I Make My Own Fun, page 16
My trip to the spa gave me the distance I needed on the Anna situation, and I’ve decided to be open-minded about my next move. I head to the bedroom, stopping briefly to look across at Anna’s house through the window in the stairwell, and focus on getting dressed. It’s a task that requires a lot of attention because I need to wear an outfit to inspire me. No civilian clothes this morning. Today, I’m Marina. Player One. The protagonist.
I take pleasure in getting dressed, in stripping down and looking at my body in the mirror’s reflection. And because I’m already thinking about Anna, I can’t help but think about her looking at my body too. I run my hands up my legs and imagine it’s Anna and she’s marvelling at how smooth they are. I move up towards my stomach and watch in the mirror as my fingers trace my ab line and picture her marvelling at how defined it is, her voice laced with an intoxicating blend of desire and jealousy. I lock eyes with my reflection – elegant, lean, superior – and sense my anxiety dissipate.
Feeling better, I reach for a black silk mini-dress and a pair of tall, pink satin platforms that feel instantly right for the day ahead. As I’m shaking out my hair, I look back at Anna’s crumbling houseshare and it occurs to me: it’s absurd that I haven’t seen it from the inside. All that time I’ve spent stationed outside it and I’ve never seen her bedroom. That’s the key to finding out what really makes her tick: there’s nothing like being actually there to truly get the measure of a space. I’m sure of it now: she’ll keep meaningful trinkets and photos on the walls, a film poster or two. So sentimental, so obvious. What a perfect way to while away the day. After a final look in the mirror, I head back downstairs, the sound of my heels on the stairs filling the space just like the slam of the door did earlier, but this echo sounds rich, powerful. I’m drunk with purpose. I don’t tell Clive that I’m heading out. Instead, I swing open the front door and step outside, no security, no wig, no hold-ups. This, too, makes me feel drunk on adrenaline.
Outside it’s a beautiful sunny day that enhances my mood. I put on a song by an artist that’s often repeated on Anna’s Spotify, something male and morose, which doesn’t match my vibe at all but marks my journey with a sense of occasion. As I walk my phone buzzes with messages from Jules, confirming that she’s got hold of the Paris atelier and they are sending over a gown and a seamstress later today. Good! I think. I’m practically skipping down the road at this point, my perfect pink shoes click-clacking on the pavement as I go. I barely even notice the twitch in my neck. I don’t care that the only face I see on the buses that go by is Mimi Westenberg’s – my Interspace posters no longer in circulation. In fact, I don’t even clock whether people on the street are recognizing me behind my enormous sunglasses. Everything’s coming together! By the time I get to Anna’s and see that there’s no one in, I feel like I’ve been touched by the divine. Standing on the doorstep, I reach into my bag and root around until I find what I’m looking for: the wallet I lifted from that nerdy dad on the street back in June. I grab a slim, flexible card and glide it down the door frame – another skill I’ve collected on the job. The lock clicks open.
The first thing I register is the smell of weed lingering in the air, and then I see the scuffed skirting boards and narrow corridor ahead of me, a long dark stretch punctuated by small slivers of light shining through cracks in doorways. I shudder, lightly repulsed – as if people actually live like this – but gingerly, I step inside, careful to avoid staining my pink satin with whatever substance is making the faded ‘welcome’ mat sticky.
Walking down the corridor, I see a room marked with a tattered wooden ‘A’. Cute. The door opens with an alarming creak, and I’m in. Finally. From the window, across the Heath, I can see the walled garden of my own house, as if I’ve stepped behind the glass in a hall of mirrors. Looking around the room, I feel a rush of adrenaline taking it all in: the unmade bed, complete with thin, limp-looking pillows, the cheap clothes strewn across a rattan chair. My stomach leaps as I see a postcard on the wall above her bed: Dame Elisabeth Frink’s Calypso lithograph, the one Anna posted on her Instagram when she went to the gallery. She brought this here, this talismanic piece of me. I move towards it, run my fingers over the lithe body in the drawing. Then, as if guided to it, my gaze lands on her bedside table. An empty water glass sits beside a ring I recognize as the silver snake she wore on our last date. Next to that, practically glowing, is a diary.
Perfect.
I take a deep, powerful breath in through the nose, feeling my shoulders rise and stretch out as I do; as if I’ve been hungry for days and I’m taking in the scent of a meal I’m about to devour. I’m greedy for it. I sit down on Anna’s bed and open the diary at the beginning.
I’m turning the pages feverishly, desperately scanning the words for something that reveals a desire she’s long harboured, something she’s always wanted to do or see that I can wow her with. But the more I read, the more my jubilation starts to falter. There’s page after page of convoluted emotional banality, but hardly anything in here that I can actually use. But then I reach April of this year, and it occurs to me that pretty soon I’m going to start reading about me. I feel a thrill at the prospect of finally seeing myself, shining, impressive, through her eyes on the page. The premiere was June 3rd, so, full of anticipation, I head to the 4th. When I get there, I have to read it twice to make sure I haven’t missed anything.
