‘Oh wank!’ I groan. I look up to locate the face of the demonic man who has ruined my shoes. But instead I find myself gazing into the blue eyes of a cherub. The man before me has blond hair framing his face. He is slightly chubby and looks very concerned for my shoes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, giving me a sheepish, lopsided smile. ‘They’re really nice shoes as well.’
‘Oh, not to worry. They’re really old!’ I lie. ‘Sorry you lost most of your pint. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m looking for my friend.’
I take the executive decision to stay near Cherub Man. I am standing about a foot from him, pretending to be engrossed in the big screen and also looking slightly timid and concerned for my friend’s whereabouts when I feel sweaty, hairy, naked skin press against my own bare arm. The naked skin belongs to the arm of a big fat bloke in an England vest. He has one tooth at the front where most people have two. I think he says, ‘You’re too pretty to be on your own.’ They’re my bloody tactics! I smile because the convent taught me to be nice to everyone. Then I think he says something about Wayne Rooney.
‘I’ve got legs like Wayne Rooney,’ I say. I’m not really sure why. It was just the first thing that came into my head. It’s also sadly true. A little bit of his spit lands on me as he laughs.
‘So has my ex-wife,’ he says.
Bollocks, I think.
The match starts. It’s quite good. How can they run so much? It dawns on me that one day in heaven the angels were playing in God’s garage, where He had been working on his Perfect Man creation. The naughty angels dropped the Perfect Man creation and down he fell to Earth, where he became known as Freddie Ljungberg. In my mind we are childhood sweethearts, parted at the moment so I can concentrate on my acting, waitressing and blogging careers and he on his football. We will be in Tuscany together soon.
Suddenly my head is in Big Fat Bloke’s armpit. Someone has scored. I must concentrate. I get quite good at the ‘upward punch in the air’ when a player does something well. My favourite is the ‘Polish waitress without a boyfriend’ sulk, when someone misses a pass. This is fun.
At half-time the big fat bloke goes to the loo. I try not to picture it. Cherub Man smiles at me. I check behind. I doubt he is smiling at the Cash ’n’ Curry fruit machine. He must be smiling at me. I grin back.
‘Where’s your boyfriend?’
‘Um, he’s not my boyfriend, he’s my minder. I call him the Beast II.’
He laughs!
‘No, I don’t have a boyfriend and I’ve only just met him.’
‘I can’t believe you don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘Well, I’m phenomenally funny and clever so I tend to intimidate most men.’ He laughs again! I beg myself not to speak again because I know I will cock it up. I’m trying desperately hard not to belch. I look at the screen and the half-time commentators. I must not look too keen.
‘Would you like a drink?’
She shoots, she scores.
‘Yes please, oh thank you. I think a white wine though, this beer makes me burp.’
I’m quickly introduced to his best friend’s brother, standing next to him. I mentally log him as a possible suitor for Julia, who needs cheering up after passing out in the taxi with the head-butt guy. Beast II returns. The match starts again. We become a little dysfunctional family, sulking, punching and groaning. The boys score again. This time I land in Cherub Man’s armpit. I love football.
The match ends and Cherub Man turns to me and smiles. I beam back.
‘Right, I’ve got to go back to work. I’m an editor. I work mad hours sometimes.’
I have two thoughts:
1)
He’s an editor. Blinding!
2)
He doesn’t want to take me immediately to Soho Square for some frottage. Bollocks
‘But I’ll be free in an hour or two if you fancy going for a late drink somewhere.’
‘Oh, I’ve got an audition tomorrow,’ I reply. ‘I really should have an early night.’
‘Um, I hope you don’t think I’m a pillock for saying this, but I really like you. The thing is, I’m moving to Australia next week.’
I feel as though someone has just suddenly flicked the power switch off. I realize that this was just a nice pointless moment without a future.
‘Oh wow! That’s great! How exciting, Australia’s an amazing place,’ I gush. Bloody Australia, everyone’s bloody well moving there.
‘I’m quite busy, but I’d really like to see you for a night before I go.’
