I lay awake all night and I thought about my Simon and that photo in his Filofax of Ruth in her pants. I mulled over the feelings he must have had for her. They went out for an entire year. Was he desperately disappointed that she couldn’t have children? Was I a consolation prize? What if I didn’t want children or, God forbid, wasn’t able to have them? My mind was having a right laugh with all these questions. Then I began to ruminate about them having sex together. Obviously, I’d never seen them having adult fun. But in my mind it was porn-star sex. She was ballerina bendy and blow-job-giver of the month.
The problem was that once I entertained these thoughts, it was like they put their feet up in my mind and settled in for good. Images of Simon and Ruth bonking away in Cirque du Soleil positions were hanging out in my mind and they didn’t seem to have any intention of leaving.
Then, just for a bit of variety, I moved on to comparing myself to Ruth. I felt really fat in contrast to her. I admit I’m not obese. But I wobble and my arse is mahooosive. I knew that if I wasn’t present and people were discussing me the conversation would go like this:
‘Sarah. Who’s she?’
‘Oh, you know Sarah, actress, big girl. Built for comfort, not speed.’
But Ruth had, to quote anyone who’s ever met her, ‘a lovely figure’.
And I didn’t think I was very good in bed. I couldn’t even muster the confidence to say the word ‘cock’ in a phone sex situation.
So I lay there feeling crap about myself and very cross with Simon. But when I asked myself, ‘Why are you cross with him, Sarah?’ the only answer I came up with was that I was cross with him because he had an ex-girlfriend who was better looking than me. And even I knew that was a ridiculous thing to be cross with someone about. And realizing that I was ridiculous made me feel crapper and crosser. And to top it all off, I thought, I bet she doesn’t have these ridiculous thoughts.
I was stuck in my own head, going round and round a vicious crap-thought roundabout with no exits. I reckon I could have mustered a modicum of control over these thoughts in the daytime. But lying there unable to sleep that night, I didn’t have a chance against them. It was as though the security guard in my mind had clocked off for the night and all these bad thoughts had broken in and were running wild.
At about four in the morning I realized what all this was. It was jealousy and it was horrible.
twenty-two
When Miles Mavers instructed me to come to his house for voice coaching at 8 a.m. I imagined his wife opening the door in her dressing gown, maybe letting the rat dog out for a poo in the garden at the same time. Then she would smile kindly and say, ‘He’s just getting up, he’ll be down in a minute. Coffee?’ Instead I found myself in one of the weirdest morning scenes I’d ever witnessed.
‘DAD! SARAH’S HERE!’ Chelsea caterwauled to her father. She was wearing a leotard and pointe shoes and she was as vocally torturous as she was at the party. It seemed that her father was upstairs. Now she could have gone upstairs and quietly told him that I was here, thus saving my delicate two-martini, one-gin and no-sleep head. She didn’t. But it wasn’t just Chelsea that was creating this cacophony of tonal terror. Chelsea also had the stereo on. The stereo was playing piano polka music. It sounded like a mad love-crossed French pianist was stabbing notes angrily with a stale baguette. It was eight o’clock in the morning.
‘DAD! DAD! DAAAAAD!’
Then the dog appeared.
‘Cleo, baby, bum booms, DAD! DAAAAAD!’
‘Maybe I should come back later.’
‘Sarah!’ Miles Mavers jogged down the stairs before me in a shell suit. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do.’
‘Morning.’
‘Let’s make you into a Yank.’
To Chelsea, he said, ‘Morning, princess.’ She hopped on pointe to give him a kiss.
‘Morning, Daddy. Can I watch your lesson?’
‘Of course, princess,’ he beamed at her. ‘Chelsea’s an actress. A very good one,’ he told me.
‘Ah, are you? Lovely.’
Now I could have been wrong, but Chelsea looked about twenty-seven. I didn’t understand why we were all talking to her as though she was four. It must have been the ballet gear.
‘Would you mind getting me some water?’ Miles Mavers appeared to be talking to me.
‘I’ll have one too,’ said Chelsea.
