Art Ache (8 page)

Authors: Lucy Arthurs

BOOK: Art Ache

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I try to put Tom and Jack out of my mind by thinking about the rehearsal process for my play. It starts on Monday. Exciting. Just have to get through the rest of today and then Jack will be back tomorrow. We can spend the day together and then I can drop him to daycare and attend rehearsals. It’s an honour to have a play produced in a main house season by a theatre company. The significance of it is not lost on me, although the timing could be better. I wish it wasn’t coinciding with the breakdown of my marriage.

The play. Think about the play, Persephone. That’s part of your reality. As we know, Boofhead’s directing it. The less said about that, the better. The cast is strong so that’s a real positive. The gorgeous actor is in it, the one my sister suggests I have an affair with. Although I have no desire for sex at the moment, I do feel reassured that there’s nothing permanently wrong with my vagina. And the gorgeous actor is . . . gorgeous. There’s no harm in daydreaming.

I’ve known him for years, since I was 21. I remember inviting him to my 21
st
. We were both in a big community musical organised by a group of funky lefties who managed to convince lots of people to donate their time to perform in huge rock musicals for free. All the money raised was donated to charity. I was thrilled that I was about to be twenty-one and had a speaking role in a major musical, even if it was just a community one. He had the lead role. And he was gorgeous. I knew he was married, but I was mesmerised by him and desperately wanted to invite him to my birthday party. I was more than happy for his wife to come too.

I plucked up the courage one evening during the warm up, timidly heading over to him with an invitation in my sweaty little palm. I handed it to him and muttered:

I’m having a party. You’re invited. So’s your wife.

Then, to make sure he didn’t think I liked him too much, I added:

And everyone else. If you can come, come. If you can’t, don’t.

He smiled his alluring coconut oil smile and opened the invitation right there and then.
Oh my God,
he’s in love with me!
I thought at the time.
Even though he’s married. He’s non-threateningly, platonically in love with me!

I lived in one of the inner city suburbs and parking was a nightmare so I had added to the invitation “Park on Grove Terrace.”

MR. GORGEOUS

So it’s in a park on Grove Terrace? Which one? It doesn’t say.

What?

MR. GORGEOUS

Which park?

Park? What?

MR. GORGEOUS

Which park?

No park.

MR. GORGEOUS

Yeah, the one on Grove Terrace, but which one?

No one.

MR. GORGEOUS

Look, if I don’t know where the party is, I can’t come, can I?

You’re coming?

MR. GORGEOUS

If you’d tell me where it is.

It’s all on the invitation. See you then.

I was bright red and dripping with sweat. Oh my God, Mr. Gorgeous was coming to my 21
st
! Then I realised what he was trying to tell me. He didn’t know where it was! Oh my God. I’d walked away by that stage and couldn’t muster the courage to go back to him and clarify. But he turned up anyway. Maybe his wife worked it out for him.

WOMAN

Have you got change?

A big, gruff woman asking me for change for the parking machine throws me out of my reverie.

Sorry, no.

WOMAN

Well, it’s not accepting notes, so we’re all stuffed.

Funny how a stranger can articulate the deepest truth of your life. I’m stuffed. I can’t see a way forward. I am not where I thought I’d be. Dumped, alone and fantasising about someone I had a crush on when I was twenty-one.

The big, gruff woman storms off and there I am, stranded at the airport without change for the parking machine, wondering if Mr. Gorgeous still remembers that I invited him to my 21
st
, which wasn’t in a park on Grove Terrace. He probably does remember and thinks I’m a complete idiot. Oh well. And I’m wondering why I’m wondering if he remembers my party. Why is it important right now? Because it would mean there was someone else in the world apart from my family and friends who love me. Or at least like me. Or think I’m special. And it’s important, because Mr. Gorgeous belongs to a moment in the timeline of my life before Boofhead, and before I was a mum. He represents that part of my life when I was young, breezy, carefree and full of promise. Oh, I could use one percent of that energy right now. I am so far removed from who I was when I was twenty-one that I don’t think I even recognise myself sometimes.

I use my credit card to pay for the parking. Who needs coins or notes when credit will do? So modern. I drive home by myself.

As I open the front door, I’m bruised by the silence of the house. It feels cold, empty, lifeless. I realise that I’m alone. Strangled tears start coming out of my throat. I’m turning into my mother.

