‘Follow him. Read his texts. Hack into his emails. Be suspicious when he works late, goes for boys’ weekends, or has a few too many trips to the gym. Blokes are shit at covering their tracks. Us girls are way better. Believe me, I know.’
She flicked her ciggie onto the concrete and ground it with her morello cherry moon boot, which, amazingly, didn’t catch fire. I realized that part of me had a bit of a crush on the fabulous Laveenia.
‘Now. We’d better get back in. And when we do? Smile. Apologize. You were drunk. You’re sorry. First-night nerves. And then he’ll think he’s got a reprieve. And then?’
I nodded eagerly, wanting to learn from the oracle.
‘Wait.’
In the express lift up to the fifth floor she added, cursorily, ‘I’m working on Acacia Avenue now, you know.’
‘Really?’ I had no idea. Wow!
She nodded nonchalantly.
‘We should get you in for a meeting.’
I must have looked shocked – in a bad way – because she frowned.
‘It’ll pay better than the shite you’re in at the minute, kid.’
‘No. No. No, it’s just . . . I’ve always wanted to be in Acacia Avenue. I had an audition when I was younger to play Paige the paper girl. Only I blew it.’
Laveenia was smiling now.
‘I’ve only ever had three ambitions in my life: to be in Acacia Avenue, to win an Oscar and to get married.’
As we arrived at the fifth floor and the doors whooshed open, she winked. ‘Well, I’d put number three on hold.’
I pushed my way through the throng and found Stuart looking bored with a couple of people I didn’t recognize. He caught my eye across the room and I stopped and shrugged and mouthed, ‘Sorry.’ He nodded, then jolted his head to tell me to come over. I did. And as I stood next to him he enveloped me with his right arm and kissed the top of my head tenderly.
‘I ain’t husband number one. All right?’
I nodded. All right. I looked up at him and pretended a smile.
All I had to do now, apparently, was wait.
I didn’t have to wait long. The week after, Stuart announced that he was going to be late home from work that night because he was going to someone from work’s birthday drinks. As the job they were doing at the moment was in Hendon – miles away – he didn’t see the point in me joining them when I suggested it, so I just shut up and nodded compliantly. When I asked which pub they were going to, trying to look blasé as I flicked through Bella, he shrugged and said he had no idea, pecked me on the head and left. As soon as he’d gone I paced the flat angrily. Laveenia had said this would happen. Why? Why did this always happen to me? Was I too much of a doormat? Was it because I dutifully cleaned the flat to his exacting standards instead of flinging down my feather duster and screaming, ‘It’s only a bit of bloody DUST, Stuart!’? Was it because I was too, I don’t know, nice?
‘You’re not that nice,’ countered Mum on the phone a few days later. I’d phoned for my weekly catch-up and had done exactly what I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do as I’d picked up the receiver – I’d told her what I was worried about.
‘I’m quite nice.’
‘OK, so maybe I’m choosing my words wrong.’
Oh, the insight.
‘You’re not a pushover. Look, for what it’s worth I don’t think he is having an affair.’
‘And how would you know? You’ve only met him three times.’
‘I think you could be going out with Mother Teresa right now and you’d think she was playing away.’
‘If I was going out with Mother Teresa that would make me a lesbian. A lesbian who was into dead, old Asian nuns. And I’m so not.’
I heard her sigh.
‘I just think your experiences with Greg will have made you extra . . .’ she searched for the word.
‘Paranoid?’
‘Suspicious sounds nicer. OK, so have it your way. He’s having an affair. Leave him.’
‘What? No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Coz I love him. And I don’t know for sure.’
‘Why d’you love him if this is what you think of him?’
‘Coz he’s been good to me. He looked after me when I was down on my luck. We have a laugh together. I . . . I fancy him.’
‘So who’s he having an affair with?’
‘This new girl from his work. Mandy.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never met her.’
‘Is she single?’
‘No, she’s got a girlfriend.’
