My Own Worst Enemy, page 8
Mae raises her eyebrow.
The person who called us over introduces himself as Robbie.
‘I’m the intimacy coordinator, here to ensure that filming scenes of a sexual nature are done in a way that’s comfortable for all involved.’
I learnt about intimacy coordinators at drama school, but I’ve never been involved in a project that needed one before. It adds a feeling of legal formality, like a wedding contract. Porridge writhes in my stomach.
‘Now’ – he checks his notebook – ‘there isn’t any specific act required for you guys. You don’t need to touch any particular parts of each other’s bodies, over or under clothing, and there’s no contracted nudity.’
Mae starts to laugh.
‘I didn’t realise the Lesbians were hooking up. I’d have worn my best underwear.’
My mind, unbidden, flashes with images of what might constitute Mae’s best underwear. Calvin Klein boxers and sports bras like me, or pink lace and—
‘That won’t be necessary,’ says Robbie, unphased. ‘What are you comfortable repeating in multiple takes?’
‘Oh, I’m up for anything,’ says Mae, chirpily. ‘Tongues, dry humping, full-on intercourse.’ There’s a wild tone in her voice now. ‘Apparently I just broke up with my “girlfriend”, so I should take any action I can get!’
I glance at her in surprise. I can’t imagine Mae being anything other than an impeccable girlfriend. Not to my personal taste, obviously, but—
‘Emmy?’ asks Robbie. ‘What about you?’
I blink, still staring at Mae’s profile. Now I’m noticing her red-rimmed eyes and pink-tipped nose… She looks back at me, no longer joking. I suddenly realise that Mae has a whole life outside of our rivalry that I know nothing about and for some reason that makes me feel… ill.
‘Number Two?’
I know I’ve frozen, but the more I think about it the more stuck I become. Who was her girlfriend? The girl at the party? Or someone else even more talented and beautiful? This whole time me and Mae have been texting, trash-talking, competing, she’s been holding hands with someone. Did they ever laugh about me? Is Mae heart-broken? Was she in love with her?
Behind Robbie I see the director having a hurried conversation with technicians, wiping sweat from their brows. Amber Lenowitz is in her newly touched-up hair, waiting for the command to have a choreographed manic hallucination.
This is a professional television set, with hundreds of people involved in creating a take, and I’m just one tiny part of the machine, my job simply to kiss someone in the background. But I can’t do it, just because of some weird thought I’ve had about my co-star. Oh my God, I’m clearly not cut out to be a professional actor after all.
‘Actually,’ says Mae suddenly, ‘I just remembered. I have a cold sore. Many cold sores, actually. Really nasty. We absolutely should not kiss.’ She laughs self-deprecatingly. ‘Sorry.’
‘Oh, wow,’ says Robbie, veering back, then remembering himself. ‘Don’t worry, this happens all the time.’
I start to unfreeze. I glance at Mae’s mouth. I can’t see any cold sores. But if she doesn’t have one, then why would she…
My cheeks burn. She must have been so horrified at the thought of kissing me – even stage kissing me – that she would rather humiliate herself on a professional set than come too close.
‘In that case, Lesbian Number – sorry – Mae, you hold Emmy’s face in your hands, Emmy, you hold Mae’s waist. Then after Emmy says her line, go back to stroking each other.’
Mae nods. After a moment, I do too.
‘So,’ says Robbie. ‘Say what you’re going to do?’
‘I’m going to reach my hands out and stroke your cheek,’ says Mae, not meeting my eye.
‘I’m going to hold your waist,’ I say quietly back. ‘Then after I say my line, I’m going to touch your neck.’
There are sounds around us of the scene being ready to roll.
Still not looking at me, Mae tentatively holds her hands out to my face. I take them and place them on either side of my face. Her hands are as cold as my flushed hob rings of cheeks are hot.
‘Happy?’ asks Robbie. We both nod, infinitesimally. ‘Lovely, now hold until the take.’
Mae’s hands have warmed now, or maybe my cheeks have cooled. I wonder what she does to get those gentle callouses. My actor’s hands are only ever roughened from script papercuts.
