‘Hello?’
Usually he’d answer and go, ‘Ryan Phillipe speaking?’ Not today.
‘Stu, it’s me. What did I do?’
‘Jodie?’
As soon as he said my name I could hear laughter in the background.
‘Is that Jodie, Stu?’
‘Is she still pissed, dude?’
‘Piss off, knobheads!’ Stu shouted in his own inimitable cockney brogue. (Unless you are from London, or are good at accents, in which case it was imitable.)
‘Stu, what did I do?’ I repeated, more insistent.
‘Jodie, I can’t really speak now,’ he whispered. ‘Why don’t you have a look at YouTube?’
‘YouTube?!’ I cried. ‘Am I on YouTube?’
‘Do you not remember phoning me?’
I gulped. No. Oh God, I must have done drunk dialling. It’s almost as dangerous as drunk driving, except that the only thing it damages is your ego.
‘Yeah, you phoned me about midnight, crying?’
‘What was I saying?’
‘You were like, “They love me”, “Everyone’s so nice”.’
‘OK.’ God I sounded like a complete and utter actress.
‘But, Jodie, you made your feelings quite clear the other day. It’s not my responsibility to make you feel better any more. You completely showed me up, I’ve got the police on my back and I think that’s really unfair. I did apologize. I did try to make it up to you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I bleated. I really did. I sounded like a sheep. I cleared my throat and said it again a bit louder, as though I meant it. I heard him sigh.
‘Jodie, I’ve gotta go. We’ve got a big meeting at half past.’
‘OK,’ I said, with more than a hint of desperation, and he hung up. Oh well, I left him. He had every right to not say goodbye. Or congratulations, come to think of it. And then I remembered something, and I wondered why I was being so reasonable with him. I must still have been drunk. I texted him angrily:
Jodie: ‘I found the bag in the loft.’
He texted back.
Stuart: ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Jodie: ‘Have a nice life, liar.’
A woman walked past me on the train. She did a double take, realizing who I was, then burst out laughing. I was determined to ignore this. If I thought everything was fine, then everything would be fine. It was a philosophical thingamajig. Think something hard enough and it will happen. You might call it burying your head in the sand; I call it something intellectual, so it sounds better and more plausible. Ish.
I looked down at my iPad and deleted the two lists. The press office kept phoning and leaving messages, but I didn’t listen to them. Not yet. I also averted my eyes every time I saw someone in the carriage holding a tabloid.
My phone started vibrating again. I saw it was a call from Trudy so I answered it.
‘Babe, do you feel like killing yourself?’
‘Er . . . No. I just . . . can’t remember what happened.’
‘You won, babe. We were all so amazed. I would never have given you all that drink you kept asking me for if I’d thought you were going to win. I feel so bad. Forgive me?’
‘Of course I forgive you, Trudy.’
‘Did you sleep with Jason last night?’
I wanted the ground to open and swallow me up for about the 398th time that day.
‘No. I don’t know. What do you know?’
‘He’s saying you did, babe. He said you were, like, really out of it.’
‘What? He’s going round telling people?’
‘No, he only told me, babe. As far as I know.’
‘What? He called you?’
‘No, he texted.’
‘He just decided to send you a text saying he’d slept with me?’
‘No, babe, I texted him. I wanted to check you were OK, babe. You were so out of it last night and I feel responsible.’ She sounded quite sweet really. Until she added, ‘Although an expert would probably say, you know, an alcoholic is responsible for their own drinking problem.’ Then she added brightly, ‘Not that I’m saying you’re an alkie, babe!’
‘I had eight miniature absinthes. I got drunk. I’m not Carrie Fisher.’
‘Oh, babe, do you remember dancing on the bar at the Club at the Ivy?’ She laughed her head off. ‘Is it any wonder you were thrown out?’ And she laughed her head off again. ‘God you are hilarious, Jodie. I love you so much, babes.’
The list of the previous night’s misdemeanours was growing by the minute.
‘What’s Eva said?’
‘She wants me to go in this afternoon.’
