Unsurprisingly, Mum got in on the name-dropping act, too, even if dropping my name at the moment felt more like dropping a clanger to me. I would often hear her trying to book a table at the local Harvester.
‘You’re fully booked? Oh I see. It’s just I’m bringing Jodie McGee from Acacia Avenue. She was really looking forward to it.’ Pause. Pause. ‘Oh right. Well that’s wonderful then. And maybe you could throw in the desserts for free. She’d be more than happy to pose for pictures with you and the staff. You could frame it and stick it behind the bar.’
But then something exciting happened. Sister Agatha got a big story. Well, she was on the peripheries of one. As predicted in my original audition script, she became the confidante of assisted-suicide pillow suffocater Joan Jones and suddenly, not only was I in the series every day saying stuff about holy water and itchy wimples, I had big dramatic scenes that were pages long. I knew it was make or break. If I messed up these scenes it was a given that my time on the show would be limited, so I threw myself into them with gusto.
Someone from the Crystal office arranged for me to go to a convent to interview a few nuns. OK, so none of them had ever been put in the position of being in on a big murder secret, but just seeing how they lived, and what Sister Agatha had left to be part of the outside world, was really helpful for me to consolidate where she’d come from. The office also arranged for me and the actress playing Joan to visit a man in Burnley who’d actually smothered his wife with a pillow when she’d had enough of her MS.
Trudy was appalled: ‘He killed her coz she’d had enough of Marks & Spencer? But their prawn cocktails are amazing.’
When I explained what MS actually stood for she chewed her bottom lip. I knew what was coming. The next edition of Hiya! included the following: ‘If anyone reading this has MS, I just want to say my heart goes out to you. It must be a nightmare. I once deaded my arm in a playfight at school and it really freaked me out. Kisses!’
The man in Burnley was so sweet and gentle as he sat drinking PG Tips from the bone china tea service he’d got out because he obviously saw this as a special occasion. Hearing his story was heartbreaking. And having met the nuns, too, it made me understand even more why Sister Agatha would want to protect Joan. As the story unfurled, Joan was sent to court for the murder of her husband and Sister Agatha was then arrested because she knew about the killing but didn’t report it to the police. Because it was a big story for the show, the press office started lining up interviews for me. I was excited. Surely they’d all be highbrow affairs to do with assisted suicides and life in the convent?
No.
In one Sunday supplement I had to talk lovingly about the contents of my fridge. In another I did a makeover as a ‘naughty nun’ in rubber mini-habit and leather wimple etc. And in an even more embarrassing interview called ‘They make me sticky, Nicky’ I had to talk to a ‘journalist’ called Nicky from some tits and ass magazine about who I fancied on TV. The only bit of highbrow coverage I was offered was Relative Values in The Sunday Times. The press office had heard that my brother was an up-and-coming DJ and wanted us both to talk about our alleged close friendship, as once heralded in the Merseymouth. I told them he was like Banksy and never agreed to be interviewed or photographed. That intrigued them, making them push for it even more. At this point I told them he didn’t exist and that my mum had made him up for publicity purposes. There was no way I wanted anything about Our Joey in the papers. Scratch the surface and no doubt soon I would become tabloid fodder, with lurid tales of how my first marriage had ended like a soap-opera storyline. It didn’t bear thinking about. If I’d been embarrassed about letting my fellow students at L.A.D.S. in on my turmoil, I’d have been suicidal at the whole world knowing.
I’d not thought about Greg for ages. Well, I had, but I’d not spoken about him. He’d long since stopped coming to see Mum for his tea. And now, rather than hating him when I thought about him, I just worried, hopefully unnecessarily, that he might go to the press and sell his story. I couldn’t talk to Stuart about it – it didn’t feel right discussing my ex with him even now – but I did talk to the girls one night, sat outside the Blue Lagoon at a pavement table. It felt almost continental, if you didn’t look across the road and see the chippy and a hardware store.
‘There’s no way he’d go to the press, Jode,’ said Hayls after taking a hit off her inhaler. She’d recently been diagnosed with asthma. She then lit up a cigarette and took a long drag of that. ‘It would only make him look bad. He’s saying he’s not gay now. He’s got a girlfriend by all accounts. He’s not gonna wanna mess that up by going to the papers and talking of his gay shame.’
