‘Keep your hair on, lady.’
She had a point. I backtracked down the path. It was a lovely location, a Georgian mansion overlooking Streatham Common. I could imagine him and Paolo sitting in their attic flat, admiring the view and saying stuff like, ‘Aren’t we lucky having a view like this?’ Paolo was Brazilian, I decided, and did Brazilians for a living. They’d met when Our Joey had gone in for a back, sack and crack job and they’d fallen hopelessly in love over the waxing strips. God it was idyllic. I wanted their life.
But where was he?
I phoned Mum. No time for pleasantries.
‘Mum, where’s Joey?’
Although I was so overexcited it sounded like ‘mumwheresjoey’?
‘Ibiza.’
‘Again?’
Oh bollocks.
‘When’s he back?’
‘Well, he’s not. He’s moved there.’
‘WHAT?’
‘Why do you want to know all of a sudden?’
‘Mother, why haven’t you told me this before?’
‘Jodie. Every time I’ve mentioned your brother you’ve done the equivalent of sticking your fingers in your ears and singing Misty.’
‘Ibiza?’
‘D’you need to speak to him?’
‘Yes. It’s really important.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know. I just wanna speak to Our Joey.’
She gave me a mobile number and I swiftly hung up and called it. No reply. No answerphone.
Ibiza?
Something Mum said reverberated through my being.
‘He said there was nothing keeping him here.’
As I walked across the common I could think of only one thing.
How much I wanted to kill Stuart Moses.
A plane flew overhead, spewing out a line of cotton wool behind it. I wanted to be on it. I wanted to go back to the villa. I wanted to go back to Mandelieu. Mrs B would know what to do. I’d ring her this evening. But first, I’d sit myself down on the common and read through all Joey’s letters and cards. I devoured them like a good book. I laughed, I cried, I gasped and I laughed some more. And as the sun set I realized that a roaring woman would know what to do. A roaring woman wouldn’t need to phone France for advice. She would follow her instincts, follow her heart, do what she felt was right.
I picked up my phone and wrote Stu a text, then sent it.
Jodie: Baby, make sure you watch Brunch With Bronwen tomorrow. XX
Ping! One came back.
Stuart: Wouldn’t miss it for the world. XX
Jodie: Cool. Was hoping you’d say that.
Stuart: NGHYA (never gonna hurt you again).
Jodie: Indeed.
I sat on the famous nipple-pink sofa, readjusting my floaty top as a make-up artist coated my forehead in powder to stop it shining under the harsh lights. On the other side of the studio Bronwen was finishing off a cookery slot with Fabio, the show’s resident chef. She was practically orgasming over his credit crunchy flapjack. I could see Ming sitting on a discarded stool in the corner, rapidly writing something on her BlackBerry – she came to all the high-profile telly interviews – when suddenly I saw the floor manager waving his arms in the air and, through a mouthful of oats, Bronwen turned to camera and beamed.
‘It’s so gorgeous! It’s fab-luss, I love it! And coming up after the break, Acacia Avenue’s very own Jodie McGee that’s Sister Aggie to me and you, is here to tell us why she’s so excited about the National Soap Awards tonight. I love her, she’s fab-luss. Don’t go away.’
The red light disappeared from the camera and Bronwen spat the flapjack onto the work surface, then glided towards me with outstretched arms, cocking her head to one side, as if greeting a long lost relative.
‘Jodie! Fab-luss! How’s you?’
I jumped up and we hugged.
‘Good thanks, yourself?’
‘Fab-luss! Take a seat.’
The make-up artist now descended on Bronwen, who closed her eyes and ran through the ‘shape’ of the interview.
‘Soap Awards – what it means to be nominated, maybe talk about the serial killer. I know you can’t say anything. And can we mention your recent leave of absence or should I keep my silly mouth shut?’
‘No, that’s fine.’
‘HOW MUCH DO I LOVE THIS WOMAN?!’ she called out, eyes still shut, pointing in my general direction. Nobody answered, the crew were too busy setting up the cameras and rushing around like headless chickens to care, but Ming was on her feet and rushing over.
‘Actually dat’s a no-go, Bronwen,’ she barked. God she could be officious.
‘I don’t mind,’ I offered.
