All She Wants

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘You probably had two years MAX left with us, before you went and became a cardiothoracic specialist on some piece of medical GARBAGE.’

  Er no, I was going to crack America? I was going to be the new Angelina Jolie or Cameron Diaz.

  ‘And then you’d’ve got bored and wanted to come back here when they fired you coz . . . oh I dunno, you got completely PISSED at some AWARDS ceremony and make a total TIT of yourself and the SHOW and everything it STANDS for . . .’

  She sounded bitter. Or should that be BITTER?

  ‘. . . and the work dried up. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  I shrugged. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Making you a serial killer – a nun with a screw loose – meant we could bump off all the actors that were getting on my TITS, Jodie, and give you a really interesting story to play. After two years you’d go to PRISON and we’d look away from Sister Agatha. And then a few years later, when you were DESPERATE FOR MONEY, Nun Features would be released for good behaviour, BLAH BLAH BLAH. And you could come back to the show.’

  I have to admit, I was struggling to get my head round the rationale.

  ‘The story was going to get everyone TALKING. It was going to make you HUGE, darling. If I was you I’d’ve been THRILLED. Wouldn’t she have been thrilled, Ming?’

  Ming nodded. ‘Maze up, like.’

  I wasn’t really sure what Eva was saying. It sounded like this wasn’t a story that was any longer on offer. I played dumb.

  ‘I think I need to let it settle in,’ I said.

  Eva shook her head. ‘That was all on the table till last night. Today, I have different news for you.’

  She smiled. She was enjoying this.

  ‘Now. Because of your APPALLING, UNFORGIVABLE, TWATTY behaviour last night, you will no longer be the serial killer.’

  I relaxed. Every cloud!

  ‘You will be the serial killer’s first victim.’

  I felt faint suddenly.

  ‘I’m going to . . . die?’

  Eva nodded.

  ‘Next week. The writers are reworking the scripts as we speak. If I were you I’d start packing your bags.’

  ‘You’re firing me?’

  ‘Firing’s a dead strong werd,’ said Ming.

  ‘But I’ve just won Best Actress in a Soap. Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep me here for—’

  Eva cut in. ‘Jodie, do you actually know what you did last night?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘No.’

  She nodded. ‘Then before you start arguing with me, I suggest you have a little look on YouTube.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Leave.’

  I headed to the door.

  ‘I’ve . . . been under a lot of strain recently,’ I tried.

  ‘I know, which is why I gave you two weeks off and a written warning. I don’t give a shit what’s going on at home, Jodie. You don’t bring it to the office. Or the awards ceremony.’

  ‘Or Brunch With Bronwen,’ agreed Ming, nodding.

  Eva smiled. ‘Oh, and Jodie. About what you said last night.’

  I turned round to see what she was going to say. She was still smiling, like one of the dreadful baddies on the show.

  ‘Embarrass me again and I’ll hunt you down and . . .’ the smile broadened.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ll kill you.’

  I phoned for a cab. Driving out of the studios I decided to stop and sign some autographs for the fans. After all, I’d been one of them once upon a time. And this might be one of my last ever chances. One of them thrust a leaflet into my hand. I opened it to find an advert for Alcoholics Anonymous. I looked back at him.

  ‘It helped me,’ he mouthed.

  I looked away and told the driver to go to Mum’s. I phoned her and she answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mum, it’s me.’

  ‘Oh, Jodie.’ She sighed, uber disappointed. I burst out crying.

  ‘Mum? Can I come home? I’ve been fired!’

  ‘Oh, Jodie.’ And she sounded even more uber disappointed. Kids. Always a disappointment, eh? Or maybe it was just me.

  THREE

  I was born in a Spam-coloured dormer bungalow on a Spam-coloured street. My dad is called Alan and my mum is called Sandra. Our dormer bungalow had a name: Sandalan – a mixture of their names. They thought it made the dormer bungalow sound exotic. Me and my brother were just plain mortified by it. Whereas other people would say, ‘Oh, we live at thirty-nine Flaxton Road,’ our parents would insist on saying, ‘Oh, we live at Sandalan, Flaxton Road.’ The dormer bungalow also sported a wagon wheel on the front of the house. (Not the chocolate biscuit, an actual wooden wheel painted white with a hint of Spam.)

