‘You hate my friends,’ I interrupted.
‘I don’t.’
‘You did last night.’
‘They just get on my tits a bit.’
‘Yeah, well you’re not the only one.’
‘Jodie, you’re slurring your words. Have you been to the party?’
‘Just about to go.’
‘Jeez.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t you think you should try and sober up first?’
‘I am not pissed.’
I heard him sigh.
‘Just don’t go showing yourself up.’
‘I’m fine, Stuart.’
I looked down. Crotchwise I was looking quite dry now. Excellent.
‘You sound like you’re in a wind tunnel. Where are you?’
‘Oh, I just turned the air con up a bit. It was a bit . . . warm.’
‘Well, drink water.’
I hated it when he told me what to do. Nine times out of ten it made me desperate to do the exact opposite.
‘You didn’t stop when I told you last night.’
‘I ain’t a face, darlin’.’
A face. So that’s what I was reduced to was it? Just a bloody face?
‘D’you want pictures in the paper of you falling out of a club at three in morning looking like you’ve pissed yourself?’
I sharply closed my legs. How did he know? How?
‘Say something nice to me,’ I said in a really irritating little-girl-lost voice. I’d meant to sound vulnerable, but I just sounded a bit mad.
There was silence on the end of the phone. Then he said, ‘I just worry about you sometimes.’
Aw. That was quite sweet. Very sweet, in fact. If a bit paternal, so therefore a bit pervy as he was my boyfriend. He continued, ‘It’s just. The show. That world. It’s full of wankers. I don’t want you turning into one, too.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise. Stu?’
‘What?’
‘Do you still love me?’
Silence again. Oh God, why had I asked him? I was only being vain, wanting to hear him say it. And now he was going to say no. Oh God.
‘Do you really have to ask that?’
Now he sounded pissed off. Oh bollocks. Maybe I was pissed.
‘I moved cities coz of you. I’ve got a whole new life coz of you.’
‘You’re not happy, though.’
Oh God, I’d said it. This was pathetic. I was miles away from home and dragging up white elephants like nobody’s business.
‘Jodie, as long as I’ve got you I’m fine.’
I smiled and checked my crotch again. Bone dry.
‘Thanks, Stu. What you gonna do tonight?’
‘Drink with the lads.’
‘Get completely wrecked.’
‘I intend to. Behave yourself with all them good-looking men.’
I laughed. ‘I wish. I’ll bell you later, yeah?’
‘Yeah, babe.’
‘Love you.’
‘Affirmative from me, too, Captain.’
When I put the phone down, a text came through.
Mandy: Jodie. Stu says your in London. Wanna come get necklace? Or I could bring to you.
I punched, irritated, on the keys.
Jodie: It’s “you’re” and no am bit pissed. Next time. XXX XXXX
A few seconds later I got another one.
Mandy: Rude. Lol.
The ballroom of the hotel was rammed. I didn’t recognize anyone there as there were so many finance people attending from the channel. I floated around on a cloud of contentment, looking for someone from the show. For the first time that day I felt like I didn’t have a care in the world. OK, so it was probably the high you get from the bubbles in the champagne, but I now saw my future with crystal clarity. How apt. Here I was representing Crystal TV at a big posh party and . . . oh the irony made me giggle. Was it irony or was it something else? Was it coincidence? I decided to ask someone, so I poked a nearby middle-aged man in the arm and asked him. I talked at length, explaining my predicament, and he nodded patiently and agreed that irony was probably apt enough, before adding that he was very high up ‘upstairs’ and we should ‘do breakfast’. He gave me a business card and I tucked it into my clutchbag (silver, to match the catsuit). Then I walked on with a spring in my step. So what if I never saw Hayls or Debs again? I’d survived without them before, I’d survive without them again. Who needed that pair of two-faced bitches when I had my lovely Stu to look after me? I felt a hot wave of love wash over me as I realized how much I loved all my co-stars on the show. If only I could find them. I walked around some more.
