32
This is where I need to be very careful. I need to get inside my room. Pick something to wear. Do my face. And I need to do it all unseen. Don’t want mother and Jennifer involving themselves in my opening-night preparations. I can imagine what that will entail. Jennifer hauling me in front of the bathroom mirror, deliberating at length over what to put on, over what shade goes with what. Oh, that colour tone. Oh, and your hair. You look like a star, Laura. You really do. While, downstairs and out of earshot, mother puts in a call to St Jude’s, lets them know I am ready to go back.
I move along our road, and tra-la-la, there is a white van parked outside our little gate. So here they are, hell or high water all set to cart me out of there. Back to St Jude’s by special delivery. They hardly think I’m going to fall for something like this, do they? They try something like it on Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. And, of course, at the end of Streetcar Vivien Leigh, of all people, is led rightly down the garden path, thinks she is on the arm of her knight in shining armour, while all along she is being escorted to the nearest funny farm. Well. I can do a little play-along myself. They are not going to make a mung bean out of me. Not this time.
I stay well out of sight as mother opens the front door. ‘At long last,’ I hear Jennifer call out, with a ridiculous laugh. She walks out to talk to the lad getting out of the van. A shake of the hand and hello, how are you? Yes, I’m her sister. Yes, this time it’s pretty bad. We might need the jacket with straps after all. They move around the side of the van. A door slides open and – lo-and-behold – Jennifer’s luggage emerges. Arrived after all this time from whatever round-the-world adventure it has been on. No straitjacket for me just yet, then.
And then someone I do not expect to see appears. Fleming. My leading man. He’s helping Jennifer with her bags. Who keeps dying and making him the good Samaritan? Look at him. All schmooze and banter. Jennifer laughing at everything out of his mouth. She thinks he’s the funniest lad in the world. Listen to them. I do not like this. I do not like this at all. I close my eyes to counter the dizziness. By the time I open them again Jennifer’s luggage has been taken inside, the white van is gone, and Fleming is leaving the house. I duck well out of his way.
*
I move around the side of the house. I can hear them in the kitchen and so I hold back near the open window. They are at the kitchen table. Mother and Jennifer. Jennifer is sitting down, allowing mother draw out and caress the long strands of her hair. Occasionally mother holds on to a few strands and brings them to her face, inhales and sighs pleasantly. For I don’t know how long I stand there and watch mother close her eyes and breathe in the scent of Jennifer’s hair and release it only to grab another portion and clutch it to her face.
I wait for talk of St Jude’s and what delights I have to look forward to. But they are not talking about that. Jennifer’s and Little Juan’s well-being seems to be the topic of conversation. And Alonso gets a mention, and as soon as he does the tears arrive, along with lots of sniffing, and the handkerchiefs are fast running out. ‘Do you really have to go back?’ mother asks. ‘Could you not call them and postpone the next contract?’ Jennifer mentions having to see it through now that she has committed, and for the next minute she sniffs and blows her troubled nose, not stopping until mother has offered all manner of reassurance and help.
Jennifer says something else, but I cannot fully hear. I lean into the open window and can see mother holding Jennifer’s hand.
‘But I thought . . .’ Mother’s reaction when she gets a chance to say something. There is that softness in her voice again, resignation too. ‘. . . I thought that you might stay, make a go of it over here.’ Barely has she begun than she stops again. And for a minute, long and silent, there is no talking.
I am tempted to make a grand entrance and wish my darling sister a hearty bon voyage back to whatever corner of the world she is headed for, when mother starts again.
‘And, Laura? What am I going to do with Laura? Doctor Harper has been on to me again. She’s missed another appointment.’
‘I wish I could be of more use,’ Jennifer says. ‘I wish I knew what magic button to press.’ And I see my mother, her lips pressing hard together, her eyes welling up, nodding slowly at every word.
‘I know I shouldn’t say this,’ mother says as soon as she can speak again, ‘but she is starting to really scare me. What if something had happened to Juan that day at the circus? Or out on the pier? And this obsession with the theatre . . . I often wonder how she would have turned out if Frank hadn’t . . .’
