Little White Lies
I CONFESS. I AM A COWARD. There, I’ve said it. But how else was I supposed to avoid the embarrassment of seeing Dean again? And depending on which way you look at it, my sudden allergy to Mr Muscle could be considered a legitimate excuse for not being able to return to work. Besides which, what hope do I have of securing an acting role with a posture fast resembling the Hunchback of Notre Dame?
So, Job Centre, here I come! Then it hits me like a slap in the face with a wet flip-flop: I have made myself unemployed and am therefore not eligible for benefits; unless chipped nails, and an embarrassing liaison with a security guard young enough to be my son, qualify as extenuating circumstances. Oh, God, why do I never think things through?
I spend the next three weeks see-sawing between positivity and a nervous breakdown. I fall into bad habits: going to bed late, getting up at lunch time, and horror of horrors, am hooked on Loose Women, frequently shouting at the telly when one of them says something outrageous.
The rest of the time I’m checking my phone and e-mail, making sure I haven’t missed that life-changing message from the casting director who was blown away by my performance in Three Sisters, and wants to cast me in his next project. I try unsuccessfully to resist looking at Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram, which are full of ‘#busydayonset’ and ‘#feeling blessed’.
Faye tells me I’m caught in something called a ‘ludic loop’ and need to break this addictive cycle if I am to have a clear and focused mind, so invites me over to hers for some green tea and meditation.
Whatever life throws at Faye, she always manages to radiate positivity (though not in a smug, #grateful way). She’s walking proof that yoga, chanting, and candlelight meditation really do work. (I tried this once, but fell asleep and the candle dripped wax onto Beryl’s shag pile, so decided not to risk it again.)
‘Hey you,’ she says with a warm smile as she flings the door open. ‘Come in.’
I negotiate my way past the bike, wellies, Lego, and school satchel cluttering the hallway, to the kitchen at the back.
‘So,’ she says, handing me a mug of steaming tea and a newly baked cupcake, ‘it’s what, a month now since Three Sisters finished? That’s no time.’
‘I know. I don’t understand why I’m having a wobble. I wasn’t expecting scripts to fly through the letterbox, but I’m not used to all this uncertainty, not knowing where the next pay cheque is coming from, if I’ll ever work again …’
‘But that’s part and parcel of being an actor, isn’t it? I’m sure even Helen Mirren goes through dry patches.’
‘Yeah, but I doubt she has rent to pay,’ I say, wiping blue icing from my chin.
‘So, do you want to walk away and go back to hoiking a trolley up and down an aisle for the rest of your working life, or sit behind a computer from nine to five? You needn’t answer that.’
Our conversation is broken by the sound of footsteps thundering down the wooden staircase.
‘Aunty Em! Aunty Em!’ squeals Tariq, launching himself into my arms.
‘Hello, young man!’ and in that moment my anxiety and self-doubt evaporate.
‘Not until after supper,’ says Faye removing the cupcakes from his reach. ‘Now, go and get changed and leave Mummy and Aunty Em to chat.’
‘If you’re going to stay the course, Em, you need to train yourself to have positive thoughts. That way you’ll attract positive energy.’
‘I hear you, Faye. But how long should I give it? Another year, five? Or will the business give up on me first?’
‘Where’s your fighting spirit, Em? How much do you want this?’
‘How much do I …? I’ve given up everything for my dream.’
‘Yes, but you’ve got to keep on keeping on. If parts are so hard to come by, then write your own play and cast yourself in the leading role.’
‘Great idea, but …’
‘If you want this enough then you’ll find a way, that’s all I’m saying. Now, sit!’ she says, taking my mug and indicating her reflexology chair in the conservatory. ‘I want you to concentrate on your breathing,’ she soothes, pressing hard on the soles of my feet. ‘That’s it. Now imagine you are breathing in white light. Shut your eyes and concentrate on the sound of your breath. Now visualise what it is you want, and repeat after me, I am opening myself to new possibilities.’
‘I am opening myself to new possibilities.’
‘Good. Now, whatever it is you want, start believing that it will happen. Imagine yourself in that situation, and it will have a positive effect on bringing about your heart’s desire. It is possible for our thoughts to control the universe. What do you want from life, Emily? Visualise it …’
NURSE: You do realise, don’t you, that I could be dismissed from Holby for getting involved with a patient?