‘Babe. I don’t think she’ll fire you. I think she kind of quite likes you deep down. And anyway, it would make no sense to fire you. You’re the best actress in a soap.’
I was about to ask Trudy what I’d actually done last night, but I stopped myself. I suddenly got the feeling she’d enjoy telling me too much. And besides, I didn’t want to know. I found myself mimicking her voice.
‘Babe? I’ve really gotta shoot. I’ve got, like, twenty odd people queuing for an autograph.’
I looked up the empty aisle and was surprisingly pleased to hear the sting in Trudy’s voice.
‘Babe that’s fine. I’m really proud of you winning Best Dramatic Performance. I’m just really jealous coz, like, my character’s a comedy character? And comedy’s, like, the hardest? But well done you, babe. You totes deserve it. Kisses!’
‘Kisses!’ and I hung up.
I tried to think back to other times that I’d showed myself up on booze. I made another list on my iPad.
Times I Have Shown Myself Up on Booze
1
Last year. Got steaming at Tom Turner’s eightieth birthday party (Tom Turner played one of the old men on Acacia Avenue; he was one of the first people to appear on the show a zillion years ago). I nicked his walking stick and did a dance to ‘Thank You For The Music’, then wheeled him round in his wheelchair in time to the music whilst high kicking. NB. I remember everything and Tom thought it was hilarious, despite the coughing fit, and said he hadn’t laughed so much in years. When he died suddenly a week later people said at his funeral how excitable he’d seemed that day.
2
When I was about twenty-five (well, it was about three years ago) I got wrecked at Creamfields with Stu and neither of us can remember getting home. But we did. NB. Stu was as bad as me that night.
3
My first year at drama school I once drank a whole bottle of gin and passed out on a piece of grass in King’s Cross. NB. Am amazed there was actually a piece of grass in King’s Cross.
So all in all I’d had, like, four bad experiences on the booze. Or was I in denial? Was I ignoring other incidents where I’d felt bad about my level of drinking? As I racked my brains I fell asleep. When I woke, the train was pulling into Lime Street Station. I had a thread of saliva linking my mouth to my cardigan, and someone had stuck the Tampax that had been on my bag onto my forehead.
I took a cab straight from the station to the TV studios. And even though I was in the back of a minicab driven by a Nigerian guy who kept telling me that Jesus forgave me, I still savoured the feeling of excitement as I drove into Crystal Studios. As we glided towards the barrier it magically rose, allowing me to sail through, past all the autograph hunters at the gates. Those people who believe they love you, even though they don’t know you. I felt a pang of guilt that we hadn’t stopped to sign their books – I had been one of them once – but today I was a woman on a mission. I paid the driver, hopped out and ran towards the green room entrance, waving quickly to the security guard who’d raised the barrier for me before diving inside amidst shouts of, ‘Jodie! Can I have your autograph, Jodie? Jodie!’
I avoided the green room itself – too many colleagues ready to gloat no doubt – and hurried through the maze of corridors towards my dressing room. From the teal walls, black and white photographs of former cast me
mbers looked down on me, each of them looking more and more furious. The familiar studio smell of burning charcoal and disinfectant got stronger and weaker as the maze of corridors took me closer and then further away from the studio floor. At one sharp corner I turned and bumped into someone hurrying towards me, not looking where he was going. As we collided and he squealed like a girl I realized it was Jason.
‘All right?’
He got his composure back and gave me daggers, as if he was chastizing me for not looking where I was going.
‘Why did you tell Trudy we slept together?’ I asked. He looked taken aback. ‘Coz she asked if you were OK and I said I’d made sure you’d got to bed, and then she went on and on about it.’
I looked up the corridor. There was nobody about. I heard a catch in my voice as I asked, ‘Jason, what did we do? Did we shag?’
He chuckled and pushed his hand forward. I thought he was going to smooth my hair away from my face, but he missed my head and I realized he was moving to lean against the wall.
‘That memorable, huh?’
I rolled my eyes and felt like slapping him. ‘Just answer the bloody question. I’ve got to see Eva Braun in ten minutes.’
