He didn’t want to talk about much any more. Time was he’d come in from work and be full of funny stories, off-colour jokes, the usual stuff people bring back from a day spent with other human beings. But these days he’d just come home, flop on the couch and want to watch Acacia Avenue, asking me what I knew about all the different people in it. The show was the balm that soothed away anything bad in the world. However I felt about the job – some days I was daunted by it, other days exhilarated – it certainly felt like a bit of a gift as it allowed Stuart and I a common interest.
In my darker moments I thought back to a recent storyline on the show where a man had tracked down his long-lost daughter, not told her who he was, then started an unsurprisingly ill-fated affair with her. Apparently a lot of previously faithful viewers had switched off their TV sets in their droves because of it, which was why Eva decided she wanted the supermarket to burn down. She wanted ‘Fire Night’ and ‘Fire Week’ to make Acacia Avenue must-see TV. One of the people who defended the incest storyline almost as loudly as Eva was Mum. She’d even written a letter to the Radio Times about it. And it was published.
Dear Radio Times,
In response to your article in the last issue ‘Jumping the Shark’, I would point you in the direction of the findings of lots of scientific research by psychologists and psychiatrists that shows that genetic sexual attraction is a part of everyday life and often happens when siblings or parents and children who have been adopted meet for the first time. If you Google it, you’ll find it. End of.
Also, about your claim that Trudy-Jo Patterson’s performance as the ‘abused daughter’ has more wood on it than your average bonfire, I disagree. I find her a wonderful actress who portrays the confusion of post-adolescent trauma with a truthfulness rarely found in other so-called ‘soaps’. She is also a very proficient driver who drives herself to and from the studios each day in a convertible Mondeo, and always stops at the security gates to sign autographs for her legion of fans. (I do not know this because I work on the show as a driver or in any other role, but because I live not far from the studios.)
In future, check your facts.
Yours sincerely,
Maureen O’Flaherty (Mrs)
Liverpool.
She had appropriated Maureen’s name as a disguise in case the letter came back to bite me on the bum in the future. She had ripped it from the magazine and posted it to me. Each time I looked at it a fist clasped my heart. Could Stuart be doing the same with Jan? It didn’t bear thinking about; it was too horrible a thing to consider. But was Mum trying to tell me something? No. She was just showing off that she’d been published, even if it was under a nom de plume. I banished all thoughts of Jan-on-Stu hot love action from my head.
The weekend before my first episode was transmitted Stu said he wanted to have a big romantic soppy weekend having fun in London. He was clingier than usual. We walked round Islington Green, pootling in bookshops, sipping cappuccinos on pavement cafés, mostly holding hands, sometimes stopping to kiss in the street like lovesick teenagers who’d got off with each other at the school disco the night before. We went to the pictures on Tottenham Court Road and saw a very girly rom-com, something he usually detested but this weekend seemed to be right up his strasse. We went on the London Eye, giggled at silver painted people in Covent Garden pretending to be statues and had a moonlit picnic on Hampstead Heath. For two days solid my life was a love montage, like the one in the film we’d just seen. And when we curled up in bed together on the Sunday night he said, ‘I just wanted to feel like you were mine this weekend. Coz from tomorrow you’ll belong to everyone out there.’ And he pointed towards the window.
It felt weird. I wanted to belong to him. Not in a downtrodden, under-the-thumb, I-am-not-worthy kind of way, but in a way where I wanted him to be more important than a faceless public who only knew me as ‘that nun off the telly’. I’d been recognized many times over the last couple of years as ‘that girl off the ads’, but it rarely created a problem. It was usually just people staring on the bus or in the shops, wondering if they knew me, and trying to work out where from. Was all that about to change? I’d always kidded myself that it was quite lucky that onscreen I’d be a dowdy piece in a wimple, so it was unlikely I’d be recognized much. But I’d have been lying if I’d said that a part of me wasn’t a little bit excited by the prospect of imminent fame.