I am no longer listening. I am my ten-year-old self again. At full pelt along the pier. Not paying a bit of heed to the gusting wind. Not stopping until I reach the end of the pier. And daddy standing there . . . dark night and the swirling rain and the seawater roiling so strong is the wind . . . In time to come I would try not to think of him standing out there on his own, would often wonder what might have been his final thought, in the very last moment, in the seconds between when he is still a presence, standing on the lip of the pier, and when he is no longer there.
Mother is speaking again.
‘I remember you being so upset afterwards. Calling out his name in your sleep. But Laura. She hardly said a word. By herself up on that boathouse. In her room staring at those movie posters. It was as though she had gone numb.’
They are both silent for a bit. They lean forward and hug each other, allow the embrace have its moment. Then Little Juan – who else? – turns up and he is wrangled into the hug and this gesture of togetherness seems to magic up some good energy because they are now on their feet and fussing about him, and now the phone is ringing. It’s Peter Porter, and my, my, is that the time, come on, come on, we have to eat before the show, and they disappear out of the kitchen and after a flurry of getting-ready activity the three of them leave the house and, at last, I have the place to myself.
*
I’m now in the spare room upstairs. Going through Jennifer’s luggage. She has some nice things. I hold them up to the mirror. An array of flirty skirts. Sleeveless tops. Look at all the colours. Mellow green. Happy yellow. Contemplative turquoise. Oh, and here’s a saucy mauve. Very saucy indeed. And the dresses. Ah, yes. I should have guessed. Short and fitted all the way. So light I bet I could sit down on a coin and tell if it’s heads or tails. Skimpy thongs too. Ooh, and fishnet stockings. These I can definitely stretch into. No matter a little tear here and there. And what have we here? Hippy-dippy sandals. Thank you very much, sister. Now, you’re talking my language. Yes. They go well with my feet. And now the skirt. And now one of these tops. I think the mauve. And are these silk gloves the length of my arms? And what have we here? A box of jewels. I need something to show off my soon-to-be glistening complexion. Ring. Bracelet. Pendant to go around my neck. Oh yes. They are all a perfect fit. And what is this? Shadow for the eyes. Rouge for the lips. White powder for the face. Everything that will make me look the part for my performance. Oh, and sunglasses. In the shape of octagons. Perfect. I can move incognito.
Back in my own room I stand before the mirror.
Well, would you look at that. A completely different person.
Goodbye, Laura Cassidy. Has-been. Also-ran. Never heard of you. Nobody.
Hello, performer extraordinaire.
Critics’ darling.
Fans’ favourite.
Legend in her time.
Superstar.
At last, worth a million dollars.
Isn’t that right? I say to my crew on the wall, and they nod their heads in collective agreement.
*
First things first. A little toddy for the body. A pre-performance cocktail. Or three. To take the edge off, so to speak.
I scour the place, pull out what I can find in the line of booze, procure glasses, a carton of juice, ice, haul it all outside and set everything down on the coffee table I drag out into the front garden.
I put my menu together. Cocktails for e
veryone. Heroes and villains. Friend and foe. Bimbo and genius. Assassin and victim.
Here is my Killer Queen. A hearty combination of Bombay gin, lemon juice, sugar syrup, topped with a generous measure of fizzy wine and garnished with a bursting-at-the-seams raspberry. Here’s to you, Lana.
Here is my Femme Fatale. It’s the same as the Killer Queen, only with twice the amount of gin and fizzy wine. And a strawberry instead of that other thing. Bottoms up and down the hatch, Barbara.
And this one I think I will name Trouble Is My Business. Guaranteed to take the enamel off your teeth. In honour of my good friends, Gloria and Veronica.
I position the deckchair. Sit myself down, slip on my sunglasses, reach for my drink and sip away.
Fifteen minutes later I am on my fourth. Slouched into the deckchair. Middle of the front garden. Sunglasses. Harbour views. A tall glass with an umbrella and a straw. I’ve tossed in measures of this, that and the other. Not bad at all, if I say so. Not bad at all.
