I nodded, looked back at the other three actresses waiting to go in after me and headed for the lift. Their berets weren’t as nice as mine, and they were all sporting pleated skirts. The idiots. I got in the lift and hastily applied some lip gloss.
The audition lasted about twenty minutes and just involved me, Laveenia and a director called Tubby, who nodded and smiled his way through my character analysis, and then grinned all through the reading of the scene I did with Laveenia playing Joan. The meeting was recorded and sent to the producers and powers that be at ‘the network’, and they said I should hear something in two weeks.
Two weeks later I had to go up to Liverpool with two other actresses and screen test for the part on a Saturday morning. I had to be in Liverpool by lunchtime, so I’d booked myself onto a nine thirty train from Euston, which meant setting the alarm for seven thirty to give myself time to shower and grab some breakfast before heading out. My plan was to do my make-up on the train, but clothes were less important (the beret, for instance) today, as I would be put in costume on arrival in order to do the screen test.
But, horror of horrors, I slept fitfully the night before, as Sister Agatha’s dialogue from a new scene they’d sent me was spinning round in my head. When I woke, feeling rather refreshed, it has to be said, for someone who’d not got off till about 3a.m., I looked at my curtains and mused to myself, ‘Gosh, the light outside seems very . . . light . . . for what must be before seven thirty of the a.m. variety.’
It had to be before seven thirty because my alarm hadn’t yet gone off.
But when I turned to the alarm clock, I saw that Mickey Mouse’s hands were entangled in an awkward position. A position that was just plain wrong. I grabbed the clock and thrust it in front of my eyes, checking I wasn’t going blind or mad or both.
SHIT! IT WAS FIVE TO FRIGGING NINE!
‘Stuart, you big KNOB!’ I yelled as I tumbled out of bed and started scrabbling around my room. ‘It’s five to nine. Have you been messing with my alarm?!’
I heard a mild groaning from the living room as I stumbled into the bathroom, whipped the shower on and jumped in. It was cold. It woke me up. It would be hot soon. This was a nightmare. What would I do? Stuart came in, naked, and bashed down his morning glory to pee in the loo. He groaned again. This time it had an upward inflection, which meant, ‘What are you on about, Jodie?’ (I was fluent in Boyfriendspeak.)
‘I’m going to miss my train.’
Groan. This one meant, ‘Shit.’
‘I can’t believe my alarm didn’t go off.’
Groan. This meant, ‘Really?’
‘Stu, what am I going to do?!’
He flushed the toilet and turned towards me. I averted my eyes from his rapidly decreasing penis and watched him yawn and scratch his left armpit with his right hand. Then he seemed to snap awake.
‘Get a later train? I thought you were getting an early train anyway.’
‘No, I was cutting it fine coz the nine thirty was cheaper than the one before. Oh God, this is a catastrophe.’
He burped.
‘Find out the time of the next train, I’m going to dry my hair!’
I jumped out of the shower, threw a towel around myself and ran through to the bedroom again. Head down. Dryer on. Five minutes later my hair had taken on some sort of semblance of shape and I wrestled into some jeans, a Nicole Farhi sweater and some patent court shoes. I was just fixing a faux pearl Top-shop necklace round my neck when I realized Stuart was still on the phone.
‘For God’s sake, Stu! How long does it take to ask about bloody train times?!’
I threw my script into my bag, chucked in a Tampax, just in case, and legged it into the lounge. He was just hanging up. He looked excited.
‘I want you to say,’ then he put on an American accent, ‘how do you pull that shit out of the bag?’
‘What time is it? The next train!’
Infuriatingly he said, ‘How do you pull that shit out of the bag?’
I shook my head. There was no time for this.
‘I’m going.’
But he blocked the doorway with a swift pincer movement.
‘Babe,’ he said, ‘we’re flying.’
‘Stu, I need to go. I don’t need an appraisal of the mood you’re in. You’re actually scaring me, let me out!’
‘No, you’re getting the plane. Flight leaves from City Airport at eleven. Gotta check in by half ten.’
‘I can’t afford to bloody fly!’
If only. It would be the answer to all my problems.
‘No, but I can. And I’m coming with you. To hold your hand. This is a big day for you and the bottom line is, what you can’t afford, Jodie, is to miss the audition.’