And I’d also be lying if I’d not considered that somewhere in London a certain gay DJ might be watching the telly and kicking himself that he’d really messed things up with his now superstar sister. Was it bad to think like that? Was it punitive and immature? I didn’t care. Our Joey had caused me so much conflict and heartache over the years. Maybe this was payback time.
Sometimes, your parents lie. The party was one of those times. What my mother had told me about the party:
1
It was going to be tiny. Just a few neighbours and Maureen. I’d imagined some nibbles on the coffee table, revolving on the electronic lazy Susan that Our Joey had got them for Christmas. Hopefully they’d switch it off during the programme as it made a loud whirring noise. Every time I looked at it I wanted to stab it through the heart. Even though inanimate objects don’t have hearts.
2
Well, that’s about it really. But tiny was the operative word.
What the party was really like:
1
It was huge. Alarm bells started to ring when we arrived at three o’clock on the Monday afternoon to find a marquee in the garden.
2
I say marquee, it was really a gazebo that could fit about twenty people under it, but it was still massive and dwarfed the garden.
3
Mum’s opening gambit as we arrived was, ‘Oh there’s been a slight change of plan. It’s a fancy dress party now. You have to come as an Acacia Avenue character.’ On seeing our looks of dread she calmly reassured us that they’d reserved a fireman’s outfit for Stu from a nearby fancy dress shop (‘Coz it’s the “Big Fire” episode!’) and as I went to protest she produced my actual Sister Agatha habit from the hall cupboard. (‘I had a word with Costume, Jode.’)
4
The bungalow was a hive of activity as we arrived, so we got pinned to the wall as jobsworth caterers whizzed up and down the hall and in and out of various doors, preparing the spread. I also saw one caterer pinning a sign to the door to the through lounge that said, ‘This evening’s party was catered by LESLEY SPREADS OF HUNT’S CROSS’.
5
Some electricians turned up and erected a huge plasma screen telly in the gazebo with loud speakers on either side. At this point I started to feel sick and had my first drink.
6
When Ming from the press office arrived with her assistant I felt even more sick. It turned out Mum had suggested she invite a few local journalists along, and a couple of national ones, too, to run a ‘local girl makes good’ story. This was completely mortifying. The only centimetre of silver lining on a very dark cloud was that although all the local papers had jumped at the chance to attend the party, none of the national papers had.
7
When I told Mum I didn’t want to dress up as Sister Agatha she looked like she was going to hit me. Stuart intervened and said I ‘owed it to her’. We then had a massive row, which ended with me locking myself in the bathroom and refusing to come out.
8
I stayed in there for eighteen minutes before being forced to evacuate for Lesley of Lesley Spreads, who put a note under the door which read, ‘Please come out. I have bladder issues. I can’t say this out loud, though, as it might be bad for business. Thank you, Lesley (Lesley Spreads).’ I wasn’t sure if Mum had put her up to it.
9
Mum’s second cousin Cath announced very loudly in the kitchen, whilst dressed in an A-line skirt, platforms and a bobbed wig (Nona Newman in the Seventies, apparently), that if I put my habit on she’d ‘donate fifty pounds to brain-damaged kids’. A round
of applause went up from the caterers and I duly ventured into my old bedroom to get changed.
10
By six o’clock Sandalan was rammed. Anyone who was anybody on Flaxton Road was there. Teachers from my primary school. A guy with special needs who’d once flashed at me in the swing park. A dinner lady from the comp who proudly told anyone who’d listen that ‘Jodie always loved her custard’. She even told me. Then she added, ‘She’s like a daughter to me. Is she here yet?’ I told her I was Jodie. That shut her up.
11
Hayls and Debs came. Debs was dressed in a big furry costume as she’d come as the avenue’s resident poodle, Cheeky. Though on closer inspection, many people commented that she was actually dressed as a rabbit. Hayls had come as herself in a protest ‘against the lack of visibility of disabled characters and actors’. She had a placard resting behind her in the through lounge which read, ‘IF A CRIPPLE’S YOUR TIPPLE AVOID “AA”’ When Stuart, in an uncharacteristic display of political correctness, suggested the wording was slightly offensive, she snapped at him, ‘I can say it coz I am one,’ then got up to dance to ‘Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves’.
