Challenge Accepted!

by Celeste Barber

  You can’t just go there for a cheeky afternoon spritzer. Oh, no, my silly little nonmember friends—one must be invited to Soho House by a member, and if you happen to arrive there before said member, you must sit in the gas-fumed lobby waiting for the member to be notified of your arrival. Then you are given directions to the fancy table areas, to be put on display—I mean, work on a script. It’s so exclusive and fancy that you aren’t even allowed to take photos.

  So, just to unpack that for you, it’s a members-only club in West Hollywood that only attractive, creative people are allowed to frequent and where no photos can be taken to prove that you were at an exclusive members-only club in West Hollywood with all the attractive, creative people like Lindsay Lohan’s mum.

  As soon as I got to the bar I felt instantly out of place, and that was fine. Being out of place in these sorts of places energizes me. It’s weird. I guess not putting on a show but just relaxing with a thirty-five-dollar vodka gives me room to do what I want—stare at the pretty people, write jokes, and pick my nails.

  There’s a special place in there where you can take selfies that I’m pretty sure is called the Weinstein Booth. BUT THAT’S THE ONLY PLACE WHERE PHOTOS CAN BE TAKEN.

  Of course, I didn’t know this, so when I was about thirteen vodkas deep I decided I wanted to show my shit off to my sister, who was back in Brisbane doing important things like saving lives, so I sat at the lobby bar alone taking 986,824 photos of myself. A surprised face is the LA uniform, so I didn’t worry when people started looking at me with surprised faces. But then I realized I was so not cool that I’d become cool, and it wasn’t until I met with my would-be managers that I realized I couldn’t take photos.

  In between taking illegal selfies, I texted one of my would-be managers saying I was there. He responded, saying they were on the balcony and they would come and get me.

  I skulled my vodka and sent a text: I’m in the bar, looking out of place.

  He texted back immediately: Oh yeah, I can see you. I knew we would get along.

  When I met my managers I started laughing.

  Trevor is Mr. LA. He’s a member of Soho House; in fact, he’s there more often than the concierge. When we first met, he was fitting our meeting in between dates, and he also may or may not be the former husband of Mrs. Prince Harry! (SHUT UP!) And Steve is a comedy guy from New York who now lives in LA but is working as hard as he can to keep his NYC edge. He doesn’t have any known ties to the monarchy.

  I met with a lot of managers when I got to America, and these two were the most keen and excited about me. Whenever I told a joke, Trevor would drop his LA-dude persona, throw his head back, and laugh like a hyena, while Steve sniggered and took notes.

  And neither of them says my jokes are funny; they just laugh.

  I don’t ever remember officially signing with these guys, but I’m not working with any other American managers at the moment, and these guys seem to be calling me the most, and I really like them. Something I’ve learned about LA is that the people in the Biz really rely on the idea “out of sight, out of mind.” When I’m there I’m absolutely everywhere, but when I’m not around most of our conversations revolve around the comment, “Well, we can’t wait to get you back out here,” or “When are you planning on coming back out here?” or “Have you gained weight? In your Instagram photos you look like you’ve gained weight.” (This isn’t from my managers; this is from other random “Biz” folk.)

  Ideally I’d like to “Hemsworth” it. I want to live in Australia and fly first class to America to work work work, then come back and watch my husband do sit-ups on the beach. I’m currently more like the brothers from the ’90s band Hanson, trying to get people to take me seriously and asking people to pay for my lifestyle. Baby steps.

  And, yes, I think I have gained weight.

  The One When Harry Met Celeste

  Another reason for heading to America was to meet Harry Connick Jr., as he wanted to have me on his show as a guest to talk about my Instagram account.

  I remember when the call came through. I was SO excited! Harry Connick Jr. wanted me on the premiere week of his daytime talk show Harry! Holy shit, I mean he’s no Ellen, but you know, beggars can’t be choosers.