He held my hand in the cab – yes cab – to the airport after telling the driver to put his foot down. Bit of a wasted sentence in Central London, but we were both now caught up in the drama of it all. He talked to me all the way. During the past two weeks there’d been a defrosting between us, as if one of us had taken a hairdryer to the freezer of our relationship and switched it on. He’d mostly perked up once I was recalled for the part of Sister Agatha. He wasn’t the world’s biggest fan of Acacia Avenue, but I’d hear him bragging about me to his mates on the phone, or his mum when she called. (She had a habit of calling most evenings at six on the dot. I’d say, ‘Guilty conscience calling!’ And fortunately he’d take it the right way.) He even sat down each night and read the lines with me so I knew them. Sister Agatha, if you like, had brought us back together.
‘I’m sorry I never told you about my mum, Jode,’ he was saying, ‘but when something big happens I just retreat into myself and bottle it up. I’m a knob.’
I would have argued, but he was hardly drawing breath.
‘I needed time to think, to work it all out, and I shouldn’t have been such a knob about you coming to Brighton. Least I know you care. It’s just in my head. I get scared that any woman I’m with’s gonna leave me, like she did. But she’s back, and it’s made me think, Maybe they don’t all go away after all.’
But she did go away, I wanted to say, she went away for twenty-five years, but I didn’t want to spoil the moment – he was holding my hand now – so I kept it buttoned and he carried on. All the way to the airport. All the way through check in. He’d said he’d hold my hand till we got there and, bar me slipping off to use the lav on the plane, he did.
Turned out he’d checked his bank account the night before and found that his mum had paid a thousand pounds into it. He’d phoned her and she’d explained it was in lieu of all the birthdays and Christmases she’d missed over the years. I wanted to say she was manipulating him, trying to win him over, buy his affections, but as it was paying for the cost of our flights, I didn’t dare.
We made it to the TV studios with plenty of time to spare. A really sweet actress showed us round the set. Her name was Trudy and, as we didn’t recognize her, she explained that her character had only just started, so she’d shot about three weeks of scenes, but hadn’t appeared on our screens yet. She seemed to flirt a bit with Stuart, but as he held my hand through most of the tour, I didn’t mind a bit.
We saw everything. The avenue itself (it was tiny) with the mocked-up houses and the Sleepy Trout on the corner. We saw the Chinese takeaway, the outside of the factory and the florist’s. Trudy showed us round a bit of the studios, too, so we saw the insides of all the houses on the avenue, laid out with walls missing and lights everywhere (all the sets looked dirty. They were tiny, too). I didn’t really care if I got the job now, just seeing all this was a treat in itself. But the more we looked and nosed, the more I got butterflies in my stomach and the more I wanted this to be the place I came to work every day. Something about it felt right. It felt familiar. It felt like home.
A runner came and found us while we were pretending to serve each other pints in the Sleepy Trout. They were ready for me to go into costume. I turned to Stuart, who winked, then hugged me. And as he did, he whispere
d in my ear, ‘You’re amazing. Go knock ‘em dead.’
Forty-five minutes later I walked onto the set of the Our Lady of Great Sorrow, dressed in my wimple, habit and wrapover blouse – my suggestion – where I greeted the director and the actress doing the screen test with me, who was none other than Yvonne Carsgrove/Nona Newman – that had to be a sign! I felt at home again. I felt a million dollars. Stu had poofed some air beneath my wings and I knew I was going to fly. I just knew I was going to be Sister Agatha.
Two days later.
‘Mum?’
‘Hiya, love. Any news?’
‘I didn’t get it. I’m not going to be Sister Agatha.’
‘Oh, Jodie, I’m devastated for you.’
I could hear her calling, a hand over the receiver, ‘Alan? She didn’t get it!’ And then my dad saying something like, ‘Told you!’ but I couldn’t be sure.
‘Your father’s very upset, as you can imagine.’
‘Yeah, they’ve offered it to another actress. I mean, she’s really good, I’ve seen her in a few things. She’s called Colette Court.’
‘Oh. Sounds like a block of flats.’
‘I know. Looks like one as well.’
Mum laughed at that.
‘Oh Jodie, never mind. Your time will come. And maybe next time you’ll be up for something you can do really well. You know, something a bit more slutty, tart with a heart.’
‘Thanks.’ Though it was fringed with sarcasm.
‘Is Stuart looking after you?’
‘Yeah, he’s gone for a takeaway. He’s really angry about it. Said he wanted to ring up Crystal TV and lodge a formal complaint.’
‘Would that help?’
