Jack does a kind of deep, throaty, snorting laugh at some of the gag lines I deliver and this I find hugely encouraging.
Bad sign: Then he excuses himself to answer his mobile phone and does precisely the same laugh.
Good sign: After I’ve been put through my paces, he politely asks me about my personal life and whether the significant commitment involved in this gig would be an issue for me.
Bad sign: When I tell him that I’m married but haven’t had a chance to discuss it with my significant other yet, he just nods curtly, giving absolutely nothing away. My gut instinct is to tack on, ‘But you know, everything’s OK, because it’s not like we have kids or anything!’ but I manage to restrain myself. I mean, yes of course I’d love the job, but do I really want to come across as a complete desperado?
Shit anyway. Should have just told him the truth.
That I’ve a husband who I honestly doubt would even notice I’m gone.
Worst sign of all: When I’m leaving the stage, he shakes my hand quite formally and says, ‘Best of luck. We’ll be in touch.’ Otherwise known in the acting profession as the ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’, kiss of death.
So now there’s nothing to do but wait it out.
It’s only early evening but already pitch dark by the time I get back to The Sticks. Dan, not surprisingly, isn’t back yet, but this would be perfectly normal. In fact it might be hours and hours before he does come home. So I decide that I’ll wait up for him, even if it’s two in the morning before he eventually does stagger in.
My plan is thus: I will stand right in front of him, hands on hips like something out of a Western, blocking his path so he can’t dodge past me, claiming exhaustion and that all he really wants to do is go to bed. I will firmly say what I’ve got to say and not get fobbed off by his mobile ringing or him brushing me aside and saying, ‘We’ll talk later.’ Flooded with determination, I make up my mind. No more repeat performances of this morning. No more being brushed off.
Enough’s enough. Some discussions just can’t wait.
I let myself in through the side door that leads down a long, narrow, stone passageway to the kitchen and am delighted to see Jules standing there, wearing her pyjamas with a pair of my slippers and raiding our fridge, as per usual.
‘And where the feck have you been all day?’ is her greeting, not even looking up from the coleslaw she’s eating straight out of the tub.
‘Jules, please tell me you didn’t go out dressed like that? You look like the kind of woman that ends up getting escorted out of Tesco. You’re like a candidate for care in the community.’
‘Ahh, leave me alone, will you? I couldn’t have been arsed deciding what to wear, so in the end I just didn’t bother. But I did put a duffel coat and Wellingtons over my PJ’s before I left the flat. Besides underwear as outerwear is a hot look right now, I’ll have you know. Anyway, you’re in deep shite with the Mothership, I can tell you that for nothing. We came dangerously close to having a code three on our hands today.’
This, by the way, is a system Jules and I have set up to monitor Audrey and her many and varied ‘little turns’. The lowest level, code one, means she’s prostrate on the sofa whinging and in need of sugary tea but if she ever makes it up to code four, the only thing to do is dial 999 toot sweet, then call the local GP and await subsequent fallout.
‘So where were you, Annie? You keep disappearing and re-appearing these days. Not unlike that TV show Scrubs.’
‘Up in Dublin doing an audition,’ I beam proudly, peeling off my coat and gloves. ‘You have my permission to be impressed.’
‘And you didn’t take me with you, you bitch! For feck’s sake, I could have done some Christmas shopping! With money you’d have had to lend me, obviously. I could have done with getting out of Dodge today; Lisa Ledbetter sat here at the kitchen table moaning for the entire afternoon. Not much point in me coming here to escape from my mother if I have to put up with The Countess Dracula instead, is there? Phrases about frying pans and fires spring to mind.’
I groan as I reach to put the kettle on.
‘You have my sympathies, hon. So tell us, how was the Countess today?’
‘What can I say? Like Lisa Ledbetter. If whining was an Olympic sport, we’d have the gold medallist living right here in our midst.’
