if only Frank was here . . . he would be so . . .’ Her voice catches as she utters the words, she finds it difficult to go on, and for fear of what will follow – tears, my own as well as mother’s – I do not utter a single word. I just cross the room and put my arms around her. And we stand there together like that for a little bit.
Then, as I knew was bound to happen, Fleming appears, and of course he is not going anywhere until I have told him precisely what is going on.
At first I don’t say a word. For one thing, I am irked that I have backed myself into this particular corner. For another thing, I still don’t have the energy to get into any of it. And for a third thing, I don’t think I want to see the expression on his face when I tell him I have falsely told people that my audition was good enough to get me a part; that having wagged concerned fingers my way, everybody seems suddenly delighted for me, are enthusing over the imminent night out my exciting news has provided, and really I do not know what to do with all this too-good-to-be-true behaviour. Gradually, though, his persistence chips away at me and I tell Fleming everything. About the non-part in the play and what I told Stephen Fallow to do with it, and about Jennifer’s reaction to our little misadventure with Juan, and mother finding out I had an audition and then my telling them that I had gotten a part just to . . . oh, I don’t even know at this stage why . . . shut everybody up if nothing else.
‘What are you going to do?’ he says, when he has taken a moment to absorb it all.
‘Well, I should have thought that was obvious,’ I say.
‘It is?’
‘Yes. I’m going to get ready for my part.’
‘But, Laura, you don’t have . . . a part.’
Neither of us says anything after that. We lie side by side on my bed, draping a light sheet over us, snuggling up close, resting a head upon an offered shoulder. And without uttering a word to each other, we lie there together through movie after movie.
At some point, to break the silence, Fleming shares with me his ideas for television shows. His concepts. I try not to listen, but his voice is gentle, soothing almost, and though it doesn’t really matter what he is saying, gradually I find that I am actually tuning in. His pet concept involves his ongoing infatuation with American presidents. He even has a title: Once Elected All They Do Is Watch Television. For example, when Iraq and Iran go to war Ronald Reagan is watching Little House on the Prairie in the Oval Office. Next door, in the War Room, the generals are worried about a battle going off without them. They are bristling. But Ronald isn’t budging. I’m not getting involved until Little House on the Prairie is over, Fleming has Ronald say in the script. And: Nancy, tell those boys in the War Room to keep it down.
In another episode, just as trouble is kicking off in Somalia, Bill Clinton is watching The Simpsons. Homer, Homer, Homer, Fleming has Bill say, with a finger wag and subsequent chuckle. Then, just before hell breaks loose in Afghanistan, George W. Bush is watching The Sopranos – with his father. Hey pops, have you any idea what’s happening? Fleming has George W. ask his father, who is sound asleep.
‘I think you should shorten the title to Once Elected,’ I suggest when Fleming asks for my opinion.
‘Laura, I could kiss you,’ Fleming says, beaming on the bed beside me, and goes on to tell me how each ‘president’ in Once Elected is based on someone from his own family. Ronald is his kind-hearted but forgetful grandfather. Bill is his incredibly bright but can’t-keep-it-in-his-pants older brother. And George W. is his sister.
‘You have a sister?’ I say to Fleming.
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘I wish she was more reflective.’
‘Which one is Fleming?’
‘I’m thinking Obama.’
‘The visionary.’
‘Got it in one, kid.’
‘And what TV show is he watching?’
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ Fleming says to that, but this time I think he is trying to dodge the question. ‘For how long do you think you are going to stay in this room?’ he says next.
That puts the kibosh on this particular get-together. I turn to face the wall, and a few minutes later, when he sees that I have opted out of our conversation, he leans over, squeezes my shoulder and quietly leaves. I hear him talking with Jennifer and mother downstairs. I am about to tune in to the nonsense they are doubtless plying him with, when Little Juan comes knocking on my door.
‘Come in,’ I say, and he tries to coax me downstairs to watch something, to have something to eat with him in the kitchen, to join him on a trip out to the front garden deckchairs. ‘We can make a movie,’ he says, ‘Lana and Bogart.’ ‘You can stay here if you want,’ I tell him, ‘but I am not leaving this room.’
*
I wait until late into the night to eat, tiptoeing downstairs so as I can have the kitchen to myself. I make fast work of two cans of spaghetti hoops. I watch The Asphalt Jungle, On Dangerous Ground, Out of the Past, the second half of Laura. I stare at the walls in my room until it feels they are closing in on me.