Debs said nothing, she just stared into her cocktail empathetically.
‘Not that being gay is something to be ashamed of,’ added Hayls. ‘I’ve met a lot of lovely lesbians at my disability book group.’
Debs looked up from her drink. ‘Do you have to read the books in Braille?’
‘I’m deaf, Debs, not blind.’
‘Yet,’ she said, then returned to staring at her drink.
‘Are you all right, Debs?’ I asked. She seemed in a funny old mood.
Debs nodded, took a sip of her drink, then said she had to go to the loo. After she’d gone I looked at Hayls, who was now also deep in thought.
‘What’s got into her?’ I asked.
Hayls shrugged. ‘I’m just trying to think. It’s not like she’s part of an oppressed group or nothing.’
‘Well, she’s a woman,’ I countered, half-joking.
Hayls nodded. ‘I was thinking smaller than that.’
And then she snapped the brakes off her wheelchair and shunted herself a bit closer to me.
‘I know she’s met some fella online and she’s been . . . getting her end away with him. Don’t tell her I told you!’
‘What’s the big secret?’
‘Well, you know. It’s just for sex. It’s one of those weird websites.’
‘Weird in what way?’
‘Well, you just meet for sex, nothing more. He’s called Mickey, and apparently he’s gorgeous.’
This was news to me. I thought we told each other everything.
‘Sorry, babe. She swore me to secrecy. I think she’s a little bit mortified.’
‘Why doesn’t she want me to know? I’m not judgemental, am I?’
‘She only told me when she was pissed up at the Legion the other night. And Jodie, you’re a big star now. She wants you to think she’s great.’
‘I’d think she was great even if she was Rose West. She’s my mate.’
‘Fame doesn’t change the person; it changes those around them,’ Hayls said philosophically, which made me feel a bit sad.
‘I hope you still feel you can tell me stuff,’ I offered up hopefully. Hayls nodded.
‘Course.’
‘So why d’you think she’s on a downer?’
Hayls shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s fallen for this guy, only he just wants to keep it as fuck buddies. I dunno.’ Then, with a sense of urgency, she added, ‘She’s coming back.’
Hayls wheeled herself a few centimetres back. Debs seemed a bit more smiley now and sat down and took a big slurp of her drink.
‘So,’ she said, looking at me, ‘how’s it going with your one?’
My one. How was it going with Stuart? As if she’d summoned him up I heard my phone beep and saw I’d got a text from him:
Where r u?
I ignored it and sighed. ‘I dunno. He seems a bit fed up really.’
‘Fed up? Why, babe?’ Debs maintained her interest as she withdrew a ciggie from Hayls’ packet and lit up.
‘I don’t think he’s too happy with the move.’
‘From your ma’s to the flat?’
‘No, you dozy melt!’ tutted Hayls. ‘From London to here.’
‘Oh.’
‘Hang on, I’d better text him back.’
So I quickly texted,
At Blue Lagoon XXX
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I told them how I’d been feeling lately. Everything was going all right for me. I was back in Liverpool, saw my family and friends regularly and was really enjoying work. Life was good. But the more content I got, the more it seemed to highlight the fact that Stu’s life wasn’t great.
‘In what way is it not good? He’s going out with a soap star,’ said Debs ‘He’s got a gorgeous flat, too – it’s not just yours.’
‘I’m not a soap star,’ I argued. ‘I’m an actress.’
Debs pulled a face. Yeah, right!
‘Anyway men aren’t arsed about things like that. Flats and stuff. My Lotan could live in a wheelie-adapted shoebox and still be like a pig in shit,’ countered Hayls, before looking at me. ‘Is it the stuff with his mum?’
I shrugged my shoulders and took a sip of my dirty Martini. His plan to extricate himself from Jan had worked. They’d not spoken in months.
‘Maybe he just misses London,’ I suggested, but they both pulled faces like I’d suggested the impossible.
‘Is he going to the party with you tomorrow?’ asked Debs.
I was off to a big party the next day in London, which was being thrown by the controller of the channel. It was being held in a hotel on Park Lane and it was all anyone on the show had been talking about for weeks. I’d bought a silver lamé halter-neck catsuit for the occasion.
