My Own Worst Enemy, page 28
I wish I could shout ‘cut’ on my life. Take it from the top with a completely new direction, making my character say better lines in a better way. I wish my life was a dress rehearsal so that it wouldn’t matter how badly I’m fucking it up.
But I have no time to think, or understand, or plan what I should do next. I don’t even have time to process. It’s already time for the final scene of the play – the ‘reunion’ between Sebastian and Viola.
It’s my big reveal, the moment where I take off my mask and the audience sees the twins on stage together for the first time. In the scene, Sebastian apologises to Olivia, his secret new wife (Olivia proposed to him, mistaking him for his twin).
Maybe, if I act this perfectly, so poignantly and so truthfully, it will somehow solve things. Maybe, through the magic of theatre, I’ll be able to communicate everything in this hug with Mae.
SEBASTIAN
I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman:
You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that
I do perceive it hath offended you:
Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows
We made each other but so late ago.
I have said these lines a thousand times in my bedroom. I have said them a hundred times in rehearsals. But now, on stage, looking at Mae, I can’t say any of them.
For the first time in my professional life, I blank.
After a long silence, a voice speaks tentatively from backstage.
‘I am sorry, madam,’ says the prompt.
After another tense silence, I repeat it, like a particularly inept parrot.
The other characters on the stage are trying to be awed, looking between Sebastian and Viola, me and Mae.
ANTONIO
How have you made division of yourself?
An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin
Than these two creatures.
I stare at my other half longingly across the stage. But ‘Viola’ is apparently so awed by the reappearance of her ghostly twin, she can’t even look at me.
Falteringly, I open my arms out to her.
‘Do not embrace me,’ says Mae sharply, and then continues to perform the rest of her perfectly performed lines, ‘till each circumstance / Of place, time…’
I stare at her. I’m giving the least professional performance of my life because of fighting with her. Yet she is completely unfazed.
Whatever she was hiding from me, Alice was right about one thing. Mae clearly doesn’t care about me at all. Surina clasps my hand to drag me off.
The audience still applaud, but I barely notice.
Charlie starts singing the sea shanty for the final jig.
FOOL (sings):
But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.
Surina pulls me back on, tucked into her arm. I get my choreography so wrong it might even look deliberate. As we swap partners, I’m swung towards Mae.
Our eyes meet for just a second, our arms crooked to slot into each other’s. Then she effortlessly sidesteps past me, and hooks into the quickly adapting arms of Surina and Joe. I twist to watch them. Standing by myself in the chaotic midst of the other dancers, I’m jostled over and over by their joyous jigging.
Maybe if I was a brilliant improviser like Mae I could make this into a benefit: jig by myself, do the Macarena or something. But I’m not. I leave the stage.
When it’s time for me to go to the front to take my bow, the clapping in the audience noticeably diminishes in volume. I don’t even bother to dip my head. But Alice, from the front row, gives me a solo standing ovation. She throws a red rose at my feet. I collect it, ashamed.
47
I have a feeling Mae will avoid the green room to try to avoid me, so I take my clothes and wait in the empty second rehearsal room.
I’m right. Mae opens the rehearsal room door carrying her own bundle of clothes. She sees me alone in there, and turns to slam it, but instinctively, I put my foot in the door. My Sellotaped broken toe crunches in agony.
‘Oww! Mae, please listen to me.’
She glances out towards the green room, where the rest of the cast are presumably talking about how much they hate me. I pull her in, where she angrily dumps her clothes and stands, arms folded. Our matching Viola and Sebastian costumes are repeated in the mirrors around us.
‘I didn’t know about you and Alice,’ I say. ‘You’ve got to believe me.’
She laughs bitterly.
‘Why would I believe a professional liar? She’s writing a review of the show tonight, is she?’
‘I… Yeah, she is. But I asked her not to!’