Chapter 8

One week later. The rehearsal room.

“He who is incapable of feeling strong passions, of being shaken by anger, of living in every sense of the word, will never be a good actor.” Sarah Bernhardt, actress.

I’m early. I’m always bloody early. It’s a trait that’s hung over from childhood. And yes, I also lined my pencils up on my school desk, wore the right uniform and listened to what the principal said. I did, however, smoke Kent cigarettes with my sister after school and read erotic literature that I found hidden in my mother’s bedroom cupboard. I may have looked, sounded and acted like a dag, but there was a raunchy, racy, secret internal life going on that made me feel remotely interesting. Now, I just feel desperate and ridiculous. And rejected. Everyone knows. I can see it. I can tell just by the way they look at me. The smile is a bit too bright, the head is on an angle, the eyes are soft and encouraging, but I just know that they’re thinking one of two things:
Thank God it didn’t happen to me
, or,
I always thought they were mismatched
.

Breathe. That’s what the self-help books say. Too many bloody self-help books. Marjory’s got me reading all sorts.
Conversations with God
,
He’s Just Not That Into You
(don’t have to be Einstein to work that one out),
The Yes Book
,
The Sweet Spot
,
The Power of Now
. You name it, I’m reading it. The blurbs on each tome claim it will make the world of difference. I’m not convinced. I think the one my sister and I joked about writing after one of her break-ups would be way more effective. A no fuss, precise, shooting straight from the hip self-help guide with the catchy little title
You’re Fucked, You Know You’re Fucked, and There’s Nothing You Can Do About It
. Anyway, the common piece of advice I’m reading right now is breathe, breathe, breathe. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m breathing.

BOOFHEAD

Alright, people. Welcome.

He’s speaking. Maybe my sister’s right. He looks like he needs to burst out of that closet before he gets too big for it. He’s wearing Stovepipe jeans, Converse trainers, a communist cap, and God help us all, a cowboy shirt. But what’s that I spy under the cowboy shirt? His old T-Shirt. The one he bought from the nice guy in the valley. It’s a simple black and white one bearing a sketch of Jesus, emblazoned with “I found Jesus. He was behind the sofa the whole time.” I like that T-Shirt.

BOOFHEAD

I need to start today by thanking you all for participating in this project and I have to say how privileged I feel to have such an immensely talented cast working with me.

And so it begins, and will continue for the next four weeks. One of the bonuses of being the playwright is that by the time the rehearsal process has begun, your job is pretty much over. You’ve toiled over the computer keys and now you listen and watch as the company of actors and director bring it to life. There is no expectation I will attend rehearsal every day. I can pop in and out at will. A relief, given that Boofhead is the director. Seems every arsehole ex-husband has a silver lining.

BOOFHEAD

Okay people, before we embark on our first reading of the work, I’d like to talk a little about the play, the production and my vision for the work.

Theatre types always like to call plays “the work” or “the piece.” Saying “The play” is, apparently, too literal. He drones on in excess of fifteen minutes about his concept of theatre. He talks about audiences viewing a play through a metaphorical window. I was impressed the first time I heard this, but less impressed when I realised it was one prong of what is essentially only a two-prong philosophy about theatre.

BOOFHEAD

An audience can only view one scene at a time. They’re looking through the window and we’re deciding what they see.

Because they have no mind of their own. How bloody arrogant.
I hope I didn’t say this aloud. Nah, no one seems to be reacting so I think I’m safe, although I’m buggered if anyone can read thought bubbles.

I digress. Back to Boofhead and his “philosophy.” Today, because I’m looking at him through a prism of abandonment and resentment, it seems to me that the basic premise of his theatre philosophy is that he’s a genius and everybody else is a cretin. He will either make it obvious that he thinks you’re a cretin if there’s no possibility that you could ever employ him, or conceal the fact that he thinks you’re a cretin if you’re in any position of power, perceived or otherwise. Unfortunately, I fit into the former category.

BOOFHEAD

This is a new work from a new playwright—a virgin playwright, if you will.

Spare me the oblique, sexual references. But the cast seems to like it. Polite chuckling at their self-proclaimed, genius director while low self-esteem and self-loathing leaches out my every pore.

BOOFHEAD

So we need to make sure we’re always one step ahead of the play.

Prong number two.

