All She Wants

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘Jodie!’ cried Mum.

  ‘Aw, I was enjoying that,’ echoed Dad.

  I cast Stuart a steely glare and warned, ‘Don’t. Even. Think about it.’

  The nectarines and banana vanished. Replaced by a mango, which he raised to his mouth and started devouring. I relaxed. And as I did, I found that I was waking up.

  As I discovered myself lying there, tangled up in his bed sheets and him, his muscly legs gripping mine like a vice, I realized, yes, it had all been a bad dream. I drifted off again, and when I woke in the half light of morning I could see Stuart scrambling about in his wardrobe for clean clothes, and a cup of hot, steaming tea sitting on the beside cabinet for my delectation. As my fuzziness cleared and I saw him pull on some fresh boxer shorts I saw again that his thighs were so chunky as to be almost cubist. Picasso would have been proud to have sketched them.

  I did a little ‘look at me, I’ve woken up’ cough and he immediately looked over.

  ‘I was trying to be quiet,’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s OK. What time is it?’

  ‘Six forty-five. I’ve got to get to work.’ And he leaned over and pecked me like a woodpecker on the forehead. I’d puckered up for a long languorous tongue-fest, but I guessed he was in a hurry.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘You have to leave at six fifty to get to Abbey Wood for eight ten, where you are plastering the walls of a semidetached house.’ Adding with a smirk, ‘Question seventeen.’

  He smiled and pointed to my tea. ‘Milky. No sugar. Question twelve.’

  I smiled back and lifted the cup to my lips. ‘Thank God for question twelve.’

  ‘Right, I’m offski. Just pull the door behind you on your way out, yeah?’

  I nodded from the other side of the mug as he shot me a wink, then went.

  SEVENTEEN

  I should have known something was wrong when I walked the twenty yards from Stuart’s flat to mine. It can only have taken thirty seconds maximum, but two schoolgirls who were walking past nudged each other, pointed at me, then burst out laughing. I immediately wondered what was wrong with me as they giggled their way past. Did I have bird crap in my hair? Had Stuart lampooned me with the biggest love bite you ever did see? Were my clothes not streetwise-funksy-spunksy enough for them? But then they both called back to me, in broad, mock Liverpool accents, sounding like a cross between a constipated Beatle and Sonia, ‘God, them fish fingers are gorgeous!’

  The words sounded familiar. I’d heard them before for sure. Where on earth had I heard that phrase?

  And then I realized. My breathing went shallow and I felt a nausea, not unlike the one I’d felt the day I got food poisoning after filming the advert.

  How did those girls know I’d said that? They must have seen the advert. But they were fifteen years old, sixteen tops. How would two schoolgirls have access to an advert that wasn’t being shown on the telly for another three months? Were they part of a focus group, called in to road-test ads to see if they were attractive and accessible for the teenage market? Were they relatives of the director? His daughters? His teenage sex slaves?

  As I climbed the steps to the front door, it opened. Moth was standing there, bewildered, remote control in hand. She looked at me like she didn’t recognize me.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Oh God, and to top it all, now my flatmate was going mad.

  ‘Moth, it’s me; it’s Jodie.’ Then I laughed to make light of it. ‘Big night on the sauce last night, was it?’

  When at last she spoke, her voice was hollow. The sort of voice you’d hear in movies when the main character’s been wrongly locked away in a state penitentiary for murdering her own triplets and she hasn’t seen daylight, human kindness, or Desperate Housewives for years.

  ‘I . . . don’t know a thing about you any more.’

  I tried to push past her into the hallway, but she raised an arm to the door frame, blocking my way.

  ‘Er, Moth, I need to . . .’

  ‘I don’t want you living here any more.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘First I discover you’re married.’

  ‘Divorced,’ I countered.

  ‘And now. Now! I discover you’ve been off filming adverts for the television, and not a word of it to me!’

  There was absolutely no need for her to say ‘now’ twice, though she did sound genuinely hurt.

  ‘Has it been on the telly?’

  Moth nodded.

  ‘Bollocks. It wasn’t meant to be on till August. Laveenia swore! When was it on?’