‘It’ll be a terrible one of me, obviously,’ sneers Mae. ‘I already know what it will say. She probably wrote it when I broke up with her and she’s been waiting for a chance to use it.’ She shakes her head. ‘I wouldn’t have given a single flying fuck. But you, using that? Is getting one good line in a second-tier media outlet really more important than – than…’
‘Mae—’
‘No, Clooney,’ she says. ‘You were always on a high horse about acting being about working hard at the “craft”. I respected you for that. But then here you are, fucking your way to good reviews.’
‘I was not… We never—’
‘Right,’ says Mae sarcastically. ‘Just friends, are you? That’s why she gave you a ring?’
‘You’re trying to make me into the villain here,’ I say, ‘but all I did was go on a few dates with a girl who was serious about me and nice to me.’
‘Tip for next time you steal someone’s girlfriend, Clooney: make your lies more convincing.’
‘I did not “steal your girlfriend”!’ I say desperately. ‘You’d already broken up, right? And I didn’t even know you’d been together!’
Mae’s unreadable expression is multiplied in the mirrors.
Slowly, she walks towards me and puts her hand to my chest, feeling the racing heartbeat there. She meets my eyes.
We stare at each other like a blinking contest. I feel sure I could prove my innocence if I could kiss her.
But she’s going to leave, I try to repeat in my mind. She’s going to leave, just like Tahlia, just like Ruth and Raphy, just like Mum. The only person who isn’t going to leave me is Alice. She said she loves me.
‘I quit,’ says Mae.
She gathers her clothes.
‘What do you—’
‘I don’t want to be an actor anymore,’ she says. ‘If, in order to be successful, I have to be as – as cold and fake as you are? I’m out.’
She instinctively picks up Alice’s jacket – her jacket – then drops it as if it’s diseased. She shakes her head deliriously, the kohl of her stage make-up magnifying her wild eyes.
‘Tomorrow can be my swan song,’ she says sarcastically. ‘Congratulations, Emmy Clooney. You fucking win.’
She opens the door. Alice’s pressed to it on the other side.
‘H-hello darling,’ says Alice.
Mae stares at her for a moment, her shoulders tensing like a cat under attack.
Then she pushes past her and says, ‘You two deserve each other.’
Alice rushes to me. ‘Darling!’
I hold up a hand; I try to push down all the fury, all the confusion and humiliation. My jaw aches.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I ask.
There’s a long silence. Now that I know Alice is the ex who was so awful to Mae, it’s a lot easier to be angry at her.
‘Did you give her this ring too?’
‘You wear it better,’ she says quietly.
I try to pull it off my thumb, but it’s stuck.
‘You lied!’ I say.
‘I just didn’t want to talk about my ex in front of you!’ she wails. ‘That’s normal in a new relationship!’
I hesitate.
‘Yes, I have dated other people before you,’ she says desperately. ‘We’re not all virgins like you!’
My cheeks flush painfully.
‘But Emmeline, I’m with you now. Not Mae, not – not anyone else. I want you to be my everything, my everyone. Tell me what I need to do to make it up to you. I’ll do anything.’
I shake my head uneasily.
‘It – it shouldn’t be like that,’ I say.
She throws herself at my costume boots.
‘Please. I love you. I love you.’
She’s kneeling in front of me, the straps of her dress slipping off her shoulders.
But now I see through the act. Alice doesn’t love me – she loves Mae. To be fair, I understand that perfectly.
I feel a tiny glimmer of sympathy for Alice. Sure, it doesn’t feel great to be a poor replacement, but I know all too well how losing Mae could lead to despair.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, offering my hand to help her up. ‘I can’t be her.’
‘I don’t want you to be her!’ she says. ‘Look, let’s just start this all again. I’ll post this nice review of you, then we’ll go back to mine and I’ll wear the lingerie you got me, and in the morning I’ll make you bacon pancakes, and—’
I have never bought anyone lingerie (including myself), but it’s the last one which gets me.
