She nodded. ‘Well, I’ll come with you then, give you an ’and.’
‘You’re all right, Teresa. You go and find Greg, tell him we’re ready to do the presentations.’
She perked up when I said that. She had a new job to do. I thought she was going to say, ‘Synchronize watches,’ but instead she legged it across the barn. Well, that had got rid of her anyway. I’d go and get the presents in a bit. Especially as ‘YMCA’ had just come on the turntable and everyone was rushing towards the dance floor. I got caught up in the general scrum and found myself forming the titular letters with my arms alongside Lotan. Hayls was scowling from the sidelines, so I gave her a wink, encouraging her to cheer the fuck up. She shrugged and walked off, so I gave Lotan a look, as if to say, ‘What’s her problem?’
He shouted to me, ‘She’s just fuming coz this song excludes people with no arms.’
I had just about heard it all now. I was about to say as much when I felt a dig in my kidneys. I swung round to see Teresa-May standing before me, arms folded and tapping her foot.
‘That’s not how you do the “YMCA”!’ I laughed, but she was having none of it.
‘Er . . . prezzies, Jodes?’
Usually when people called me Jodes I like it. It’s a term of endearment. But on the wrong lips, i.e., Teresa-May’s, it sounded patronizing and insulting. I was about to tell her this, but then realized a) I couldn’t be arsed and b) it would only set her off crying again, so I nodded submissively, picked up my skirt and headed for the exit.
I half expected it to be dark when I got outside as it had been a long day, but of course it was only about five in the afternoon and the sun was still high in the sky. The courtyard was quite busy with people who’d come out to smoke cigars/take the air/throw up, and I looked around to see if I could spot Greg amongst them, but couldn’t. Maybe Teresa-May already had him in hand and was guiding him to the microphone, ready to do the presentations. It took about five minutes to walk the twenty yards to the boiler room, as I was grabbed at every step by well-wishers and dress admirers. Maybe I should have asked Teresa-May to get the presents after all.
Greg’s Uncle Derek, a round man with a drinker’s nose and smoker’s teeth, was chewing on a cigar the size of a draught excluder, holding court with some admiring younger relatives about the time he’d pinched Barbara Windsor’s arse at a party in the Sixties. His wife maintained he’d done no such thing and that he’d never even met Barbara Windsor, just a cockney sparrah with blonde hair at some party in the East End, but the way he went on about it you’d think he’d personally scalped hard bastards for the Krays.
I bypassed him and his gang and let myself into the utility block, hoping to God that Mum had followed my orders and hidden the gifts where they were meant to be. I stood in the narrow white tiled corridor and it felt nicely cool. I stopped and leaned back against the wall, realizing this was the first time I’d been on my own since I’d woken up in my bed that morning. I savoured the stillness, the peace and quiet, the noises from the crowd outside feeling further away than they really were. I also realized that since the meal I’d been so busy hobnobbing with the guests that I’d not had a single drink. I decided that as soon as I got back to the barn I’d get myself a nice cold glass of champagne, and after the presentations, maybe I’d sneak Greg away for a bit of sexy time in our new bedroom. I looked at my left hand and the slim gold band that said I was a proper married woman. A wife. I twisted it this way and that; it was a lovely fit, just like me and Greg. I felt a sudden rush of excitement as I said the words to myself in my head. I was Greg’s wife.
Greg’s wife.
Greg’s—
But then something startled me. A grunting and someone moaning like they were in pain. It seemed to be coming from the boiler room. I lifted up my skirt and practically skidded down the tiled floor to the boiler room door. I stopped and listened again. Silence. Maybe I’d been imagining things, but no, there it was again. Another grunt. Someone was in pain. Someone was locked in the boiler room. Without further ado I grabbed the handle and pushed the door open, fearful I’d see someone tied up and gagged. Blindfolded maybe. Kidnapped. A ransom demand nearby.
But the sight that greeted me was far, far worse than that.
Bright light was streaming in through a skylight, so there was no mistaking what I saw. I couldn’t misconstrue it with the excuse of a darkened room.
