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‘No. Barb does my official site, but I’ve never looked at it. Occasionally, I look at a computer screen when my financial advisor is here … but I don’t even have an email address.’
‘And you’ve never Googled yourself?’
‘Why would I need to do that?’ His eyes focus directly on mine for the first time. ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea of who I am.’
I’m still considering how to reply to this when Barb clip-clops in. She winks at me, then nudges her client in the stomach and pretends she has hurt her knuckle on his rock-hard abdominals.
‘That’s what you call marketable goods, right, kiddo?’ she gushes. ‘Bet you’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Him,’ mutters Maximilian. ‘Him.’
‘Yeah, you, er … must have a really good team of trainers,’ I say casually, in a bid not to sound as if I am agreeing too wholeheartedly. ‘Or do you just have one really mean one?’
‘I don’t have any,’ he says, his voice flattening again.
Barb’s BlackBerry vibrates. She checks the caller ID and immediately answers it.
‘Yeah, it’s me. Shoot … uh huh. I’m listening.’ She covers the phone with her hand and glances over at Maximilian. ‘It’s JP. I’m going to take this in the study and put him on speaker with Nicholas. FYI, Maxy, Vivian was telling me she also acts.’
As she leaves the room, I shake my head at him. ‘When she says I “act”, she doesn’t mean I act in the way that you act.’
‘What way would that be?’ he asks, indicating to me to sit down at the large glass table in the centre of the room. ‘Acting is acting. Either you are or you’re not.’
‘I mean, I haven’t hit that level … doing movies and stuff,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve appeared in lots of commercials. Have you ever been in an ad?’
‘No,’ he says emphatically. ‘I don’t do advertising.’ He adds this in the same tone as Martha Stewart might insist she has never bought pancake mix. ‘We’re talking about you, though. What about television drama … done any of that?’
‘Yeah, a fair bit.’ I sit down in a Perspex dining chair. ‘The best role I’ve had was the first one I landed after college: a prostitute in Prime Suspect. I featured prominently in the first two-hour episode but then I was garroted and dumped in a lock-up.’
‘You got to work with Dame Helen Mirren?’ comments Maximilian. ‘Many actresses would kill to work alongside her …’
‘… and more often than not pretend to have been killed too,’ I laugh, but he only reciprocates with another tiny flicker of a smile. ‘Have you ever died on screen? I mean, acted as if you were passing away, not been crap in the role.’
‘I nearly died in A Son and a Lover of pneumonia.’
‘Oh yeah, I remember. You were skeletal …’
All the papers reported on Maximilian’s dramatic weight loss for the role, especially as he was still only a teenager. It seemed extreme then, but not so much now. Since then, actors such as Christian Bale, Matthew McConaughey, Michael Fassbender … they’ve all been allowed to damn nearly starve themselves to death to play a movie character. It’s weird how actresses never get to go that far on screen. (They’re expected to look skinnier in real life.) Even when supposedly suffering from malnutrition in Les Mis, Anne Hathaway merely looked as if she was on the Attack phase of the Dukan.
‘How did you reach your target weight?’ I ask casually. But specifically so.
Maximilian shrugs at me. ‘Incredibly, I ate less and exercised more. It wasn’t a big deal. I’ll do whatever a role requires to convince an audience I am that character. I love what I do and get paid stupid amounts of money to do it. Ultimately, total dedication is what the crew who surround me and the audience who pay to come and see me deserve. It’s no more or less fucking complicated than that.’
‘Wow, that’s a particularly un-pretentious and nonwankerish thing to say. Didn’t you mean, I believe in becoming one with my art?’
He ignores my quip and sits down opposite me, his eyes focus on mine again. ‘So, tell me, Vivian, how far would you go?’
‘Erm … oh, I er … well …’ I look at my lap. ‘To be honest, the sort of parts I audition for don’t require too much application.’
‘There’s your answer, then.’
‘Answer to what?’ I ask, suddenly noticing a loose thread on the bottom of Adele’s vest. Shit. I must have snagged it on something.