The room seemed to be mostly full of fat middle-aged men. I thought there were meant to be bloody celebrities here? Oh well. I mustn’t be a snob, I should talk to the people behind the scenes, without whom I wouldn’t be in work. I caught sight of a buffet along one side of the room, so I went and grabbed a plate and tucked in. Prawns, filo parcels of who knows what, cucumber sandwiches, I had the lot. And very nice they were, too. I chatted to several guys there, who told me they were in IT, or finance, or . . . well, words I didn’t understand really. They hung on every word I said and laughed more than was completely necessary. My champagne glass was rarely empty either, as they kept rushing to get me topped up by passing waiters. I’d told myself in the lift coming down that I wasn’t going to drink, but it was a bit nerve-racking otherwise, chatting with these powerful men who were in charge of my career, and it would have been rude to say no to such powerful people. I got lots of business cards and handed my mobile number out willy nilly When the music started up in the ballroom I even did some impromptu booty bouncing with some of them. They were old but they definitely went for it. Who said people in telly were dull? I was a bumpin’ and a grindin’ with one old codger called Roger (oh the poetry!) when he grabbed hold of my arse and rammed himself into me so hard I could feel his doodah through the shiny cotton of his suit trousers. I jumped back, a bit surprised, and he looked bewildered.
‘Oh I see,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to pay. Well, I’ve got a room upstairs. Why don’t we go and . . . make ourselves comfortable.’
‘I’ve got a room upstairs, I don’t . . .’ I was slightly bewildered. Was he offering me a pay rise in exchange for sexual favours? This party was bizarre!
‘I’m not paying for that!’ he said quickly.
‘I know, the company is,’ I was confused.
‘My company? Really?’
I nodded.
‘Glasto Smith Watson is paying for a room for you?’
‘No. Crystal TV.’
‘I beg your pardon? You’re a TV? A . . .’ He gasped. ‘A transsexual?’
He was looking horrified, and a penny was beginning to drop for me.
‘You’re not from Crystal TV? You don’t work for the channel?’ I asked.
‘Channel?’ he said, shaking his head. He didn’t get it, and I was starting to realize why.
‘TV Channel.’
He was looking completely perplexed. Yes, well, he looked the way I felt. I shot a quick look around the room.
‘Have you still got your penis? If you have, it’s kind of a deal breaker.’ He was sounding tetchy now, and changing the subject.
I looked back. I still didn’t see a soul I knew. ‘Is this not the TV party? The controller’s party?’
He looked horrified.
‘This most certainly is not a party for submissive transsexuals. This is the annual dinner and dance for the National Union of Account Managers for Glasto Smith Watson. The medical company?’
I nodded. And gulped.
‘Tell me, is there more than one ballroom in this hotel?’
He rolled his eyes, then nodded.
‘Thanks for the dance,’ I said, then walked out as fast as my legs would carry me.
I’d been mistaken for a prostitute before, but never a pre- or post-operative transsexual one. I ended up running i
nto the lobby, where I accosted what looked like a bellboy.
‘Is there another ballroom?’ I gasped. He nodded and pointed to a door opposite. Eva was stood outside it, shouting into her mobile phone.
‘IF YOU DON’T GO TO SLEEP, ALICIA, I WILL GET NANNY JANET TO PUT A SCARY FILM ON, THEN YOU KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN!’
‘Hi, Eva!’ I said brightly as I bounded into the proper party.
What a silly bitch. Me, not her.
I’d just finished my first drink in the Crystal TV party and had a nice chat with the controller of the channel, who thought it was completely hilarious that I’d been mistaken for a tranny in the party over the way.
‘You’re one of our brightest stars, Jodie. And in that catsuit it is more than clear that you are all woman.’ Then he threw back his head and laughed.
Oh God. Did I have camel toe? I did a quick check. No. Well, not from this angle anyway.
‘I think I might get another drink,’ I ventured.
‘You can probably get one in the bar, we’re finishing off in here now.’
‘Oh.’