Leaning against the boiler was Greg. And kneeling before him was Our Joey.
At first I wondered what was going on. Why was Our Joey kneeling down? Had he dropped a contact lens? But he didn’t wear contact lenses . . .
Greg’s eyes were shut and he was groaning.
And then I realized. My brother was giving my husband a blowjob.
Greg’s eyes opened and immediately widened in panic. My mouth dropped open and I went to scream, but nothing came out. Greg started pushing Our Joey away, but he wasn’t letting go. He kneed him away and Our Joey fell backwards onto the hard tiled floor. As he did his head spun round and he saw me frozen.
‘Jodie!’ gasped Greg.
I didn’t freeze for long. I grabbed my skirt and ran back down the corridor and out into the courtyard. Suddenly my dress wasn’t heavy any more as, with superhuman strength and agility, I ducked through the clumps of guests outside. I headed for the gate that led to the lane and I kept on running. I could hear Greg giving chase, calling my name, but I just kept on going. I had no idea where I was going, but I didn’t look back.
PART TWO
TWELVE
2005–2007
After the gruesome debacle of my wedding I locked myself away from the world as I contemplated what had happened and what I was now going to do with my life. Locking myself away involved lying on my bed, staring at my posters and saying very little to Mum and Dad apart from, ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ and, ‘I’m still not hungry.’ For once they saw sense and sided with me, suggesting to Our Joey that he move out on a temporary basis, and I believe he went and stayed with his mate Mooey, though I couldn’t really be sure. He was gone. That was all I cared about. We were no longer breathing the same air.
I couldn’t face going to work as I thought that everyone was going to laugh at me. I couldn’t even face Hayls and Debs. They came round a few times and sat on my bed with such scary looks of pity that in the end I told Mum not to let them in when they came knocking. I didn’t feel I could leave the house, I just knew that the gawping neighbours who’d stood at the gate wishing me well on my way to the church would now be twitching at their net curtains, laughing at my misfortune. There she goes. The one with the gay husband. What did she do wrong that he ran to the arms/groin of her brother? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Greg bombarded the house with phone calls, but I told Mum I didn’t want to speak to him. What could he say? What could he possibly say that would excuse or explain what had happened? I’m sorry. It was a moment of madness. I don’t know what came over me. Whatever he had to say, I didn’t want to hear it.
I lay on my bed and pieced together all the clues. Greg had always been Our Joey’s defender. He had walked him home from school most nights, stuck up for him when others picked on him. He’d been the first to know when Our Joey was arrested at Otterspool Prom. I realized now that maybe Greg was the guy he’d been caught in the bushes with. They’d gone away to that gay guest house together and come back not speaking – maybe their first row? Our Joey had been dead set against me marrying him the night before the wedding. And then there was the poem he’d read out at our wedding and Greg’s obvious discomfort during it. I became obsessed with thinking about these things, over and over again, almost gaining comfort from my Jessica Fletcher-style detective work. But as with any obsession, it wasn’t a healthy place to be, and I was left exhausted by constantly replaying every moment of the relationship, with Our Joey never far behind.
I knew that Mum and Dad were worried about me. Who wouldn’t be? But I knew I was going to be OK.
Despite the despair I was feeling, part of me knew that this was a process I had to go through. Call it survivor instinct, whatever, I knew I needed to think about all the bad things before I could face the rest of my life. And I sort of knew that my period of bed rest would last approximately as long as the honeymoon would have. I’m not sure if this was instinct or a decision I made, but one thing I did know was, I wasn’t going to stay in my bedroom for ever. After about ten days of concentrating on the past, I started to contemplate my future, and I came to the decision that I had to get away from home. In fact, I had to get away from Liverpool. I didn’t want to run the risk of bumping into Our Joey, or Greg, or anyone who was at the wedding, ever again. But where would I go? That was one thing I was unclear about. I had to get out, but to where?
Then one day my fairy godmother came to visit and everything became clear.