Later
again, when I am not sleeping and in the mood to be a little more communicative, I pass the time messaging Fleming.
me: you there?
fleming: just about
me: i was thinking
me: at next year’s film fleadh
me: you should pitch your idea
me: the television idea
me: the one about the american presidents
me: you might need to come up with a few more characters
me: some wives. a mistress or two
me: wait
me: how about an intern
me: who is a pedal to the metal nutjob
me: i’ll help
me: i’ll even star in it
me: if i’m available
me: fleming?
me: you still there?
me: you getting all this?
me: fleming?
fleming: get some sleep, will you
me: well?
fleming: well what?
me: what do you think of pitching your television show?
fleming: i think it’s late. i think i’m tired
me: that kind of attitude will get you nowhere
me: you need to think big, fleming
me: starry lights. the walk of fame
me: your name above the movie title
me: like my daddy used to say
me: fleming?
me: if you had to pick
me: lana or barbara?
fleming: i pick going to sleep
me: sleeping is for dead people
me: i know what we could do
me: we could watch the same movie right now!
fleming: it’s four o’clock in the morning!
me: the blue dahlia
me: in a lonely place
me: all about eve
me: i haven’t seen that one in ages
me: you on for that?
me: fleming?
me: you there?
me: fleming?
28
Eventually, so as to avoid further scrutiny – why isn’t she at the theatre rehearsing? – and the ever-increasing waves of enthusiasm when Peter Porter and mother’s friends swing by, I actually do go outside. I walk by myself. Around the harbour. Along the pier. Along the canal. Along the river all the way as far as Menlo Castle whose crumbling ruins sprout out of the bushes and bindweed. More and more I find I like walking by myself. Thoughts come and go. Some I quickly forget. Some I abandon once my galloping mind settles down again. Some I am afraid of.
It is thoughts of what I think ought to happen to Stephen Fallow I am particularly afraid of. I place us together in close proximity, rerun the scene where he breaks it to me about the part he has in mind for me to play. Lana would not stand for shabby treatment like this. Barbara would purr and give it to him right in the gut. And Gloria would load up and make Swiss cheese out of the man who tried to tell her that the only part for her was Eunice the upstairs neighbour.
I continue along the river, sticking to the dirt path cutting through the waterside plants and the trickle streams that feed them. Here and there I pick some wildflowers, link them together until I have several chains, and as I walk I hang them off jagged brambles and low-down tree branches, place them on one or two nice-looking rocks along my path. I follow the path, not stopping until I arrive at the old jetty, where I plonk myself down to spend time with the view. Here the river splits in two and moves either side of a little tree island. Then it’s gobbled up by the lake. They say the lake is bottomless and that way down in the murky depths scream the souls of all the boatmen who have perished. I was little when I first heard that, out on the lake in a rowboat with daddy, and I leaned over, put my ear to the water but could hear nothing. Oh well, I remember thinking at the time. Maybe my ears hadn’t fully formed.
I toss the last flower into the water, watch it float away from me. When I can no longer make it out, I eat a bag of Chocolate Emeralds and try not to think of Khaos and Stephen and all the rest of it. Then the swans appear, and I lay down at the water’s edge.
Eunice the upstairs neighbour. Must be a way to make it more than the bit part it is. Somehow wrangle more out of it. Now could be the time to get in touch with Imelda. Ask for some of that advice she seems very keen to impart. See what sort of tricks she has up her sleeve after her stint in West End London. Before I do any of that I’m going to have to go crawling back to Stephen Fallow, let him know that on second thoughts he doesn’t have to shove Eunice where the sun doesn’t shine. I will take the part and thank you thank you thank you for the opportunity.
*
Later that same evening. I’m outside the Town Hall where rehearsals are still going on. Another hour at least, Emily lets me know when she is leaving the building. That’s OK, I can wait. No you cannot, Camilla the Hun comes back with, and she threatens a lot more than Billy the Lush on me if I don’t put plenty of distance between myself and the building. What does she think I am going to do? Storm the aisles? Set the place ablaze?
Besides. There are other places I can wait.