12
Mum had got ‘someone from down the road’ to make a mix tape of nun-themed songs. From what I could make out this involved listening to ‘Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves’, a disco version of the ‘Singing Nun’ and ‘I Will Follow Him’ from Sister Act again and again and again. I challenged Mum that she had invented this person from down the road and that the tape had in fact been sent to her by Our Joey, but she poo-pooed this idea, claiming I was in the doghouse with Our Joey because he’d written to me apologizing for his behaviour re Greg and that I’d never written back. When I said I’d written back she accused me of lying. I then accused Our Joey of being the liar (even though he wasn’t there) because I had written back and he was pretending I hadn’t so that he could continue our feud, something that probably suited him because he was no doubt jealous of my new-found fame. Dad then pointed out that Our Joey was enjoying a certain level of fame as a DJ in London called Mr Milk, to which I retorted that just because you played a few nights in a gay club in Charing Cross, it didn’t make you Tony De Vit.
13
Mum and Dad had no idea who Tony De Vitwas. Neither did the woman from Merseymouth (the free local newspaper) who carried out our interview in the gazebo. It took the best part of forty minutes because she painstakingly wrote down everything I said in a notebook. ‘Do you not know shorthand?’ I enquired. She shook her head and said, ‘I know a bit of sign language.’ From what I could see of her writing, she didn’t know how to spell either. I said, ‘You’ve spelt wimple wrong. There’s no “U”’. She said, ‘My editor spellchecks everything, she’s really good.’
14
Stuart spent a lot of the early part of the evening chatting in the garden with Dad’s fellow postmen from work and Maureen’s husband Tony. They were all dressed as firemen. A tipsy Debs kept shimmying up to them and asking if she could slide down their collective poles.
15
Maureen got very drunk on the free champagne (supplied by Bargain Booze on the parade, who had sponsored the evening). She then started to row with Mum about the car. It transpired that not only was she fed up with her borrowing it all the time to ferry me to work while her mum lay dying in the Royal, but she’d also heard that Mum was toying with getting the windows blacked out. The row that ensued in the kitchen consisted mostly of Mum’s fears that ‘after tonight life will never be the same again’ and I ‘might get a stalker who chooses to try and storm the car at traffic lights’. Maureen countered that it was her car and she could no longer use it. Mum accused her of ‘showing off in front of the journalists’. Maureen said, ‘She’s only from the frigging Merseymouth!’ picked up a quiche and threw it at Mum, then stormed out. Mum then spent the next ten minutes trying to get runny egg off her wimple (she had come as Sister Agatha, too).
16
Fortunately the only local journalist who had turned up was that dopey one from the Merseymouth, a publication most people used to line their cat litter trays or wedge under wonky coffee-table legs.
17
Half an hour before the show started, Stu complained that the plasticky material his fireman’s outfit was made from was bringing him out in a rash, so he went and got changed into his normal clothes. Cue cries of Dad shouting, ‘Play nice, Stu lad! Play nice!’ Stu ignored him. It might be worth pointing out at this point that Dad was dressed in thigh-high leather boots, a PVC miniskirt, a leopard-skin boob tube and frizzy red wig as he’d come as fierce queen of the one-liner, barmaid Sorrel Slatterthwaite.
18
At twenty-five past seven Mum banged a gong, which silenced no one, and announced, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, please make your way to the marquee for the Acacia Avenue debut of my wonderful daughter Jodie.’ As we headed towards the back door Mum poked me in the ribs. ‘D’you want to make a speech?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I want to make a sharp exit.’ As he walked into the garden, Dad said the grass was playing havoc with his heels.
19
I couldn’t actually describe what watching the episode was like. It was all too mortifying for words. I started panicking when Ming from the press office said to me, ‘Have you seen a preview tape of tonight’s ep?’ I shook my head and asked, ‘Why?’ She blushed and twitched. ‘Nothing. Nothing.’
