My Own Worst Enemy, page 6
It changed my life. I couldn’t believe that these words – words that, when I studied them in school, were so unfamiliar and difficult I had to pore over footnotes and research their meanings – suddenly made sense. Here, in the mouths of actors, this seemingly foreign, dead language was alive, was mine. These weird old stories felt real. Relatable. Important.
I couldn’t believe a woman could be, not just some man’s lovely princess, but the main character. Here was a woman dressing in a man’s clothes, saying brilliant speeches, getting the audience on her side, and I wanted to be just like her. In hindsight, yes, I probably fell in love with the actress playing Viola as much as I fell in love with the part. She had glimmers of that sparkle which I saw again with Annabel Finch (and, terrifyingly, in Mae Jones).
After the show, swept up in the magic, I forgot I wasn’t allowed to talk to my mum. We raved the whole journey back, about the acting, the story, the set, the direction, trying to remember every detail. We wanted to pinpoint why it was that the actress who played Viola was so captivating, tried out different words to describe it: Stage presence? Charisma? We ended up calling it ‘magnetism’: that hypnotic, liveliness like an electric current that holds your attention; which complements the other actors’ energy too. Mum and I spoke fast, as if trying to squeeze in all the quantity of words we hadn’t said to each other the rest of the week. Then we pulled up to the cottage, and John and Amelia opened the door, and the pets all ran out to greet us. I almost stroked The Pig’s big ears. Then I remembered I was a traitor, and didn’t talk for the rest of the night.
But the next week, Mum bought us two tickets to a musical.
Those weekend shows were how I got my real education in theatre. They were an escape, sure, from feeling like I was always doing something wrong, that I hadn’t found the right words, that it was my fault Mum and Dad didn’t love each other anymore. But getting lost in those shows was also when I felt most myself.
Raphy’s sounds of the sea playlist ends. My memories dissolve back into the present-day room.
I can’t believe I’ve spent a whole afternoon on mystic arts and crafts. The Gods had better bloody show up.
Raphy steps back from my mood board.
‘Did I do it wrong?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s just… Very powerful… Too powerful.’
I hug him and rush to pin it above my bed, over the top of my posters and playscripts. I stare at it, trying to get it into my subconscious, or whatever. I force all thoughts of my mum and her new life out of my mind. That’s pretty easy – I’ve had plenty of practice.
But no matter how hard I try to concentrate on the images of my personal success, my fantasies keep involving Mae. Mae’s gloating face, in an audition room, or behind a camera, or watching from the wings, about to steal the show.
9
Unfortunately, I must be amazing at manifesting.
The next week, I get called in for the second round of another play about the AIDS crisis, and in the audition room, Mae’s waiting for me. Smirking.
‘Jones.’
‘Clooney.’
We sit in charged silence. I had planned ten witty put-downs to say to her, but they’ve all gone from my mind.
The three other actors in the room – variations on the ‘adorable twink’ casting type – shuffle their chairs to turn away from us. Clearly the tension between us is putting them off their preparation as much as it’s putting me off mine.
‘You look stupid,’ I say.
To be fair, her jumper is ridiculous. Orange and fuzzy. I don’t know how she could think it’s appropriate.
‘Ouch,’ she says, pretending to be stabbed in the heart. ‘God, and I bet you worked so hard to rehearse that.’
She leans forwards, resting her head on her chin to look at me.
‘So, how’s our rivalry going for you? I haven’t seen you on Broadway yet?’
‘The West End,’ I snap. ‘I’m British, I’d be on the West End.’
Mae grins with the satisfaction of annoying me. One of the boys coughs. I lean forwards to hiss at her privately.
‘How are we supposed to know who is winning the competition when I have no way of knowing what parts you’ve got?’
She shuffles her chair closer.
‘Clooney, have you been Googling me?’
I roll my eyes. What does she take me for?
‘Obviously. Thoroughly. But Mae Jones is nowhere to be found.’
She looks relieved, then cocky. She leans back, tilting her chair onto its back legs.
‘Stage name,’ she says.
I stare at her.
‘You went to the effort of crafting a stage name and the surname you chose for yourself was… Jones?’
She swings on her chair.
‘I don’t need a memorable name to be a memorable person. Having a quirky acting name would be overcompensating, don’t you think?’
I flush. I didn’t choose to have the same name as the awards for excellence in the television industry, nor a surname that links me to one of the most famous actors of our age – although I have wondered in the past if it might work as subliminal messaging for casting agents. Evidently not enough.
Mae rocks back down in satisfaction, stretching her arms above her head.
Above her fluffy sleeves, I notice a small tattoo on her right wrist. I’ve always thought it’s deeply unprofessional for actors to get tattoos – you should be a blank slate for whichever characters you’re going to become. Hers is a navy blue wiggly line that I think for a moment might be an infinity sign, or a clumsy sea lion. But then I realise it’s an ‘&’. I confess, having punctuation embedded into your skin appeals to me, but it doesn’t correspond to my impression of Mae.
‘What’s so special to you about an ampersand?’ I ask.
She glances at her wrist, then at me.
‘I can tell you,’ she says, ‘but I promise you’re going to hate my answer.’