4th June
I’ve been thinking about quitting the bar and seeing if I can pick up some nannying hours or something. Feel like I’m missing out on loads of fun with everyone because I’m always working late and I’m getting bored of serving rich people their shit drinks all the time. Jack quit his bar job the other day and said he feels way better for it, although I’m not sure what he’s doing instead. Maybe I’ll ask him about it?? Could actually be a good way to start a conversation with him??
I don’t know like last night I really just wanted to come home and hang out with the house but I didn’t end up getting back until super early this morning and then it turns out they’d just gone out without me... They all stayed at the boys’ and it sounds like it was so fun. I mean I had a good time with that actress, but I genuinely would rather have been with everyone else. She was hot at least though.
I think I will text Jack about the bar stuff. Ahhh hope he replies.
I turn to the next entry, on June 9th:
Saw Jack last night and it was so nice. We talked for ages about everything, he’s so funny. OK so I was pretty drunk but there was definitely something between us. Felt like a teenager because I kept stealing looks at him from across the room and seeing he was doing the same!! Hot!! The girls agree that we have a vibe too. I’m pretty sure something’s going to happen between us. Just a matter of time.
I read through all of June, July, August, thinking about everything I did for her over those months – the peonies, the dinner... the fucking blimp. None of it features at all. My name doesn’t appear once. There’s not even another mention of ‘that actress’. I can’t even see anything about Matt, which doesn’t seem right either – it was so clear how much he was bothering her. Meanwhile Jack, whoever the fuck he is, is scrawled all over these pages, all over her mind, mocking me. I mentally scan through all the pictures of her friends she’s always posting on her Instagram, but can’t remember any of them looking even remotely remarkable. I can’t remember any of their names at all.
Acid rises up my oesophagus and I swallow, coarsely, to push it back down. I’m suddenly very cold, but my palms are sweating. I feel a hot stinging pinch in the bridge of my nose.
My mind is racing. What the fuck has been happening these past few months?
I open my phone and reread my messages with Anna, trying to find something unseen in something I’ve seen a hundred times, and suddenly all the ‘no I’m good’s, all the ‘haha yeah’s and that final ‘That’s kinda fucked up’ from her look different, less flirtatious.
Out of the corner of my eye I see something moving by the door. Instinctively, I leap up from the bed and drop the diary, but it turns out there’s no need: it’s just a cat. I didn’t know Anna had a cat. I sit back down. But then again, there’s a lot I don’t seem to know about Anna. Like how she doesn’t want me, never, it seems, even wanted me in the first place. I can’t even imagine the words in this diary coming out of her mouth. Who is this vapid nobody on the page?
The cat wraps itself around my leg and I can feel its fur against my ankles, sticking, no doubt, to the ribbons from my heels. In that moment, I feel a blazing anger spread outwards from the knot in my stomach. I think about my body, and hers, and the last time her hips pressed into mine: how we were completely, undeniably in sync.
There’s no way.
I think about all the people I see every day who would kill to touch me, let alone fuck me. There’s no way Anna doesn’t want me. Everybody wants me. I smoothe my hands over the small of my waist. Everybody wants this. My eyes settle again on the Calypso sketch pinned directly above Anna’s bed. Clearly, there’s been a misunderstanding.
I look down at the cat, who has settled in the space between my feet. As quickly as it arose, my anger melts into a calm resolve. I just need to talk to Anna, face to face, no more games. I put the diary back where I found it, and put the silver snake ring in my bag. Then, in one swift movement, I stand up, place my heel on the back of the cat’s neck, and hear a nice clean snap as I walk out the way I came.
@marinaupdates_ NEW! Marina spotted out and about in London in a stunning LBD! Photo taken by a fan (September 4th, 14:05)
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@DerekJ4ck @marinaupdates_ MOTHER HAS RETURNED!!!
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@marina_daily @marinaupdates_ queeeeen heard what the ma*l was saying about her and said not todayyyy satan
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@vitam1nz @marinaupdates_ lolll don’t think she’s putting the mail rumours to rest with that outfit. you can practically see her whole ass its embarrassing... she’s trying way too hard
PREPARATIONS
My glam team arrive at the house at six o’clock the following morning, a full fourteen hours before I’m due at the gala. I’m looking forward to the evening’s plans. A gala is not much more than a beauty pageant for the wealthy and powerful – and, crucially, their wallets. Much more fun than a premiere, when you need to sell that you’re friends with your castmates in real life, and simper to the press. There are no stakes at all, making this the perfect precursor to what I have planned afterwards.
The problem is getting through the next fourteen hours. The activity in the house is unnerving: I’ve become so used to hearing nothing but Clive’s heavy tread that I feel claustrophobic at the cacophony of stylists and hair and make-up and Jules going from room to room. People keep asking me if I’m okay, which isn’t particularly unusual, but today feels intrusive.
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ I eventually snap at the last stylist to ask me as she’s pinning me into my gown and I’m trying to concentrate on looking at Anna’s Instagram. ‘I don’t know why everybody is so concerned about me all of a sudden. I have been to a red carpet event before.’ I’m certain I spot the stylist exchange a look with her assistant, but I do my best to tune it out. I’ve got bigger things to focus on, after all.