  ‘It was on last night in the ad break for Acacia Avenue, and it’s been on about a million times this morning.’

  ‘Oh FUCK! D’you think Rupert watches telly?’

  Moth still wasn’t letting me past. ‘No, he’s too Bohemian. But someone at college is bound to tell him.’ The light in her eyes started dancing. She was enjoying this, as if she was considering marching in and telling Rupert herself.

  ‘Anyway, can you let me in? I need to get changed before I go to college and get lined up in front of a lynch mob to have my showbiz brains blown out.’

  But Moth wasn’t budging. ‘I meant what I said, Jodie. I want you out. I don’t like liars.’

  ‘Moth!’

  ‘I really thought you were my friend.’

  ‘I am! Jesus, Moth, you’ve proved your point. I’m sorry, OK? I can explain everything. Now can we just move on?’

  Moth’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll have your things sent on to your next quarters.’ With that she slammed the door in my face and I heard it being bolted from the inside.

  I lifted up the letter-box lid and called through, ‘Quarters? Quarters? What century d’you live in?’ Then I slammed the letter-box lid shut. It gave a satisfying clunk.

  From inside I heard a muffled, ‘Oh piss off, Peasant!’ and the inner door slam.

  Anger coursed through my veins like neat vodka. I felt murderous. I looked at the flat windows, wanting to smash them all and break in, grab my measly possessions, stage a dirty protest, set fire to the flea-ridden mosh pit and then leg it. Only I knew that something disastrous would occur if I attempted even a vandalism-lite version of that. I’d probably dissect a vein on the broken glass and have to be air-ambulanced to a special hospital on a special island that specialized in MONUMENTAL FUCK-UPS. Because that’s what I felt like right now. Oh yes, an M.F.U. That was me.

  Far beneath me a tube rumbled by, causing the steps I was standing on to vibrate softly. In a way it felt like I was standing over an earthquake. The very earth itself was going to crack open. Lightning jags would split Clapham Road in two. Buses would fall in. I’d be crushed by an uprooted traffic light. Vultures would swoop and peck at me like relentless overeaters at a finger buffet.

  In many ways that was preferable to what I knew the day had in store for me.

  I trudged disconsolately down the street and headed off to college, even though it was far too early. How I wished I’d stayed longer at Stu’s and used his shower. I had yesterday’s clothes on, yesterday’s knickers, yesterday’s make-up. I was dressed for a date, not a morning pretending to be a tree in a movement class. Not only would I look like an M.F.U., I’d also scream S.W.N.W.H. (Slag Who Never Went Home.) I had no books, no ballet blacks, no money for lunch, nothing. Literally just the clothes I stood up in, including the patent red leather high heels I’d purloined from a charity shop which, as the assistant had said at the time, leant me an air of Hollywood glamour. When I caught sight of myself in a shop window, I looked more like Courtney Love after a weekend of dirty living than Courteney Cox after a weekend in a spa. The faux-fur wrap that, when I’d bought it, I was convinced made me look like Joan Crawford in her Coca-Cola boardroom days, actually made me look like a mentally deranged bag lady.

  I comforted myself. Maybe no one had seen it. Maybe no one else apart from Moth was watching television this morning. Or last night. Maybe they’d all nipped out to see something fantastic at the theatre. Maybe
Rupert’s house was ransacked and burglars took not only his umpteen bunny rabbits, but also the telly in his lounge. Oh, and the portable in the kitchen. Oh, and the huge one in his bedroom, which Mum had described as obscene in a disapproving way that suggested she assumed that anyone who had a TV in their bedroom used it as some sort of sexual aid (I knew not how!). Maybe there had been a power cut in his street and he’d been forced to read up on some classics, have friends round or trim his armpit hair. Then I reasoned that even if he had been watching the box, there’s no way he’d be watching Acacia Avenue. Intellectuals and free-thinkers like him weren’t glued to soap operas. The more I thought of it, the more I realized I was probably worrying over nothing. People liked me in my year, no one was going to grass me up. Everyone knew I struggled for money; they weren’t going to be hacked off that I’d earned myself a couple of thousand pounds by eating a few fish fingers. And if I told them I’d got food poisoning during filming, they might even pity me. As long as Rupert didn’t tune into ITV, everything would be OK and no one would know, nothing would be said. My place at L.A.D.S. was safe.