It proves impossible, at this proximity, not to look at her.
I know from endless self-tapes that my eyes are grey-blue, blank, reflective, like a mirror. But hers. Bright cobalt, textured with intricate patterns, irises ringed with gold, swirling with warm, living flames. Hers contain a universe.
Now, though, I also see the still-lingering redness of her blood vessels, the wetness of her eyes, the new swollen bags under them. Mae’s girlfriend – ex-girlfriend – must have hurt her badly to make her cry this much.
The thought of it makes some vengeful demon inside of me rise with sudden and wild violence. I’m Mae’s enemy. Only I’m allowed to make Mae feel bad.
Mae’s still staring back at me, and she asks quietly, ‘Are you OK?’
I just nod, my jaw tight. ‘You?’
She meets my gaze, holds it there steadily.
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I am.’
There’s a tiny bit of tissue caught in her hair. Seeing it there makes my chest ache. Without planning what I’m going to do, I reach for it slowly, and remove it. Touching it releases a waft of citrussy shampoo. Her hair is softer than mine. Superior in every way. But, just this second, I don’t mind.
I suddenly remember that this was not on the approved intimacy list and remove my hand from her hair like it’s electric.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘You had a…’
I show her the tissue to prove my innocence.
She looks at it.
‘Right. Right,’ she says. And then, so softly I’m not sure if I misheard, ‘Thank you.’
There’s a call for silence on set. We hurriedly look away from each other, shake out our arms.
‘Ready for take one,’ calls the director.
We readopt our position, hands on either sides of our faces, and reconnect eye contact.
‘Action.’
In theory, three high school girls sashay down the corridor next to us, passing pills between each other. But I don’t notice it at all. I don’t notice anything except Mae’s face.
It doesn’t feel like looking in a mirror anymore. Now I’m noticing all the things that are different from my own face – the infinite small improvements that build to an almost unrecognisable finished product. It’s like the changes from the base layer of a painting to the one that hangs in a gallery. Mae’s face is the finished draft of mine; hers had feedback from professionals until it was perfectly polished. Sure, at a distance, if you’re squinting and not really paying attention, we look alike. But right now? It’s embarrassing to think I ever compared myself to her.
I’m dimly aware of sounds nearby, someone shouting. Mae’s expression changes from sarcastic to hesitant to… suddenly alert, trying to signal something.
‘Cut!’
That wakes me from my stupor. Rustles of frustration from camera crew and cast.
‘Lesbian Number Two? Where was your line?’
Oh my God.
‘I am – so sorry.’
‘Come on, let’s be professionals here, OK?’ She sighs and shouts, ‘Reset!’
In the next take, I’m so alert and scared of forgetting my cue, I can’t concentrate on anything. Mae’s eyes stare into my own in mutual panic.
When the time comes, I am premature in my shout, cutting off Amber’s cue line before it’s even out of her mouth.
‘Fuck off, Christina!’
In my palms, Mae winces. Even I’m aware I sounded like a pantomime villain.
‘Cut! This is television, Number Two. Do less.’
I nod, swallowing hard. I try to remember my training. I am a canvas for my character. I am a mask. My emotions are not my own. I will not cry.
‘Going again. Lesbians, can you look more natural, please?’
All my planning. All my research. It isn’t working. I’m going to mess it up again and no one can recover from being a tiny extra messing it up a third time. I’ll be axed and I’ll never work again.
A soft touch on my cheek.
‘Come back, Em,’ whispers Mae. ‘It’s OK. Be here. Whatever you’re feeling, that can be what Lesbian Number Two is feeling. Just go with it.’
I should be outraged that Mae is giving me acting lessons. But it feels strangely helpful. What am I feeling? Confused. Frustrated. Ashamed. And something else, something that’s making my whole body hot.
Mae licks her lip. Still no cold sore. The vengeful demon rises. I let my shoulders press into her, put my hand on her lower back and pull her closer towards me.
‘Action.’
I’m half-conscious that I’m acting, and that this is my enemy. But I also know, completely, that this is the most alive I’ve felt in forever.
