Art Ache Page 12
WITCHYPOO
Exactly. Brilliant metaphor.
Long pause. I can’t quite believe what I’ve just heard. I remind myself to breathe.
WITCHYPOO
Oh, by the way, I thought Tom did a brilliant job with what he had.
ME
What?
WITCHYPOO
He really lifted it from the page. Made something out of not much. He really . . .
Treated it like the goat in that play you were talking about.
I can feel tears stinging my eyes and a lump thumping in my throat. I have to get out of here. Don’t cry in front of her. Walk out with some level of self-respect and dignity.
WITCHYPOO
You’ve got to pick up the metaphor and run with it.
ME
I’ve actually got to pick up my son and run with him.
WITCHYPOO
Think about it. And by the way, rehearsal room affairs are never recommended.
ME
What?
WITCHYPOO
He is an undeniably handsome and very talented actor, but he’s out of your league. I’ve heard about the breakdown of your marriage.
ME
Heard? How?
WITCHYPOO
I’m not at liberty to say. It’s probably best for you to take time to heal privately and not let yourself be flattered by handsome actors who will of course be interested in the writer if they think the writer is connected to a theatre company and can give them work.
Heal? Flattered? Privately . . .
WITCHYPOO
Be discreet.
I grab my handbag, head for the door and race down her rickety, industrial stairs, hunting for my mobile phone like a woman possessed. I have to call my sister.
ME
My agent knows about Mr. Gorgeous.
SISTER
Of course she does. I bet everybody does.
ME
No one said anything to me.
SISTER
I’ll bet it was the talk of the dressing room.
ME
So, each time I went in there . . .
SISTER
Yep. You were probably the hot topic, my sweet. How’d the meeting go?
ME
The company’s commissioning me to write another play.
SISTER
That’s great!
ME
But she hated this one. She wanted it to be more like The Goat.
SISTER
That crap show about the guy who fucks a goat?
ME
Yep.
SISTER
But your show’s a sitcom about a dysfunctional family.
ME
Apparently, there’s room in there for a goat.
SISTER
God help us all. What sort of tosser would write a play about some loser fucking a goat?
ME
You’re being simplistic. Edward Albee is a brilliant writer, but The Goat . . . bloody hell. I know all the theory behind it. It’s about desire, the nature of theatre, drawing on images from Dionysian festivals, blah, blah, blah. I get all that. And it’s written by the grandfather of modern American theatre, but . . .
SISTER
It’s essentially about a man who’d rather fuck a goat than his wife!
ME
Pretty much.
SISTER
It’s bad enough that women hardly ever feature in theatre but when they do, they’re being rejected in favour of a fucking cloven-hooved beast. And she wants you to write shit like that?
ME
Apparently.
SISTER
Maybe that’s not what she meant.
ME
That’s what she meant.
SISTER
Are you sure? Is that exactly what she said?
ME
Pretty much. She called it a masterpiece. She used it as a reference point for excellence.
SISTER
Dickhead. Always told you she was a wanker.
ME
Why are you such a retrospective authority on the people in my life?
SISTER
Perspective. I stand back and look. You’re in the cage with them. No perspective.
ME
Great.
SISTER
Look, you did a great job. People loved it. You’ll make more money out of the royalty payments for that one show than you’ve made in your whole theatre career and now you’ve been commissioned to write another one. You’re successful.
ME
God, I can’t stand her.
SISTER
Maybe you should find another agent. It’s probably not healthy to have the same one as your ex-husband anyway. You need distance. Space. Your own identity. You need to run wild in your own paddock for a while. Without any goats. Did you shag the cute actor?
ME
No. But I did kiss him.
SISTER
Bullshit.
ME
I did. Why do you find that so hard to believe?
SISTER
Because nothing is ever straightforward with you. You’re not normal. Normal people break up with their husband, go out, get drunk, shag a cute guy from work and get on with their life. You go into a rehearsal period with your ex, pine over the gorgeous actor in the play like you’re Gidget and then get the shits when your loser agent wants your play to be more like some fucking “masterpiece” about fucking goats for fuck’s sake.
ME
Your language is dreadful.
SISTER
You sound like Mum.
ME
I’ve got to pick Jack up.
SISTER
I want to hear all about the pash.
ME
It wasn’t a pash. It was a peck.
SISTER
See? Nothing is ever straightforward with you.
I hit the end call button and check my watch. Three-twenty. I’ve got a session with Marjory and then I have to be at the childcare centre by five. I’ve dropped Jack’s days back to two now that the play’s finished. I can get some work done on those days and if I need a last minute babysitter, I can ring them and book Jack in for an extra day.
I wait in Marjory’s courtyard, reading the Buddha messages and remembering to breathe. She thinks, in a metaphysical kind of way, that I wanted Tom to leave. Maybe she’s right. I don’t know, but I do know that I feel better each time I’ve seen her. She’s teaching me what putting my lifejacket on means.