  The show is filmed in New York. I LOVE New York. I have traveled there about five times in my life. The first time was when I was a kid and used to carry my teddy bear Sigmund around in my backpack with his head sticking out the top so he could see things that I couldn’t, and we could recap that night in the hotel room in a bed that I had to share with my sister and her highly contagious chicken pox. The second time I went over was for a low-budget Australian film, Burke & Wills, in which I played the pivotal role of a character who had a one-night stand and was so memorable that the character’s name was “Woman Who Has One-Night Stand.” The film was accepted into the Tribeca Film Festival in 2006, and like any hustler who knows how to overstay her welcome, I booked myself a flight to the Big Apple and accompanied the director, who was pretty sure I was an extra in the film and was just over there for my birthday, and it was all just a coincidence.

  I’ve also been a few times with friends and a number of times on my own, when I did some really stupid shit and can’t believe that none of it has caught up with me yet (fingers crossed emoji).

  But this was my first trip to New York for work, and my first with Api.

  I’ve never known anyone to throw themselves into their hobbies quite like this man.

  Above all, Api is a beach guy. He loves the water; if he hasn’t been in it for a few days, he becomes really hard work. Every time he surfs he does it with such love and excitement it’s as though he will never surf again—good way to live, right? Whenever we plan family holidays they always need to be on some sort of island so he can get in some waves. No complaints here—any excuse to squeeze this body into a bikini is a good vacay to me, amiright ladiezzz?!?!

  So I was a little worried when Harry called and wanted us to go to New York City. There’s surf in LA, but there ain’t no surf breaks in New York City—not even from when that amazing pilot that Tom Hanks played in that movie landed on the Hudson: not wavy enough. But Api was stoked. He’s a researcher not by trade, just by eagerness, so he googled every specialty skate shop and ramen house in the tri-state area. (I don’t know what tri-state area means, but I hear it when people are referring to people looking really hard for things, so there it is.)

  We were put up in a hotel room in New York, and it was everything you could hope and wish for when being put up by a fancy television network. The foyer was amazing; it had massive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and doorways, a huge vine was wrapped all over everything, and when we walked up the amazing dark wooden staircase, rich, polite people smiled and the vine even tried to grow over my face. It was so fancy that after we had checked in and been given our room keys, I had to double-check with the concierge that we were in the right place.

  We walked through the beautiful halls of the thirteenth floor. The carpet wasn’t sticky, which was a nice change from the New York hotel I usually stay in, and the walls were a beautiful tone of “cash and class.” Api and I were out of place, and we bloody loved it.

  The bellboy (is that what they are called, or am I being racist?) who was carrying our two bags and three new skateboards swiped the card to open the door to our room. He opened the door for us only partly, and with a smile handed us the room key and told us to enjoy our stay, and with that he disappeared.

  Api grabbed our luggage, and I attempted to open the door farther to let the precious cargo through. I quickly realized this was as far as the door would open, as it was banging into the bathroom wall.

  We squeezed into the room and discovered there was only enough room for one adult and a teacup Chihuahua. The room comprised a double bed, a bathroom housing half a shower, and a safe. We spent the following three nights in the hotel with the fancy foyer sleeping with our two suitcases and three skateboards in bed with
us.

  The morning of the Harry show I had my game face on. I was pimply, bloated, and jet-lagged like a bitch, but I was ready, goddamn it. Api needed to see a skate shop downtown, and there was no way on God’s green earth I was going to go with him; I had a date with Harry. I sat in the shoebox-inside-the-shoebox-size room and got focused.

  Api got home from Skate City about ten minutes before we needed to leave and somehow in seven minutes managed to shit, shower, and shave and come out looking and smelling like Taye Diggs and the Rock had had a baby (I’ll just leave that image there).

  We walked to the studio from where we were staying because we were in New York City, baby, and that’s what you do—you walk.

  As soon as we got to the studio, I was “on.” People like to think that actors are always on; trust me, we’re not. Only yesterday did my children have to drag me out of bed at 11:00 a.m. because I was having a prolonged moment of sadness and couldn’t get out of my own way (everyone calm down, it was a Sunday—no one was missing any school).