‘Um, where’s the kitchen?’
Chelsea sighed and said, ‘Last door to the right.’
These people are freaks, I thought. I walked to their kitchen, looking in all the rooms on the way. I entered the kitchen. It was huge and so was everything in it. I had never seen a fridge even half as big as the one in there. I was tempted to get in it and hide. I tripped over an exercise ball on the floor. Well, I was hardly expecting it. There was a fitness programme playing on a huge TV. The lady on the telly had abs like my dad’s patio steps.
‘AHHHH.’
I had trodden on a woman doing crunches.
‘Sorry! Are you OK?’
‘Four, five, six,’ she panted, which I took to mean she wasn’t mortally wounded. This was Mummy. Mummy’s breasts and lips had been surgically altered. Perhaps I stared a little too long while deciding whether it had been for the better. I climbed over her to get to the sink. She bashed my shins with her hand when I obscured the TV. The pain brought tears of fresh sunburn pain to my eyes. I saw two empty and probably dirty glasses. I filled them quickly and headed back to the office.
‘Perfect, princess, that’s perfect.’
‘Aa, ee, ii, oo, uu.’
‘Perfect.’
Chelsea was saying her vowels in her own American accent.
‘I just started off the vowels with Chelsea.’
‘Hmmm. Here’s the water.’
‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, taking a sip of it. ‘Is it tap?’
‘No, I peed in it!’ I smiled sweetly at her.
‘Uh, uh!’ started Chelsea.
‘Right, Miles, let’s get cracking. What have you got for me?’
‘Uh, uh,’ repeated Chelsea.
‘I didn’t really pee in it,’ I whispered to her.
‘Daddy,’ she started again.
‘OK, are we doing vowels?’
Miles Mavers was speechless for a second.
‘Yes. Vowels. Now, Chelsea, do your vowels again, princess.’
‘Aa, ee, ii, oo, uu.’
‘Now, Sarah, you try.’
‘Aa, ee, ii, oo, uu.’
‘No. Listen again. Chelsea, repeat the oo.’
‘Oo.’
‘Marve . . .’
I cut him off.
‘Um, Miles, I start shooting scenes in two days.’
‘Yes, Sarah, you do.’
‘Well, what would really help me is if we could go over the scenes I’ll be doing. I thought that’s what this session was for.’
Fuckety fuck. I’d offended him. Oh well, in for a penny, or whatever that saying was.
‘And would you mind if it’s just the two of us in the sessions?’ Fuckety gangbang of fuck, now there was a look of war in his eyes.
‘If that’s what you want. Chelsea, would you leave us to it?’
Chelsea attempted to stomp off but was thwarted by the pointe shoes and ended up doing quite a good Charlie Chaplin impression out of the door.
‘She seems nice!’ I said to Miles, and then I handed him the script.
twenty-three
I treated myself to a full-fat American brunch in the hotel restaurant after my first Miles Mavers lesson. The restaurant was light and made you feel as though you were on board a jolly ship, which was apt, because what with the sleepless night and the jet lag I had the sensation that I was on a stormy sea. I was sitting at a window table looking out towards the ocean. Before the sea there was a coast path and it looked like the whole of LA was in transit along it in every cardiovascular way possible. It was like that old Tampax ad where everyone’s on rollerblades or running with dogs,
whooping. It was nothing like Camden. About all you see in Camden at 9.30 on a Sunday morning is a disgruntled road-sweeper and a few gurners who haven’t gone to bed trying to ponce fags off French people. I shook my head with pity as I looked at all the sweaty exercisers. Didn’t they understand that Sunday mornings are for bacon sandwiches and the Screws of the World in bed?
‘More coffee?’ asked the pretty waitress. I stared at her for a moment in wonder. I’d only drunk half a cup. That was another thing you didn’t get at home: waiters and waitresses being nice to you.
‘Um, yes, please, thanks, amazing.’
‘You’re welcome!’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome!’
‘Whoah,’ I said, because the ‘you’re welcome’s came at such rapid fire.
‘You from England?’
‘Yeah.’