I rear back.
‘Oh God, it’s not some kind of sex thing, is it?’
‘Not exactly.’
Mae looks at her wrist, traces the blue line running over her veins.
‘It’s to remind me to be present in the moment I find myself in,’ she says, ‘and to say yes to whatever life presents to me…’
She looks up at me, her eyes sparkling.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ she says.
I groan. ‘You mean, “Yes, and.”’
We both laugh, then remember who the other is, and abruptly stop.
‘I cannot believe you have an improv tattoo,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘That is officially the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘And you are an expert on sad,’ she agrees.
I give her a sarcastic clap.
‘I bet you don’t have any tattoos,’ she says.
‘Because I’m an uptight loser,’ I nod. ‘Good one.’
‘No, because you’d think it would be unprofessional.’ She sits up rigidly, and does an impression of my RP accent. ‘An actor is not allowed to be an individual, for an actor has the potential to represent every individual. Therefore, the key to a lasting career is to eliminate all trace of your life outside of the stage. An actor should be a blank slate for their characters.’
I blink at her. Then I realise I haven’t replied.
‘I don’t sound like that,’ I mutter.
‘I don’t sound like that,’ she mimics, perfectly.
Mae gets the part.
10
‘Emmeline! You’re not concentrating!’
‘I am, Dad!’
The problem is, I’m concentrating on my audition lines.
Dad’s had to pull me into the staff room to tell me off, which is completely fair. I accidentally gave two tables the wrong pizza orders this evening, including Bert. Despite the fact he’s ordered pepperoni every week for over a decade, I tried to give him a Portobello.
‘Look, in the end, there was no harm done,’ I say, sweating. ‘And now we know for the future that Bert is very, very allergic to mushrooms.’
Dad throws his hands up.
‘Sometimes I think you don’t even care about pizza.’
I gasp. Admitting that I think pizza is merely one of many different kinds of nice food in the world would result in me being disowned.
‘Of course I do, Dad,’ I say with my rehearsed sincerity. ‘And ours is The Best Around.’
He narrows his eyes at me.
‘Emmeline, pizza is more than just bread and tomato sauce.’
‘I know that, Dad. It’s got cheese—’
‘Pizza is important,’ he says, slamming his fist into his palm like the football coach before a big game. ‘Pizza is family. Pizza is history and pizza is modernity. People will always want pizza and pizza will always, always be there for them.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I sigh.
Dad folds his arms and looks back at the restaurant.
‘Go onto napkin duty.’
This is the restaurant equivalent of being put on the naughty step. I bow my head and go behind the counter to fold the napkins into triangles. They’re patterned with pizzas that means when you fold them along the right line they look like an individual slice.
From her front of house chair at the entrance, Carmella sniggers.
But actually, despite the embarrassment, it’s ideal. I’m left alone to mutter lines while I origami.
When I finish a decent size stack, I check my phone. I’ve had a Google alert. I set it to email me whenever there is a mention of ‘Mae Jones’ and apparently there’s a new Instagram account: @therealmaejones. The poor last napkin gets crushed into a tight ball.
Omg hiiIiIii guys!!! reads the first caption. An acting friend said it’s important to be online to tell everyone about all the parts I’m getting, so here I am! I’ll be posting updates NON-STOP. I’m counting on you to tell all your cool creative friends in the acting/casting/producing/directing biz about me. Let’s get all those gorgeous, gorgeous queer characters looking like me!
I hate her. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.
But I also can’t stop staring at the photo of her. It’s a professional headshot, with a plain grey background, like the one I have in mine. But whereas I’m, of course, wearing black, she’s in one of her garish shirts, a beetle green that clashes brilliantly with the intense blue of her eyes. In the first photo, she’s flaunting her trademark ‘cheeky grin’. She looks like an advert for orthodontists. In the second photo, she’s more serious. She’s leaning towards the camera, her lips are just slightly parted, as if she’s about to tell you some incredible gossip.
I zoom in on her face, her horrible, better-than-mine face.
My finger slips. I like the photo.
I scream.
The customers around me look over in alarm.
I hold up a glass.
‘Saved it!’ I laugh, and duck back behind the counter to assess the damage.
Despite only making the account an hour ago, Mae already has nearly a hundred likes. Presumably she did that option to connect the numbers in her contacts, and all her love interests have been quick on the uptake.
She won’t have noticed my like. And besides, it’s for occasions like this that I don’t have my name in my handle. It’s all OK! It’s all OK.
I click through to look at Valerie’s audition list email with renewed desperation.
I had previously crossed through one of them, for a company called ‘Saucy Sausages: a new meat experience’. They’re sausages stuffed with curry sauce. The casting call says they’re looking for ‘a short-haired LGBTQ+ woman to share a sausage with a long-haired LGBTQ+ woman’.
OK, so it’s against my vegan principles. And against my (admittedly low) self-respect. But… It’s good for the CV because it’s prime-time TV viewing. And commercials are usually very well paid. Most importantly, Mae will be going for it, and I refuse to let her beat me over a meat doughnut.
I’ll just have to stay up late tonight to record the self-tapes. I’ll ask Pete if I can take home some veggie sausages to cook as props.