  OK, so you might be wondering what a dormer bungalow is. It’s a bungalow, but it has an upstairs. In reality what we lived in was a house, but Mum always insisted on calling it a dormer bungalow. This, she felt, made it sound classier.

  You see, my Mum had ‘opinions’ and she was pretty much immovable where they were concerned. No matter how I tried to chip away at them, they remained resolute. Any challenges I made bounced off her like hailstones off a windscreen. It’s not that she was hard-faced, she was too soft and mumsy for that, it’s just that she knew her own mind. Her opinions were like mantras and she’d chuck them at anyone who’d listen, taking a kind of scattergun approach to making her point. Her opinions included:

  1

  Anything vulgar, lewd or obscene is ‘unbecoming’. (As in, ‘I do not like this dirty lady dancing in her altogether at the beginning of Tales of the Unexpected. I find her, on the whole, unbecoming.’)

  2

  People are either nice or not nice. There is no in between, i.e., Terry Wogan is nice. Bette Midler is not nice.

  3

  Nuns are bad luck, and you must always cross the road when you see one coming. Woe betide you if you see more than one. This might actually signal the end of the world.

  4

  Small people (or PORGs – Persons of Restricted Growth – as she called them) are good luck charms and you should always try to touch one if you see one out and about.

  5

  Gay men were women in a past life and now the femininity in them is coming out. Vice versa for lesbians (though she often got this wrong and called them Libyans).

  6

  Women who wear harem pants look like they have bowel issues and are not to be trusted, particularly in the refrigerated aisle of Kwik Save.

  7

  We must always avoid all things common: processed cheese, acrylic jumpers, her from number 8 who sweeps the path in her slippers. My Mother was basically a small town snob, which is ironic, considering she came from such a big city.

  8

  Everything is good in moderation. Too much of a good thing is showing off.

  9

  The demise of Johnny Matthis’s career is one of the tragedies of modern history.

  10

  The women on Loose Women are all sluts (this was a more recent addition).

  When I got to Flaxton Road, Sandalan’s curtains were drawn, as if the family was in mourning.

  As I walked up the path I could see me and Our Joey playing in the front garden all those years before. Him click clacking around in my mother’s wedge heels, hands on hips, pretending to be someone from Acacia Avenue. Me laughing in his face, insisting that one day I would be in the real thing, not some pretend version in a crappy front garden. And then I had been. And now I wasn’t. As I tried to take in this information, our nine-year-old Joey stepped forward and held something out to me. It was a little brown twig with bright green leaves. It was quite, quite beautiful. I looked at it, then looked at him.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s an olive branch,’ he said. And he said it so sweetly I could have cried. ‘Jodie, I’m sorry we fell out.’

  I felt a lump in my throat. All I could think to say was, ‘You we
re my best friend.’

  He nodded and I heard the front door opening, then Mum shouting in a whisper, ‘For God’s sake, Jodie, get inside. You’re talking to yourself!’

  I looked at her. She was stood on the step, pulling the flaps of her wrapover cardi round herself and checking up and down the street in case any nosey neighbour had seen. Confused, I looked back at the garden. It was empty. I had, of course, been seeing things, imagining Our Joey making a peace offering. All of a sudden a tsunami of tears cascaded down my face. Mum dragged me towards the door and I collapsed in her arms, sobbing my heart out. I felt her freeze beneath me; she wasn’t brilliant at dealing with – in her eyes – drama queen daughters, never mind emotions. She pushed me away and I saw I’d stained her cardigan with my mascara. She didn’t look happy. I sniffed.

  ‘I think you’d better go in the through lounge.’ She sounded so icy. I looked into the lounge. The lighting looked weird, but I ventured in anyway.