‘Jodie. Relax. We didn’t do anything.’
‘But you didn’t have any undercrackers on and my knickers were hanging off the ceiling fan. That doesn’t say “nothing” to me.’
‘Jodie, we were too pissed to do anything. We were just messing about. You put Ace of Base on the stereo and we did competitive dirty dancing before collapsing in hysterics on the bed. The next thing I knew I woke up.’
‘We did what?’
‘Competitive dirty dancing. It’s like stripping. Only we didn’t manage to get much off as we were pissing ourselves so much.’
I felt almost disappointed. ‘So we didn’t kiss?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m a bit gutted about that.’
‘Jason, I’ve got a boyfriend.’ Then I realized that wasn’t true and corrected myself. ‘OK. I haven’t, any more. Sorry.’
It felt so weird saying it. It was all so new to me. I carried on, ‘Anyway, you’ve got . . .’
‘Two girlfriends, I know. Still, it’s nice to have memories.’
I suddenly found myself warming to him. He was quite sweet really, and his smile was adorable. I leaned forward and ruffled his hair. He seemed to like it; he was one of the few guys I’ve done it to that didn’t flinch. I was so relieved we’d not done naughties I leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek.
‘Thanks, Jase,’ I said and headed for my dressing room. When I was further up the corridor I heard him call after me.
‘You give great head, Jode. You just need to work on your anal.’
I stopped dead in my tracks, then heard him burst out laughing. I rolled my eyes, stuck the key in my dressing room door and disappeared inside.
My dressing room wasn’t big enough to swing a gerbil in, never mind a cat, but the even bigger pisser was I had to share it with Precious O’Dowd, who played ex-hooker turned foster carer Hattie on the show. Three of her wigs sat on stands on the dressing table. The only decent thing about sharing these tiny cubicles was that the assistant director, who was in charge of dressing rooms, always tried to link up sharers who were rarely in scenes together, so they were less likely to be filming at the same time. I was quite lucky with Precious, who was prone to leaving me little presents on the tiny settee – magazines, cupcakes, make-up samples – and her personal hygiene was second to none. Trudy, on the other hand, had to share with Julie Jackson, who claimed she’d not washed her hair for fifteen years. Trudy reckoned when Julie took her tights off at the end of a day’s filming, they walked themselves to the wardrobe before dying from her gusset fumes. Julie also had the annoying habit of graffiti-ing on her own walls. Trudy wasted no time in spreading it round that Julie was on smack. I knew how lucky I was sharing with someone as thoughtful as Precious. The only presents Julie left Trudy were, let’s just say, located in the toilet. Nice.
I always kept an emergency smart outfit in the dressing room in case I was called away at a minute’s notice to go and open a new hospice or something, and it was this that I changed into now. OK, so it made me look a bit like Maggie Thatcher in the early days, but the slit skirt at least made me a rather slutty Maggie. I spritzed myself with some of Precious’s fancy spray from Liberty’s, then stepped into her very elegant navy high heels. It was pointless borrowing any of my frumpy costume. Two slate-grey habits hung on a rail behind me. Neither was going to show the boss I meant business.
As I stepped before my full-length mirror looking as if I was about to address a Tory party conference, the idea of competitive dirty dancing re-entered my head. The relief of discovering Jason and I had shared this rather than bodily fluids was sweeter than wine. I found myself chuckling. You see, this was the problem with the dreaded booze. You thought you’d done all sorts of shocking things when actually you’d been quite sensible. Well, as sensible as you can be when you’re stripping to Ace of Base and chucking your knickers skyward.
I checked my watch. I’d emailed Eva and suggested I see her at two, and she’d agreed. I had ten minutes to kill. A small pile of fan mail was sitting on the dressing table. I opened the first letter to find a childish scrawl.
Dear Sister Agatha,
I like you coz you like Jesus. I like it when you cry and that. You should marry Father Ricky. Lol.
Matthew Graham.
PS Please can I have a photo and that.