‘No, Jodie. You didn’t have to deal with all the shiss when you were—’
From somewhere a voice called out, ‘OK, and going again in five, four, three, two . . .’
Another wave, a red light and we were on air. Ming hurried back to her stool. Bronwen switched from ‘off’ to ‘on’ in a split second.
‘Hiya! Bronwen here! And look who I’ve got on my sofa today! Way hey! Jodie McGee! How much do we love Sister Aggie?! Hi, Jodie!’
‘Hi, Bronwen.’
‘You’re looking fab-luss by the way. Love the hair.’
‘Thanks.’
We talked all the usual bollocks you had to talk about when you were on a soap: ratings, storylines, the fact that there was absolutely no competition between the different soaps and how we were one big happy family. Then she went on to praise me for my recent assisted-suicide story, blah, blah, blah. And then I saw a look of devilment in her eye as she shifted in her seat and leaned in compassionately.
‘Jodie, I know you don’t like to talk about this . . .
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Ming jumping up from her stool and waving her arms about.
‘. . . but you’ve been in the press a bit lately because of certain personal problems. Is tha right?’
‘Well . . .’ I started, then faltered. I looked towards Ming. She was shaking her head and giving me huge daggers. I looked away and back to Bronwen. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’
Coward.
‘Some of the papers said you’d been in a bit of a fight. Others said you had a drink problem. Your producers say you had a fall and needed time off to recuperate. What’s the real reason you had to have time off, my love?’
My mouth went dry. I discovered a frog in my throat. I coughed politely and took a deep breath.
‘Well, it’s all a bit embarrassing really. I . . .’
Ming seemed to be arguing silently with some of the big cheeses at the back of the studio. I had to get it out. I had to say it. It was a compulsion. But try as I might it just wouldn’t come out. Bronwen had someone talking to her in her earpiece.
‘I’m guessing you were just overtired.’
I nodded. My mouth was locked shut – try as I might it just wouldn’t open – so Bronwen covered the excruciating silence.
‘Long hours, lots of scenes, I’m sure it’s a common problem in—’
Suddenly my mouth sprang open and I blurted out, ‘My boyfriend hit me.’
The smile froze on Bronwen’s face. It was clear she’d been expecting me to say I was overtired and needed a well-earned break. Now it was her turn to be catatonic. So I said it again.
‘My boyfriend hit me. Stuart hit me.’
‘Right.’
It was clear she was taking instructions through her earpiece again, so I carried on.
‘We’ve been going through some hard times and . . . he’s never really coped that well with my success and . . . well, a few weeks ago, he hit me.’
Bronwen’s expression hadn’t changed.
‘That’s . . . quite a litigious thing to say. Obviously he’s not here to give . . . his side of the story,’ she said, and opened her mouth to change the subject, but I took out my phone from my pocket.
‘I’ve got some pictures if you don’t believe m
e.’
‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you, Jodie.’
‘I was going to delete them the other day, but I’m really glad I didn’t now.’
I scrolled through to one of the pictures of my black eye and showed it to her. A camera zoomed in, so I turned it towards that the camera.
‘Did you report it to the police?’
‘No, I got pissed.’
‘I think Jodie meant to say she got drunk there. Apologies.’
‘Sorry. Drunk. I turned up to work drunk and Eva, my boss, gave me two weeks off to sort myself out.’
‘Right. Anyway, erm . . .’
It wasn’t often I’d seen Bronwen lost for words.
‘So I went on holiday, took stock and then decided. Well, I’m a bit of a coward, so I wasn’t sure what I’d decided. But then something happened yesterday and . . . I decided if I did something on here, on your show, then I’d have to stick to my guns and ditch him.’
I could see her warming to the discussion now, realizing this was probably going to be viewed again and again and again on YouTube or shows like 100 Top Celebrity Meltdowns.
‘Because you’re such a big fan of the show, right?’
‘In the past I’ve pretended my problems haven’t been happening. I’ve lied and said everything’s OK. By doing this today I’m hoping to—’
‘Did he just hit you the once?’ she butted in, nodding, like she knew it was a one-off.
‘Yes. That time.’
Her eyes widened. ‘He’s hit you before?’