DISHY PATIENT: Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel it too? I love you, and if I make it through the operation, then I want you to promise me we’ll spend the rest of our lives together.
NURSE: But if the Medical Council finds out …
DISHY PATIENT PULLS NURSE TOWARDS HIM. THEY KISS …
‘Aunty Em! Aunty Em!’
I wake up with a start to find wide eyes, the colour of conkers, beaming down on me.
‘Blimey, how long have I been asleep?’ I say, rubbing my eyes.
‘Only an hour or so,’ says Faye gently. ‘You looked so peaceful and happy, I didn’t want to wake you. How do you feel?’
‘All kind of … floaty, more calm … less like I want to crawl under a stone.’
‘Good! Now Tariq and I insist you stay for tea, and he’d like you to read him Gangsta Granny again. He says your storytelling is much better than mine as you can do all the voices.’
‘Aah, nice to know someone appreciates my acting skills.’
‘Then I’ve got a nice bottle of Sauvignon in the fridge we can crack open,’ she says, popping two extra fish fingers under the grill.
* * *
On the bike ride home, I give myself a good talking-to and decide it’s time to take control and not wait for something to happen. Time to start thinking positive thoughts, do yoga, and create the life I want.
Faye’s right; if opportunity won’t come to me, then I need to devise a way of getting to it.
Back at Beryl’s I grab a coffee, fire up my laptop, and open a new Word document.
TITLE?
A One-Woman Play in Two Acts
by
Emily Forsyth
* * *
To my surprise, it doesn’t take long (five days to be precise) for the visualisation technique to work its magic. I found the ad in The Stage, just below POLE DANCERS WANTED IN JAPAN …
PRESENTERS
FOR NEW SHOPPING CHANNEL
Now, admittedly, flogging power tools and gadgets on the telly isn’t exactly Holby City, but it would be experience in front of a camera, wouldn’t it? And it’s paid work.
Many actors would probably pooh-pooh the idea, but women on the verge of bankruptcy cannot be choosers.
So I e-mailed the channel, and after a brief Skype interview, where I presented a Puff the Magic Dragon ornament (borrowed from Beryl’s china collection) to an imaginary audience, they offered me a trial slot.
It may not be presenting The One Show, but it’s got to beat scrubbing toilets and other people’s coffee-stained mugs, hasn’t it?
And who knows, today, shopping channel presenter, tomorrow, heaving-bosomed, bonnet-wearing BBC period-drama heroine – okay, so period-drama heroine’s mum/maiden aunt.
* * *
‘There’s nothing else for it – lift up your dress please,’ commands George, the butch, no-nonsense sound engineer, as she strides purposefully towards me, swinging a transmitter and clip-on microphone, like a lasso. Whatever possessed me to wear my tattiest knickers, the ones with the elastic showing, on today of all days?
A receiver is poked in my ear.
‘Emily, can you hear me?’ comes an anonymous voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Say something please, so Gary can check the sound levels.’
‘Erm … she sells seashells on the sea …’
‘No need to shout, and mind your sibilants. Now, if I speak to you whilst we’re on air, whatever you do, do not acknowledge me, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Ignore the camera, and direct all your comments to Annabelle. Take your lead from her. Remember the presenter’s mantra: P-R-N. Personalise, Romanticise, be Natural. Imagine you’re having a chat over the garden fence. Okay? Aaand five, four, three, two, one.’
‘Good afternoon, and welcome to our brand-new Victorian lifestyle programme,’ gushes the oh-so-glam Annabelle, switching on her glossy-lipped, Hollywood smile, bang on cue. ‘Joining me today is Victorian expert, Emily Forsyth, who is here to talk to us about an exciting new range of home products, inspired by the Victorian era.’ Leaning towards me with an outstretched, perfectly manicured hand, she continues in her saccharine timbre, ‘Hello, and welcome.’
‘Hello.’ I force a smile, lips sticking to my teeth.
‘Now, Emily, do tell us, when did this passion for Victoriana start?’
I wrestle with my mind, which is ordering me to tell the truth: six days ago, when I got this job.
‘It began at school, Annabelle. I always loved History, and the Victorian era in particular has always held a special fascination for me.’