  A lot of actors and comedians I know don’t like being the center of attention. That’s not the case with me.

  Most actors and comedians LOVE to work, and even though entertaining people in the line at Kmart when you’ve run in ten minutes before school starts to pick up a pair of shoes because your seven-year-old always loses his left shoe might be hard work at times, it’s not the type of work I mean. Being “on” when I’m not prepared for it gives me anxiety and is really exhausting. But when I’m at work and feeling good and at the top of my game, then I’m on, oh I’m on like Donkey Kong!

  When we arrived at the studio, I gave them my name at reception and they knew who I was!

  This was massive for me. I’m the type of person who will introduce myself to you over and over again because I’m sure you have forgotten me. I reintroduced myself to one of my bridesmaids on my wedding day.

  We were shown to a dressing room by a lovely lady who was a bit of a fan of Australian television and was “obsessed with All Saints, and never missed an episode,” yet she couldn’t recall me at all.

  My dressing room was filled with treats, which as soon as no one was looking Api and I stashed in my bag for after-show celebratory snacks. Then it was off to the Makeup Room, and this is where I come alive.

  You know those warm-up guys who come out before a talk show and warm up the audience? They have a set number of jokes that everyone has heard before but still loves—“Hey, where are you from?” “Brisbane.” “Sorry.” “BRISBANE!” the audience member yells, thinking they can’t be heard. “No, I heard you, I’m just sorry”—all the best gags. Everybody laughs, there’s some knee slapping that happens, and everyone forgets their troubles.

  Well, I’m that guy when I get into Hair and Makeup. When I walk into the Makeup Room, I want to shake shit up. I read the room, completely disregard what I’ve read, then just go at it. It’s not a contrived thing; it’s just what feels right. Makeup Rooms are usually filled with sassy young women, a few queens, and the odd middle-aged woman who didn’t think she would still be doing this at her age, and it’s where I come alive. I thank Jo for this—whenever I walked into her Makeup Room, she would look at me with a big smile, already laughing at something I was going to say while setting up her makeup station.

  My go-to joke as soon as I walk in, with no makeup, bags under my eyes, my hair usually wet, and a questionable lump on my nose, is: “Actually, you guys, I’m good to go. I don’t need any hair or makeup today, just maybe a clear gloss on my lips, but nothing more.”

  There is usually a pause, the hair and makeup artists look at each other a little confused, then we all laugh at what a crazy gal I am. This is my icebreaker; it helps me get into the vibe. Api says he loves watching me “get into character,” or get into the space, and it all starts in Hair and Makeup.

  Hair and makeup artists are the most knowledgeable people in the world. If you are ever looking to see a shrink or a psychiatrist, check to see if they were a hair or makeup artist in a former life and you will know they have heard it all before and you are in safe hands. I become friends with all the people who do my face and hair, not only because I’m a charitable person, but because these people get to know more about me than anyone, and as they say, keep your friends close and enemies closer.

  You sit in their chair whinging about your marriage with morning breath and head lice, while they touch your face and sort out your earwax at 5:00 a.m. These people own you. And they pop up everywhere. They are the first people you see at work, the last people you see at the end of a day offering you makeup wipes, and the only ones you want to see in bed with you after a massive wrap party.

  They are there just before you “go on,” doing touch-ups or “checks,” as it’s called in the Biz; they are there at lunch watching you inhale all the pasta to make sure it doesn’t smudge your lips; they even have control over how hydrated you are. These people are your FAM!

  Before the Harry show, a fabulous Hispanic man touched my face in all the right ways in the makeup chair; then I moved over to another area of the huge Makeup Room (it was about 45,464 times bigger than our room at our hotel), where an amazing black lady with the most incredible earrings did things to my hair that only an amazing black lady with incredible earrings could.