BOOFHEAD

We have to be running in front of the play, turning around and blowing raspberries back at it. So to speak. We need to lead the way. We can’t rely on the work to carry us. Or the writer.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

BOOFHEAD

No offence, but that’s how it is with emerging playwrights.

None taken.

Keep it fresh and friendly.

BOOFHEAD

The design presentation.

He has completely dismissed me. Then Jackson appears. A painfully thin, boyish man also wearing Stovepipe jeans, a “cool” cowboy shirt, Dunlop volleys, and Coke bottle glasses.

JACKSON

Shaazam! Yeah. Um . . . whoa . . .

Apparently, it’s cool to lose command of the English language.

JACKSON

Here it is!

And he unveils the model box of the design. A miniature version of what the set will look like in the theatre, complete with little figurines of the actors and tiny, little props. It is gorgeous. This guy designs children’s toys or fabric or something in his spare time and his attention to detail is a sight to behold. He has come up with a fully modular design that captures the essence of the play and the characters beautifully. Maybe a decommissioning of the English language is forgivable for some people.

Jackson, that’s beautiful.

JACKSON

I’ve really worked the aesthetic.

Absolutely.

BOOFHEAD

It’s cool, yeah. Totally informs the work. Okay, the piece.

Now that the formalities are out of the way, we’re onto our first read-through of the play. For the first time, I am experiencing first hand that this can indeed be a truly harrowing experience for a first-time playwright.

BOOFHEAD

Okay, people. Let’s give the work its space and listen to what it has to say to us.

You’re a wanker! That’s what it’s saying to you, but I don’t think you’ll ever hear it.
I want to scream at him. I have that urge a lot lately. I want to scream in his face.
I know who you really are. You abandoned me! Love don’t live here anymore. Why is a Rose Royce, later covered by Kate Ceberano, song floating through my head? Concentrate. Concentrate.

MR. GORGEOUS

Persephone?

That’s my name. Someone’s saying it. Turn down Rose Royce and engage.

MR. GORGEOUS

I wonder if I could ask a question of the playwright before we start the reading.

It’s Mr. Gorgeous! He’s speaking. To me. Don’t blush, Persephone. Don’t blush. Just let him ask his question and maintain a professional façade, no matter how handsome he looks.

BOOFHEAD

Sure.

MR. GORGEOUS

What was your main motivation for writing this play?

BOOFHEAD

I think it’s a good question to consider before we embark on the first read. Persephone?

Yes, it is my name and they’re looking at me. They want me to answer his question, but I’m distracted by just how gorgeous Mr. Gorgeous is. I take a juvenile delight in realising that he is way more attractive than Boofhead.

BOOFHEAD

Persephone? What was your motivation for writing this piece?

Why is he asking me this question when he already knows the answer? Why isn’t he giving it the brush off like so many other questions he brushes off? Namely mine.

Sorry?

BOOFHEAD

Your reason? For writing the play?

Oh, of course. Yes, um . . . I wrote this play because . . .

Get your thoughts together, girl. Get that Ceberano song out of your head.

Ohh, why you look so sad? The tears are in your eyes . . . I’ll stand by you.

What! Now I’ve replaced it with a Pretenders song. I hate that song. No, I actually love it, but it makes me cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Whatever you do.

Um . . . this play . . . because it’s about children and society and choices and . . . when I had my baby it really became clear to me just how important children are. They’re the future . . .

Teach them well and let them lead the way. Whitney Houston, for God’s sake!

. . . they’re very important . . . and family is . . . um . . . there was a quote I read somewhere. An African saying. Um . . . it takes a village to raise a child. Yes. Um . . . and this play is about that village. The village that raises the child.

Because the father has shot through. Arsehole! Mongrel! Bastard! The father has shot through so the mother has to rely on the village. The village. The mother has to . . .

And then the tears are there. I can feel them. My eyes are brimming and people are looking at me. I’m wearing my hurt on my sleeve. I’m suddenly see-through. I’m suddenly Susan. Suddenly Seymour. Suddenly, the wheels are in motion. Suddenly, I’m sobbing.

Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m very connected to the subject matter and I/

BOOFHEAD

/I think we should just start the read. Don’t you?

A strong German accent comes out of my mouth.

Jawohl!

Oops. I said that aloud. Harking back to his EIN numberplate.

I mean, yes. Yes, that sounds good.

BOOFHEAD

Great.

MR. GORGEOUS

(to me)

Thank you.