‘Lovely! Now let’s start with this beautiful little Victorian figure. But it’s not just an ornament, is it, Emily? When we lift up the lady’s crinoline, we see it is in fact a beautifully crafted trinket box,’ she says prissily, holding the hideous thing up to camera.
I nod earnestly, thinking that it wouldn’t look out of place on a shelf in Poundland.
‘Yes, Annabelle, as you said, beautifully crafted – a work of art, in fact.’
‘Personalise!’ comes The Voice in my left ear.
‘I … I remember when I was a wee girl, my great-grandmother had one of these on her dressing table. I’ve lost count of the number of beads on her dress …’
‘Show us the dress in more detail,’ cuts in The Voice again.
Startled, I look up and spy myself fleetingly in the monitor. I’ve never seen myself on screen before (apart from the time our school was on the regional news because Miss Farquahrson, our games mistress, hit the headlines for being a man).
‘Don’t look into the camera,’ snaps The Voice.
I grab the lady in my clammy hands and indicate the beading with my trembling finger.
‘Erm, notice the … the detail, yes, detail on the dress,’ I stammer, swallowing hard. ‘Each bead is painstakingly stitched on by hand (what the hell am I saying?). These are called bugle beads,’ I continue knowledgeably, ‘and these teeny-weeny ones are seed beads, measuring just two millimetres …’
No sooner have the words left my mouth, than several of them fall off and roll across the table and onto the studio floor. I freeze.
‘Forget the beads!’ barks The Voice.
Annabelle swiftly comes to the rescue, indicating the next item.
‘Now, what have we here, Emily?’
‘Aah, yes, the pitcher and bowl. This is my favourite piece from today’s collection, and in my opinion, the best value for money.’
‘Romanticise!’
‘Both the, er … jug and the bowl are made of porcelain and are … hand-painted. Of course nowadays we would use this purely for decoration, but in early Victorian times before indoor plumbing … erm … yes, before indoor …’
What in God’s name is she doing?
I find myself talking to Annabelle’s behind, as she crouches down on the floor, head under the table.
‘Ignore Annabelle – she’s off camera. Just keep talking!’ orders The Voice.
With unprecedented enthusiasm I jabber, ‘Notice the … the … scalloped, gold-reaf lim … erm, gold-leaf rim – of the jug. This is, erm … complemented by the bowl.’
‘Personalise!’
‘… I have one just like this on my dressing table at home. The lovely, floral design symbolises love. In the Victorian era flowers spoke a secret language …’
Annabelle triumphantly holds up the misplaced information card, calmly resumes her seat, adjusts her skirt, flashes her gleaming smile to camera two – and proceeds to cut me off mid-flow. ‘Well, that’s item number 1653, the Victorian pitcher and bowl at an unbelievable price of £24.99. Ooh, I’m hearing the phone lines are very busy, so hurry to avoid disappointment. Now, Emily,’ she says, moving over to the mock fireplace. ‘Tell us about this charming Victorian fire-screen.’
Oh shit. Nobody mentioned anything about standing up and moving about. Guess I just follow her lead. Look relaxed, natural. No sudden, jerky movements. The camera tails me, past the fake bookcase and plastic aspidistra, to the hearth. Ignore it. Look natural. Pretend you’re having a chat over the garden fence. Personalise. Romanticise. Be Natural.
‘This is typical of the kind of fire-screen you would have found in the front parlour of a Victorian home. I have one just like this that hides a nasty electric heater. The design is hand-painted (is there no end to my lies?), and notice the stunning scroll design,’ I gush, stooping to indicate this feature, whilst ever so subtly showing off my new, stick-on nails. I think I’m starting to get the hang of this now. The key is to stay calm and cool, be persuasive, yet not too pushy – none of that hard-sell stuff. P-R-N, P-R-N …
‘Tell us, Emily, how is this distressed effect achieved?’
Straightening up, I feel a sudden twang.
‘Hmm?’ I say in a high-pitched tone, glued to the spot.
Annabelle is looking at me quizzically. I see her mouth moving, but her words are washing over me. Yep, the inevitable has happened, and I am about to disgrace myself in front of the entire British Shopping TV nation. The transmitter, which is attached to my ancient, washed-out knickers, is now hanging by a thread, dangerously dangling somewhere around the knee area, like a bungee jumper about to plummet to the ground at any moment.