So when some popular bitch tries to start a fight, I pull Mae protectively out of the way. Her hands slip from my cheeks to round the back of my neck. I look the irrelevant girl up and down, mutter, ‘Fuck off, Christina,’ then turn back to Mae, against the locker under my arm, and dip my mouth down to kiss her neck.
‘Cut.’
I pull away as if electrocuted. The taste of Mae’s citrus perfume is on my tongue. I hold a hand over my mouth, in shock, in horror and to stop it from doing anything else it’s not allowed to.
‘Got there in the end,’ shouts the director. ‘Moving on. Shoot 23E.’
Everyone immediately disperses to set up for the next scene, and I look anywhere but at Mae. She hasn’t moved from leaning against the locker.
What’s wrong with me?
‘That wasn’t very enemies of you,’ says Mae quietly. Her cheeks are flushed. I can still feel the ghost of how they felt in my hands. Her salty neck. I’m so ashamed I want to be vaporised.
‘It wasn’t me, it was my character,’ I say, not meeting her eye. ‘Just doing my job.’
She doesn’t reply for a second.
‘Right,’ she says. She folds her arms and laughs a dark, nasty laugh. ‘Just doing your job. Silly me. Because kissing me would be even worse than losing some stupid rivalry game.’
My chest tightens. Is that what she thinks our careers are? Is my livelihood a joke to her?
‘Jones,’ I say, ‘this isn’t a game.’
‘No,’ she says coldly. ‘You’re right. Games are meant to be fun.’
14
In the living room, Ruth and Raphy are ‘learning from each other’. Ruth is trying to meditate, Raphy is trying to make a LinkedIn page, and I’m trying to do both. Impressively, I’m failing worse than they are.
Ever since the High School shoot I haven’t been able to concentrate. It’s bad. In fact, it’s existential. I haven’t got another acting job lined up, unless you count my full-time commitment to checking if Mae has messaged me.
But when I click the screen on, a different horror awaits. I have a message from my mum. Raphy senses a shift and frowns up at me over his screen. I avoid his eye and open it.
Good afternoon, Emmeline, are you well? I hope you won’t mind, but I saw the update on your agent’s website that you have been cast in a lot of exciting roles recently. I just wanted to let you know we’ll all be watching High School when it’s out, and keeping our eyes peeled for your commercial too. I know how competitive those are, so I hope you’re enjoying celebrating your wins. Hello to you and Pete and Julius from all of us.
And then she sends me a picture of a big pink blur, with wild eyes and gnashing teeth.
The Pig is very proud of you.
I swallow hard and press at my eyes. I’m usually adept at controlling my tear ducts, but Mum’s always had a knack for disrupting that process.
My thumbs hover over replying. I very nearly do. Then I remember myself, shake my head, and close the one-sided conversation.
Instead, I text Dad guiltily, asking for more shifts at Pete’s’zas. He sends a thumbs up and a pizza emoji.
Well, I can tell I won’t be making any progress on my supposed career for the rest of the day. I sigh deeply and open up Instagram.
It starts playing a video at the top of my feed: it’s an animated stage poster from Thalia Brown.
Ruth screams at me for interrupting her peace. I don’t reply. I’m too busy staring at Thalia.
‘Emmy,’ says Raphy, an amount of time later. ‘Are you doing what you want to do with your one wild and precious life?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ I say, zooming in.
Gorgeous, distinctive, inimitable Thalia – her treacle eyes looking straight down the lens, her gap teeth biting her lip indecently. She’s straddling a chair, completely assured, with her legs spread horizontally wide. On her top half, she’s wearing a turtleneck under a blazer; on otherwise bare, long, glossy legs, she’s wearing crisp white boxers. On the waistband is the repeated title of the show: BRIEF.
It’s already got stars from all the right places, a mix of reputable and edgy. The biggest quote is from the notoriously hard to please Alice Sefton at The Atre Online: ‘Thalia Brown is the nation’s new darling.’
Thalia’s caption reads: Lovely Londoners! I am beyond humbled to be bringing my one-woman show BRIEF to my favourite Boards Theatre next week!