‘My mother’s brother lives in Scotland.’
‘David?’
‘Yeaaasss! Do you know him?’
‘No, I’m joshing.’
She looked upset. So I added, ‘Scotland’s beautiful.’
‘Your food will be ready shortly.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome!’
I was just thinking that I’d better cut down on expressions of thanks, when Erin approached my table.
‘Hey!’
She was wearing an oversized Christian Union T-shirt over cycling shorts.
‘Have you just been for a run?’ I asked, amazed.
‘No.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘It was just a jog.’
‘Do you want to join me for breakfast?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Hi there.’ It was the waitress, appearing from nowhere. I’ve never known waitressing like it. I used to waitress in a small café near Hampstead Heath with Julia at the weekends. We were never nice to the customers. We found them to be an unfortunate distraction as we ate free food and caught up on gossip. And if we left them long enough they came to the counter to order so we didn’t have to move.
‘What’s good?’ Erin smiled at the waitress.
‘Oh, I haven’t been working here long, and I’m fasting.’
‘Sure,’ nodded Erin looking at her menu.
‘Fasting? Is it a religious thing?’ I asked, squinting at her. She was blonde and blue-eyed and didn’t look like any of the other Ramadan fasters I’d met.
‘No, it’s just a fast,’ she said, as though fasting was natural.
She worked in a restaurant! One of the, I mean, the only benefit of working in a restaurant is the free food. I started to suspect America was dropped at birth.
‘Well, what do you eat?’
‘Nothing. I make this drink with maple syrup and vinegar and water and I drink that.’
‘Urgh,’ I said, my mouth filling with hot saliva. ‘Does it make you vom?’
‘Huh?’
‘How long do you do it for?’
‘This is my eighth day.’
‘Eighth day! How are you standing?’
‘I feel great.’
I needed to lie down.
‘Is there cream in the soup?’ said Erin.
‘Crème fraiche.’
‘Is it low fat?’
‘No.’
‘And the asparagus, is it cooked in oil?’
‘No, boiled.’
‘Great. I’ll have a green salad, no dressing, asparagus, no sauce and an egg-white omelette.’
‘Blimey, Erin, are you sure you don’t want a pint of vinegar/syrup juice?’
‘No. It’s good though. I’ve done that fast.’
‘Coffee?’ said the waitress.
‘Sure.’
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ sighed Erin after the waitress had gone. ‘I really want a bagel.’
‘Get her back and order a bagel.’
‘No!’ she gasped. ‘I have a wheat allergy.’
‘Oh. I love bagels.’
‘Was that your boyfriend I saw at the airport with you?’
‘Hmmm.’
‘He looked nice.’
‘He is,’ I said sadly.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Er, yeah, fine. Kind of. Although I had a terrible night’s sleep and you’ll probably think I’m mad but . . . sorry, you don’t know anything about jealousy, do you?’ Now, I didn’t know Erin. She was very young but I liked her. I thought she was a good person. For some reason I wanted to confide the whole sorry Simon situation to her. ‘You see, I had this weird sleepless night last night and, well, I’ve never been jealous before, but I think I’ve become jealous of his ex-girlfriend. I know it sounds ridiculous but I keep thinking he’d prefer to be with her and that their life was more exciting than ours and they only split up a couple of months before we got together, surely he can’t be over her . . .’
I stopped because I realized that Erin wasn’t even looking at me. She was staring at a man next to us who was reading a copy of the LA Times. Then suddenly she leapt up from the table, strode briefly off and returned holding a newspaper out for me. I took it. I didn’t really understand why she was giving me a newspaper though.
‘Thanks, Erin.’ I smiled.
‘Look,’ she whispered.
It was the LA Times. I stared down at it. There was a headline saying, ‘LA Water Board Announces Cuts’. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to say ‘Oh gosh, that’s great,’ or ‘Oh dear.’ But then I saw it. It was an advert. A small box on the corner of the page said:
* * *
Feelings of anger, resentment, jealousy? Silas Anderson leads a wonderful free workshop to help you to rid these feelings and be the person you want to be. Today. 2pm. LA Convention Centre. Petree Hall.