‘Alice, again, I’m vegan!’
As I see Alice’s certainty crack, I realise something.
‘And so is Mae…’
And that’s when I remember the waiter in the restaurant, Sammy. How Alice shook when she said they’d been engaged.
Just as I think of it, Alice breaks down. And this time, it’s real. She claws at her throat, her hair uncoils from her tight plaits, and tears stream through her mascara.
‘I try so hard,’ she wails. ‘Every time I think finally, here’s the right person for me, she’s the one. But it’s never the same. They’re never her.’ She thumps at the floor with her fist. ‘Why didn’t she want me anymore? Why did she leave?’
So Alice wasn’t in love with Mae after all. We were both rebounds. Alice wanted us both to play the role of someone who broke her heart years ago.
Her ring slides off easily now. As I hand it back to Alice, her fingers snap shut around it like Golem.
‘I’m sorry you’ve been hurt,’ I say. ‘Honestly, I am. But all you’re doing at the moment is perpetuating the cycle.’
I remember how Mae spoke about her ex and rage flares in me. Knowing her experience makes me see my whole relationship with Alice in a new light. I take a deep breath.
‘I don’t know if you’re doing it consciously or unconsciously, but I know you really messed with Mae’s head. And… You really messed with mine too.’
Alice goes very still, staring at the ring in her hands. I swallow hard.
‘I thought it was my fault,’ I say. ‘But… You said Mae was manipulative. You said she was a liar, who overpromises and love-bombs… Alice, those are all things you did to me.’
Alice still doesn’t look up at me. I shuffle and offer my hand to help her up.
‘I know I am absolutely not a relationship expert,’ I say awkwardly, ‘but I… I really think you should talk to someone who is. Someone who can help you. Someone who can make sure you don’t repeat this again. For your sake, but also for your date’s.’
Alice looks at my hand, then stands without it.
‘You bitch,’ she spits. ‘You bitch! Of everyone I’ve ever dated, you are the worst. You don’t have the best looks, you don’t have the best charm, you don’t have the best success. You’re a failure. You don’t even deserve to get compared to them.’
For a moment, I falter, feeling as if the world’s been tipped onto its axis. But then a voice in my head, one that sounds like Mae, says, ‘Wow, she really is a critic.’
And the world rights itself again. Much as it makes me miss Mae, it also makes me laugh. Alice gawks at me.
‘You’re right,’ I shrug. ‘There’s really no comparison.’
I go and open the door for her, like a gentleman.
‘So maybe we shouldn’t be compared at all,’ I say. ‘Goodbye, Alice.’
48
The foyer is still busy. The audience cluster round the other members of the cast, now changed out of their costumes (though they’ve ‘accidentally’ kept their flattering stage make-up on). I wonder how many people are here to support Mae? The room’s more hushed than you’d expect on opening night, especially as half of them have clearly come after the Pride parade, dressed in rainbow glitter and leather. My awful performance has clearly ruined the vibe.
I wonder if I should interrupt the cast’s evening to apologise. But what would I say? I let my personal life affect my performance – our performance – and that’s unforgivable. I’ve destroyed any hopes I had of us staying friends after it ends. I’m far too ashamed to talk to any of them.
I do search for Francis, but can’t find him. Mae is nowhere to be found either. And still no sign of Thalia.
I keep my head down as I pass through the red-carpeted foyer to the smoking area. The ghosts of mine and Thalia’s drama school days are still here, but tonight they feel less… haunting.
Still, I pause before opening the smoking area doors, getting déjà vu about seeing her after her show those few months ago. How achingly I wanted her to be there then, for her to finally see me again, for us to be reunited. I remember her pink smoke at our corner table, her gap-toothed smile… And I remember her there a year ago, at our graduation, pouring champagne. I said I had something I needed to tell her. She said she did too. My heart pounded as I said she should go first. Excitedly, she told me about her offer of a life-changing role. So I never told her how I felt about her. Would it have made a difference?