20
And what an apt word ‘nothing’ was.
Taken from the Merseymouth, 16 April 2010.
A BAD HABIT . . . FOR ACTING!
By our entertainments reporter Penny Haynes.
The great and the good of Hunt’s Cross were out in force last night to celebrate the success of resident Josie McFee, 38, of Flaxton Road, who has just bagged herself the part of Sister Agnes in the controversial soap opera Acacia Avenue. Josie watched her first appearance on the show in a specially erected marquee in the back garden of the council house she shares with Mum Sandra, cross-dressing Dad Alan and brother Joseph. ‘Joseph really wanted to be here,’ said the proud mother, ‘but his DJing commitments in London prevented him attending. He and Josie are so close. They have an almost telepathic relationship, like black identical twins.’
Acacia Avenue recently hit the headlines when it depicted the incestuous relationship of Derek DeVere and his long-lost daughter Finchley, but its reputation certainly didn’t put off Josie, who has already found fame in a string of TV roles, including playing top TV chef (and fellow Liverpudlian) Charlie Walsh’s love interest in those zany commercials. ‘Being in Acacia Avenue was always my dream,’ says Josie, who trained for six years at the Myrtle Mendelson School of Drama and Disco in Allerton. Other famous alumni of Mendelson’s include Sacha Walker, who last week was seen being decapitated in some heart-wrenching scenes in Casualty.
‘I’ve always wanted to play a nun,’ said Josie. ‘I saw The Sound of Music eighteen times, plus I feel I have a personal relationship with Jesus. He’s kind of one of my best friends. So this really is my dream come true. When I first walked onto that famous crazy paving and saw all those familiar icons I was really nervous, but I hope I’ve done OK. Touch wood.’
Josie, who turned up at the party dressed as a nun, has been dating her boyfriend Stuart, another actor, for two weeks. ‘I think he’s the one,’ she gushed. ‘We’ve already talked about marriage.’
Last night’s episode of Acacia Avenue – one of the most talked about in months – depicted the horrific fire at Salisbury’s, which left several characters’ lives hanging in the balance. What was it like to shoot those scenes?
‘Tough. Emotionally and physically,’ said Josie, ‘I did a lot of crying – on screen and off! It was almost like I’d been in a major national disaster myself. Scary.’
But although the party went with a swing (thanks to Bargain Booze of Allerton Road and Lesley’s Spreads of Hunt’s Cross), attendees were left disappointed when they only managed to catch a glimpse of the back of Josie’s hea
d during the actual show.
‘Stuff like this happens all the time,’ explained Ming Marshall-Nkoko, a spokesperson from Crystal TV who was there to support Josie on her big night. ‘Scenes get cut all the time. And not because of wobbly sets! On a big night like “Fire Night” you need to show the audience the drama, the characters they love. Josie wasn’t cut from the episode because she was rubbish. I’m sure we’ll be seeing lots more of her in the future.’
‘Acting’s like a drug for me,’ explained Josie, ‘and every day I need another fix. Crystal TV is my crack den. And I just can’t wait to get back there for more.’
The article was accompanied by a dreadful photo of Mum doing a thumbs up to the camera. Underneath it said, ‘Excited Josie – Back in the habit.’
Mum wrote a letter, which appeared in the next edition of Merseymouth.
Dear Merseymouth,
I have to take issue with your article in yesterday’s paper by so-called entertainments reporter, Penny Haynes, about our local superstar Jodie McGee.
Ms Haynes made several ‘inaccuracies’ in her so-called piece of investigative journalism that I feel I have to correct, for fear that the readership of Liverpool may otherwise be ‘misled’. Firstly, Jodie’s name is Jodie McGee and not Josie McFee. Also, the picture you printed of her was actually of her mother Sandra. I understand why you made this ‘mistake’, however, as Sandra is a very youthful mum and people have always said they could pass for sisters. It is also worth pointing out that she has never had surgery and is a lovely woman who a lot of people say reminds them of our latterday Queen of Hearts, Princess Diana of Wales (before she died).
All She Wants Page 29