  ‘Jodie!’ I heard someone screech behind me. I turned to see Amanda bounding along the street, looking like she was about to go and spend the day on a yacht: white culottes, stripy blue top, naval blazer, espadrilles and shades perched in her hair like an Alice band. I stopped myself from saying, ‘Oi, Oi, me hearties!’ as she got nearer, but as I went to greet her she butted in.

  ‘You never told me you knew Charlie Walsh, you dark horse!’ And she linked arms with me as if we were best mates and walked along at my side. That was weird. Amanda has rarely touched me before. She was the sort that, if she did, she’d be reaching for some Wet Wipes afterwards.

  ‘What’s he like? Is he gorgeous? I have to say I love his shows. God I can’t believe one of my best friends has actually worked with, shot an ad with, hung out with, my, like, number one total crush?’

  ‘Right.’

  She’d seen the ad. Amanda, who claimed to only watch ‘really serious drama on Channel 4 about twice a year? Stuff about wars? And mother on daughter child abuse?’ had clearly been watching Acacia Avenue the night before. I couldn’t imagine her having time to watch breakfast telly in the mornings. She’d once confessed that it took her two hours to do her hair, never mind her make-up, in a rare moment of intimacy down the pub one night when she’d cried on my shoulder, fearing she had OCD about her appearance.

  ‘Do you . . . still see him?’

  ‘No, I just met him that day.’

  ‘Oh, right. I thought you must have known him from Liverpool.’

  ‘No, I just had to pretend to be his mate. It’s called acting.’

  She looked surprised. Big time. ‘What? All the people in that advert, they’re not his real friends?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘They’re actors?’

  I nodded my head.

  ‘Shit. I just assumed it was, like . . . a documentary-style advert. It’s really misleading.’

  ‘It’s just really good acting, Amanda, that’s what it is.’

  ‘I just assumed you were buddies and you hung out and a camera crew popped in one day and shot you having a party and stuff?’

  ‘Well, that’s what they want the audience to believe.’

  ‘Was he nice?’ she asked, like she wasn’t sure she was interested now her bubble had been burst.

  I sighed. ‘Well, he said I had nice tits.’

  ‘Wow! He likes them small then.’ She sounded frustrated that hers might be too big for him. Clearly her self-obsession was so all-encompassing that she hadn’t stopped for a second to think how her words might impact on me. To be honest, I was so used to her inadvertent put-downs they no longer upset me. She continued, ‘God, I can’t believe that. I laid in bed last night thinking about it and thinking, well, about this exciting life you must lead. Hanging out with Charlie Walsh and partying in his back garden. I was a bit jealous actually. You’re such a closed book, Jodie. No one knows anything about you. Ask you something personal and you just kind of . . . clam up. I wondered last night whether it was because you were hiding this secret celebrity lifestyle. Isn’t that silly?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Oh shit!’ She stopped dead in her tracks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rupert will go ballistic.’

  ‘I’m rather hoping he won’t have seen it.’

  ‘Oh, he will.’

  ‘Maybe his telly exploded.’

  ‘No, he will have.’

  ‘But it was on during Acacia Avenue.’

  ‘He adores Acacia Avenue. Never misses an episode.’

  This was as surprising as learning that Margaret Thatcher secretly took in homeless people off the streets and fed and watered them for the night because she had one hell of a social conscience.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ She started walking again, brisker now. I tried to keep up with her as our arms were still linked. I felt like a slow fat kid teamed up with a fast sprinter in a three-legged race, so dazed was I by what I was hearing. ‘He says there’s a really good actress in it. He used to go out with her when they trained together with Stanislavksi. Or it might have been Alan Ayckbourn. Yvonne something.’

  I gulped. ‘Carsgrove?’

  Amanda shrugged. ‘Possibly. Is she any good?’

  I nodded. ‘She plays Nona Newman.’

  Amanda could see the look of blind panic on my face.