‘She’s a lesbian?’
‘It’s a cover story.’
‘He’s having an affair with a pretend lesbian?’
‘Yes.’ I was sounding rather timid now.
I had done what Laveenia suggested and checked the text messages on his phone one night when he was in the shower. He had several from someone called Mandy. Mandy, I knew from what he’d told me, was a new painter and decorator who did the odd bit of work with his company. He claimed she had a shaved head and had a tattoo saying Julie on her left forearm. And yet the texts read:
STUART: Oi oi sexy wot time u in?
MANDY: Running late. M25 nightmare.
STUART: L8rs.
Then on another day:
STUART: Marry me?
MANDY: Grow a vag.
And another day:
STUART: Back killing. Need one of your messages.
MANDY: It’s massage, you thick git.
STUART: Bloody predictive texting.
MANDY: I know. Fack off you old cult.
‘I have it on very good authority, Mother, that he not only receives massages from her, but has also proposed to her.’
‘And who told you this?’
‘Someone who knows them.’
‘So, he’s proposed to a pseudo lesbian from work who looks like a bloke?’
‘I imagine the bloke thing is also a cover. She probably has long brown hair and legs from heaven.’
‘Mark my words, Jodie. You meet this Mandy? She’ll have legs from Devon.’
‘I don’t know what Devonshire legs look like.’
‘It’s all in your head, Jodie.’
I sighed. ‘Can we talk about something else?’
‘Well, you brought it up.’
Like a fur ball, I wanted to say, but didn’t, as I wasn’t sure if cats bringing up fur balls was a good or bad thing. Whether it was something they enjoyed or not. And whether the fur ball itself was yucky. Though I kind of reckoned it was.
‘How’s the play going?’
‘Yeah, all right.’
‘We’re really looking forward to seeing it.’
‘Don’t lie.’
‘No, I am. I’m gonna bring some knitting.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you said it went on for hours.’
‘You can’t knit through it, Mother.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not becoming.’
‘Oh. But I like to keep busy.’
‘You can’t knit in a play, Mum. It’s not like watching telly.’
‘You said the theatre was so small it was just like watching telly.’
‘I know but . . . Just don’t bring your knitting.’
‘And when the play finishes, what then?’
‘Nothing. I’ve got an audition for Acacia Avenue, but I doubt I’ll get it.’
‘ACACIA AVENUE?!’ she practically screamed. I had to hold the receiver away from my ear.
‘Don’t get excited, Mother, I’m not going to get it.’
Truth be told I’d not given it much thought. I’d had more urgent things to attend to, like pacing the flat all day wondering what Stuart was getting up to with Lesbo Mandy, before heading off to a pub in Camden to pretend to be a New York slapper.
‘What’s the part?’ Mum said, trying to conceal her delight as I heard the scratch of her cigarette lighter. She was clearly settl
ing down for all the soap-based goss.
‘Well, this is the thing. It’s for the part of a nun.’
‘Oh.’ And there it was, the deflation of disappointment. Like a burst balloon. I thought I could hear her stubbing out her ciggie sadly, though I might have been wrong. But she and I both knew that if I was going to be good at something, if I was going to be convincing, it certainly wasn’t going to be pretending to be a sweet and saccharine nun. Julie Andrews I was not.
‘When’s the audition?’
‘Next Friday.’
‘Oh. Well, good luck. Will you have to come to Liverpool?’
‘No, they’re doing it in London. They’re putting me on tape and then sending it to the producers.’
‘What you gonna wear?’
‘I dunno.’ What’s more, I didn’t care.
‘Well, I suggest you go in something quite nunsy.’
‘And what does “nunsy” mean exactly?’
‘Well, you know. High collar.’
‘Wimple?’
‘Maybe a beret.’
‘Nuns don’t wear berets.’
‘No, but a lot of Christians do. I’ve seen them, Jodie.’
‘Where?’
‘Going to church! I’ve seen at least two people in berets going to St Hilda’s in the past month. I pass by it when I’m going for my News of the World.’