I shook my head, ‘No, it’s just the talent.’
‘The talent?’ asked Debs.
Hayls tutted. ‘The stars, knob.’
‘Oh right,’ said Debs, taking it in.
‘No partners,’ I explained.
‘God, I’d love to go to a party like that,’ said Debs dreamily.
‘I bet the wheelchair access is shocking, mind,’ said Hayls sadly.
‘Is Stu bothered?’ asked Debs.
‘I don’t think so. I don’t know what he thinks any more. He’s more monosyllabic than a Moomin.’
Debs looked confused. Hayls tittered. ‘Do you know what monosyllabic means, Debs?’
‘Course I do. And there was that girl in our class who was a Moomin. Michelle Thingy.’
‘She was a Mormon,’ said Hayls and looked at me, shaking her head despairingly.
They wanted to know if I’d asked Stuart what was wrong, and when I told them I had and he’d just shrugged and said, ‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ or similar, they decided I was inventing it all because I had a guilt complex about making him move from the south east to the north west. That didn’t fit, though, as he’d kind of made me move. I mean, he’d not put a gun to my head or anything, though I had, of course, taken very little winning over.
Debs leaned forward in her chair and fingered her drink suggestively with a straw. It immediately made me feel uncomfortable.
‘Jodie?’
‘Aha?’
‘Can I ask you a . . . dead personal question?’
‘Aha?’
‘Do yous two still do it?’
I felt Hayls’ eyes on me, too, gagging to know the answer. I could feel I was blushing, though it probably didn’t show as it was dark and we were sitting outside, basking in the reflected glow of the neon Blue Lagoon sign flashing behind us.
What I really wanted to say was, ‘Er, hang on a minute. You’re shagging some random bloke off the internet and can’t be arsed to tell me, yet I’m supposed to share with you the innermost secrets of mine and Stu’s bedroom habits?’ But instead I found myself nodding, then shrugging, then leaning on the table, then resting my chin in my criss-crossed hands, then sighing, before admitting, ‘I mean, it’s not like it was. It’s not that regular.’
‘How regular?’ Debs leaned in further.
I blustered, ‘I dunno. Once a week? Sometimes more if we’ve got nothing on at the weekends.’
Hayls emitted a dirty laugh.
‘I mean in our diaries!’ Then I emitted a dirty laugh.
‘What about you?’ Debs asked Hayls. Hayls smiled like a cat that got more than its fair share of cream.
‘I didn’t really understand what love-making was till I met a paraplegic.’
The look on Debs’ face was priceless. She quickly turned to me and gabbled, ‘Do you think people go off sex the longer they’re with their partners?’
‘No,’ Hayls butted in. ‘Take me and my Lotan. Only last night we experimented with—’
‘I WAS ASKING JODIE!’ Debs practically shouted.
Hayls looked stunned. People were looking over from the other tables.
‘Erm,’ I said quickly, aware that Debs was keen to avoid hearing about Hayls and Lotan’s adventurous sex life. ‘I wouldn’t say you go off it. It’s just that things change, I suppose.’
‘In what way?’
Fortunately I was spared having to answer as we heard a woman on the next table saying, ‘Oh my God look, Raj. It’s her. Sister Thingy off Acacia Avenue.’
Instinctively I turned and smiled. Two spotty teenagers were staring at me. They immediately looked away. I looked back to the girls, before hearing a male voice say, ‘Bollocks! Sister Agatha’s a moose She’s fit.’
‘That’s a back-handed compliment if ever I heard one,’ I said, trying to make Debs and Hayls laugh. But they didn’t. They were looking behind me and Debs was rolling her eyes. I looked back, seeking the object of their disapproval.
Stuart.
He was shuffling along the pavement, kicking chip wrappers out of the way, hands in his pockets, nodding a greeting.
‘All right, ladies?’ He said, then pulled a plastic chair over to our table and plonked himself down on it. ‘Who’s gonna buy me a bevy?’ He said this in a mock Scouse accent.
Hayls rolled her eyes. ‘You’re the one with the soapstar girlfriend.’