Not an exaggeration, by the way. We all have a Lisa Ledbetter in our lives and the thing is, you just can’t allow yourself to get sucked in or else sure as eggs is eggs they won’t be happy till they drag you down with them.
‘You should have heard her,’ Jules goes on, wiping coleslaw off her face with the back of her hand. ‘She even rang Dan on his mobile to ask him for another lend of cash to tide her over Christmas. Oh, and apparently one of her kids wants to do pony riding lessons, and she got the big soft gobshite to agree to shell out for that too. I was pretending to be watching TV but heard the whole conversation. What a shameless cow; I mean, doesn’t she realise that scabbing money from Dan is my department?’
I roll my eyes to Heaven pretending to be pissed off, although I’m actually delighted that Jules is here and even more delighted that by some early miracle of Christmas, I’ve managed to miss both Audrey and Lisa. Because Jules is the perfect antidote to the pair of them.
Jules, I should tell you, is only nineteen but looks an awful lot younger still, particularly today when she’s dressed in her favourite baby-blue fleece pyjamas with her dark, jack-in-the-box curls that normally spring past her shoulders tied back into two messy, pigtails. Honest to God, the girl looks like she should still be getting ID’ed in bars.
And I know she treats this house like she’s a non-rent paying lodger, but then Jules is one of life’s naturally adorable people so it’s pretty much impossible to get irritated with her for very long. She’s Dan’s baby sister but it always feels like she’s mine too – I’ve known her ever since she was a spoilt, over-petted four-year-old girl and what can I say? From day one, we just bonded. I’d always wanted a little sister…and I certainly couldn’t have asked for one who made my life more entertaining.
And yes, of course it’s a bit weird that a nineteen-year-old college dropout should spend her days lounging around watching afternoon TV with absolutely no inclination whatsoever towards getting an actual job and supporting herself, but that’s our Jules for you. She’s one of that rare and dying breed – the entitled generation. You know, young ones who grew up having everything handed to them on a plate by doting parents and who assumed that life was all about five-star hotels and three holidays a year and wearing nothing but designer labels on their well-toned backs. The generation that landed with the hardest thump when the recession hit and suddenly all the privileges they’d taken for granted during the good years were crudely revoked.
At the time Jules had started college but when she flunked her exams last autumn, she quickly realised she’d actually have to stop partying five nights a week and actually knuckle down to some hardcore work if she ever wanted to pass. And needless to say, that was the end of that. So she moved back into her mother’s flat about five months ago and even though she claims it drives her nuts being nagged at morning, noon and night, she doesn’t seem to have the slightest intention of ever leaving. Like she hasn’t actually made the link in her own head yet between her actions and their consequences.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the girl dearly, but if you were to look up ‘indolence’ in the Oxford English dictionary, chances are it would say ‘See Jules Ferguson’. She’s like a zenned-out, calm bubble of Que Sera Sera and believe it or not she’s perfectly contented to crash out at Audrey’s for the foreseeable future, living on cash handouts from her big brother. Oh and spending all her afternoons here, the minute Audrey’s safely out of the way and the coast is clear, thereby avoiding her as much as possible. A bit like weathermen on one of those old-fashioned clocks; one goes in just as the other one is coming out.
Anyway, I pour myself out a big mug of tea and follow
her into the TV room, where she’s laid out a little picnic for herself consisting of last night’s leftovers plus a bag of tortilla chips. She’s also lit the fire, but then that’s the one household chore you can actually count on her to do. I’m deeply grateful though because in this house, with the high ceilings and ancient hot water pipes, even with the heating on full-blast, it rarely gets warmer than a degree or two above freezing. Ellen DeGeneres is on TV in the background, interviewing some teen queen about her latest movie and Jules plonks down in her favourite armchair, eyes glued to the screen.
‘So,’ she says, taking a fistful of tortilla chips and stuffing her face with them. ‘Tell me all about your audition. Is it a half decent part? And by that I mean…is it worth elevating my vision from the TV for?’