‘Why you haven’t hit “that level”,’ explains Maximilian. ‘Decent casting directors can sense a lack of commitment. They can smell it the moment you walk in the room. You should approach every part wanting to feel that person; give everything, do everything, be everything that they are … because that’s what acting is. The ability to reach inside yourself and pull out a truth …’
He pauses. I glance up. He is staring at me. I stare back.
‘But you won’t be able to do that until you know the truth,’ he continues, his eyes penetrating mine. ‘Until you know your truth … who you really are, you can’t pretend to be someone else.’
‘O-kay. Thanks for the career advice. I’ll bear that in m—’
He interrupts me. ‘Oh, that wasn’t just career advice, Vivian. That was advice for life.’ He holds my gaze for a few moments longer, then his eyes dart to the side. ‘Barb?’
I twist round to see her head cocked round the door. She is chewing her gum even more vigorously.
‘Maxy, we need to have a quick pow-wow with Nicholas.’ She beckons at him with a heavily jewelled hand and then beams at me with an overly generous smile, one that I haven’t seen yet. ‘Apologies, kiddo. We won’t be long.’
As they leave she pulls the door behind them, but it swings back open.
‘Okay, Maxy,’ I overhear her say as they disappear down the corridor. ‘I’m going to give you this straight. JP has bailed. He’s looking to cast elsewhere for Truth 2.’ She doesn’t give him a chance to react. ‘Am I surprised? Not really. Your train hasn’t exactly been pulling into Good Press Central recently, but hey, I’ve never let you come off the tracks. You know I’ll get you to your final destination.’
‘Barb, lose the clunky metaphor. I’ve already told you, I’m not going t—’
She interrupts him. ‘You’ll do what’s required, Maxy. You hear me?’ Again, she doesn’t give him time to reply. ‘By the way, how did you get on with that Vivian?’
‘Why?’
‘She could be useful.’
Then a door slams and I can’t catch any more.
I sit back in my chair. Useful? Really? I’m not usually. Most of what I do on a daily basis could easily be done by someone else. I like the idea of being considered useful, though. Definitely a step up from simply serving a purpose and a world away from being wholly surplus to anyone’s requirement, something which I used to feel every day when I wasn’t so …
CHAPTER SEVEN
… normal.
Obviously, now I am. Aren’t I? But I was not a normal child. I had a sort of … dark side. I wasn’t born with it. One day the darkness descended and before I knew it, that’s who I was: someone who preferred to hide away in the shadows. Nowhere was this more noticeable than in the framed photographs that decorated the corridor of my family’s home. On the wall, you could see my football-fanatic brother scoring goals, celebrating with team mates and waving his club scarf at away games. My teen-model sister was pictured (professionally) frolicking in paddling pools or through sprinklers for leading homestore retailers or leaping off a diving board for travel brochures. There is no photographic record of me after I hit double figures. I avoided cameras.
Obviously, my parents were not oblivious to my downward spiral but they dealt with it in different ways. My father said nothing. My mother asked Jesus to help me. (As in the Son of God – our local GP was not an immigrant Mexican.) She encouraged me to pray as well … up at the jagged crack in the ceiling of my bedroom, which according to her had been created by God with a thunder bolt to create a clear pathway of communication to Heaven. Clearly, all the crap that was stored in the loft kept getting in the way of my prayers, because my mood did not improve. So then – on advice from her church group – my mother screwed a full-length mirror to the wall, on the opposite side to the other one that was already there. They thought it may help if I could look at myself from a different perspective. But it only gave me a new angle from which to question myself. … And now I could see exactly why Kate Summers thought she had all the answers.
After the second mirror was installed, no matter where I stood in my bedroom I was reflected, so being horizontal was key. I would get under the duvet on my bed and place my hands straight down my sides, in an attempt to make myself as invisible as possible. I used to lie there for hours and hours and hours; day and night, in exactly the same position. But one day – not long after finishing school for good – I woke up to find my hands placed across my chest, not down by my sides as they usually would be. It was as if I was about to be buried. My bed had become a coffin, my bedroom was a morgue. I could see myself lying there. I still can. I was dead. Yeah, I know, I know … I told you … dark side! Anyway, I left home that day. Ironically, the next time I saw any of my family again was actually at a funeral.
I hear voices coming from the corridor.
