All She Wants

by Jonathan Harvey

  I actually felt a bit sick listening to Yvonne bulldozer on in such a depressing way. I made a mental note: never ever allow Stuart to tie me up with a dressing gown cord. Or anything else come to think of it.

  ‘You know my best advice to you now, Jodie?’

  ‘Be professional and remember it’s just a job?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘No, my dear. Stand up, walk down the corridor and out of those gates. And never, ever, act again.’

  I gulped.

  Possibly because Yvonne Carsgrove had been part of the furniture at Crystal TV for so long, a lot of what she predicted came true. Well, I never actually slept with groupie or caught a disease, and I didn’t need to join a gym as I didn’t put on that much weight, but I didn’t see the point of moving back to Liverpool for what was, to all intents and purposes, a part-time job. I was lucky if I was in the show once a week. And when I did go in I usually just said stuff like, ‘Yes, Father. Right away, Father,’ or Father? We’re low on Communion wine and I’ve just come on my blob.’ (I made one of those up. Can you tell which one?)

  For the first few months of the job I acted pretty much as a one-line sidekick to the resident priest, Father Parr, played by Greek hunk Aristotle Turisas, otherwise known as Ari Turisas. Or, as I nicknamed, him Hally Tosis. Because although he had chiselled cheekbones and abs you could bounce a fifty pence off, his breath was 100 per cent creosote. When I eventually made it onto the screen and some reviews came out, I was praised for holding myself in his company as if I really, really ‘wanted to’ (screw him, I guessed they meant), but held back because of my allegiance to the Lord. Actually, I was just flinching from his smelly breath. At first I tried to subtly offer him peppermints and chewing gum before we shot our scenes, but he always batted them away claiming he ‘didn’t do sugar’ and ‘only ate protein’. The make-up artists empathized with me as they spent hours with him up close and personal in make-up each morning, so they had a word with the sweet guy who dressed the sets of Our Lady of Great Sorrow, and soon there were plug-in air fresheners galore on set, as well as a bowl of pot pourri on the vestry table. What made his odours worse was that the windows of the vestry set were stained glass and the directors liked to spill loads of light through them, so they could get arty shots of us with multi-coloured faces. All the lights caused heat and the heat caused even more of Ari’s aromas to evaporate in my direction.

  Mum wasn’t keen on Ari either. She said he had shifty eyes and a sticky-out bum. And in my mum’s book, having a sticky-out bum meant one thing: you were a show-off. Whenever she saw him she’d tilt her head to get a look, as if to check whether it was still sticking out or not. She’d then wrinkle her nose, which I would impersonate for Dad at home, only for him to roll his eyes and say, ‘She’s checking him out. Always been an arse girl has our Sandra.’

  Mum had taken to being an SSM – Soap Star’s Mother – like a duck to water. Even the simplest of tasks were jazzed up for her now, just by having a daughter in the soap. Here, for instance, is a typical conversation she would have at the checkout at the local supermarket:

  ‘Do you . . . watch TV?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Right. Right. Do you . . . watch any soaps?’

  ‘Oh God yeah, love me soaps, me.’

  ‘Right. So. Which is your favourite? EastEnders?’

  ‘Oh God no!’

  Because it pretty much went without saying that most Liverpudlians’ favourite television drama was its own homegrown soap.

  ‘I really like that Acacia Avenue.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You know, it’s funny you should mention that, coz my daughter’s actually in it.’

  ‘What? She’s in Acacia Avenue?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She’s actually in it?’

  ‘She is, she’s an actress.’

  ‘Oh my God, your daughter is actually an actress who’s actually in Acacia Avenue?’

  ‘Guilty as charged!’ Mum would chuckle. She used that sentence a lot these days and it got on my tits.

  ‘So who does she play? Does she play Finchley? I love Finchley. Well, I love her hair.’

  ‘No, she’s not Finchley. And that’s actually a wig.’

  ‘Go’way! So who’s your daughter?’