I stuck it in my in-tray and opened another.
Dear Ms McGee,
I love the carpet you have in the prayer meeting room at the church hall. Please can you advise me whence it came?
Again, in-tray. Another.
Dear Jodie,
I have now written you three letters and each one you have ignored. I don’t see what your problem is, bitch. All I want is a picture of your snatch.
I crumpled it up and chucked it in the bin, then checked my watch again. OK, so if the next letter was sweet . . . it meant that everything was going to be OK. I ripped it open.
Dear Jodie McGee,
I am writing to you from Broadmoor Security Hospital. Don’t worry, I’m not in for anything too bad! I’m not a paedophile. Well, I guess it depends how you define paedophile.
Straight in the bin.
I wasn’t filming today, everyone else was shooting the scenes for Supjit’s Hindu Hen-do, and Sister Agatha hadn’t been invited since their contretemps over the tinned peaches in the late-night grocer’s.
I checked my watch. Ergh. Time to go down. And not in a good way.
Eva’s assistant did something she’d never done before. She let me wait in Eva’s office till she arrived. So this is what happened when you’d won a major award – bring it on! Usually no one was allowed through those hallowed portals unless Eva was there, larger than life with her Eighties gelled perm. I tiptoed round the room and looked at the various family photos adorning the walls. There were a few other shots, too, from her days on Pets Win Prizes – Eva grinning maniacally with her arms round a reluctant dachshund; Eva holding a Hula Hoop up while a rabbit jumped through it. Suddenly the door swung open and Eva bustled in, clouds of Chloé swishing before her.
‘God I feel like shit. My cheeky bitch of a NANNY decided to have a day off. Can you BELIEVE that? Two ticks,’ she said and angrily jabbed at her BlackBerry a few times. She kicked off her shoes and yawned. It was then I noticed someone else entering the room. Ming.
‘I asked Ming to join us.’
‘Hiya, Jodie. Yarice?’
I nodded.
‘I’ve been calling you all zay,’ Ming continued.
‘My phone! It’s, like, completely screwed.’
‘Phones! Warradee like?’
‘I know.’
It was then that Ming looked me up and down and took in my Thatcheresque look. I dared her to say something. What was wrong with trying to look professional at a meetin
g with your boss? She giggled and shook her head.
‘Jesus. Worruv you come as?’
While Ming and Eva sat tapping in unison on their Black-Berries I looked at the photos again. God, Eva was facially challenged. I looked back at my boss, who was now spraying her mouth with breath freshener.
‘Ah. That’s a lovely picture of you, Eva,’ I said, pointing to one of the photos on the wall. ‘You really suit glasses.’
Eva’s face froze.
‘That’s my ex-husband.’
Ming nodded. ‘Before the gastric banz.’
I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.
‘Sorry. It’s me who needs the glasses. Course it is.’ And then I added, ‘He’s really handsome.’
Ming looked like I was mad while Eva nodded. She was certainly thick-skinned.
‘Was,’ she corrected. ‘He’s dead now.’
‘Oh. He doesn’t look it in the picture.’ I heard my voice trail off mid-sentence.
Eva pointed to a chaise longue at the side of the room. I sat on it awkwardly while Eva took a deep breath.
‘Here’s the thing.’
I smiled my best Sister Agatha smile.
‘As you know, Jodie. We had big plans for Sister Agatha.’
Oh God. Did she just say had?
‘People love you, Jodie. They LOVE you. And the writers had come up with a story that was going to build on your wonderful news from last night and really THRUST you to the centre of the show.’
I nodded, excited. Suddenly the sleep-free anxiety from the night before was extinguished like a ciggie in the snow.
‘You said last night—’
‘They wanted to make you a serial killer. As you know, on Acacia Avenue we like to keep it real. So . . .’
Oh yeah, really real. A serial killing nun?
‘Let’s be honest, Jodie. You’re were never going to stay on this show for ever.’
True. Did someone mention Hollywood?
‘I’m not asking to leave, Eva.’
All She Wants Page 4