  Dad was standing by the telly. It was on, but none of the ceiling lights were. The picture on the screen was frozen on an image that was at once familiar and alien. It was the bloody Royal Albert Hall. Mum shut the living room door behind me and they both stared at me. Oh God. They were staging an intervention. They were going to make me watch myself accept my award. Without speaking, I groaned, accepted my fate and sank into an armchair. Suddenly I realized I was sitting on Archie, the family dog. He squealed and scratched my arse, so I moved to the next chair, muttering something about ‘the bloody lights in here’ while Dad pressed play.

  Why the hell did I get them Sky Plus for Christmas? And how on earth did they become so good at using it?

  Loud, sweeping music blasted out from the telly, the sort that would accompany a dramatic helicopter ride across the tundra in a Hollywood movie. On screens dotted around the hall you could see the four actresses up for the award. There was a fat girl from Emmerdale giving birth to what I took (from the startled looks on the medics’ faces) to be a Down’s Syndrome baby. Then someone from a medical soap pretending to be a consultant gynaecologist in far too much make-up and fantastic hair (lucky cow), who seemed to be talking a mad axe man out of running riot in ITU. Next up was that really nice actress from EastEnders – well, she seemed nicer in defeat – who got a huge roar from the crowd. She was in a shower, made up to look battered and bruised, possibly washing the smell of a rapist off her. Next up was a shot of me, crying, in the middle of the burning church, attempting to douse the flames with some holy water. Again, the audience roared their approval. There was a close-up of me in the audience, clapping myself and smiling for the camera, then raising my hands with my fingers crossed.

  ‘God, I don’t look too bad, do I?’ I bleated. I heard Mum tut.

  The presenter ripped open his golden envelope.

  ‘And the winner is . . .’

  Silence. Oh God. I wanted so much to jump up and switch the TV off. What on earth did I do to merit this? But another part of me wanted to savour my moment of glory. And at least see the smirk wiped off Colette Courts face.

  ‘Jodie McGee for Acacia Avenue.’

  The camera cut back to me again and I appeared to be applying my lipstick. Rather generously. I didn’t appear to have realized I’d won. I got nudged by Supjit whatsername, which smudged the lipstick across my cheek. How dare she! And then Trudy leaned in and whispered something in my ear. I looked genuinely dazed and then stood, albeit rather shakily, kicking Supjit’s legs so I could get past her. Once in the aisle – needless to say the audience was going wild. Wow! – I did a little victory bum wiggle. I’ve been known to do this a lot. I’d always thought it made me look like Beyoncé. It didn’t. I looked more like Susan Boyle. Except Susan Boyle wouldn’t have lipstick all over her face like a mad woman. I then walked down the aisle, smugly high-fiving my fellow cast members, before swapping sides and trying to high-five the cast members from EastEnders. They weren’t playing ball, and I actually slapped one of them in the face. Oh dear. It was Colette Court. As I pulled my hand back I had her tiara stuck to my hand, but didn’t appear to have noticed. Oh but now I had. I suddenly saw it, shrieked and flicked it away like it was a poisonous insect. It flew into the audience and hit someone in the face.

  Jesus. And I’d not even reached the stage yet.

  It looked like I might not make it that far as I tripped over some camera cables and went base over apex. I disappeared from view and they kindly cut to the other nominees. Usually at this point in the proceedings the other nominated actresses would be looking faux congratulatory, trying to mask their disappointment. These girls weren’t, though. Each and every one of them was pissing herself laughing. Even the tiara-less Colette Court. For they knew Sister Agatha was making a holy show of herself.

  The next time you saw me I was onstage, hugging the presenter like I’d known him all my life. (I couldn’t stand him usually. Too many teeth.) Just as I started dry humping him he pushed me away and practically threw the award at me. Surely it was going to get better from here on in. I started to relax.

  But then I opened my mouth and burst out crying. I looked ridiculous. The bottom half of my face was covered in bright red lipstick and now mascara was drenching the top half. Basically, my acceptance speech went something like this:

  Me: Through tears, of course. ‘I am not worthy. I am not worthy. I’m just a little girl from the back streets of Liverpool who dragged herself up by her bra straps.’

  I could feel poisonous looks darting from Mum and Dad.