Anna’s back from her holiday. Though we still haven’t spoken, she posted a picture to her Instagram story just a few short hours after I left her bedroom. It’s the first picture she’s posted of herself in a week or so, and it feels so good to see her face again. It’s been beautifully sun-kissed by this long hot summer, and the light is hitting her brown eyes in a way that makes them look lit from within, two perfect orange diamonds. When the stylists have stopped hovering around me, I screenshot it in case she deletes it, as she often seems to do once they’ve been up for a while. She looks so like the girl I met in the bar in this picture, so different to whoever she’s pretending to be in that diary.
I type and delete several messages to her after screenshotting her photograph. How was your holiday? And Good trip? And even Heading to a gala tonight, will you be in the bar later? But all of them feel flat and clawing compared to the conversations we had in real life. It’s a useless exercise anyway: I’ve already decided that I’m going to see her tonight. Really see her, not just watch her. I made the decision as soon as I got home yesterday afternoon to go tonight, right after the gala. There’s a perfect symmetry to it: me in another jaw-dropping gown, her taking me in, just like that first time we met. I want to talk to her, face to face, and finally bring this little game of ours to an end.
FANFORUM / MARINA
A subthread dedicated to the greatest actor of our generation, the one and only Marina
[post by groundcontrolXO] NEW! Images of Marina in her first public engagement since INTERSPACE premiere – looking amaaaazing!
Alerrrt Mariniacs! Marina has just arived at the Royal Gala in London. As we can gather she’s been there for the past few months (before anyone asks we don’t know why and I’m not interested in your theories. Go to the other forums for that!) Anyway, LOVE the bold Valentino sheer vibes. So good to see her looking so fabulous especially after everything that’s been online about her recently!
[reply by guiltyfish73] that’s our girl <3 putting all those nasty tabloid rumours to bed I see!
[reply by intrepidturtle23] she looks completely incredible! No one but no one does a red carpet like Marina <3 <3
STRANGER
Tonight, I am the most dazzling version of myself, all Hollywood smile and shiny hair and glittering diamond choker sitting so tight on my neck there’s no room for sudden, uncontrolled nerve movements. The evening is planned to perfection: arrive at 8 p.m. sharp, walk the red carpet, get inside and shake hands with whichever minor royal is hosting this event. I move, gracefully, around the space, decline the canapés but accept the English sparkling wine. Smile and make small talk with a few unrecognizable people before making a beeline for the bathroom, where, once alone, I check my phone to confirm with Jules that everything is in hand for the latter half of my evening. At 9.15, when the auction starts, I’ll slip out.
I spot Lucy Kissig on my second walk around, prompting a thought to emerge from the mist of the past few weeks: the foundation. Siren Calling. I realize I have no idea if she’s on board or not.
‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow, Lucy, and we’ll talk Siren Calling,’ I tell her, as we pose for a photo together, which covers my tracks regardless of where we’re up to in proceedings. She nods, twisting her mouth in a bracing smile.
‘Absolutely – no shop talk tonight!’ she says, and then I air-kiss her and glide away.
On my third walk around, I’m accosted by a woman with expensive blonde hair and a face I half-recognize, tantalizingly close to my planned exit time.
‘Marina, hi!’ the woman says, with a smile. I must know her from somewhere.
‘Darling, hello,’ I reply, and lean in to kiss both her cheeks.
‘It’s so good to see you again,’ she says after we’ve greeted. She has huge, imploring eyes. I notice that she’s put one hand on each of my forearms, and she leaves them there even after she’s pulled away. ‘How have you been since... well, since Isaac’s party?’
That’s how I know her. It’s Alexis, the model I sat with on the rooftop at the Standard when I took Anna out after our dinner. She’s being awfully familiar considering we’ve only met the one time. Her right hand is squeezing my arm like a stress ball. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was being condescending, holding me like this.
‘I’ve been really well, Alexis, thank you,’ I reply, gently extricating myself from her grip. I meet her smile with my own. ‘How about you?’
‘Oh yeah, I’m great, everything’s great – but I’m so pleased to hear you’ve been well. I had wondered – well, I should’ve known better than to trust… what I mean is, I thought you must be, given how you were at Isaac’s, and that was only a couple months ago, but you just never know these days, do you?’
I blink at her, still smiling, though I have no idea what she’s trying to say, whether about me or her. I’m not sure I even care. I’m too conscious of the seconds passing.
‘I didn’t want to just ignore the questions they were asking – didn’t want to draw any attention to – just in case, you know?’ she continues, reaching out a French-manicured hand to brush my arm again. ‘Well, anyway, I’m glad I’ve had the chance to properly check in with you.’
What the fuck is this girl on about? As she removes her hand, I consider that perhaps she’s just drunk, or high, hence her apparent inability to string a sentence together. Maybe she’s even attempting some damage control after our last interaction. I can hardly remember it, I was so focused on watching Anna through the glass that night, but she could’ve been similarly out of it. That’s surely the only explanation for her to be chattering nonsensically like this now, all this muddled sentimentality. Not to mention the sloppy concept of personal space. God, I think conclusively, looking her up and down, they really don’t make them like me any more. I would never show up to an event in this state. It’s only just past 9 p.m.