Yoohoo Lucy passes by.
‘Hello, Yoohoo Lucy. Isn’t it a lovely day? All of Spain would be glad of a day like this, don’t you think? I was just about to make myself a Scourge of the Street. Will you join me?’
She’s never heard of a cocktail called Scourge of the Street. I’m making it all up as I go along, Lucy. Here, try it. No? Well, what about this one? It’s called a Build My Gallows High. Sandpaper rough and redolent of burning tractor tyres. Though I might have gone a little heavy on the grenadine. Look at this instead. I call it my Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye. Puts me in mind of rotting fish. Hmmm. Too much lime in that one. Oh, you can’t stop. You’re off to the theatre. See you there!
Juan. I should organize a cocktail for him. A very special little-man cocktail. And here comes a very dressed-up couple. Haven’t seen them around these parts before. ‘Hello there,’ I call out. ‘Step this way. Have a drink with me.’ They look at me as though a set of feet has started growing out of my head and they hurry on.
Glick Nolan and his missus pass by. Half-pausing, they look my way. I raise my glass. ‘Cheers,’ I say. ‘Next stop Broadway.’
They look at me as though that set of feet has started to sprout daffodils. They continue on their way.
I don’t blame them in the slightest.
I wonder where Peter Porter has taken the others. I bet my second Oscar that they are plotting. Planning to catch me off-guard. Let the loony booze herself up, then, when she least expects it, we’ll bundle her in the van and away with her to St Jude’s, out of our sight for the foreseeable and good riddance. Fleming better not have said a word to them. Otherwise I will lift him up by the ankle, pour cooking oil all over him and strike a match.
Well. If the crowd won’t come to the party I will just have to move this party and performance a little further up town.
Won’t I, Laura?
Yes, you will, Laura. Yes, you will.
33
On the bridge I count five, seven, eight couples all set for a gala event. Dress suits. Black ties. Gowns straight out of a period drama. ‘What says the town’s top-earning beggar, you fancy going to a party?’ I say to the Beggar Flynn, flashing my theatre passes, and notice he is not where he has been for just about every day since I care to remember. Dolores Taaffe must have finally turned up. Another dressed-up couple passes me. I fall in behind.
I move on from the bridge, follow the bend of the road which has been closed off to traffic. And still more people, in their finery, moving in the same direction, towards the familiar location. Of course they are. This is an event nobody wants to miss.
And there it is. I never thought I would see the day. The Story House. In all its glory. At long last ready for business.
A few people are milling around outside. A few? Make that a couple of hundred. In their finery. Photographers. Journalists. TV crew. A few talking heads surround a portly man adorned with a weighty-looking chain. Red ribbons surround the entrance doors. Matching carpet on the front steps. Why wouldn’t there be? It’s opening night. Anyone who thinks they are anyone is here for the occasion. But Fleming. He keeps messaging me. Laura? Where are you? Laura, you’re not going to do anything stupid, are you? Silly boy. I really hope that mother and Jennifer have not put some kind of hex on him. I turn off my phone and throw myself into the horde.
‘Make way, make way. Actress coming through.’
The gathering crowd parts before me like the waves did for that demented old codger in the Bible. I unfurl my gloved arms so as to claim more room. I nod and smile for those who stare at me. Make way, make way. Actress coming through. Everyone obliges. Of course they do. A star in the making is among them. Need an autograph? A lock of my hair? Some wise words? Oh, there’s the photo-man from the Advertiser. And the journo from the Tribune. I’m so sorry. Is it OK if I answer questions later? Now, where is my director? I can do a small scene for him. Right here on the red carpet. A taster for what’s to come.
Along the red carpet I sashay. The people cheer me on. One or two whistle and applaud as I pass by. The photographers are snapping good-oh. Look this way, Laura. And over here, please, Laura. Oh, my. That camera flash is exceedingly harsh.
By now I have reached the top of the steps and I turn around to take in my fans. My adoring fans. They are all applauding me. Thank you, thank you. Thank you all for coming out. Without you, none of this would be possible. And now, if you will excuse me, I must go inside. I need to find my director.