I bring her up to speed on all developments in my life, debating in my mind whether I should tell her the full, unexpurgated truth. Half of me thinks what the hell, she’ll find out soon enough anyway, but the other more rational side of me thinks, no, this isn’t fair. Not till I’ve spoken to Dan. If I ever get to speak to him, that is. So I skirt around the truth and just give her the bare skeletal outline of the story.
But if I thought she’d be impressed, I was wrong. All she does is flop back onto the armchair, still munching tortilla chips, and deep in thought.
‘Shit on it anyway,’ she eventually mutters. ‘I just realised something deeply unpleasant.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘If you get this, and if they’re only looking at three other actors, then let’s face it, you’ve got a thirty three per cent chance…then…just think…you’ll be gone all day when you’re rehearsing and then gone all night when the show is playing, won’t you? Tell me the truth, Annie, what does your gut instinct say? Do you think you’ll get the gig?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Don’t say “probably not”. That worries me. What’s wrong with ordinary “not”?’
I can’t help smiling at her. You should see her, looking at me all worried, with the innocent expression and the big, saucer-black eyes. Honest to God, for a split second, she looks exactly like she did when she was about twelve years old.
‘Because if you did feck off to Dublin,’ she goes on, playing with a pig tail, ‘that means I’d be stuck here on my own, without you, doesn’t it? Bugger and double bugger it anyway. You’ve no idea what it’s like here when you’re not around, Annie. Between the Mothership with all her little turns and Lisa Ledbetter and her whinging, this house is like an open casting call for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I’m not sure that I could handle it without you. Perish the thought, but if that were the case, then I might actually have to do the unthinkable and…pause for dramatic effect…go out and get a job myself.’
Vintage Jules. The first question she’ll always ask when faced with a new set of circumstances is…hold on a minute, let me have a think. Now how does this directly affect me?
‘Well, it may not even come to pass,’ I say, taking a sip of tea and trying to plumb the fault line in my heart to gauge my own reaction if it didn’t happen. Or, even more unthinkable, if it did. Oh God, just the thought of what that would involve instantly makes me break out in a cold, shivery sweat.
But Jules is already gone off on a tangent.
‘Well anyway, lucky for you, though, Annie, there’s no need to feel guilty, because as it happens, I do have an ace up my sleeve. You know how Dan’s been on at me lately about cutting my allowance unless he sees me at least out looking for some kind of work? Well, I had a brainwave last night. While watching a repeat of Britain’s Got Talent, when I get all my best inspiration.’
‘Ehh…let me guess. You’ve decided to become a pop star and you’re going to go and audition for Simon Cowell and Amanda Holden? Isn’t it a prerequisite that you have to at least be able to sing first?’
‘No, I’m going to use my own talent, you gobshite. I’m going to become an author. I’ve even got the title for my first book all worked out. It’s a loosely autobiographical story, based on the life of a stunningly beautiful, gifted nineteen-year-old girl, who’s just dropped out of college and is forced through cruel economic circumstances into living with her nut job of a mother in a tiny little backwater, in the back arse of nowhere. It’s called I Love You, But Please Die. So whaddya think?’
‘I honestly don’t know which of us is worse. You for dreaming up this crap, or me for listening to you. Although I will say this: if you did turn to writing, it would certainly put that over-active imagination of yours to good use.’
That’s another thing about Jules – she’s famous in the family for being the greatest exaggerator this side of Heather Mills. When she was a kid, she was forever getting into trouble for telling tall tales. Famously, on her first day in primary school she told her entire class that her parents were circus performers; that her mum was an acrobat and her dad could tame lions. When the truth came out, that her father was actually the local vet and her mum was a housewife, she never batted an eyelid, just said that her dad used to be a lion tamer but now looked after sick animals, while her mother was forced to abandon her acrobatic career through injury. Psychologists say that most kids tend to grow out of this carry on by the age of six, but Jules is now nineteen and still hasn’t.