  ‘My daughter plays Sister Agatha.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The nun.’

  ‘I’ve never seen no nun.’

  ‘Well, no, she’s not been in it yet. Although the proper technical television term is, she’s not been onscreen yet.’

  ‘So she’s not in it?’

  ‘Not onscreen yet, no. But she’s got quite a few eps in the can. Eps is another technical television term. It means episodes. And in the can means—’

  Unfortunately, Mum didn’t know what it meant, so it was just as well she was interrupted.

  ‘So you’ve come in here, showing off about something that hasn’t happened yet?’

  ‘I’m not actually showing off. You were the one banging on about Acacia Avenue, love.’

  ‘Wait till you see my daughter’s wedding dress.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s gonna be gorgeous.’

  ‘Oh, right . . .’

  ‘The only thing is, me daughter’s not actually been born yet. But, you know, may as well brag about it now, know what I mean? Nothing better to do.’

  ‘I’m going to report you. Where’s the manager? The customer’s always right, you know.’

  ‘Well, this customer’s getting right on my tits, love.’

  Mum’s excitement at being an SSM didn’t stop there. As I was in the show so infrequently, I remained living in London with Stuart and just kipped at Sandalan on the nights when I needed to be on set in Liverpool. And although it was only a short bus ride from the bungalow to the studios, Mum claimed my new-found celebrity status – for new-found please read non-existent, I’d still not been on the box, so I was hardly being mobbed in the Netto – ruled me out of using public transport ever again. Just as I was about to say, Fine. I’ll walk in, the exercise’ll do me good, she said, ‘I’ve got the perfect solution. I’m just going to Maureen’s.’

  And off she went. On foot. But returned thirty minutes later in Maureen’s lime green Fiat Uno. After wrenching some furry dice from the rear-view mirror, she hopped out and did a ‘da-dah!’ to me from the path as I watched from the living room window. Then she came in, jangling some car keys in her hand.

  I said ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ve borrowed Maureen’s car.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To take you into work.’

  ‘I’m not in till tomorrow.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Does Maureen not need it before then?’

  ‘Well, she said she had to go and visit her mother up the hospital. But as I said, Jodes, the buses these days are really quite reliable.’

  ‘Are you sure she didn’t mind?’

  ‘Course. Like I said to her, “Jodie can’t actually get the bus at the moment, Maureen, so just thank your lucky stars you still can.”’

  ‘Right, only I’m not sure that’s very—’

  ‘“And besides,” I said to her, I said, “Think of all the money you’re gonna save on parking up the hospital.” She goes, “We’ve got a special pass coz Mam’s dying.” I said, “Maureen, it’s the principal of the thing. Why should you be taxed for losing your loved one? Make a stand. Take the bus.” She completely agreed by the time I left. Even nipped to the Esso and filled the car up for me. Well, as I said to her, “I’d hate to put the wrong stuff in. Petrol, diesel, unleaded, you know?” She’s a good friend.’

  She’s a mug, I thought.

  Needless to say, after that it’s doubtful that Maureen saw much of her car when I was in town. And now Mum could throw herself into a role she relished: SSD (Soap Star’s Driver). She always wore her Sunda
y best to drive me and littered the back seat with duvets, pillows, cushions and throws. It might have been a Fiat Uno, but journeying to the studio was like being lifted in a Bedouin tent.

  The journey from Sandalan to Crystal TV took approximately twelve minutes. We always drove in silence so that, as Mum put it, I had the perfect ambience for last-minute line learning.

  Mum soon knew all the security staff at the studios better than I did, and as we glided under the lifted barrier she would shout out things like, ‘Morning Villandro! How’s your Giuseppe’s gout, my love?’ Or, ‘Morning, Woody! Any news on your Muriel’s smear yet?’ Or ‘Morning, Arthur! What’s the latest on your Toni’s gender reassignment, my darling?’