There are more people inside the foyer. Drinks to hand. Nibbling food bits. Falling over themselves to compliment the new building. A kiss on the cheek. And another. And how are you? I haven’t seen you since forever. And don’t you look absolutely stunning? And where did you get that dress? Oh, this plain-Jane rag? I picked it up when we were passing through Venice. Or was it Cannes? Cruelty-free, you know. And doesn’t that colour suit you so? And that chain. And your hair. Is that cruelty-free too? Oh, you look wonderful.
Everybody looks wonderful.
Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.
Don’t they, Laura?
Absolutely, yes they do. Absolutely.
My head is spinning by the time I spot him coming through the crowd. Stephen Fallow. My director. His strong chin. His manly hands. A purple scarf whipped twice around his neck. Stepping up the red carpet and inside the shining new building. He is probably thinking: where is my leading lady? And I am thinking: I should make an effort to say hello.
Mia is on his arm.
I push through a circle of powdered mannequins, help them spill some drink, elicit a how-dare-you look or two. ‘Make way, make way. Actress coming through,’ I squeak. ‘Yes, it’s me,’ I reassure them as they look my way. ‘Should we know you?’ a giraffe-like thing asks me. ‘No, we shouldn’t,’ says another one of them, guffawing like a ferret.
I mingle among the ever-gathering crowd. Oh, hello to you. And to you. Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just hanging with my fans before curtain call. Meet good people, drink bad wine. That sort of thing. Or is it drink good wine, meet bad people? I can never remember. I really can’t.
On the steps someone is starting into a speech. The crowd hushes to tune in to the talking head, that chain weighing him down. Everybody wants to hear his words. I drift further into the lobby, make my way towards what I assume is the entrance to the auditorium. It is unmanned, the door gives, and inside I go.
It is everything I thought it would be and more. The velvet seats, rows and rows of them. The wall-to-wall decor. Balcony and brass. And, oh my, the drawn curtain. Everything in place. Everything in order. Just as I imagined. I walk the length of the aisle until I reach the stage. I clamber up, not stopping until I am standing front and centre. I turn fully around and take in the auditorium. Soak up the dark-lit atmosphere. I am about to take a peek behind the curtain when I hear a faceless voice calling out.
‘Hey! You there. What are you doing?’
Someone is pounding down the aisle towards the stage.
‘St
ep this way, young lady,’ the voice booms out in the low light, and moments later, a firm-arm grip is turning me and then making attempts to guide me towards the exit.
‘Unhand me,’ I say, summoning as much indignation as I can.
‘And why should I do that?’
‘Because I am one of the performers,’ I yell, as he quickmarches me out to the foyer.
*
My theatre pass is good for middle of the third row from the end. As yet, no one has claimed the end-of-row seat. I flop right in.
People trickle into the auditorium. They pause here and there to admire a feature of the new building. Comment as to its impressiveness. Pose for pics. I spot some familiar faces. Doc Harper arrives with his good lady. Yoohoo Lucy Garavan arrives in a fluster of giddiness, and once she has figured out the seating system, greets Dolores Taaffe and Odd Doris with an elaborate wave and proceeds swiftly towards the front rows. Then I spot mother, on the far side of the auditorium. Peter Porter is with her, though there is no sign of Jennifer and Little Juan. They move all the way towards the front. I’ve started to wonder about Imelda and her fanfare arrival when Fleming turns up, and not wanting to be seen, I slide down in my seat and shield my face with my hand.
‘Excuse me, I think that’s my seat you’re in.’ It’s the giraffe from outside earlier. She is standing over me, slapping the programme into the palm of her hand.
‘Oh, really? How completely incompetent of me,’ I say. ‘But can I ask . . . you see, I have this condition. I cannot sit in any one place for long spells of time. I may have to vacate my seat at some totally unsuitable moment, and I would hate to think I might be the cause of someone missing out on a key moment or wonderfully rendered gesture while clunky me clambers past them. Would it be at all possible for me to claim this seat?’ For added effect I start rubbing my backside.
Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame Page 20