‘You know as well as I do we’ve had worse freakin’ bull to deal with than this,’ says Barb. ‘It won’t take too much to get him back on top. Maxy isn’t just a ripped torso with a twinkle in his eye … he’s got talent.’
‘He’s also bloody temperamental and testing my patience.’ A flat male voice that I don’t recognise interjects. ‘Look, Silver, like I’ve always said: I certainly don’t give a singular monkey’s bollock whether Fry is respected. To misquote that bell-end in Jerry Maguire, “Show me the sodding money!” All I am asking you to do is make him popular and bankable again and fast. It’s getting ridiculous. Your face has had more work than Fry has over the last year. I don’t care if they spit his name at the Royal Shakespeare Company as long as every sad female singleton wants to screw him, every moronic alpha male wants to be him and he delivers the wonga. Now, where’s this waitress?’
Barb appears at the kitchen door with a sharply dressed man in a grey suit with a silk striped shirt and matching tie. His thick blond hair is swept back to show off an angular although not entirely unattractive face. He marches over to me.
‘Nicholas Van Smythe,’ he says, flashing a set of brilliant white veneered teeth. ‘Fry’s agent, visionary, evil overlord … depending on which rag you read.’ He kisses me on both cheeks. ‘Pleasure, darling.’
‘Hi,’ I stand up. ‘I’m Viv—’
He interrupts me. ‘Not to worry, darling, there’s only one thing I’m worse at than remembering names and that’s small talk, so I won’t bother with that either. Silver and I have got a proposal for you.’
Barb motions at me to sit back down at the kitchen table. ‘We thought we’d have some fun, kiddo. The Great British Youth Awards, sponsored by News Today, take place at lunchtime on Saturday. Usual drill: a bunch of adolescents who have fought against the odds get to go up on stage in a top London hotel to receive a trophy from a celebrity and the editor of News Today. The ceremony raises money for a children’s charity, is broadcast live and the paper always does a huge pull-out in the Sunday News. It’s a good marketing tool … it makes the celebrities look more sympathetic to their fans and the editor more sympathetic to his readers. Everyone’s a freakin’ winner.’
‘Except the courageous youngsters, of course,’ laughs Nicholas. ‘Who get to experience the charmed life of the rich and famous for just a few precious hours, before being herded on the early-evening train back to their insignificant lives in some depressing backwater of the UK.’
‘Really? There was me thinking everyone stayed in touch after those sort of events,’ I say sarcastically.
Nicholas smirks at me. ‘I think we all know that the whole point of celebrity charity work is to get recognised for it, not to do it on the quiet so you don’t get anything out of it for yourself. There’s a reason why Madonna takes a full sodding camera crew to Malawi; free children and additional downloads. I jest! I love that old crone. She’s an icon.’ He taps the table. ‘Let’s get to the point, Silver.’
‘So, kiddo,’ she continues, ‘we’ve decided to throw an olive branch to News Today after all the recent hoo-ha in Clint’s Big Column, by getting Maxy to present an award at their ceremony. It’ll be a good coup for them, what with it being Maxy’s first public appearance since rehab, and of course, if you came too we could show everyone that …’
‘… despite what happened,’ I continue for her, ‘Maximilian and I are great mates. Maybe even inspire Clint to write a little piece on what great mates we now are. Do you really think people are that gullible?’
‘The readers of News Today and the Sunday News are,’ confirms Barb, her voice thickening. ‘But, kiddo, this isn’t all about Maxy. It would be a nice little bit of exposure for you and that acting work you were telling me about. I don’t know what kind of performer you are – you could be shit or you could be shit hot, but either way no one is going to find out unless you get some roles. You’re not getting them at the moment because no one has a freakin’ clue who you are. In this day and age there is no such thing as a lucky break, everything is engineered by a relentless PR machine. Hype is everything. Silver’s Golden Rule Number Forty-three: There’s no such thing as a squirrel … he’s just a rat with a better tail and a good publicist.’
‘She’s right,’ adds Nicholas, twisting the gold Rolex on his wrist. ‘No offence, darling, but at your age you need all the help you can get. As far as the industry is concerned, as a woman in her mid-thirties—’
‘I’m only thirty-four.’