Panic surges through me. I haven’t a clue what Annabelle means by a distressed effect, but one thing I know for sure: several thousand viewers will suffer the distressed effect if the elastic snaps. Oh, shame! Oh, earth-swallow-me-up shame! The phone lines will be jammed with complaints, and I will be a national laughing stock. Just when I thought I’d broken into the glamorous, lucrative world of television, my career, just like my knickers, is in tatters before it’s begun. Oh, God, oh, God, why am I such a calamity?
Meanwhile Annabelle is chuntering on and on, and I nod intelligently, trying to hide the fact that I am experiencing a major technical hitch. Dear Lord, when will this be over?
At last she wraps up the half hour with, ‘Well, I’m afraid we’ve run out of time for this, our first Victorian special … (and probably our last, I almost hear her say). Coming up next is Tracey with her Pampering for Pets Hour. My thanks to Emily, and to you, the viewers at home for joining us. Bye for now. Byee.’
‘Well done!’ says Annabelle with an unconvincing smile. As she turns her attention to the crew, I seize the opportunity of hoisting up my knickers through my dress. Scary George appears out of the shadows, and I am unceremoniously unplugged. Now what? How do I make it out of the studio and along the corridor to the safety of the loo, without shedding my last scrap of dignity?
‘I’ve got another presentation in studio three in fifteen minutes,’ says Annabelle, consulting her watch. ‘Would you like me to take you back to the green room?’
‘No! I mean, I’ll be – fine. Thanks,’ I say in a falsely bright tone.
She looks at me expectantly. I rootle in my bag, pretending to look for my Oyster card. Please just go, please.
‘Well,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders, ‘maybe see you again some time. Don’t forget to hand in your pass to security.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I say, pausing mid-rummage to give her a little wave. ‘And … thank you.’
I look round and survey the scene. A couple of cameramen are winding up cables, whilst a studio assistant is setting up for Des’s DIY Show. I seize my chance, and keeping my knees tightly together, shuffle out into the long, long, brightly lit corridor, past the photo gallery of perfectly groomed presenters, their twinkling-toothed smiles beaming down at me.
Never has the sight of the little skirted figure on the loo door been so welcome.
Phew! I’ve made it. Safe inside, I let the offending briefs drop and hastily chuck them in the bin.
I travel home in a shameful, knickerless state, promising myself that when that pay cheque finally arrives, it’s off to M&S for me.
* * *
Should any of you be considering a career as a presenter, here are some of Emily’s handy, on-camera tips for ladies:
Wear trousers or a skirt – something with a firm waistband.
If you simply must wear that floaty little Monsoon number, NEW knickers with REINFORCED elastic obligatory.
NEVER use words like unbreakable, shatterproof or sturdy – you’re asking for trouble.
Whatever happens (product malfunction or comet colliding with earth), KEEP TALKING!!
* * *
Over the next few weeks, I gulp, perspire, flounder, and fly by the seat of my pants through a variety of guest presentations, extolling the virtues of owning exercise bikes and Elvis commemorative plates. I tell myself to give it time, and I may yet become the next Lorraine Kelly.
But that was before the nylon, foldaway-bag fiasco, which firmly puts paid to any aspirations I may have of reporting showbiz gossip from a breakfast sofa.
It had worked so well in the bedroom mirror that morning, but of course, come the live show, it all goes horribly wrong …
‘This handy, nylon bag folds away to next to nothing. Its clever three-in-one design allows the bag to grow, so to speak, by unzipping the compartments, like this. Ahem … like this …’ At first I try the softly, softly approach, then yank it hard, the nylon bunching up as the zip’s teeth refuse to let go. ‘It has a drawstring for added security,’ I say, dry-mouthed, grabbing nervously at the toggle, which promptly comes off in my hand.
I stare at it, memories of my last tussle with a toggle flashing disturbingly across my mind: it was during a pre-flight safety demo, in front of a captive audience of around three hundred passengers. ‘Pull the toggle as shown,’ the cabin service director had announced into the microphone. Distracted by the rare sighting of an oh-so-dreamy passenger in business class, I yanked it too hard, and the jacket inflated with a loud hiss, leaving me standing in the aisle, looking like Mr Blobby.