My jaw drops. Boards? Our old stomping ground? The last place we saw each other?
I’ve never written a stage play before, but it’s been the most incredible experience to share MY journey in MY words. I’ve never been so candid about something that’s very close to my heart… I would be so grateful if my precious friends – old and new and yet to be made – came to support me. I love you all. Links to buy tickets here x
I read it again and again. ‘Old’ ‘friends’? I know it’s not a message directed at me. But… What if it is? What if she’s trying to reach out? What if there’s some reason she can’t reply to my WhatsApp messages for half a year but she can tell me how much she loves me through the medium of an Instagram caption? Oh my God, what if her play is all about me? Our too brief—
Raphy snatches my phone.
‘Your energy is scaring me,’ says Raphy. ‘You need to purge that website.’
I scream and grab it back from him. What if he liked the photo or somehow revealed my obsession to the world! Or saw that I was on forbidden Thalia’s page! It took Ruth and Raphy long enough to persuade me that what Thalia had done was ghost me, and that was a really shitty thing, and not a sign of a good ongoing friendship. They wouldn’t understand. I never admitted that our bond had been more than just a friendship. For me, at least.
I scuttle to my bedroom and hide under my blanket to study her poster in more detail. The light from the screen glares directly into my brain. But the poster of Thalia has been replaced – replaced with a photo of Mae. A selfie of Mae, with Amber Lenowitz.
Oh fresh Hell! Mae has her arm around Amber, who is gazing adoringly at her. Mae is looking gloatingly at the camera, as if the photo is just for me.
Can’t wait to take a lot of (definitely not real) drugs with this one! ;)
It has hundreds of likes, including several verified accounts of idols I follow: Emma Watson, Jordan Peele, and Annabel Finch. My heart throbs in jealousy. How is she this well-connected?
I’m astonished to see that Annabel Finch has also commented underneath.
Look at you two! So at home on set. Can’t wait to hear all about it xx
Hang on. Have I just gone fully mad in my paranoia, or is there something about that message that doesn’t sound like an actress complimenting a colleague? It sounds almost like…
The blanket falls from my shoulders. I look up from my desk at my poster of Annabel Finch. She smiles warmly back at me, with her supernaturally bright blue eyes, round dimples, and charismatic energy.
I look at Mae’s headshot, which I printed out and stuck up above my bed with drawing pins in her eyes.
I slowly unpin Mae, and hold it next to Annabel.
I gasp and drop them.
Mae’s unusual accent. Her stage name. Her weirdness when I mentioned Annabel at the party, and her prodigal familiarity with the industry and high-profile contacts despite having only worked as an actor for months.
With trembling fingers, I check Annabel Finch’s Wikipedia page, scrolling to the section I never usually bother with: Personal Life.
Annabel Finch has two daughters: Avril and… Mae.
For a moment I just stare at the posters of them both. Then I rip up Mae’s headshot into tiny pieces and scream.
‘I HATE HER!’
The world is red as I pick my phone up and, pulse in my ears, furiously type a message.
@StanislavskyDevotee100: I know your secret
Mae sees the message instantly.
@TheRealMaeJones: oh yeah? which one?
I jab each letter out hard.
Your mum
This time, the typing dots pause, then:
isn’t that insult a bit pre-pubescent even for you?
And I say:
I’m not playing
I know the identity of your celebrity actress mother
I know that you are a nepotism baby
I know that any success you have or have not secured in this industry is as a result of your family and your networking, not your own talent
I watch the screen triumphantly.
Then, to my astonishment and alarm, I see that Mae is calling me. I didn’t know you could even do that on Instagram. Like a bomb disposal unit, I carefully but quickly press the cancel button. She must have pressed it accidentally and be just as horrified as I am.
But then she calls again.
I let it ring out.
clooney i will not stop ringing until you pick up
I look around me, as if she might have cameras in my room. I do a power pose, check my door is shut, and pick it up, leaving the video off.
Then Mae’s voice is in my ear. ‘What do you want from me, Clooney?’