‘She’s not a soapstar, she’s an actress.’ He slurred. OK, so he’d had one over the eight. Maybe he’d fall asleep soon and we’d sidetrack the trouble I could sense was brewing just because he still had his hands in his pockets.
‘You’ve got him well-trained,’ said Hayls, and any fool could tell she was joking.
‘Piss off you pretend mong,’ Stuart said, again in a false Liverpool accent.
OK, so he was the fool who couldn’t tell she was joking. I decided to intervene to save us all the hassle.
‘Shall we go home, Stu?’
‘No, Jodie. You’re on a night out with us. If he can’t bear his little lady having some fun that’s his lookout.’ Hayls was sounding arsey.
‘Jodie can do what she likes,’ Stuart said, reverting to his own voice.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I asked. He didn’t usually get this drunk.
‘Out with the boys. Pub crawl down Picton Road.’
‘Maybe I should get him home,’ I said to the girls. They said nothing, though their silence spoke volumes. Stu stood up, the plastic chair ricocheting back behind him so it knocked into Raj and his girlfriend.
‘So it’s a fucking criminal offence to come and meet your bird on a Saturday night? Sorry. I had no idea that was the law in Liverpool.’
‘Don’t be daft, Stu, it’s just you’re a bit . . .’ I searched for the word.
‘Cuntified,’ said Hayls.
I just knew it was going to kick off when salvation arrived in the form of a passing black cab. I waved at it, doing a very Hollywood movie screech of ‘TAXI?!’ Miraculously it pulled over.
‘I’m gonna go,’ I said, fishing a twenty-pound note out of my purse. ‘Get yourselves some bevies with that.’ And I shoved the money in Hayls’ direction. Hers and Debs’ eyes lit up so much they were shining more light on the table than the neon sign. I could see they weren’t going to argue with that.
‘Lovely seeing you, girls. Sorry about this.’
We issued a few ‘Ta-ra, babes’ and hugs and kisses, then I grabbed a swaying Stuart and bundled him into the cab.
‘Is he gonna be all right, Queen?’ the cab driver grimaced, a ciggie hanging out of the corner of his mouth. But before I could apologize and answer he look
ed a bit startled and said, ‘Oh, it’s you. Get in.’
So in I got. Fame didn’t just open any old doors, it opened taxi doors as well.
Throughout the journey home Stuart mumbled on about how much he hated ‘this fucking city’ and how all my friends were ‘knobs’. Pissed, he had been picking up on the speech rhythms of his drinking buddies, and unfortunately, mixed with his cockney it made him sound like he was from Birmingham. I just sat in silence, ignoring him. When we finally got back to the greenhouse, Godfavour was just putting the phone down at reception.
‘Stone my crows,’ she said, alarmed. ‘Mr Moses looks a bit worse for wear.’
‘He’s on medication,’ I said. God knows why I said it, it was none of her business if he was drunk or not, but my instinct was clearly to protect. As I linked arms with him down the corridor I heard Godfavour calling after me, ‘I was not on the phone to my mother in Nigeria when you came in. That would be unprofessional in the extreme.’
But as we got into the lift I’m sure I heard her tapping out a very long number on the reception phone and then saying, ‘It is me. They have gone.’
Once back in the flat, Stuart opened the bottle of vodka we kept in the fridge. I went to bed and he stayed in the living room. A few moments later I heard some American rock blasting out from the stereo. I put the pillow over my head and tried to block out the noise, and the events of the evening, and get some much-needed beauty sleep. Big day tomorrow, maybe I’d dream of my silver catsuit.
TWENTY-FOUR
I was woken by the sound of my mobile phone beeping. I looked at the digital clock on the bedside cabinet: 1:05a.m. Who on God’s earth was texting at this time in the morning? Assuming it was Hayls, possibly having a go for being under his nibs’s thumb, I grabbed my phone from the floor where I’d left it. But when I looked at the screen I saw the text was from Mum. She had recently been ‘learning to text’ (her words). Panic rose in my chest and I put the bedside light on and sat bolt upright. Parents texting in the early hours could only signal bad news. Had Dad had a heart attack? Had they been broken into? Had she got early onset dementia and was texting to say she’d just Hoovered the lawn? I jabbed the phone, opening the text.
All She Wants Page 31