‘Well, missy,’ she says, glaring at me, ‘if you’re going to disappear off for…how long? Couple of months I’m guessing? Then the pressure will all be on me to find work. So if you think about it, it’s all your fault, abe. Feck you anyway for getting a smell of a job. Now I’ll have to run out and get my debut novel published or everyone will think I’m a complete and utter loser. How long will your show run for anyway?’
I don’t answer. Instead, I busy myself tidying up the little picnic Jules has littered around the TV room floor and try my best to tune out her question. Like I say, until I talk to Dan, it’s just not fair to confide in his family first.
But Jules smells something and is straight onto me.
‘Annie? Why won’t you answer me?’
Again, I ignore her and focus on picking up loose kernels of popcorn strewn all around the armchair where she’s sitting.
‘Are you aware that right now your face is flushing like a forest fire?’ she insists tenaciously, like a dog that’s just picked up the faintest scent of blood.
‘You know, as a little treat for us, I went to Marks & Spencer when I was up in Dublin and bought some of the gorgeous beef in a black bean sauce they do. Do you fancy some for dinner?’
‘Hello? Earth to Annie? Can we stick to the subject at hand please? Is there something you’re not telling me? Something about your play?’
She even lowers down the volume on the TV, so there’s no avoiding her question. Then suddenly, she clamps her hand over her mouth and gasps, horrified.
‘Christ Alive, don’t tell me there’s full frontal nudity in the show and you’re too mortified to let on!’
‘No, there is absolutely, categorically no nudity whatsoever. Now would you just go back to doing what you do best – watching daytime TV and let me get dinner started?’
‘Annie…’ she says threateningly.
‘Or if you don’t fancy the beef, I’ve the makings of a nice chicken casserole. What do you say? I know a day isn’t over for you unless you’ve eaten an entire alphabet full of additives, but do you fancy eating something with an actual vitamin in it for a change? Instead of just another bag of tortilla chips, that is.’
‘Piss off, I’m stress eating.’
‘You? Stressed? You never gave a shite about anything in your life.’
‘Stop changing the subject. I know right well when I’m being fobbed off…’
‘…and maybe you’d like a healthy fresh salad with dinner? Maybe?’
‘Bitch! You tell me the truth this minute or I’ll break your nose with my bare forehead…’
‘Lovely talk. Where’d you pick that up, living with your mother?’
‘Annie! You know I’ll whee
dle it out of you sooner or later, so you may as well tell me now, while you have my undivided attention. Now, quick, before Home and Away starts.’
I sigh so deeply it feels like it’s coming from my bone marrow, knowing right well that the game’s up.
‘You’re just not going to let this go, are you?’
‘Not a snowball’s chance in hell.’
Right then. I slump back down onto the sofa beside her. I hadn’t wanted to tell anyone ahead of Dan, but then I figure…knowing him, it could be a full twenty-four hours before I actually manage to nail him down. Plus I honestly feel like I’m carrying around the third Secret of Fatima – it’ll be a relief to get it off my chest. Not to mention a good dress rehearsal for what’s to come.
So I tell Jules the truth. The whole truth and nothing but.
There’s silence.
I didn’t expect silence.
Suddenly it’s like all the life and energy has been completely sucked out of the room. I look at her expectantly and she looks at me and I honestly think I’ll fling one of Audrey’s revolting china shepherdess figurines into the fireplace if she doesn’t say something.
Eventually she speaks.
‘Right. That settles it then. I’m getting wine.’
In a single hop, she’s up and over to the drinks cabinet and pouring us out two oversized glasses of Merlot. I don’t argue. I need the drink just as much as she does. If not more.
‘OK,’ she says, handing me the wine and simultaneously taking the mug of tea away from me, like it’s suddenly become poisonous. ‘So I may not like what you’ve just told me, but feck it, you’re like the only normal person in my daily orbit and if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll find some way to help you deal with this. So, let me just tap into my amazing powers of insight here.’
‘Ehh…sorry, did you say your amazing powers of insight?’
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow Page 6