‘Do not inflate your lifejacket until you are outside the aircraft.’ Cue mass, hysterical laughter.
Meanwhile, back in the studio, you can hear a bead drop. The cameraman’s head rises slowly from behind the lens. The floor manager is gesticulating wildly with her clipboard, mouthing, ‘Go onnnn!’
Say something, tolls a voice in my head … anything. But it’s of no use; my brain and mouth refuse to communicate with one another. Initially, fear spreads through me; then, all at once, another, louder voice cuts through the mental chaos, calmly saying, Why have you allowed yourself to be sidetracked into this wow-factor world of easy payments and on-air testimonials? This is ludicrous. An actress is what you want to be, not Sir Alan Sugar’s next business partner.
I march back along the corridor, heels clacking decisively along the tiled floor, eyes focused straight ahead. I can almost hear the laughter echoing behind me from the Barbie and Ken lookalikes on the gallery wall.
Where did they find her?
She’s obviously never been to a tanning studio in her life.
And those teeth! Has she never heard of veneers?
She couldn’t sell hair extensions to Kim Kardashian even if she tried.
No, I do not belong to their world.
I’ve had enough of appearing calm when zips get stuck, buttons pop off, lids refuse to open, and garden fairy lights fuse. Despite not having a job to go to, I need to come up with a convincing get-out plan pretty damn quick, as I’m down to demonstrate hand-held turbo steamers the day after tomorrow.
As I enter the green room, there’s Prue from Production pacing up and down, one hand on her hip, the other clasping her mobile to her ear.
‘What happened, Emily?’ she says tetchily, snapping the phone shut and ushering me into the ladies’ dressing room. My stomach clenches. ‘I accept things go wrong sometimes, but we expect our presenters to carry on regardless, not freeze up.’
‘You’re absolutely right, Prue. In fact I’ve decided that …’
‘Sales were very poor, I’m afraid. The client’s been on the phone already. He’s not very happy, as you can well imagine.’
‘Of course. I really feel that I’m not …’
‘We can’t run the risk of losing valuable business in this way.’
‘Quite. I’m just not cut out …’
‘I’m sorry, I know it’s short notice, but I’ve decided to take you off the Turbo Steam Cleaner slot – in fact, I won’t be assigning you to any more presentations in the future.’ Voice softening, she continues, ‘Many actors find they simply aren’t suited to this type of work, so don’t lose any sleep over it, will you?’
Oh no, Prue, I won’t. In fact, had you come up for air and listened to what I had to say for just one moment, I would have told you that I’d already decided that you’d have to find someone else to promote your turbo steam cleaners, rotary choppers, and electrical foot warmers because I QUIT!
The glass lift delivers me to the steel atrium of Homeworld TV. I sign out and return my pass to the uniformed receptionist, with a self-assured air, head held high.
As I stride along Southwark Street, it starts to rain. I don’t have an umbrella, but I don’t care. And I don’t care that I’ve just been fired either, because I feel free, free to carry on looking for what it is I really want. Okay, so the presentation was a bit of a train crash, but it’s given me a TV credit for my CV, it’s paid off my Visa bill, and they say failure is the key to success, right?
The old me would have skulked back to Beryl’s, retreated to the sofa in my pj’s, and binged on chocolate and old episodes of Friends. The new me sweeps into Carluccio’s, orders spaghetti carbonara, a glass of house red, and toasts the future.
The old me wouldn’t have eaten alone in a restaurant, because people would think I was lonely and sad. The new me doesn’t care what people think and is happy to be alone.
I order a macchiato, grab my pen and notebook, and begin to write. Faye lent me a book called Write It Down, Make It Happen, which shows you how writing down your goals can focus your mind and help you achieve them.
Had I written my Wish List a couple of years ago, it would have read something like this:
Marry Nigel.
Live in a big house with a garden and pool.
Have kids.
Get a dog.
Be happy.
Today it reads:
Find an agent.
Do interesting work that fulfils me.
Write and perform my own play.
Learn to live in the moment.
Find inner peace.
I have no idea how long it will take the universe to get back to me, so in the meantime I will clear my head of negative thoughts, sign up for yoga, practise meditation, begin writing my play, and relieve financial stress by finding a bread-and-butter job while waiting for THE CALL.