  After forty-five minutes of me trying out new gags and us all laughing and exchanging details, I exited my Hair and Makeup mecca, waved goodbye to my new adopted fam bam, and knew it wouldn’t be long before I saw them again.

  Then it was time to meet Harry, and I was ready. I was excited and cool and energized—all the things that Api wasn’t. He was petrified.

  Sorry, I’m not sure if I’ve made it clear: it was a solo interview, just me and my new mate from the South, Harry. Api had just come along for the ride, a ride that I wasn’t interested in taking without him, but the interview, the actual reason we were there, was just for Harry and Celeste. Yet Api was acting as though we had just got word that Harry had fallen ill and he, Apihana Les Robin, the little Maori boy from the South Coast of New South Wales, had to take the reins and host the show, shirtless, while tap-dancing and speaking Swahili.

  But no, he was just required to hang with me backstage and look good. I guess if I’d wanted some water or something and there wasn’t enough time for me to get it, I could have asked him, but there are usually people who do this for you, so he just needed to stand near a wall and “enjoy.”

  By this point he was flat out just standing. He was tripping over cables, running into people, and once he finally thought he was all good and had found himself a spot to see what was going on but also be out of the way, he realized he was in a doorway that a massive coffee table had to be ushered through, forcing him to move and starting the tripping, stumbling cycle all over again.

  We stood side stage for a while as Harry finished up with the guest who was on before me, my Hair and Makeup fam bam came over to do one last poke and prod, then it was on. I walked out to the small platform where I would be sitting, said hi to the studio audience, and took my seat.

  In those situations no one really cares about what the guest is doing, as all people in the studio audience want to see is what goes on behind the scenes of a talk show and what the host does when they aren’t “on.”

  I went to a taping of Ellen in 2010, and this was all I was interested in. For some reason I thought that the host hung out and chatted to the audience, but they don’t—they’re busy and need to prep for the next segment. During a break in the taping two security guards would come out and stand either side of Ellen while her Hair and Makeup fam bam fussed over her and one producer talked to her while another one showed her her cue cards and what she needed to do for the next segment.

  It was the best theater I had ever watched. Minnie Driver and Perez Hilton were guests on Ellen for the episode we watched the taping of (remember, it was 2010), and I’ve never cared less about Minnie Driver in my life—and that’s saying a lot, because
Good Will Hunting is one of my favorite films. It was all eyes on Ellen.

  Watching people when they aren’t “on” is my favorite pastime. I’m that person at the train station watching a mother mumble “for fuck’s sake” under her breath when her toddler asks for another rice cracker.

  I felt I was prepared for the interview; the only thing that seemed to catch me off guard was the fact that I didn’t walk out to the stage when introduced. Instead, I was already seated, with Harry standing in front of me.

  When we got the countdown to come back from the ad break, I realized that I was, in fact, sitting, and didn’t know if I needed to stand for the introduction, allowing me to greet Harry properly with a hug and kiss, after which we would sit down together and proceed with the interview, which would go viral, attracting twenty million Facebook views in the first three minutes. So I decided to sit for the introduction and planned that when Harry had finished the intro, in the time he took to turn around and walk two steps over to me, I would jump up and hug and kiss him, and the internet-breaking interview would be underway.

  Instead of this flawless plan playing out, I realized that the plastic-coated jeans I was wearing were about two sizes too small and the type of jeans that need a solid fifteen minutes of adjustments once you were seated in position, and once adjusted they wouldn’t allow the kind of swift movement I was planning on.

  The next thing I hear is, “And we’re back in three, two . . .”

  Silence. Then the dreamy Harry Connick Jr., with his even dreamier southern twang, began: “My next guest is an Australian actor, comedian . . .” while all I can think is, “Shit, I don’t have time to move!”

  I now realized why Api was so worried. By the time Harry had spun around to greet me, I could tell my plastic-coated pants were hanging on by a thread.

  “This is my first international talk show, goddamn it,” I told myself. “I’m not going to let some ill-fitting pants prevent me from hugging Harry Connick Jr.”