  Me: ‘So this, this is the stuff of fairytales.’

  Oh God. I realized now what I was going to say. Not because I remembered, but because this was a speech I’d written a very long time ago. And not for the National Soap Awards.

  Me: ‘I’d like to thank my wonderful husband, Tom Cruise.’

  I heard Dad wriggle in his seat.

  Me: ‘Our divine daughters, Tammy-Faye and Honey-Jaye. My bikini waxer. My dog walker. The inspirational Mr Steven Spielberg.’

  I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

  Me: ‘And to any lonely, ugly little girls out there. Take courage. I used to be you. And look at me now. I’m amazing.’

  I needed to kill myself. Now.

  Me: ‘I stand before you today, proud. Proud of myself and proud of the human race that helped me become . . .

  NOW!

  Me: ‘The worthy winner of an Academy Award.’

  And then I waggled the soap award in the air.

  Me: ‘I love you Oscar!’

  The audience roared their approval. Phew, it was over. But then instead of leaving the stage I returned to the microphone.

  Me: ‘Sorry One last thing. Our producer, Eva. Eva thingy.

  There was a close-up on Eva in the audience, trying to smile.

  Me: ‘You know? The old-age pensioner who’s just bought some kids off the internet?’

  Eva’s face really had dropped by now.

  Me: ‘I just want to say. We all call you Eva Braun.’

  The audience laughed as the fury froze on Eva’s face. Then I raised my right arm, placed a finger over my lips and shouted:

  Me: ‘Heil Hitler!’

  Then I high-kicked off the stage, leaving the award on the lectern. The presenter ran after me with it.

  OK, so now I understood why I’d been fired.

  Dad switched off the TV. Mum switched on the light. Three pairs of eyes were on me (I’m including the dog there). Mum took my hand, the way people did on Jeremy Kyle.

  ‘Jodie, I think you need to do something about your drinking.’

  How on earth did I get into this mess? Why had I got myself into such a state on such an important night? What was so bad about my life that I had to run away to the island of annihilation to deal with it? How had I managed to put myself in a position where I’d let down myself, my parents, my friends and got myself the sack to boot?

  I excused myself and offered to take the dog for a walk. Sometimes walking r
ound the streets of my childhood could make me feel better. Not this day. I walked and walked for what felt like hours. It felt like an out-of-body experience, seeing the landmarks of my youth: the chippy outside of which I’d had my first snog; the corner where two lads set upon me and nicked my dinner money; the level crossing where the people from number fourteen’s dog was run over. But seeing those places today left me unmoved, numb. It was as if they’d never really happened to me, but to somebody else. A while later, the dog stopped to drink some water from a puddle and I realized I must have walked too far, or for too long. I looked up. I was outside my old secondary school. I stared up at the boarded-up windows where once there was bustling life. The dog sat at my feet as if to say, ‘Jesus, Jodie. Where the frig have you brought me?’

  And I looked down at him and said, ‘Archie, this is where it all started to go wrong.’

  He looked up at me with those beguiling eyes and said, ‘Really, Jodie? Wanna tell me all about it?’

  Well, actually, he didn’t. Dogs can’t speak. But he may as well have done. I knelt beside him and ruffled the top of his head. I looked back up at the boarded-up windows. It had been considered a problem school, and its pupils had long since dispersed to other nearby comps. It was due for demolition and apparently the land was going to be used for a new shopping mall. Right now, though, it looked sad, abandoned and forlorn. Some foliage grew out of the old maths classroom window. That tree knew nothing of the building’s past. And yet . . . I remembered . . . I remembered . . . well, I remembered so much.

  FOUR

  1999

  ‘Donna-Marie Kilpatrick says there’s a new lad started today in Mr Taylor’s class and he’s, like, really, really, fit,’ said my best mate Hayls as we touched up our make-up in the girls’ loos instead of going to Chemistry.

  My other best mate Debs tutted, ‘Donna-Marie Kilpatrick’s got posters of Philip Schofield in her locker; I’m not gonna listen to her.’

  ‘What colour’s that eyeshadow, Debs?’ God, I was completely coveting it.