  Basically, whenever Mum came in to pick me up, she made sure she got there early so she could go round gabbing to all the various members of staff, pumping them for gossip. She already knew some of them as they lived locally, but all of them seemed dusted with the fairy glitter of showbiz to her.

  If I thought she was excited now, when I hadn’t even appeared onscreen, I had a gut feeling that once my face was in millions of living rooms five nights a week, she’d be bloody unbearable.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I didn’t even get a chance to say hello this time when I picked up the phone.

  ‘Jodie?’

  ‘Oh hiya, Mum.’

  ‘Love, I’ve checked your schedule and you’re not at work next Monday.’

  ‘No, I know. I’m not in at all next week.’

  ‘But, of course, it’s your big night.’

  How could I forget? The following Monday was the night the nation first got see my be-wimpled ugly mug on their screens as Sister Agatha.

  I was kind of excited. My first episode boasted three scenes. The first saw me answering the phone and giving Father Parr a telling off. It went like this:

  SISTER AGATHA: Hello, Our Lady of Great Sorrow, how can I help you? Well, no, you won’t recognize my voice. I’m the new nun, come to help Father Parr in this inner city parish. Of course, I’ll just get him for you.

  SHE PUTS THE PHONE DOWN.

  SISTER AGATHA: Father Parr?

  FATHER PARR ENTERS, DRIPPING WET, FRESH FROM THE SHOWER. HE IS NAKED BUT FOR A TOWEL AND A SMOULDERING GLINT IN HIS EYE. SISTER AGATHA BLUSHES.

  FATHER PARR: Please, Call me Gino.

  SISTER AGATHA: I’ll call you no such thing, Father, and please, never let me see you without your dog collar again.

  SHE WALKS OFF IN A HOLY HUFF. FATHER PARR PICKS UP THE PHONE.

  FATHER PARR: Father Parr speaking? (ALARMED) What was that? The supermarkets burning down? Of course. I’ll come straight away. (PUTS PHONE DOWN. CALLS) Sister Agatha!

  My first appearance coincided with quite a big episode in Acacia Avenue’s history as it was also the night of – da-dah! – the big supermarket fire.

  Acacia Avenue’s resident supermarket was called Salisbury’s. During the past year it had had a revamp, becoming quite a big employer in the fictional north west borough of Liverchester, where the show was set. Quite a few of the main characters had taken jobs there. Even Nona Newman worked there in the evenings, stacking shelves to get some extra money to help put ‘their Jeannette’ through beauty school. This Monday an unexploded Second World War bomb would be discovered under the five items or less till during some minor building work, and then explode before the manager had the chance to clear the store. Nearly every major character on the show would be trapped in the rubble of the towering inferno of the supermarket. The emergency services would arrive en masse. Father Parr and his new sidekick Sister Agatha would leg it round there, administering the Last Rites. But who would die in the huge disaster?

  No one.

  Well, no one that important.

  The ‘Supermarket on Fire’ episodes would be spread over a whole week. And no one was going to die.

  Rumour had it that several highly paid members of the cast were in the firing line to be written out during the blast, therefore saving the TV company money on their wages. But according to the same rumour mill this had been scotched when the first of said highly paid stars had caught the producer sitting on the face of a new young hunk brought in to pretty up the bar staff at the Sleepy Trout.

  Anyway. Back to Mum.

  ‘I would hereby like to invite you, and Stuart, of course—’

  ‘Hereby?’

  ‘Don’t interrupt – to Sandalan for a bit of a do to watch your first episode.’

  Oh God. I’d planned on getting pissed with Stuart and watching from behind the sofa shouting, ‘Do I look fat? The camera puts six pounds on you!’ etc. But now I could just see the hell my mother had in store for me. Me, Stuart, Mum and Dad, all sat round in party hats drinking warm fizzy wine and having to listen to Mum passing comment on every actor in the show, which was her current obsession. (‘Oh she’s got a lovely car, her, Alan. Drives herself in. Volkswagen Beetle with a single red rose in a vase on the dashboard.’)