‘OK, I’ll wear a beret,’ I lied. I just wanted to get her off the phone now.
‘But nothing stripy. Otherwise you’ll look like something out of ‘Allo ‘Allo.’
‘Yes, Mother. I’ll avoid a string of onions as well. And not turn up on a bike.’
‘Maybe have a bible poking out of your tote bag. Hmm?’
‘Mother. Enough of the Americanisms. People over here don’t have tote bags, we have massive handbags or holdalls.’
God I was being unnecessarily argumentative. I’d had a tote bag for years. And loved it.
‘If I’m honest, Jodie, I don’t even know what a tote bag is. I just saw it in a magazine article and liked the sound of it.’
I sighed impatiently. There was silence for a bit.
‘Jodie?’
‘What?’
‘We’re really looking forward to your last night. Will there be a party afterwards?’
‘Probably.’
‘And, Jodie?’
‘What?’
‘I really don’t think he’s having an affair.’
Bless her. She was trying to be nice. I just wasn’t in the mood to hear it.
The coming weekend promised to be a big one. Not only was it the end of my play, but Stuart was going away for a boys’ weekend to Brighton. Which meant only one thing: he and Mandy were shunting off down there to spend all day Saturday and Sunday massaging each other in some vile B & B.
Brighton, for God’s sake! The place where Stuart first told me he loved me! Did he have no shame? It showed he had no imagination. He’d had lovely romantic times with me there, and now he was going to have lovely romantic times with her there, too. It was clearly where he went to fall in love.
And of course he’d organized it for a weekend when he knew I’d be busy. Well, busy till the Saturday night anyway. No doubt he assumed I’d have a hangover on the Sunday after my closing night party, but I had other plans. Because Sunday . . . well, I was going to get on a train to that there Brighton and catch them at it.
On the Saturday morning he packed a little overnight bag and gave me the biggest hug as he set off to Victoria for the train. I hated every second of that hug; the way he clung to me spoke of a very guilty conscience. I pulled away after a while, smiled – God, this was some of the best acting of my life – and said, ‘Now you have a brilliant time with the lads. Misbehave. Have a wild time and remember . . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘I love you.’
He nodded and almost welled up before hurrying out. Seconds later there was a bang on the door. I rushed to open it. Stuart was stood there looking anxious.
‘Babes?’
‘Mm?’
‘You gonna be in Sunday night?’
I nodded.
‘Only . . . I wanna have a chat with you.’
‘What about?’
‘Look it’s nothing but . . . make sure you’re in. We can have a nice dinner and . . . talk.’
I gulped and nodded. He pecked me on the forehead then ran down the stairs.
A chat. Sunday night. After his sordid little weekend away. One thing was clear. He was going to dump me. He was going to dump me. No. No I had to get to Brighton as soon as I could on Sunday, catch him at it and dump him.
I didn’t sleep much that night. I’d chosen not to drink at the closing night party as I’d wanted to be alert and unemotionally unhungover on the Sunday morning. But as I’d stuck to Diet Cokes all night I then couldn’t sleep. I wished I had a car so I could jump in it right then and drive the hour or so to Brighton and punch the pair of them in the face. Lesbian my arse! They were at it now, I just knew it, and I couldn’t bear it. The last night of the show had whirled by in a breeze of disconnection, as if I wasn’t in the play at all, but hovering in the wings, watching someone else act. Someone who wasn’t very good or funny, come to think of it. As we’d headed to our dressing room after the final bow, Amanda had commented, ‘You really found the sadness in the character tonight, Jodie. It was almost moving.’
I’d nodded. Whatever.
‘Did you hear that clicking noise all through the second half?’
I’d nodded again.
‘It was my mum,’ I explained, ‘knitting.’
Amanda looked suitably horrified.
