PS. I am a bad person.
Who was it that said a woman is like a tea bag? You don’t know how strong she is till she’s put in hot water. I didn’t feel strong as I turned from my iPad and looked at my reflection in the dressing-room mirror. The only thing I was strong about was lying. I was the tea bag that came out scorched and insisted, ‘I fell into the hot water. I was a bit worse for wear and just slipped in, then couldn’t get out.’ People fell over all the time and had injuries to show for it. This was fine, it was going to be fine. If only this black coffee would sober me up. I was shaking, I now realized. Was that the shock of seeing myself? No. I’d done bugger all except check my reflection every few minutes since it happened. Each urgent glance found me hoping against hope that the purple swelling around my left eye would have miraculously gone down, but each time the colour darkened and the puffiness increased. And with every passing moment I could feel my eye closing. I struggled to keep it open, feeling it weeping slightly, but it was hard to dab it with a tissue as every time I tried it felt like I was taking a hot needle to it.
It was all my fault. I hadn’t made Stuart punch me; this was divine retribution for sure. The universe knew I had been misbehaving online with a man in the South of France and had accorded the correct punishment. I’d been waiting for the longest time for my misdemeanours to come back and slap me round the face, and now they had. Literally. Stuart was just a conduit, the universe’s messenger. God that sounded dark and apocalyptic. I knew on one level that he’d just done it because he was a wife-battering prick, but my guilty conscience had gone into overdrive.
Maybe the coffee was making me shake. Maybe if I put some vodka in it that might stop me shaking? But as I took the smallish bottle from my bag – Hmm, it was almost empty, had it leaked? No, the bag was dry – there was a knock at the door and Eva barged in. I hurriedly tried to return the bottle to the bag, but in my haste dropped it on the floor. OK, so that didn’t look good. Plus it was spinning round like I was playing some sort of daring party game. I looked up. Someone was with Eva. No doubt Ming, ready to tell me how we could play this with the press. God, we didn’t have to tell the press, did we? But as my seeing eye focused, I saw that Eva’s henchwoman wasn’t Ming. It was Mum.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked as she sat silently on the settee while Eva shut the door. Eva then joined Mum on the couch, the whole thing done so elegantly I realized they must have choreographed their approach before arriving. They looked like Cagney and Lacey sat there staring at me, waiting for me to break down and confess to my crime. Eva even had a beaker of takeaway coffee, just like Lacey would have done. Or was it Cagney? I bet Mum wished she had a coffee, too, just so she could look the part. One of them would start talking about their husband Harvey soon, pronouncing it Hoivee, because they came from Noo Yoik.
‘Jodie, did Stuart do this to you?’ asked Mum.
God she was loving this. She was loving the excuse to be back in the studios, at the centre of the action. I bet she’d phoned Val on the way in and squealed with excitement, ‘I’m going in!’ I said nothing. But when she spoke again, I could hear her voice breaking and I realized I was wrong.
‘Jodie, please. Don’t cover up for him.’
I had to make her feel better. I had to continue the lie.
‘Mum. I was pissed. I fell over.’
I knew this was serious when she didn’t tell me off for swearing. Eva looked at my Mum, who shrugged. I came up with a genius idea and blurted it out before thinking it through.
‘Maybe I’ve got a drink problem. Did you ever think of that?’
And as if to illustrate my point, I bent, picked up the vodka bottle from the floor and waggled it before me like Charlie Walsh used to do with one of his trademark chilli-infused olive oils.
‘Well, you’re obviously drunk now,’ Eva concurred, clearly thinking I was under the impression that the bottle was a maraca and I was part of a salsa band.
‘I’m not actually,’ I said and threw the bottle in the bin. Except I misjudged and it hit Eva on the shins. ‘Whoops. Sorry, Eva.’
Eva rolled her eyes. Oh God, was she going to fire me? Had she brought Mum in because she wanted me to clear my dressing room and needed Mum to help?
‘At least I came in,’ I went on. ‘Last time I just bunked off and made out I was . . .’ My voice trailed off as I realized I was incriminating myself.
Mum paled and gulped, ‘This has happened before?’
‘The last time I fell over,’ I explained.
‘Fall over a lot, do you?’ asked Eva, not losing eye contact.
‘I . . . guess I’m kinda clumsy.’
Eva shook her head. Mum sighed.
‘Jodie,’ Eva said, losing patience. ‘Whatever has or hasn’t happened, you are in no fit state to film. No matter how brilliant our make-up artists are, there’s no way they can cover up that monstrosity.’
I flinched, feeling slightly offended. It might have been a black eye, but she was still criticizing my looks.
‘Never mind what scenes you are meant to be shooting today.’
Oh yes. We were slap bang in the middle of a domestic violence storyline. Sister Agatha was meant to find a bloodied and bruised Finchley in the vestry and tell her, ‘They always do it again. No matter how many lies they peddle. Oh they’re full of apologies, sweetness and light, butter wouldn’t melt. Pay no heed. Get out, Finchley. Get out.’
Guess that wouldn’t look too brilliant if the soothsayer looked worse than the beneficiary of her wisdom. I nodded my head. Alanis Morissette would’ve had something to say about that particular irony.