I look at him. He winks at me. I realize that he just wants a quick shag. Simple naked wrestling as opposed to lazy mornings on a Tuscan beach trying to do a crossword before jumping naked into the sea and kissing. Sex would be good, I admit. But I know that one-night stands don’t make me happy. No. It has to be no. I’ve got rules and morals. I am a pioneer for women after all.
‘Cheeky fucker!’ I shout and give him my phone number. ‘No’ is sometimes a very hard word to say. I am as much of a pioneer for women as Linda McCartney was for lamb shank, I think as I watch him leave.
Beast II gives me a bestial hug goodbye. The pressure causes me to release a long, satisfying, hour-long held-in burp in his ear. Bliss. I think I feel the cavern floor shake slightly.
‘Good girl!’ he says with pride. ‘You even sound like my ex-wife now.’
Back in the flat I tiptoe into my room. I can hear moans of carnal pleasure coming from Simon’s room. I quite like hearing people enjoying each other. Not in an erotic way, just in a comforting way, although tonight it sounds from Ruth’s howls as though Simon has impaled her and she’s stuck. I creep into my room, trying not to disturb them. Suddenly I feel something hard bash me on the forehead. I sway for a moment. And then I pass out.
nine
Sometimes I have to read some very boring lines when I go to auditions. Today is a case in point.
WOMAN 2 I’ve been waiting with my son for two hours. He’s getting very restless. Will he be seen soon?
RECEPTIONIST (sighs) I should think so.
WOMAN 2 I hope you’re right.
The problem with these lines is that when I say them I bore myself. Therefore it shall be very difficult for whoever has to hear them not to lapse into a coma. So I have decided that Woman 2 is scared for her son. When people are scared they often develop stutters. Woman 2 shall therefore have a slight stutter. Slight stutters are marvellous for small parts as they mean more time on camera. Also Woman 2 fancies the receptionist. That is why she says, ‘I hope you’re right’ rather than screaming, ‘See to my son NOW before he bleeds to death’ and head-butting the receptionist. Woman 2 looks at the receptionist and smiles sultrily. Then she bites her lip lightly and speaks volumes with her eyes.
I am sitting in a small room at the BBC. It is 2.14. My audition was supposed to be at 2. There are no windows in the room. Rooms without natural light make me yawn. When I yawn my eyes water. I may well have to play Woman 2 in tears if they keep me waiting any longer. I had thought tears would be too much with the stutter and the flirting and the huge scabby lump on my head but I may not have a choice. I came to in the early hours of this morning with a large gaping swollen wound in my head, three new shelves on my wall and a note from Simon saying, Put up some shelfs. Somewhere to put you’re mess. Mind you’re head! I have a nasty feeling that God misheard me when I said, ‘Please let me get the Casualty job’ and thought I said, ‘Please make me look like a casualty.’ The only way I can hide the scabby lump on my head is to sweep the hair across my face and tilt my head to the side to hold the hair in place. This I had managed to do until three minutes ago when I felt shooting pains up my neck. Fearful of life-threatening neck paralysis, I am now holding my head as nature intended and revealing the hideous open wound.
I am alone in the room except for one other auditionee who came in two minutes ago. I have become quite fascinated by her. Sometimes I can’t help looking at attractive women, not because I w
ant to do lesbian things with them but because they represent something that I am not and I can’t help comparing myself to them. This woman is interesting because she doesn’t look much older than me but whereas I generally look like a scruffy girl she most definitely looks like a proper woman. She looks like a woman who goes to beauty salons for expensive treatments and takes cocaine with a little silver snorter and has a man who lavishes necklaces upon her. She is very, very slim. If she was a piece of chicken she would be disappointing to eat. She is so slim she is wearing black skinny jeans. I once tried on a pair of skinny jeans in Topshop and it looked as though someone had wrapped a haggis in denim. She is wearing a tight black T-shirt and although I can’t stare too much I suspect that her breasts aren’t real as they are popping out of her ribs like sink plungers. I am fascinated by her but she has not once looked at me, mainly because she is playing with two items, which I am coveting: 1) her iPod, and 2) her BlackBerry. She has dyed blonde hair and a fake tan. She looks very familiar so I suspect I’ve seen her a lot on the telly.