I was so distant at the drinks do afterwards in the pub that I couldn’t even be bothered to chastize my mum when she pulled out the jumper she’d finished off during the play. My face must have belied my disinterest because she whispered, ‘I know you told me not to, love, but it was boring as hell.’
Mum and Dad had booked themselves into a B&B in Victoria as they’d got the coach down. Dad seemed disappointed when I told them I couldn’t meet for breakfast the next day, but Mum smoothed things over. I think she could tell where my mind was.
The problem with not being able to sleep that night was that, despite my best intentions, the next day I had zero energy. I lay in our tiny bath for about an hour, letting the water grow cold around me, and by the time I stepped out to dry myself I looked like a huge wrinkly scrotum. I then spent another hour putting my make-up on and choosing an outfit. I wanted to look my best when I delivered my shot across the bows. I wanted him to be gutted and her to be jealous. I caked my poor face in half a ton of slap, backcombed my hair so it was bigger than a volcanic ash cloud, spritzed myself in Vivienne Westwood perfume, pulled on some skinny jeans, a glittery gold vest top and battered brown suede jacket, quietened down my cleavage with a clunky gold necklace, then headed for the door.
It was a lovely day and the world, his wife and their pretend lesbian mistresses seemed to have got on the train from Victoria to Brighton. I took out the pages of the Acacia Avenue script that Laveenia had sent for my audition and studied them.
INT. CHAPEL – DAY
SISTER AGNES SITS WITH JOAN, WHO IS CRYING.
SISTER A: Joan. I have to warn you. I’m not a priest.
JOAN: I know that. I know that, Sister.
SISTER A: But anything you tell me is, of course, in the strictest of confidences.
JOAN: Thank you. Thank you, Sister Agnes.
SISTER A: You might look at me and see just a woman in a wimple, but before I took my holy vows, you and I were not too dissimilar. I, too, knew the love of a bad man, the comfort of the whiskey bottle. I, too, knew loneliness and despair.
JOAN LOOKS SURPRISED.
SISTER A: What I’m trying to say is. I’m . . . not easily shocked, Joan.
JOAN NODS. AND WORKS UP THE COURAGE TO TELL HER THIS AWFUL, AWFUL THING.
JOAN: I did it.
SISTER A: Did wh
at, Joan?
JOAN: I’m a bad person. Gary . . . Gary . . .
SISTER AGATHA LOOKS SHOCKED.
SISTER A: What are you trying to say, Joan?
JOAN: He didn’t die of cancer. He asked to die. And one cold and lonely November night, just after the Neighbourhood Watch buffet and mingle that no one attended because they were trapped in the kerfuffle of the supermarket fire—
SISTER A: Fire? It was an inferno. The memories of that horrendous night will stay with me for the rest of my life.
JOAN: He begged me to finish him off. I took his pillow and I smothered him with it. I . . . I killed Gary.
AS JOAN BREAKS DOWN, WE STAY ON SISTER AGATHA, A KALEIDOSCOPE OF EMOTIONS CARTWHEELING ACROSS HER FACE.
CUT TO: END OF EPISODE 7564
Bloody hell it was shit.
I turned the pages over and, taking a biro from my bag, started to write a list. The list of what I would do with the rest of my life.
What I am going to do with the rest of my life:
1
Dump Stuart.
2
Punch Mandy.
3
Tell Mandy she looks like a lesbian even if she doesn’t.
4
Punch Stuart twice – that’s the feminist thing to do.
5
Track Our Joey down and punch him for never replying to my grovelling (I now realize far too grovelling) letter.
6
Move out of Stuart’s flat.
7
Sleep rough or use last of savings on cheap B & B till decide what to do.
8
Audition for Acacia Avenue and try not to burst out laughing when reading the scene.
9
Not get the part.
10
Starve to death on the streets of London.
11
Go back to Liverpool and move back in with Mum and Dad.
12
Eat.
13
Put on weight.
14
Become size of house.
15
Not care because I am a fabulous, strong, independent woman whose life will no longer be ruled by a man.
All She Wants Page 25