  ‘I’m not sure Stu can get the time off work to come all the way to Liverpool.’

  ‘Well then, just bring yourself. Oh go on, Jodie. I’ve told everyone you’re coming.’

  ‘Everyone?’

  ‘Well, I’ve invited a few people.’

  ‘How many?’ I was sounding alarmed.

  ‘Just a couple of neighbours. And Maureen. Well, she has been very kind in lending us the Uno. I think she’ll be disappointed if you’re not there.’

  Blackmail, that’s what this was. There was no way I was going to go. I decided to say yes right now, then phone in sick on the day and claim I was unable to get out of bed with a lurgy My plan was genius. It was foolproof. And I wouldn’t be letting too many people down if she’d only asked a few neighbours and Maureen round.

  I told Stuart of my genius plan when he got in from work that night, but as I lifted the Marks & Spencer moussaka from the oven (Oh God, Yvonne Carsgrove was so right) I heard a bit of huffing and puffing coming from Stuart’s direction.

  ‘We have to go, Princess,’ he said.

  I couldn’t believe it. I looked at him as I threw the moussaka onto the work surface. Damn! I should have worn oven mitts.

  ‘Your mum’s been really generous, putting you up. Most actors’d have to pay for a hotel or rent a room, but she hasn’t charged you a dime.’

  I ran my fingers under the tap, turning the cold water on first.

  ‘And she’s been driving you in every day.’

  ‘Once a week. If that. And only coz she wants to. She’s obsessed.’

  ‘It’s the least we can do.’

  ‘We? You’d take two days off work – one to get up there and one to get back – for me?’

  He winked. ‘You’re not the only one who can pull a sickie.’

  Every subsequent mouthful of moussaka made me want to choke. I looked at Stuart’s face as we ate – well, as he ate greedily and I pushed some overcooked aubergine round my plate and doodled patterns in the residual grease stains with my fork – and tried to work him out. His winks these days had less of the cheeky chappy about them; they were more mournful, plaintive, like I was looking anew at that lost little boy in the children’s home instead of the big butch plasterer I’d fallen in love with.

  He’d become very pro-Mum lately. My mum, not his. It was as if the reconnection he’d made with Jan had made him more aware of what he’d missed out on over the years and therefore more approving of everything my parents had done for me. All the stuff I’d taken for granted, the things most families did – meals on the table, clothes on our back, an ability to laugh at your camp brother’s high kicks – he now saw as the stuff of Arthurian legend. Award-winning, medal-deserving acts of bravery, courage and endeavour that went far beyond the norm. Sandra and Alan had stopped being Mr and Mrs Average in his eyes and were complete and utter heroes. An act as simple as coming back from the shops with carrier bags of frozen vegetables had been elevated to the drama and majesty of, say, those fellas running along the beach in
Chariots of Fire.

  He’d stopped wanting to talk about his mum. When they’d first met he’d been full of it, bubbling over with tales of her racy life in Paris as the muse to an artist called Geko. How she’d snorted drugs off the belly of a well-known Spanish television presenter. How she’d worked voluntarily for a few years on a Greek island rescuing Labradors or something.

  ‘She’s . . . she’s . . .’ he’d say.

  And I’d say, ‘A compulsive liar?’

  And he’d look at me with such hurt that I’d backtrack.

  ‘I’m messing. It’s just she’s had such a colourful life, Stu. I’m jealous.’

  And he’d nod, encouraged again. Encouraged to think that it was fine that she’d bummed around Europe most of her life being glamorous and selfish, instead of sitting at home cooking egg and chips and telling him she loved him.

  Recently, though, he’d started saying that she ‘did his head in. He’d return from their meetings and not want to talk about her. It would appear that the honeymoon was over. When I’d ask how it had gone he’d just shrug and ask about the show. My part in Acacia Avenue had become a comforting distraction from having to talk about any mixed emotions he might be feeling about the reappearance of the woman who’d given him life.