‘OK, well here’s my solution,’ she continued. ‘I am not a detective, I haven’t got time, frankly, to find out whether you’re telling me the truth or not. And as such, I have to take what you say at face value, even if I do think it’s a crock of shit.’
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. And there was me thinking I was such a good liar.
‘Actually, it’s funny you should say that, coz I was thinking you looked a bit like Lagney and Casey.’
Oh God. Did I really just say that? Shut up, Jodie! Eva ignored it and carried on. Maybe I hadn’t actually said it. Maybe I’d just said it in my head.
‘You’ve told me you fell over when drunk. You have presented yourself to film in no fit physical state. You are also intoxicated on the premises. I will therefore give you a written warning that this cannot continue. I am going to insist you have two weeks off to get yourself together. But in two weeks’ time you present yourself here, ready to film, no injuries and no alcohol in your system. Whatever you need to do in the next two weeks to make sure that happens, you do it.’
Wow! Two weeks off? But . . .
‘But I’m involved in a major storyline.’
‘You were. We’ll give all your lines to Ari. No one is indispensable on this show, Jodie. Just remember that. This is incredibly inconvenient for everyone. Schedules will have to be reworked, scripts rewritten, the lot. Maybe you’ll consider that before you next decide to have a drink and fall over.’
I nodded contritely.
‘I’ve arranged for a car to take you home. It’s waiting just outside the green room. Your mum will go with you.’
I nodded. Oh God.
‘Thanks, Eva.’
I stood up. Mum rushed to my side to take my arm, but I shrugged her off.
‘I’m not an invalid.’
Eva stood and straightened her pencil skirt.
‘I’d put some sunglasses on if I were you. The other actors will be told you’ve had a fall and are recuperating. If you choose to disagree with this it’ll be you that looks like a liar, not me.’
‘No, Eva. Thank you, Eva.’
‘Yes, thank you, Eva,’ Mum echoed.
Eva opened the door and hurried out. I looked at Mum.
‘Where d’you want to go?’
But before I could answer, someone else was coming into the room. I turned and saw Yvonn
e. Mum practically fell into a curtsy.
‘Miss Carsgrove!’
‘Could I have a quick word with Jodie? Alone?’
She could’ve asked to crap in Mum’s handbag and she’d have agreed.
‘Of course. I’ll step outside.’
Yvonne nodded. No pleasantries here. I got the feeling she, too, was about to give me a stern ticking off. She sank onto my settee, her housecoat billowing around her. When she looked at me, it was as if she was staring straight into my soul.
Although we rode home in silence, Yvonne’s words rang like tinnitus in my ears. I’d thought she was going to be horrible. I’d thought she was going to go all prima donna-ish and accuse me of being unprofessional. But instead she’d said, ‘I, too, was in a relationship like yours. I thought he loved me and that his volatility meant great passion. And when he hit me I thought I’d let him down, because surely he was my protector? He wasn’t. He was my tormentor. And the only person I let down was myself, for not getting out of there sooner. Run for the hills if you have to. But whatever you do, don’t go back.’
And then something else popped into my head and kept spinning around like a psychotic glitter ball. Something Yvonne had said to me on my first day at the studios: ‘One day I’ll tell you all about me and Rupert Dale.’
Had she? Had she just told me? Was Rupert the man who’d beaten her? Mild-mannered, if slightly arrogant Rupert? Was he the man she’d had to get away from? Oh God, this was too much for my little brain to handle. And surely I needed to concentrate my energies on my own situation and what I needed to do now. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the confusion, but even that made my eye shoot with pain. I felt something touch my arm and I flinched, but turning to look it was, of course, only Mum.
‘We’re here, Jodie. There’s no press or nothing.’
I looked out of the window. This wasn’t my street. This was her street. She’d brought me to Sandalan. I turned back, confused.
‘Thought you’d want to come here,’ she said gently. Oh please would she stop being so nice? I shook my head. ‘Why would you want to go back there?’
‘It’s where I live.’
‘Well . . . we could go back. You could pack a few things, then we could come back here, if you like.’
Meaning it’s what she would have liked.
‘No,’ I said, trying to muster a strength I couldn’t feel. ‘I need to work out what to do next.’
She turned away now, looking out of the window, sighed, then looked back at our confused driver. She apologized and told him my address. As we drove along I spoke softly and calmly, ‘Can Dad get someone over to change the locks?’
‘He wants to murder Stu.’
‘Can he?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thanks.’
We continued to drive. I saw all the familiar sights of Liverpool passing me by as if in slow motion. As I caught my first glint of the Mersey, I added, ‘Can he do it this morning? Stu’ll be back later.’
‘Of course.’
As we drove alongside the river and round the side of my apartment block, for the first time I thought how lovely it would be to jump in the river and swim in it. To just float to the bottom and live with the plankton and the bullrushes, or whatever you found on riverbeds. Feet wedged in the sand. A sunken relic that no one cared about and who didn’t have to make any decisions, good or bad. Who breathed in water and blew out bubbles and just had fish for company.