* * *
‘Fuck me, that’s awesome!’ I whooped, but then I looked at Erin and she had waterlogged eyes. I took it that I wasn’t supposed to be looking at the advert. I scanned the page again and it was then that I saw a smaller heading, which said ‘On and Off Screen Chemistry’, and there was a picture below it. I registered what the picture was of. Then I said, ‘Shit,’ and looked at her again.
‘Oh, Erin.’
‘This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,’ she whispered.
I looked at the paper and shook my head. It was a beautiful picture of Leo and Erin. They were standing on a balcony in the moonlight. Leo was holding her face attentively. She was beaming. Her head was cocked and so was his. It looked like they were seconds away from a tender kiss. If you could have Photoshopped out the unhinged, scissors-wielding lump in the background it could have been a poster.
Erin started gasping and sobbing, which in turn started captivating the other breakfast eaters.
‘Come on, darling, let’s get you back to the room,’ I said, steering her towards the exit. Truthfully, I was gutted to be missing out on my breakfast, but she was proving to be a bit of a howler so I needed to get her away from people. No sooner had we left the restaurant than my phone rang. Simon? No.
‘Sarah, it’s Eamonn, have you got Erin with you?’
‘Um, yeah, that’s what the noise in the background is.’
‘Oh, bollocks.’
‘Well said.’
‘Can I speak to her?’
‘Erin, darling, it’s Eamonn Nigels on the phone. Can you talk to him?’
Erin did try to compose herself but the result was a gasping, hiccupping sound and the sight of a little slug of snot that crept out of her right nostril.
‘Hmmm,’ said Eamonn. ‘Best leave her for a while. Just tell her we’ll issue a statement saying she had an earring caught in her hair. That was Rachel’s idea. Good, isn’t it?’
‘Eamonn, it’s the truth. Why else would I be charging towards them with the scissors?’
Eamonn laughed.
‘So how come Leo is so famous? I’d never heard of him.’
‘Leo’s not that famous!’ he stressed, as though I was stupid. ‘Although g
ive it time. He’s a model who turned to acting, and he’s good. No, it’s Erin who’s the biggest name in the film.’
‘No! Really? Blimey, I would never have guessed.’
‘She was in a big kids’ show for years. We didn’t have it in the UK. It was set in New York though, so she lived at home. She turned twenty-one last week and this is her first job away from home. Her dad’s a celebrity preacher in New York. He has a show about happy families on a Christian TV channel. It’s a bloody nightmare this happening really.’
‘Oh.’
‘Tell her that her dad’s been trying to get her. He’s flying in this afternoon.’
‘OK.’
‘And Sarah.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘I’m not blaming you.’ He pauses.
‘But.’
‘But you go out with Rachel and Erin. I find Rachel being sick in the strelitzia this morning having set the burglar alarm off trying to get in, and Erin, a preacher’s daughter, is on the front page of the LA Times in a sexy cinch.’
‘Well, it’s good you’re not blaming me, Eamonn,’ I sang sweetly.
‘Goodbye, Sarah Sargeant. And if you could, try to keep out of mischief for the rest of the day.’
‘Goodbye, Eamonn Nigels.’
twenty-four
I had to go. It was free and I’m a woman. The only thing I like more than a sale rail or two-for-the-price-of-one offer is a freebie. But the taxi there was $60. And when I asked a lady at the conference centre main desk about buses back to my hotel she laughed and shook her head and said, ‘Jesus!’ So it turned out to be a $120 round trip. And if there’s one thing I hate spending money on, it’s travel. I object to spending money that leaves me empty-handed.
The LA Convention Centre was huge. I think it might have been a planet, a planet with no natural light and an awful lot of emotionally dysfunctional people who tended to carry quite a lot of extra weight. Planet Girth, it could have been called. I fitted in nicely. There must have been at least two thousand people there. It was a very mixed age group, although there did seem to be a lot more women than men.
The (Im)Perfect Girlfriend Page 9