I’ve been thinking about June 29th for literally a year. How many hours did I spend planning alternative conversations, trying to script exactly the right combination of words to try to get some reassurance, explanation, apology, closure? But now it’s actually happening…
I know before I open the doors that she won’t be there.
The smoking area is empty.
I sit down at our table and open up my one-sided WhatsApp with her. She’s online.
I message her.
Hey T, I’m at our table at Boards… are you joining?
The tick shows that she’s seen my message.
She’s typing.
Then she’s not typing anymore.
The minutes tick by. A couple of people come and go. Someone even has a pink e-cigarette. But none of them are my old best friend.
Flicks fall on my cheeks, as if the sky isn’t sure whether to rain or not. I start shivering and pull Mae’s green denim jacket tightly round me.
I message again. Just let me know?
As I sit there, watching some theatre lovers laughing and gossiping, I consider what would happen next, in the official script of my life. Would it pour with rain, allowing me to finally cry over Thalia, who would then appear from the clouds and say she misses me too, but [insert twist here that explains why she ghosted me and leaves everyone feeling good about themselves, e.g., she officially comes out as straight]? Or would I send her some angry and poignant voicemail which somehow also redeems me with Mae?
In the Hollywood version, my character probably wouldn’t just sit here, teeth chattering in the drizzle. But alas, that’s what I do.
After a bleak hour, I accept that Thalia isn’t coming. Once again, she has disappeared and, once again, I will never know the reason why.
I look at the setting sun, the blue turning into gold, and I think… Really, what have I lost? How much of what I cried over was really missing Thalia as a person? How much of it was just the pain of rejection and wounded pride, the relentless torture of trying to solve what’s going on in someone else’s mind? How much of that pain wasn’t really about Thalia at all, but about it making me feel inadequate?
So I imagine, instead, some tentatively optimistic guitar starting to strum. A rainbow would appear through the rain, as my voiceover says: Sometimes, you don’t get to have your poignant closure scene. Sometimes things just change, no matter how much you don’t want them to. One day, you have to accept that if you’re not in their life anymore, maybe they shouldn’t be in yours either. Because sometimes people leave, and maybe, just sometimes, that’s OK.
Then the guitar would reach its chorus, as I say: But some people… Some people never really left.
The camera zooms to the rainbow reflected in my eyes, and then me looking down at my phone, as I close the conversation with Thalia and instead open the number of the person I most want to speak to.
There’s a glorious key change as, for the first time in ten years, I dial my mum’s number.
And she picks up.
The fantasy shatters, the rainbow disappears, and I realise what the hell I’m doing. I immediately cancel the call.
Breathing hard, I close my eyes and consider the practicalities of starting a new life in a distant cave. But then she’s calling me back. I swallow, and accept it.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Oh! Oh! Hi! Emmy? Are you really there?’
Her voice suddenly rises. ‘Is everything all right? Do you need me to—’
‘Everything’s OK, Mum,’ I say, my voice thick. ‘I’m fine, I’m safe, I’m just at the theatre.’ I sigh. ‘I-I’m sorry to ring out of the blue like this.’
She pauses.
‘My love, you can call me whenever you want. Day or night.’
For a moment, all I can hear down her line is some dogs yapping and a big pig snorting.
‘Is this about the… talk you had with your father?’
‘I… Kind of. Not just that, but…’
I don’t plan to say this. But what slips out is, ‘Mum? Why did you leave Dad?’
There’s another pause, broken by disgruntled grunting.
‘But darling, I didn’t leave your father.’
‘I’m… pretty sure you did.’
Mum barks with laughter, then coughs and stops herself.
‘You want the full story? Well, let me see. Your father and I had been stepping out for about a year when I became pregnant. I wanted to keep you, and was happy to raise you alone, but Julius wanted to be involved as much as I’d let him. So he proposed.’