I am just wondering how small her breasts were before the work was done to them when she suddenly throws her BlackBerry on the floor and shouts the word ‘Fuck!’ Her voice is Marlboro Light husky, as I had expected. She is cross. Her BlackBerry is now under the coffee table in the middle of the room. I jump on to my knees, lie on my side and push my forearm under the table. I move my fingers about until I feel a corner of the BlackBerry. I make waving motions with my arm like a turtle until the BlackBerry finally appears from beneath the table. I am rather pleased with myself. As I lift my body off the ground I hear a very loud clunk and feel an agonizing pain on the top of my head.
‘Wank. Wank. Wank,’ I holler at the pain. I sit wincing on the floor with my head in my hands.
‘Are you all right? I would have just picked the table up and got the BlackBerry,’ she says coolly.
I cannot respond because I am currently seeing stars.
‘Sarah Sargeant,’ she says slowly. Then she gathers momentum, ‘Sarah bloody Sargeant. Do you remember me? From the convent.’
I look at her for a few seconds before whispering, ‘Oh my God, Rachel bloody Bird!’ I wanted to be Rachel Bird at school. She was two years older than me, pretty, popular, in the netball team and always got the female leads in the school play. As we went to an all-girls convent school there was generally only ever one good girl part and everybody else had to play boys or comedy old people. Every year I had talcum powder in my hair and a cheap stick-on moustache in order to play some senile old man while Rachel Bird got to wear a pretty dress and lipstick. You always hope to bump into people from your past at an awards ceremony where you are picking up a prize or maybe coming out of The Ivy and they are walking past on the way to Subway. Not like this. Not crawling bleeding on the floor of the BBC.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asks me.
‘I’m up for a small part in Casualty. What about you?’
‘Same, yeah, just a small part this time. I’m off to LA next week.’
‘Wow! Have you got an agent over there?’ I sigh.
‘Not yet. I’ve got a producer friend who’s going to do the rounds with me so that I can get one.’
‘Wow! God, I’d love to go out there and do an episode of 24,’ I sigh.
Rachel Bird starts to laugh, as though I’ve made a joke.
‘Well, good luck with it all.’ I smile. I pretend to start reading my script again.
‘Here, take my card. I’m going to document the LA experience in my blog. The address is on there.’
‘Oh my God! I’ve got a blog!’ I pant like I’m peaking. ‘I’ve never met another blogger! What’s yours about?’
‘Oh, you know, it’s a bit like Sex and the City, stuff about my career and sex life.’ She shrugs casually. ‘What about yours?’
‘Er, hmm,’ I mutter, ‘not really Sex and the City, more like Not a Sniff of Sex in the City. It’s all about my lack of sex and lack of career.’
‘Right.’ She nods uninterestedly. ‘How many hits do you get?’
‘Sorry?’
‘How many hits do you get?’
‘Dunno. But I’ve had two comments,’ I say proudly. Rachel Bird laughs so I decide not to tell her that they are both from the same person. I am very proud of my two comments though. I received this one this morning:
I went speed dating! I met your Ian Beale lookalike, I was hoping I would as I thought his orange joke was really funny when you wrote about it. We’re going out for a drink this Friday!! Thank you.
‘Why, do you get loads of comments, then?’
‘Go on my blog and see, darling,’ she tells me smugly.
‘OK.’
‘You need to get yourself a site meter. It tells you how many people click on your blog each day and how they find you.’
‘Fuck me! That sounds awesome. How do I get one?’
‘Go on to my blog, click on my button that says Site Meter and it’ll tell you.’
I realize that I’m still holding Rachel Bird’s BlackBerry. I pass it back to her.
‘Here’s your BlackBerry. It’s chipped slightly.’
‘Hmm. Yeah. Well, I was pissed off. I didn’t win the Bloggie this year, some bloody gay hairdresser did.’
I look at her and am just about to ask what a Bloggie is when she says, ‘It’s an award for the best blog. Sarah, you don’t know much about blogging yet, do you?’