I nodded. ‘Ages ago. He can be really nice, but . . .’
The headless chickens had stopped running around. I glanced over to see Ming slumping back down onto her stool, her eyes closing in dread.
‘Well I . . . really respect your honesty, Jodie. I think a lot of people will look at you and assume you’ve . . . got it all. But obviously things have been tough, would you say tha’ was right?’
‘Listen, I’m a really lucky girl. I am the official lucky bitch. And don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t being punched in the face every time he came home drunk from the pub. I’ve certainly not had it as tough as some women. But it wasn’t easy, and personally I don’t think I should have had to have put up with it. But I did. I was . . . I was probably scared of losing him. Does that sound mad?’
Bronwen shook her head sadly.
‘I’m sure a lot of our viewers’ll be able to identify with that.’
‘I loved him but . . . I’ve got to love myself a bit more.’
Bronwen nodded. The floor manager was waving again.
‘Jodie, we’re going to have to leave it there, but thanks for sharing and good luck at the awards tonight. Our roving reporter will be . . . catching up with you then no doubt.’
She then turned towards the camera and perked up.
‘Coming up after the break, health and fitness expert Gina will be showing you how to lose some pounds while getting the dreaded housework done. Fab-luss! Can’t wait! Don’t go away!’
When the red light went off the camera, Bronwen seemed in a daze, staring straight ahead of her. She wrenched the earpiece from her ear then turned to me.
‘Jodie, that was so brave. I’m so sorry.’
I nodded, embarrassed now. I’d poured my heart out to the nation. Well, to whoever was tuned in to her breakfast show – God knows why it was called Brunch with Bronwen as it was on from 9–9.45 a.m. A shadow covered me: Ming. She was furious.
‘Nice one, Jodie. You’ve made Eva look like a liar now.’
‘Oh shut your face, Ming, you stupid bitch.’
And no that wasn’t me, it was Bronwen.
I walked from the studios into the sunlight of the South Bank. The Vietnamese food van was still there, reminding me of my first date with Stu. A young couple were getting noodles. As they walked away he put his arm round her. I wanted to cry, but tried to hold back the tears pricking my eyes. The girl dropped some food as they trudged along in insouciant bliss. A seagull swooped to gobble it up. Life, I guessed, went on.
Everything around me seemed to be in slow motion, as if the earth had stood still. My focus was precision sharp one second, blurry the next. I walked slowly to the nearby pub, sat at the table where we’d had our first drink and drank a vat of wine. Very soon I was pissed. I’d not eaten breakfast and it was still only ten in the morning. Oh well. I could get a cab back to the hotel and sleep it off before the awards that night.
My phone rang. It was Mum. I ignored it, but saw I had eighteen texts. I ignored them. I sat and got wasted, feeling sorry for myself and victorious at the same time. Nobody around me seemed to care or notice. They were probably piss-heads, too. Their indifference was strangely reassuring. It was OK to drink. Drinking made you feel better. Drinking made you feel, full stop.
My phone rang again. I knew it’d be him, ringing to ask me what on earth had happened yesterday to merit the public outcry. I took a deep breath and answered.
‘Hello, Stuart.’
‘You fucking bitch. What d’you go and do that for?’
He continued to rant, so I placed my phone on the table, reducing his voice to a cartoon comedy caricature, tinnily rattling away. I smiled and ordered some more wine. A bottle this time.
Ten hours later I was in a blacked-out car, war paint on, mahoosive hair, driving to the Royal Albert Hall. I’d sobered up and was going to be fine. I was going to get through the evening unscathed. I was never going to make a show of myself again. My big statement had been made and my drama-queen days were over. I just had to get tonight out of the way, get back to work tomorrow and then my life would be on track. Everything was going to be OK.
What could possibly go wrong?
Keep it all in, Jodie. Keep it all in. Deep breaths, you’re going to be fine. Just get through this and then the rest of your life can begin.
I opened my eyes. I’d arrived.
EPILOGUE
Three months later
I checked my face in the back of a spoon, which wasn’t the best idea as it made me look like a satellite dish with foetal alcohol syndrome. I placed the spoon on the table and tried to see if I could clock my reflection in the restaurant window. It still shocked me that I had short hair; I’d had it cropped shortly after losing my job. New look, new start, new me type thing. I wasn’t wholly convinced. I’d wanted to look gamine, pixie like. Mum said I looked like I was in a prisoner-of-war movie. Still, that meant I was slim, right? Result!