He smirks again. ‘As I said, mid-thirties … your career is pretty much finito. This is a good offer. We’re not asking you to snog some reality TV chump at a suburban nightclub, we’re asking you to attend a top-flight awards show at a five-star hotel with the Maximilian Fry …’ Clearly, this is how they all refer to him.
With perfect timing, Maximilian walks into the kitchen pulling a grey hooded sweatshirt over his head. I can tell that the top is fashionably distressed, i.e. it’s brand new but looks as if it has been damaged whilst the owner was engaging in some kind of heavy-going manual labour. (Not like Luke’s one that looks that way because he has been doing precisely that.) Maximilian gets another water bottle out of the fridge and swigs it back without looking directly at me. The expression on his face is exactly as it was when I arrived.
‘Come on, kiddo. It’ll be fun …’ pushes Barb.
‘Not for me,’ I tell her. ‘Rubbing shoulders with celebrities is not everyone’s idea of a perfect day out.’ She looks confused, as I expected. ‘Anyone who works in show business always finds this hard to believe. I mean, most of you assume any normal member of the public would sell a kidney to catch a glimpse of Kristen Stewart buying acne wash in Sephora, but it really isn’t the case. Besides, I see enough famous faces at work so when—’
Nicholas butts in and stands up. ‘Look, I don’t want to hear the labour pains, darling, I just want to see the baby. If you’re not up for it, fine. Obviously, this is the pro-active go-get-’ em attitude that has resulted in you clearing dirty dishes off restaurant tables at thirty-four years old.’
I look across at Maximilian and wonder whether he will apologise on his agent’s behalf, but he is concentrating on peeling off the label from his water bottle. Arsehole. Suddenly, I find myself thinking about the scene at the very end of The Simple Truth where Jack Chase leaves the exquisite Arabian princess (who is also a spy and a professor of metaphysical engineering) he has been shagging. By this point, the two characters have escaped from the desert and are back at the ornate Persian palace owned by the now-dead leader of the rebels who was also the princess’s husband. After a steamy session in her four-poster bed with the silk curtains billowing in the breeze as per movie-set-in-a-dust-bowl standard, Jack Chase waits until the princess is asleep, slips out the window and shins down the side of the building, onto his next adventure. When the princess wakes up at dawn, she touches the pillow next to her, realises Jack has gone for good and then smiles. She smiles. This is a woman who has betrayed her own people, committed adultery, got her husband killed, lost her job – and at one point nearly her right leg – all for some bloke. Who has now deserted her. But is she pissed off? Does she immediately get on the phone to a girlfriend and have a good moan about the chaos-causing non-committal tosspot? No, she walks over to the window and stares into the horizon all gooey-eyed … because he is Jack Chase. Well, I’m not such a sap.
I stand up too. ‘Actually, for your information, I don’t remove any plates. That is the waitress’s job. I’m a hostess, so technically my role is to look after the cust—’
But suddenly, I stop. My hands become clammy and my heart races. This can happen in the aftermath of a minor flashback. What Maximilian said pings back into my head. Until you know your truth … who you really are, you can’t pretend to be someone else. I look up, and consider attempting to continue what I was saying … but I don’t bother. I know when I’ve lost an audience. Even I don’t want to hear what I have to say.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Losing an audience is also a familiar feeling for every one of the thirty-something females hovering around at the East London studio, waiting to be seen by the casting director and producers for the Surf Shack audition. I recognise nearly all of them. For over a decade we have been competing against each other for the same parts. In chronological order these have ranged from sassy graduate to sexy love interest to wise-cracking singleton to office gossip and now (gulp!) trendy mum. Much further along the line, woman of the people (with some sort of all-consuming job in the federal civil service) will be up for grabs, then plucky divorcee rebuilding life. The thought of getting to the stage where we are vying for the role of crime-solving gardening enthusiast makes me shudder.
The atmosphere is exactly the same as it always is on these days, with everyone being pleasant and encouraging to each other. Good-luck hugs and supportive smiles are dished out without being meant in the slightest. I try to bypass the main throng without getting caught up in any chit-chat but am stopped in the hallway by Harriet Morgan. She was at drama school with me and Adele.
‘Vivian … hi!’
‘Oh, hi … how come you’re here?’ I ask. ‘I thought you were still shooting Nurses?’