  ‘But you never know. He might have been out last night.

  Rupert hadn’t been out the night before. He had seen the advert. And his distaste for my betrayal shone out like a lighthouse, illuminating the rehearsal room as I walked in. He didn’t say anything, so I just sat in a circle with the rest of the class, ignoring the odd cod Scouse whisper about the qualities offish fingers, and waited for the lesson to start. I’d found a pen and pad in my locker and managed to have a wash in the girls’ toilets, so I looked semi-decent, even if I was dressed like I was about to hit the casinos. As a hooker. Rupert looked at the floor and waited for us to settle down. We did. Still staring at the parquet, he said, ‘Miss McGee. Stand up.’

  All eyes were on me as I rose.

  Rupert broke into a smile. ‘Firstly, what have you come as today?’

  ‘A street walker,’ I said a bit quickly. ‘It’s a project I’m doing about how different costumes elicit different reactions from the general public.’

  I saw Moth roll her eyes.

  ‘And how have they responded to this one?’

  ‘They’ve found me quite slutty on the whole,’ I lied, glad to be communicating in a positive way with He Who Must Be Obeyed.

  ‘Aha. And secondly, congratulations! You got your first job!’ He started clapping his hands. He beckoned the rest of the group to join in and soon I had my first standing ovation. I blushed and smiled; this wasn’t the reception I’d been expecting and, I have to say, it felt really pleasant. I could have done without Moth scowling and giving a slow hand clap, the only one in the group to remain seated. Rupert flapped his hands, indicating that the group should sit, and they did so like obedient dogs at Crufts.

  ‘Jodie, I am very happy for you. Very happy that you have entered the big bad world of television and secured your first professional job. It is commendable and shows great industry.’

  Well, this was a surprisingly nice turn up for the books.

  ‘Thanks. Thank you,’ I blustered in a ‘gee shucks it was nothing’ kind of way.

  ‘And with it you have shown you no longer need us.’

  Gulp. What? Oh dear.

  ‘That your time at L.A.D.S. is done. You clearly have what it takes to be a professional actress, so why on earth would you need to be trained? You, after all, have been in an advert for a top supermarket chain. You see, I was under the misapprehension that you weren’t quite ready yet. Clearly, I was wrong.’

  ‘No, I still need training, Rupert,’ I gasped, unable to hide the panic in
my voice. If he booted me out, where would I go? I couldn’t go back to Liverpool a failure. I couldn’t go back to Liverpool full stop. I’d never know who I was going to bump into round my mum’s kitchen table. Probably my ex-husband seeking a mother replacement who could understand his fluctuating sexuality.

  Rupert raised a hand to silence me. I wasn’t aware I was still talking.

  ‘Do you know why I didn’t think you were quite ready?’

  ‘Coz the course doesn’t finish for another few months.’

  ‘No. Because you never really shared with us your pain.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Which I think is a shame. We only ever truly progress as actors once we have stripped ourselves bare, revisited past traumas, explored them, understood our emotional reactions to them. This, I don’t think you have done.’

  I shot a cursory look around the group. Everyone, bar Moth, was looking uncomfortable. There was a lot of shifting in seats, staring at the floor and watch-checking. Moth, meanwhile, sat with her arms crossed and head to one side, nodding.

  ‘When your drama teacher contacted me she told me you had been depressed. Laid low. She told me the reason for this. Yet you never shared it with the group.’

  ‘I was upset.’

  ‘The group you have been part of for three years. I feel you have held back. Yes, you can act. Yes, you can make people laugh. Yes, you can make people cry. You are good. Very good. But you could be brilliant.’

  I really didn’t know what to say to that.

  ‘But you never will be. Because you’ve never owned your pain. Would you like to tell the group what the cause of your pain was?’

  My mouth was dry. I could feel my cheeks burning. I looked around the group and saw it: pity. I cleared my throat to speak, but the words literally ran dry. How could I say it? It sounded so stupid. Rupert had built it up so much that anything I said would sound like an anticlimax now. Everyone would be expecting me to say that I’d been involved in a massive paedophile ring or had been raised by wolves.