Oh indeed. I’d come all the way to London for a party and only made fifteen minutes of it. As I looked around I saw lots of my fellow cast members slowly making their way to the door. What a waste of time. I said my farewells to the controller and thanked him for a fabulous party. ‘What you saw of it!’ He grinned.
I left the ballroom and traipsed into the lobby. My feet were feeling heavy now and the floor seemed to have got slippier – maybe they’d polished the carpets in the last fifteen minutes? I was having a recuperative sit-down on a ruby-coloured circular velvet banquette when I saw a familiar face approaching. Ari Turisas, my partner in crime at Our Lady’s. He came and plonked himself next to me.
‘Looking good, Jodie.’
‘Ta.’
Oh please don’t tell me he was going to perve over me as well.
‘I feel a bit pissed.’ That was him, not me.
‘Me, too.’ That was me, of course.
‘What did you think of the video montage?’
‘Video montage?’
‘They showed a video montage at the party.’
‘Of what?’
‘Highlights of the next few months. You were in loads of the clips. People were pissing themselves.’
Oh. That sounded a bit rude.
‘In a good way,’ he added quickly.
Oh. That sounded lovely. Oh God I really was pissed. I was forgetting to speak.
‘You in tomorrow?’
I shook my head.
‘You coming to the bar?’
Part of me wanted to. I’d come all this way and then spent the majority of the evening at a party for middle-aged men who managed medical reps. But I knew by now that I was more than a little tipsy and Stu had told me not to show myself up. I owed it to him to go back to my room and sleep, but the pull of the bar was strong. Ari stood up.
‘I’m going.’
I stood up.
‘D’you know what, Ari?’
Just then I heard a blast of raucous laughter from the bar. Ari and I both looked at the door. It was rammed. That nailed it.
‘I’m knackered. I’m gonna get to my bed.’
‘I miss you,’ he said. I looked at him. He was pulling a funny face. Sticking out his bottom lip like a petulant child. ‘I remember when you did all your scenes with me. Now you’re off being brilliant with other people.’
I laughed – bless him – and pulled him in for a hug. ‘Well, you know, wherever she strays, Sister Aggie’ll only ever have eyes for one man and that’s you.’
He squeezed me, planted a kiss on my lips and grinned naughtily.
‘I feel old.’ He was sticking his bottom lip out again. He must have been pissed. His breath smelt fine.
‘You’re only as young as the woman you feel, love.’
He nodded.
‘So get in that bar and start touching up the teenagers.’
He rubbed his hands together lasciviously.
‘Let me at ‘em!’ he chuckled, then turned and headed to the open door. I headed for the lift before calling back.
‘See you in church!’
It took me half an hour to find my room – I kept getting out of the lift at the wrong floor. I peeled off my catsuit, texted Stu that I loved him, then went out like a light.
The headline in the paper the next day read, SINNERS. It showed two pictures of me and Ari in the hotel lobby. One of us hugging, then one of us kissing. The story took up less space than the photos. How we’d misbehaved behind our partners’ backs at the party last night. Spent the night together. How a ‘source’ at the hotel had seen us going to Ari’s room together. All complete and utter bollocks, of course, but it didn’t stop me feeling ill. I spent the train journey back to Liverpool texting and phoning Stu. But either his phone was off or he was ignoring me. I’d had Ari on the phone panicking (he had slept with someone last night and assumed the spy at the hotel had got their wires crossed. His wife was going mental and he feared he’d never see his kids again). I’d had Mum on the phone, disgusted, then angry when I told her the truth. I’d had the press office promising me they were going to sue (fortunately Ming from the office had been at the do and seen Ari getting off with one of the make-up girls). I’d even had Eva on the blower saying, ‘Welcome to Soapland, Jodie. And here’s where you start paying. In column inches.’ If I hadn’t felt so rotten I might have laughed, but I couldn’t.
When I got out of the taxi at our flats there were three photographers waiting. As they clicked away I hurried to swipe the entrance fob reader and one of them shouted, ‘Time to face the music, sweetheart.’
I told him to piss off. Godfavour was on reception.
‘Is Stu in, d’you know, Godfavour?’