My phone flashes with another notification with @therealmaejones. Surely she can’t have announced a part already?
My stomach plummets. It’s a private message.
@therealmaejones: i thought enemies didn’t ‘like’ each other?
I do now drop the glass.
The restaurant cheers. I lean down to clear up the shattered pieces, trying to laugh along with them. Blood pounds in my ears.
I put the glass in the bin and take a breath before checking my phone again. I must have just been having a waking nightmare.
As I stare at the screen, Mae sends another message.
i know you’re there, clooney
and i know it’s you
who else would be enough of a loser to call themselves StanislavskyDevotee100?
I close my eyes. Damn, damn, damn! Point to Mae.
I press on the bar to reply, then immediately regret it. Will it show her that I’ve seen the message? I can’t have her see the amount of time it would normally take me to craft a comeback. Breathing fast, I type:
Frankly, I’m surprised you know who Stanislavsky is.
Mae types back with no hesitation.
you left his book behind at the tipping the velvet audition
I blink.
well, half of his book
left me on quite the cliffhanger on page 120
I blink harder. Did she really keep it? I respond:
I’m surprised you can read.
And she replies:
i’m surprised you liked my photo
I type I’m surprised I like it so much, then realise that’s just a compliment. I delete it. I bet Mae can’t resist double-messaging.
She can’t.
i bet you prefer the second one
My cheeks heat. I don’t need to click onto the photos for them to appear in my mind. She’s testing me.
I do, actually.
You don’t look as offensively happy.
She replies:
i prefer the second headshot on your spotlight too
I know it’s only out of enemy research, like me, but the thought of her, somewhere else, looking up my acting profile, at the same time as I’m looking at hers, makes me feel light-headed.
you look like you have a slightly smaller stick up your ass
I snort, then stop, as if she can see me. I type:
Thank you for the constructive feedback, which I will be ignoring.
And she comes back with:
so let me check i’ve got this right – rivals can’t text, but they can dm?
I sneer:
You started it, Jones.
She replies:
can’t help but notice you’re not ending it
I stare at her message for a second, the blood deafening in my ears. Then I triumphantly turn my phone off.
I fold the rest of the napkins very fast, forcing myself not to turn it back on.
11
Valerie emails me a few days later. Saucy Sausages liked my self-tape! Or, more likely, they didn’t even watch the self-tape that I spent the early hours of the night rerecording, but I’m the right ‘look’ for them.
Unusually for a commercial, they have hired a space for the actors to come in person for a group chemistry read because they want to ‘ensure maximum sauciness between the talent’.
As I walk up the corporate workspace lobby, I notice my heart is pounding even more than it usually does before an audition. There’s something about anticipating being in proximity to Mae that makes my blood boil, I guess.
We’ve been messaging since the other night, trash-talking and trying to put the other off their preparation. She hasn’t posted about the Saucy Sausages audition on her Instagram, but that could be part of a ruse.
I wonder what colour of stupid shirt she’ll be wearing today? I wonder what kind of smile she’ll use when she insults me.
I look around. Mae’s not here yet. Typical of her.
It’s bizarre, being in casting commercial rooms. Typecasting is far more overt than for theatre, and even more than for TV or film. It’s like walking into a scene from Where’s Wally?. There are five variations on ‘manic pixie dream girl’ type on the seats opposite me, all with pink hair and dungarees. Then on my side, there are two other ‘short-haired butch’ types. Sandy Lopez and I nod at each other. I recognise the other from my late-night competition searching – El Kearns – and mentally scan their show reel. Neither of them are a threat like Mae.
A few minutes later the doors are closed and the director calls us all forward to receive the briefing.
She’s not here. Did she not get through the self-tape round? Does this mean I’ve won? Why doesn’t it feel like that?
‘We’d like to see you interacting with the sausage,’ instructs the director. ‘Our brand is saucy, so we want you to deliver.’
I spent three years of my life at the best drama school in the UK, training in the noble art of acting. And here I am, watching a room full of queer people trying to seduce a sausage on a stick.
Some dance with their sausage. Some whisper sweet nothings. One strokes a finger along its side. Another nuzzles it against their cheek.
I wince at the thought of the fatty oil seeping into their pores.
But hey, it’s easy to judge them. I’m worse. I haven’t moved at all. I can’t lose this part to someone who isn’t even Mae. What would she do right now?
I readjust my stance. Then, sultrily, I drop to the floor. I land on the floor kneeling with my legs wide apart. Holding the fork in two hands, I lick along the full length of the sausage and then, looking right down the lens of the camera, I take a big bite.
OK, I haven’t eaten meat in several years now, but I hadn’t remembered it being so… sawdusty? Triumph flares through my mind: carnivores truly are idiots; even a Linda McCartney’s better than this.
On the other side of the camera, I see the faces of the audition panel. They’re all open-mouthed, watching me. I’m impressing them. Keep going.
I try not to let the disgust show on my face, instead imagining it’s one of Pete’s finest Emmy Special pizzas. I chew slowly and deliberately, questioning what exactly the ‘sauce’ in the centre of these sausages is, because honestly, it tastes like glue.