From: Matthew Martin Maxwell (France)
To: Jodie McFee (Liverpool)
Subject: Black Eyed Pea!
Hey Pea!
How’s it going? Are you still sat inside all day licking your wounds? Or would you like me to come over and lick them for you? Actually, that sounds a bit gross. The image of you licking your wounds conjures up you laid there on your day bed (you have a day bed in my imagination. Deal with it!) in a towelling robe, with an impossibly long lizard-like tongue, lapping at your bruised eye. Poor poppet. It both tickles me and makes me feel a bit blurgh. Not that you make me feel blurgh. It’s just the image.
Moving swiftly on.
You know when you asked me what I thought of Stu? Well, I don’t really know what to say. It’s almost like you want me to say I hate his guts, but I don’t think I do. I know you guys are going through a hard time at the moment, but I don’t really see what he’s done that’s all that wrong. Unless he’s fallen out of love with you. And as you’re so lovable, I’d say that was completely wrong. So yeah, I hate his fucking GUTS! But listen, he can’t be all that bad. You’re a bright girl. You chose him. He chose you. Hang on, just munching on some sour grapes here as it was yet another case of wrong place, wrong time. #storyofmylife!
It’s probably good that you’ve chosen to take two weeks off work. It would drive me nuts working in a big office like that (no offence) and if, like you say, your life’s feeling a bit out of control just now, it’s probably a really good idea to chill and sort out all the shit that goes on in our heads from time to time. Sure you’ll feel better by the end of it. Sometimes just knocking the booze on the head for a bit sorts out most of our problems.
Anyway, chooks. I’ve got to head to the beach now. Gonna be around later, see how you’re fixed. And I hope you’re fixed soon.
One day at a time . . .
Take care, Miss Pea
M xx
From: Josie McFee (Liverpool)
To: Matthew Martin Maxwell (France)
Subject: Black Eyed Pea!
I am alternating between bags of ice and raw steak as a fetching eye mask. OK, and sometimes frozen burgers. Three days on and the swelling and purplosity is subsiding. Thank GOD. Don’t think I’ll be winning any beauty pageants soon, though with the amount of meat about my person I could give Lady Gaga a run for her money. Might even start calling you Alejandro (Alejandro) (the repeat is important).
Mum’s brilliant. She’s round here again, cleaning, ironing, rambling on about the neighbours (hers and mine) or what Val and Vernon have said etc., etc.
Stu hasn’t come back. He might be off with some fancy piece. I feel a huge sense of relief. Gonna have a snooze now and listen to that video you posted on my wall. I love the Lightning Seeds.
Love you, Jodie xxx
I was such a liar. I didn’t love him, I didn’t know him. How could you love someone you didn’t know? Plus, I had seen Stu. He’d been back every day. I knew full well where he was. But the lies I told online were fine. They were a fantasy, just like my online relationship with Matthew. It didn’t mean anything because it wasn’t real. What was real was the pain in my heart and the pain in my cheek and eye. Well, if that was real life, no wonder I wanted to retreat into this golden land of the internet. It was my pill. Matthew only ever said lovely things to me. It was as if I plugged myself into him for short bursts at a time and came out feeling cleansed. Maybe he was dialysis in human-ish form.
But then, in the middle of the night, I might wake with a fright as I heard a noise outside, convinced it was Stu breaking in, and I’d realize that it wasn’t Jodie McGee who was healed by Matthew, but Jodie McFee, office administrator. And she was just a persona I’d magi cked up. I’d not been 100 per cent honest, he’d only heard a fictionalized version of what had happened to me. But the balm he poured on, with his constant messages and the rapidity with which he replied, soothed and relaxed me. Madness, I knew it was madness, but it was my secret. It was special to me, mine and mine alone. And for someone who felt pretty much like public property most of the time, it was a fresh and exhilarating feeling.
Stuart had been very sackcloth and ashes since the punch. I’d somehow managed to scramble to my feet afterwards and run. I’d lost a shoe as I bolted but didn’t stop to pick it up. I’d got a cab home and put the chain on the door so he couldn’t get in. I’d heard him rattling the front door about half an hour later, but after five minutes the rattling stopped and I assumed he’d gone away. I’d not slept, I’d sat up drinking. I�
�d played a mix tape that Our Joey had made me years ago, which I’d found in his room at Sandalan while we’d been staying there, and I’d put it on at full blast and danced round the living room. It contained a lot of Ace of Base. All that she wanted was another baby, apparently, and as I sang and danced along it was like the night hadn’t happened. But then, before I knew it, it was morning and time to go to work. When I stumbled into the communal hallway I half expected Stu to be sleeping on our doormat, but instead, where I thought he might be, I saw the shoe I’d lost the night before. He must have left it there. I didn’t touch it.
Dad had called a locksmith out who changed the locks, so that when Stu returned from work that night – after sending me millions of apologetic texts and numerous answerphone messages, all of which I’d deleted – he couldn’t get in. He’d cooed several more apologies through the letterbox, then asked for some clothes as he was going to sleep on a mate’s couch. I threw some out of the window for him.
All She Wants Page 37