‘Obviously,’ I mutter, still sitting on the hard grey floor. I am imagining myself winning a Bloggie next year when Selina Gutteridge, my favourite casting director, pops her head round the door and says, ‘Sarah, you’re in next, sorry about the wait.’
‘Oh, not to worry,’ I say, smiling and getting up. But she’s not looking at me, she’s glaring at Rachel Bird. These are good evils. They make my own Goneril stare-of-disdain look as though Geoffrey is mildly disgruntled with Bungle. Unsurprisingly, Rachel Bird looks terrified. Selina Gutteridge walks purposefully over to Rachel Bird and stands over her. Rachel Bird attempts to speak but is silenced by a loud slap administered to her cheek. I gasp. I have never seen a proper slap. I must remember it in case I need to do any slapping in plays. Rachel Bird clutches her cheek and slowly puts her iPod and BlackBerry in her bag and starts to shuffle out of the room.
‘Um, bye, Rachel, I’ll um, have a look at your blog,’ I mumble. Suddenly Selina spins around and glares at me. I make a yelping sound, thinking that she’s going to slap me.
‘I wouldn’t bother. It’s disgusting. Torrid tales of sleeping with other people’s boyfriends.’ She spits the words out as though she’s got a hair stuck down her throat.
‘Oh,’ I whimper, fearing what acts of passion Selina will do next, but she just goes limp. Her shoulders slump and her head drops and I expect her to start crying.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask softly.
She looks at the floor and shakes her head. Then she takes a deep breath and starts to compose herself. She raises her head slowly. I wait for her to say something sadly profound. She doesn’t.
‘What the hell happened to your head, Sarah?’
‘Oh, I head-butted some shelves,’ I reply. My head is really sore. I touch it lightly and feel fresh blood on my fingers.
‘Hang on, there’s something in there,’ she says, holding me still and squinting into my cut. ‘Here, let me get it. It’s a small piece of plastic.’
She finds a tissue in her bag. And I stand there in agony as Selina Gutteridge extricates a small piece of Rachel Bird’s BlackBerry from the gaping wound in my head. This definitely has never been mentioned in any audition technique books I have read.
‘Oh well, Sarah, it looks like you’ve got the part,’ she says, smiling. ‘Your competition has left the building. You may as well go home.’
ten
‘Shall we read a bit more of your friend’s filthy blog?’ asks Julia, excitedly dunking a croissant in her cappuccino.
‘OK,’ I say through a mouthful of
Marmite on toast.
‘It’s fucking brilliant!’
‘Julia!’
‘What?’
‘Stop swearing. There are children present.’
‘You’re a bit grumpy today, Sare.’
‘I’m not!’
‘Yes you are. It’s because I didn’t read your bloody blog, isn’t it?’
‘No!’
‘It is. I know it is. Sarah, I speak to you every day, therefore I know what’s going on in your life. Why do I need to read about it as well?’
‘Well, you don’t actually need to read it, just click on it a lot, when you’ve got nothing to do, then I’ll have lots of hits on my site meter. I’ve only had forty-two.’
‘Sarah! You’re fucking warped!’
‘Julia!’
‘Come on, let’s read this bit about masturbation.’
‘Julia!’
‘What?’
‘Well, you keep saying “fuck” and now you’ve said “masturbation” and we’re in a café full of children.’
‘Where is it? Ah, here we go: “I like to masturbate any time, any place, anywhere,”’ she reads. Deliberately loudly.
Convent girls have a reputation for being rampant. Rachel Bird’s blog, Confessions of a Convent Girl, is doing absolutely nothing to dispel this. It is so juicy I used up the whole of my ink cartridge printing most of it to show Julia today. We have already read the bit where she discusses the soft lesbian porn film she made in Amsterdam, and the in-depth account of her breast-augmentation operation, paid for by a sixty-five-year-old Arab. I am not sure which of her many partners was Selina Gutteridge’s boyfriend, but for Selina’s sake I hope it wasn’t the man who was made to bark like a dog while Rachel spanked his bottom. Rachel gets an average of forty-five comments per posted article, although when she took a photograph of her post-operation bare breasts she got 112. No wonder she laughed when I told her about my two.
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 6