On my perch on the boathouse rooftop. I smoke a few rollies and drink a carton of orange juice. Though I try not to, I think of times being out here after daddy died, thinking to myself: one day I will be out of here. I will leave behind all my clothes, my most treasured things. I will step outside of my brittle skin. I will leave no footprints and I will hop, skip and jump nimbly into another life. I will introduce myself to high society. Impress with my flawless ways. A millionaire will want to marry me. A movie man will hire me on the spot. They will marvel at my speaking voice. I will be an ambassador for amazing things. Find a way to be in many places at one time. Everybody will invite me to their parties. I will be the talk of the town, where it’s at, the centre of it all. There she is, they will say. A legend in her time.
After a while it starts raining and I shelter under the Spanish Arch. The usual suspects are milling about, swigging out of their cans, one or two are already tucking themselves in for the night, and of course one or two are pissing up against the Arch’s medieval stone.
‘Boys,’ I tell them, ‘you should drink something else other than those cans. You wouldn’t have to go so much.’
Pisser Kelly, their spokesman, halts mid-flow and turns to me.
‘Do you want to spend the night with us?’
‘That’s a beautiful offer, best I’ve had all evening, but I’ve made other arrangements.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he says, turns back to the Arch and resumes his pissing.
On Shop Street, I lean against a shop window and listen to Goodtime Ray. Tonight, he has his guitar with him and his idea of a good time seems to be singing about the rain. He has just introduced a number called ‘Persistent Drizzle’. ‘I like this town,’ he caws in between his guitar chords. ‘It reminds me of a sad story. Let me share my sad story with you beautiful people.’
My mind drifts back to Stephen and to his leading lady and other things besides. Mia. I should make friends with her. Help her go through her lines, tell her everything she wants to hear, encourage her to spunk up her part. She’ll squeal at my suggestions so delighted is she with them. We’ll meet again and again. Become close friends. Swap stories about our lives beyond the theatre. I have a sister, I’ll tell her. You remind me of her. Is she an actress too? No, she’s a miracle worker. Ha! Ha! And we’ll arrive at that lovely moment where she lets me know she’ll be more than happy for me to perform on the night – should she be unable to do so herself.
Goodtime Ray is talking again.
‘I realized something when it rained,’ he caws, idly strumming his guitar. ‘My girl no longer had the hots for me. Let’s sing a song about the girl I lost.’
There is respectful applause from the non-existent audience as he launches into a burdensome number called ‘It’s Raining in My Heart’. At first, it’s just a localized shower. Soon, it becomes a torrential downpour. By the time the last chorus comes around, the whole world is underwater.
Jennifer calls. I don’t answer. She leaves a message that I don’t bother listening to.
Fleming messages. Mother messages. I don’t reply.
Jennifer calls a second and third time, and I switch off my phone.
Goodtime Ray reaches the end of his song and is talking again.
‘I realized one last thing in the rain,’ he caws to his devoted following, plucking at his trusty companion. ‘A guitar and a six-pack – that’s all I need. This is my last song. One of my happy songs. It’s called “I Hope It’s Raining on the Day I Die”.’
I look around me so as to ascertain the extent of the audience. It comprises myself and a long-hair shouldering a guitar. By now it has occurred to me the lad in Little Mary’s made an interesting point: I’d love to hear what Badtime Ray sings about.
When the song finishes, Long Hair crosses over and has a quick word with Goodtime Ray before walking away.
‘What did he want?’ I ask Ray, as he is packing up.
‘He said I should be playing other venues.’
‘Really? Like where?’
‘The far side of the moon.’
I stop by the new theatre. They are putting in a night shift, the hoardings have come down, and I am just in time to see the last letter of the venue name raised high. As soon as it is hoisted into position, someone throws a switch and to an abbreviated round of applause the letters light up. I stand a while, staring up at the bright letters, shining like a friendly welcome in the rainsoaked night.
STORY HOUSE
I swing by the bridge for a chat with the Beggar Flynn. I pour coins into his cap and ask him has he eaten anything decent recently. I gesture to the water and ask him has Dolores turned up yet. I turn away from the west wind, and ask him does he want to go to the movies. He grunts and tells me to go and take a running jump.
I switch on my phone. Flick through more messages. Fleming wants to know where I am. Another message from mother. Please come home. Another message from Jennifer. Laura? Where are you? Are you OK?
Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame Page 17