Mrs Mendelson sat on the chair in the corner of my bedroom, dutifully sipping weak tea from Mum’s best china cup and saucer. Her kaftan was so big and billowy that it completely hid her chair and made her look like she was squatting there acrobatically as she sipped away. She didn’t mention Greg once, but I guessed she must have heard about it or else why would she have been here? My hunch was that Mum had phoned her. I could tell she wasn’t enjoying the tea – not enough vodka in it, no doubt – but she didn’t scuttle off to the toilet to top it up from a secret hip flask; instead she gave me her undivided attention.
‘What you are lacking, Jodie, is a purpose.’
I nodded.
‘And I think you were put on this planet to act. To move people. To touch them. To lift a mirror to their own foibles and inadequacies, their joy, their pain, and reflect it back at them so that they can learn.’
OK.
‘You have talent. You have promise. But what you don’t have is a process.’
Er . . .
‘In order to learn your process you need to study. You need to train. I suggest you go to drama school.’
Immediately images of the TV show Fame crackled in my brain. Legwarmers, cellos, bowler hats and flouncy skirts – ‘Fame costs . . . and here’s where you start paying . . . in sweat!’
‘Why, you may ask yourself, would you want to work in a profession where 90 per cent of actors are, on the whole and for most of the time, unemployed? Well, my answer to that is simple. I am of the belief that you are employable. You have something. A certain je ne c’est quoi.’
Oh God, I wished I’d concentrated more in French at school.
‘But before throwing you to the lions in the business proper, we need to get you a head start on the others. That head start should be drama school.’
OK. Simple. I would go to drama school. Now, if needs be. Quick while I sort my hair out.
‘However, you are not ready for drama school.’
Damn! Put that scrunchy back in!
‘But I can prepare you. The journey usually takes about a year. It’s August now and most courses begin in September, October. But I have spoken to my dear friend Rupert at L.A.D.S. – the London Academy of Dramatic Sciences – and he has a vacancy for the three-year acting course beginning in October.’
Gulp. This was all happening a bit fast.
‘One of his prospective students has had to pull out because she’s landed in the family way. Usually he would source a replacement from the people he’s already auditioned, but I have asked him to hold fire until he’s seen you, and he has agreed. He respects my taste. He will audition you in ten days’ time. You must prepare one Shakespeare piece and one modern. I will prepare you. We will train in your lounge every day from ten till six and then you will go and meet Rupert. You will not let me down.’
It looked like I had no say in the matter. Oh well, it looked like I’d found a purpose.
‘It’s actually a through lounge,’ I pointed out. She nodded.
‘Now. Do you think you might help me get out of this chair?’
I climbed off the bed.
First impressions counted. I knew that. And I knew I had to impress this Rupert fella when I met him. Thinking back to when I met Nona Newman from Acacia Avenue, I knew that acting was a very glamorous profession, so I decided to dress to impress by wearing what I assumed most actresses might wear for the average rehearsal day. I wore brand-new silver tap shoes, white leggings, silver legwarmers, a chainmail tunic with a white fur trim and huge silver hooped earrings. Mum, Dad and Maureen agreed I looked sensational and excitingly futuristic. Maureen’s friend Patsy came over and styled my hair – I said I wanted it so big I’d struggle to get through the door – and as Mum, Maureen and I stepped sideways onto the train to London I thought I looked like Jane Fonda in Barbarella. But with bigger hair.
The London Academy of Dramatic Sciences was housed in an old red brick Victorian school, complete with railed playground on the roof, in a part of London called the Oval. We went up some steps and in through the main door, where Mum announced to the receptionist that we were here to meet Rupert Dale, at which she rolled her eyes, pointed to a door and muttered, ‘You and a million others.’ We headed through the door and found ourselves in a canteen, where about twenty-odd student types – all dressed in black – were milling around. Some were stretching, some were singing, some were sitting at tables with their eyes shut, mouthing words. My heart sank, because:
1
I was completely overdressed.
2
I was wearing more make-up than the rest of them put together.