‘No.’
‘Coz your dad’s good at complaining. He’s just got a twenty-five-pound gift voucher from Marks & Spencer for writing a letter about their toilet paper.’
‘Right. Anyway, I . . . better get off, Mum.’
‘Oh OK, love. And it was lovely to see you when you came up for your screen test.’
She loved saying that. I knew it made her feel like her daughter was Joan Crawford or something.
‘You and Stu seemed to be getting on so much better.’
‘Yeah, we are. I think I can hear him coming up the stairs. I’d best be off.’
‘OK, Jodie. Love you, kid.’
‘You too, Mum.’
‘You’da been a crap nun anyway. Ta-ra!’
‘Ta-ra.’
Two days later.
‘Mum?’
‘Hiya, love. Twice in one week, I am lucky.’
‘You’ll never guess what?’
‘You’re pregnant!’
‘No!’
Pregnant? Where did that come from?
‘I’m going to play Sister Agatha!’
Silence at the other end of the line. Ten seconds later I heard a cigarette being lit.
‘That actress who they offered it to? She’s only gone and got a part in EastEnders.’
‘The one with a name like a block of flats?’
‘Colette Court, yes. Mother, I’m going to be on Acacia Avenue! I start filming next week.’
Silence again. And then a crash – it sounded like something heavy falling on the nest of tables in the hall – followed by silence again.
I was pretty sure my mum had fainted. I turned to Stu, who was stood before me with a bottle of champagne and two flutes (the glasses not the musical instruments) and said, ‘She’s over the moon.’
He winked and I heard the line go dead.
TWENTY-ONE
The third time I met Yvonne Carsgrove she screamed at me, ‘KNOCK FIRST, YOU STUPID BITCH!’
Whoops.
I’d accidently walked into her dressing room, mistaking it for mine. As I beat the hastiest of retreats, I bleated a staccato apology and closed the door firmly, wondering how on earth I could have made this mistake. It said in quite definite letters on her door ‘MISS Y. CARSGROVE’. I was hurrying down the corridor, slightly panicky after being yelled at, trying to locate my own dressing room, when I heard a door open behind me and footsteps, followed by her dulcet tones – if dulcet meant furious and hissing venom à la pantomime villain.
‘Do you know how difficult it is to learn one’s lines when one has random runners barging into one’s own personal private space willy nilly, hmm?’
I turned, panic rising in my chest. I could feel my cheeks burning. Her face was contorted with disgust. It was a shock. She was always so lovely onscreen as Nona, everybody’s friend. It was as if Goldilocks had announced she’d had a foursome with the three bears.
‘I’m . . . not actually a runner.’
‘Oh are you not, actually? And do you think I actually care? Because actually, dearie, I do not.’
‘Sorry, Nona. YVONNE! It wont happen—’
‘MISS CARSGROVE TO YOU!’ she countered. She was almost bent double in seething anger now.
‘Miss Carsgrove, sorry.’
‘Name?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You do have one, I presume?’
‘Jodie.’
‘Well, Jodie. Whatever you do – and from your behaviour I’m guessing you’re on work experience from the special school – whatever it is, if this happens again I will make it my personal mission to see that you are fired. Comprendez?’
‘I’m actually in the show.’
‘Well extras aren’t allowed on this corridor.’
‘No, I’m an actress. A proper one. I play Sister Agatha. We met at my screen test.’
She flinched and pulled herself back up to her full height, examining my face with a stealthy look of concentration. Then she broke into a smile, chuckled, flung her arms out and walked towards me before engulfing me in a lung-flattening hug. From wicked queen to Snow White in the blink of an eye.
‘Oh, Jodie. Lovely, lovely Jodie. I recognized you the minute I laid eyes on you. And yet you still fell for my cheeky little prank.’ She was rubbing my back so vehemently now it felt like she was searching for my bra strap. ‘One thing you’ll get to know about me is . . . I’m a huge practical joker. Fancy a snort?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I always have a little snort in my dressing room with new cast members.’ She’d linked arms with me and was guiding me back to the dressing room she had, just a minute earlier, kicked me out of.
Oh God. What was a snort? Was she offering me cocaine? At eight thirty in the morning? How was I going to get out of this one without incurring her wrath all over again? ‘It’s a little Acacia Avenue tradition, darling. Like wanting to hurl the producer under the wheels of an oncoming truck.’
She let go of my arm so that we could both fit through the door, single filee-stylee.