Harriet plays ‘Angela’, the sensitive doctor with a crush on ‘Danny’ the married night porter. I’ve been in that show before. I was the first victim of a three-way suicide pact. It was a rubbish part – I got the least camera time out of the three corpses because at that point my demise didn’t appear to be part of a bigger plan, merely unfortunate.
Harriet sniffs acridly. ‘I’m being written out. Apparently, Angela can’t handle the pressures of hospital life. She’s going to deal with a horrific RTA at Christmas – drunk driver, natch – then lose confidence and leave to open a beautician’s. Bastards.’
‘That’s such shitty luck.’
I grimace, but I am not feeling too sorry for her. I auditioned for ‘Angela’ too. The casting director asked if I would put on a few pounds for the role. The character needed to appear more ‘comforting’, supposedly. I was extremely annoyed. Why can’t a thin person be seen as sympathetic on the screen? Surely, when you don’t revolve your day around mealtimes, you’re more flexible with the time you can give others? But that’s British TV for you. You wouldn’t get that in the States. Over there, if an actress has a strong stench of a disordered approach to eating and/or exercise about her she’s more likely to smell success.
‘Yeah, really shitty …’ agrees Harriet.
‘Maybe you should go on one of those soap chat-rooms to moan,’ I tell her. ‘Surely, there was far more to come from the Angela/Danny/Danny’s wife plot-line? I for one would adore to see the love triangle reignited after Danny nips into Angie’s Spa for a seaweed wrap.’
She shoots me a withered look. ‘Piss off, Vivian. I don’t think I’m quite ready to laugh about it yet. Nice shiner, by the way.’ She points at the bruise under my eye. ‘I read about your little incident on Perez. Did Fry apologise?’
‘Kind of.’
‘He did it through his agent, you mean. Bastard. Don’t give a fuck, do they?’ (They being our alias for anyone enjoying exceptional standing within the world of entertainment.) She eyes the packet of Marlboro Lights in my bag. ‘God, I’d kill for a fag.’
‘Help yourself.’
‘Nah, I’m crapping myself about wrinkles. Do you think I look older than when you last saw me?’
I pretend to examine her face. ‘Well, you’re hardly Yoda … but I think we both know you haven’t got a portrait up in the attic.’
‘Piss off,’ she says again, laughing. ‘Anyway, I never knew you smoked.’
‘I like to have some on me, just in case …’
‘Of what?’
I shrug. ‘You know, stress.’
‘Yeah, I do know. Agh, I WANT ONE! But it’s a sad fact that no one can get away with puffing cigs at our age. Even Sienna Miller will struggle.’
‘That’s true,’ agrees one of the girls further down the queue who has been ear-wigging our conversation. ‘She’s already got sallow looking.’
‘Mmmm, sort of pasty and “lived in”,’ says another.
‘Oh, stop!’ grins another.
But they carry on, because this is how they kill time before any audition: gunning down Sienna Miller. It’s been like this on the circuit for a long time, and there is no sign of a ceasefire. It may sound a negative thing to do, but actually it has a positive effect on morale for the regulars to have at least one actress they hate more than each other.
I sneak off to the loo, my place of comfort. I’ve always liked toilets. A locked cubicle is a good place to escape the potential uneasiness of any communal area. Once inside, I read through my script one more time. On the last page, I find a message from Luke. He must have written it while I was making his breakfast.
Since I’m not allowed to say anything encouraging about your acting I thought you should know that there are many other areas you excel in. I won’t list these areas in case you stop excelling in them on purpose to wind me up but rest assured, on a scale of one to ten … one being someone with a single niche party talent (e.g., swallowing whole fist or very low limbo-ing) and ten being bonzer across the board, I’d say you’re a nine*. Good luck.
*You lose a point for not being able to swim.
Luke has started to leave me more and more messages like this. He uses them to say the stuff he has realised I am uncomfortable with him saying to my face, i.e. Aussie-isms and slushy stuff. The messages are never texted or emailed; they’re always handwritten on random bits of paper. Given that all other males born at the nineties end of the eighties have fully rejected the concept of communicating through either the medium of handwriting or speaking in favour of tapping a screen … well, it’s quite nice, really.