3
I was the only one accompanied by their mum and their mums best friend.
4
I was the only one whose mum was producing sandwiches from her holdall and offering them round to my competitors.
5
Mrs Mendelson had given me the impression that I was the only person Rupert was auditioning.
6
I was screwed, basically.
We arrived at 2.15p.m. and I didn’t go in to meet Rupert till half past five.
Rupert Dale was a crumple-faced guy with hair like Rod Stewart and the longest legs I’d ever seen on a human being. Despite the preconceptions I had about his name – he’d be posh, camp, irritating – he was in fact a gruff northerner, which put me immediately at ease. He wore bell-bottomed jeans, which I found inexcusable, and a tank top – nothing else. He laid back in his chair with his arms behind his head, displaying greying tufts of armpit hair and matching mini tufts on his toes. An unlit roll-up hung from his lips and he grinned through my prepared pieces: a speech from The Comedy of Errors and then a monologue from a play called The Fall and Rise of Little Voice, in which I was playing a middle-aged tarty piece that really made Rupert smile. His roll-up fell out of his mouth, and he didn’t even bother to pick it up and stick it back in till I’d finished.
I stood there, waiting for him to tell me how brilliant I was. Instead he leaned over, elbows on knees, and stared at me. I stared back. He kept on staring. So I held his stare. Eventually he said, ‘Why do you wear so much make-up, Jodie?’
Oh Gosh.
‘Never go anywhere without my war paint!’ I quipped.
‘Ah, so life is a battle?’
‘I just wanted to make a good impression,’ I countered.
‘If you come here, I will strip all that away from you. Find the real Jodie. Are you prepared for that?’ He spoke with a coarse Northern accent, yet placed his words warily, as if English was his second language.
‘Yes,’ I lied. I actually wanted to go to drama school so I could spend three years being anyone other than me. Isn’t that what actors did? Pretended to be other people?
‘You are young. You have never lived away from home before. London is a big place.’
I shrugged like it was nothing. ‘Liverpool’s a big place. I’m from the school of hard knocks.’
Blimey, I sounded like a cliché. My Liverpool accent had become ten times stronger as I’d felt backed into a corner, and my main purpose became to defy him. Next I’d be tell
ing him to ‘shove his drama school up his Yorkshire arse, love’, but I kept my cool. Ish. I also wasn’t sure if he was from Yorkshire or Lancashire, so . . .
‘You seem to carry pain with you. Outwardly you give the impression of being cocky, confident, and with a zany sense of humour.’
Did I? I’d not cracked that many jokes. Oh heck, I hope he wasn’t referring to my clothes.
‘But underneath there’s a well of loneliness I’d like to tap into.’
I shrugged. I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Me? Lonely? I had loads of mates. OK, so I’d chosen not to see any of them since I’d found my brother sucking off my husband on our wedding day but . . . Just then the door at the back of the audition room opened and Mum walked in. Rupert looked round.
‘Yes?’
‘Sorry, love. I’m Jodie’s Mum. You Rupert?’
‘I am.’
She stepped forward and shook his hand.
‘Hiya, love. I’m sorry but we’re gonna have to go. I’ve booked us onto a train in an hour and we can’t miss it or we’ll have to buy another ticket. You have kept us waiting an awful long time.’
Rupert looked rather bewildered, then he looked at me and said, ‘I’ll be in touch.’
I curtsied. CURTSIED! And then left the room.
Why did I curtsy? WHY?
We returned to Liverpool, me, Mum and Maureen, and I expected never to hear from Rupert again.
The next day he phoned the bungalow. I heard Mum answering it.
‘Hello? Oh hiya, Rupert love, how’s you?’
I heard the scratch of a cigarette lighter and I could just picture her settling down for a long gab with him, so I hurried into the hall and snatched the receiver off her.
‘Hiya, Rupert, it’s me, Jodie.’
He sighed at the other end of the line.
‘I would like to offer you a place at L.A.D.S. On one condition . . .’
All She Wants Page 16