She just nodded. It wasn’t like her to give me the silent treatment. I hurried to the lift.
I put my key in the door, let myself in, dragged the case inside and parked it in the hall. Then I shut the door and called out, ‘Stuart?’
No reply. I could smell stale cigarette smoke. This didn’t bode well. He rarely smoked unless very drunk.
I looked in the bedroom. Empty. The bathroom was empty, too. I anxiously entered the living room.
The paper was on the coffee table, alongside an overflowing ashtray and a couple of discarded lager cans. Stuart was sat on the floor, his back leaning against the window, his feet bare, he held an empty glass in his hand. Beside him was an empty bottle of vodka. He looked for all the world like a hunger striker or careworn hostage.
‘Stuart, you have to believe me. Nothing happened.’
He didn’t look at me.
‘Stuart, please.’
He had been crying and his eyes were red. Judging by the state of him he’d not been to bed. I went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on.
‘Coffee?’ I called out.
Which was when he jumped into action. He stood and started pacing the room, shouting louder than I’d ever heard him shout before. Louder than I thought was humanly possible. The pain in his voice was primal, he was gabbling his words so quickly that it was difficult to keep up with them. It started with a criticism of my suggestion that coffee might be the answer to our problems, which mutated into a critique of everything bad I’d ever done to him. Then it morphed into how he’d given up his life for me ‘only to be treated like a cunt’. He was in my face now, cornering me in the kitchen.
I finally snapped. ‘You didn’t give it up for me, you were running away from your mum!’
Which is when he did it. And it wasn’t in slow motion this time. As soon as the words were out of my mouth he swung his arm round and punched me in the face. Hard. He was pissed, so the swing and the punch sent him off balance and he slipped and banged into the kitchen units. I fell backwards and hit my back on something hard, but seeing a route out as he steadied himself, I pushed past him and legged it to the bathroom. I slammed the door and locked it, then snapped th
e toilet seat down and sat. I could taste something metallic in my mouth. I didn’t dare look in the mirror. I touched my lips. Shit they was sore. When I took my hand away my fingers were red. I looked at the floor of the bathroom. My route to the toilet was marked by little red circles of blood. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to go back to the kitchen and batter him. But I was scared. Out in the living room I heard a smash, like he’d thrown something at the wall or the window, possibly his glass. I heard stuff being moved, kicked, then glass smashing again. I buried my head in my hands, wanting to block out the noise, but I couldn’t. And every time I touched my face it stung, and something felt wrong, like my chin wasn’t there. I could hear him mumbling and shouting in the other room as he went about his rampage, then he hammered on the door.
‘I’ll kill him!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll kill the fucking dago bastard!’
I got up to push myself against the door, hoping he wouldn’t be able to break it down. I was crying now. I closed my eyes. I reckoned if I couldn’t see it, it wasn’t happening. I pushed and pushed against the door with all my weight. And waited. Waited for it to stop. Please God, let it stop.
PART THREE
TWENTY-FIVE
Two Years Later
From Hiya! magazine, 23 March 2012:
With typical understatement Jodie McGee lets us into her executive apartment in Liverpool’s fashionable dockside area and sighs. ‘Please excuse the mess. I keep meaning to get a cleaner, but then I promise I’ll do it myself. Oh well. Champagne?’ It’s this mix of down-to-earth modesty and out-and-out glamour that not only makes her a joy to meet, but explains why the nation has taken her to their hearts. Although it feels like she’s been around for ever, Jodie only burst onto our screens two years ago as feisty, no-nonsense Sister Agatha in the ratings-busting soap Acacia Avenue. Against all the odds, Jodie has made the wise-cracking nun one of the best-loved characters on British television. As we settle down in her plush dwelling – spotless, in fact, cleaner or not – overlooking the sumptuous River Mersey, we can’t help but note how happy and contented Jodie looks with her long-term partner Stuart Moses. Stuart has joined us on a rare day off from his job with a building company, and let’s just say he cuts quite a dash as he drifts barefoot – and sometime bare-chested – around the apartment.
All She Wants Page 33