I didn’t just have butterflies in my stomach, I had a whole swarm, and possibly the net, too. I wanted to get up, pace about and do something with all this bubbling nervous energy, but it wasn’t really the done thing in a well-to-do restaurant as people would think that either a) the Ladies’ was locked or b) I had mental health issues and was about to break into a chorus of ‘The Grand Old Duke Of York’ before the men in white coats came to bundle me into the back of a van.
Oh I had mental health issues all right. Or I had had. Some of the things I’d done in the past had hardly been sane. But I was getting my life back on track, and today was another step on the race track. A race track littered with hurdles.
I saw people recognizing me, trying to be subtle as they informed other members of their tables who I was. So much for the new look bringing me anonymity. But then, I guess when you’ve been famous for having a bit of material on your head, it’s the face they recognize. How your hair looks is pretty inconsequential. A middle-aged woman in her best bib and tucker walked past, returning from the loos. She slowed down as she passed me, hovered for a bit, then smiled.
‘It’s you, isn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘I believe I am me, yes.’
‘Sister Agatha.’
‘Oh right. No, I just look like her.’
But she wasn’t listening. ‘Oh we thought it was criminal killing you off. Criminal. I nearly wrote a letter.’
I just smiled and repeated, ‘I just look like her.’
‘You’re a lot
prettier in the flesh.’
Well, that compliment I could take. She backed away with a ‘won’t disturb you further’ and then I decided I wanted her to come back. At least she’d distracted me temporarily from my nerves. Nerves! Why was I so nervous? This was worse than a first date. And it was ridiculous, it’s not like I’d never met him before. I picked up my menu and scanned it for the umpteenth time, still undecided about what I might order. The problem with billboard-sized menus is there are so many choices I always end up going a bit food-dyslexic and just see a jumble of words. I put the menu down on the table again and looked out of the window. Over the road I could see the Philharmonic Hall, where they put on classical concerts. There was a poster outside with a picture of a man with a baton, who I took to be a conductor, only someone had graffitied the baton to make it look like he was holding a penis.
I looked back round the restaurant. It was pretty swanky and the clientele was mostly couples here for a special occasion. The woman who’d spoken to me earlier looked over and raised her glass to me; I nodded and saw her husband reprimanding her quietly. She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her drink.
I thought about the night before, when I’d seen Debs and Hayls at the Blue Lagoon. It hadn’t been the easiest of meetings, but I tried to focus on it as it was taking my mind off my impending ‘date’. Apologies had been uttered and hugs exchanged. We blamed our separation on Stu and his controlling influence. It was easier that way, even if it was only half true. We agreed that Greg was a bastard and Debs confessed she must have had a moment of madness. The words forgive and forget were bandied round the table, as well as promises never to fall out again. Hayls had been wearing an eye patch. I’d not asked why and she’d not offered an explanation. There’d been laughter and tears and I’d been sad to say goodbye to them.
I heard the chug of a black cab pulling up outside. I looked. It stayed parked there for what felt like ages, and then he got out. He was taller than I remembered, though he was still the shape of a boxer. He was wearing smart dark blue jeans, multicoloured trainers, some kind of sports hoody in a startling turquoise and, on top of that, the campest fun fur coat you ever did see. Massive reflective sunglasses covered most of his face. He looked up at the name of the restaurant, then bounded in. At the doorway he shoved his shades on top of his skinhead – purlease, skinhead? Who was he trying to kid? – and his myopic eyes scanned the room. I waved, and his surly look of concentration burst into a gigantic smile. He practically cartwheeled over to me. I jumped up and we bumped into each other in our hurry to hug, and as we clung on to each other we both burst out laughing. And didn’t really stop. That laughter felt like it would go on for ever. The other diners were looking at us like we were bonkers, but I didn’t care. The laughter was like a conversation. We knew what we meant, and we knew what the other person was saying. Eventually a waitress approached with a menu and we squelched apart and threw ourselves on our seats.
All She Wants Page 43