‘Who is the producer at the moment, my lovely?’
‘Eva.’
‘Oh yes. Ghastly piece.’
‘I quite like her.’
‘No, dear. Never trust a woman with more facial hair than Jesus.’
She pointed to a lumpy chaise longue, which appeared to be her sign language for ‘please take a seat’. I practically threw myself at it.
‘So, is it your first day?’ she enquired, full of faux bonhomie, whilst grabbing two Disneyland Paris mugs from a shelf with one hand and procuring a whiskey bottle from her dressing table drawer with the other. Boy could she multitask!
‘Yes.’ I nodded.
So a snort was a quick drink. Bullseye! I quickly scoured the room for somewhere to chuck the alcohol while she wasn’t looking. There was nowhere, unless you counted the burgundy crocodile skin cowboy boots in the corner, which I didn’t. She’d no doubt be kicking a runner in them later.
‘And tell me . . .’
I looked back at her.
‘Are you feeling paranoid yet?’
‘Paranoid?’ I asked, becoming immediately paranoid. ‘Why would I be—’
‘Oh, it’s the culture of a soap, darling. It’s just the way it goes. The way the cookie crumbles. You c
ould cut the feeling of paranoia in this place en ce moment with a rather blunt cake slice, because we’re filming that ghastly fire. Everyone thinks they’re for the chop. Trust no one. Particularly those bitches in make-up; they’re all on a retainer with the News of the Screws. The walls have ears and the ceilings have eyes. And the toilets in the green room are bugged.’
Somehow she had managed to unscrew the top of the whiskey bottle and upend two large glugsworths into the mugs. She handed me one.
‘Up your bum and no babies.’
‘Cheers.’ We clinked glasses. ‘Thanks.’
I took a hard, quick glug and felt the familiar burning at the back of my throat. Well, familiar for half eight in the evening, not half eight in the morning.
‘Even when you’ve been on the show as long as I have, and darling when I joined even Croesus had a paper round’ – Who was Croesus? I didn’t remember a character with that name on the show – ‘I still spend every waking hour in this building thinking, They hate me, they’re going to fire me.’
‘They wouldn’t fire you, Yvonne, you’re Nona Newman. You are Acacia Avenue.’
She chuckled ironically. ‘Christ, what an epitaph. I can see the headstone now. Here lies Yvonne Carsgrove. She was Acacia Avenue.’ And she knocked back her whiskey.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I feel fine. I feel really good.’ Which was the truth. Maybe it was the warmth of the whiskey.
‘It’ll come to you,’ she added, leaning forward in her seat like she was an American high-school coach and I was her soccer team.
‘It starts innocuously enough. You’re thrilled to get the job, why shouldn’t you be? You’ve not worked for months, and even then it was a cough and a spit. You up sticks. You move to Liverpool. You have an income for the first time in your life. You’re in Acacia Avenue, for God’s sake, life is sweet. And then a few months down the line you think, Hmm, I don’t really do much in the show. I’m a glorified extra. But you overcompensate for your dissatisfaction by eating a lot. You can afford to eat now. You probably do your food shop at Marks & Spencer. If you can find one anywhere near this godforsaken hole. And then they use you. As part of a story. It’s not much, but it gets you on the cover of a handful of magazines. You go on Brunch With Bronwen. Graham Norton knows everything about you. Paul O’Grady declares you’re one of his favourite characters. People start clocking you on the treadmill at the gym you’ve joined to lose all the weight you’ve gained since being on the show. But that’s OK. You like it when the Lycra-clad lotharios double take you. You like it when people strain to see if you have a credit card made of solid gold in M&S. And then . . . well then, some younger, prettier, blonder upstart with tits like Zeppelins rocks up and steals your limelight. Your part gets small again. You’re not in the show for weeks. People clam up when you walk in the green room. You request to see the boss. You ask her, ‘Does everyone hate me? Do you hate me? Am I on my way out?’ She tries to make you feel better, but it’s lip service. The whole time she’s speaking to you she’s looking at floor plans for the newly redesigned Sleepy Trout. You hit the bottle. You sleep with a groupie and catch an STI. Your boyfriend leaves you and sells his story to the papers about how you once went to Lanzarote where he tied a dressing gown cord round your wrists, and suddenly everyone calls you the Queen of S&M. You go to a Travelodge just off the M62 and drown yourself in a bath of pills of liquor.’
All She Wants Page 27