My mobile rings and I recognise Boofhead’s number. I answer it, against my better judgment.
BOOFHEAD
I can’t have Jack on Friday.
ME
What?
BOOFHEAD
I’m busy. I’ve got plans.
ME
He was the plan.
BOOFHEAD
Can I do Sunday instead?
ME
A sleepover on a Sunday night?
BOOFHEAD
No, just see him. During the day.
ME
But he’s meant to sleep over.
BOOFHEAD
If you can’t handle having him, I’ll drop him at my mum’s.
ME
Of course I can handle having him. I handle it every day. It’s just that he’ll be disappointed.
BOOFHEAD
Don’t start. Can we change the day or not?
ME
Are you working?
BOOFHEAD
&nb
sp; No.
And now he adopts a too-cool-for-school tone.
BOOFHEAD
I’ve got a commitment.
ME
A date?
Did my voice really come out that loud?
ME
Another one?
BOOFHEAD
Kind of.
ME
Who with?
Why did I say that? I don’t need to know who he’s dating.
BOOFHEAD
Does it matter?
ME
Of course it doesn’t matter. I was just . . .
BOOFHEAD
It’s . . .
He takes his time.
BOOFHEAD
It’s Cynthia.
ME
Cynthia?
Cynthia! The incredibly hot lighting designer? The one with the great face, great job, great friends, cool car, and an endless supply of hot men?
BOOFHEAD
Yeah.
ME
Oh.
Marjory sticks her head out and gestures for me to come in.
BOOFHEAD
So, can we change the day or not?
ME
I’ve got to go.
BOOFHEAD
Can we change it?
ME
Sure.
He’s already hung up. I get up from the teak seat and make my way, zombie-like, through Marjory’s glass door.
MARJORY
Hi. Sorry, I’m running a little late. How are you?
ME
He’s got a girlfriend.
I start to cry. Not delicate little Jane Austen tears trickling down my cheeks but great big, ugly, puffy-eyed, woman betrayed tears. I’m convulsing and can hardly speak. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m supposed to have a quick session with Marjory, who’ll tell me I’m doing well, pick Jack up from childcare, play in the back yard, make dinner, have a bath, put him to bed with some quality, educational, Mem Fox-approved, expressive bedtime reading, and then stay up and learn eight pages about the Satin Bower Bird.
Witchypoo has booked me to play a ranger in an educational video about Bower Birds. That’s fine, the money’s okay, I’m grateful for the work, but in true Witchypoo fashion, she didn’t check if they had a budget for an autocue before she committed me to the job. That’s the computerised screen that sits near the lens of the camera with the script written on it. Needless to say, they don’t. I therefore need to learn eight pages about the Satin Bower Bird off by heart by tomorrow morning. I thought I’d cram it all in tonight, but I hadn’t counted on my ex-husband dropping a clanger that would completely discombobulate me.
Boofhead has a girlfriend. Of course she’s gorgeous, of course she’s successful and of course she has a rack to die for. Surprisingly, she’s isn’t younger than me; she’s actually older. One must be thankful for small mercies. I don’t know why this hurts my feelings so much, but it does. Of course it does. I’ve been dumped. I’ve been left behind. I’ve been rejected and now to add insult to injury, I’ve suffered a fate worse than rejection. I’ve been replaced. It’s one thing to know that you don’t do it for someone anymore, but it’s another to know someone else does.
I’ve got to get it together. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
MARJORY
Let it out. Let it out.
Blubbering. I am blubbering.
ME
I don’t do it for him . . .
MARJORY
I know.
ME
But she does . . . he was my husband . . . I thought that meant something. I thought that . . . I thought it was a permanent arrangement.
MARJORY
You know better than that. You wanted it to be over.
ME
Did I?
MARJORY
On a deep emotional level, yes.
ME
But on an everyday level, no. I miss him.
MARJORY
You think you do.
ME
I do.
MARJORY
You miss the idea of him.
ME
I miss him. It’s a mistake, the whole thing. I should never have given him that stupid ultimatum. I can’t believe you made me do that!
I’m screeching now. Screeching and blubbering. Not a good combination.
MARJORY
I didn’t make you do anything.
ME
You told me to give him an ultimatum.
MARJORY
As an option. Ultimately, it’s up to your own free will.
ME
I don’t have a free will. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.
MARJORY
Grief comes in waves. Three weeks, six weeks, nine weeks and then three months. You’re right on target.
ME
It’s not grief, it’s regret.
MARJORY
Do you mean that?
ME
Yes!
MARJORY
I don’t think you do. Even if you disagree with the concept of the ultimatum, you can’t ignore the result. He didn’t want to be with you.
ME
Maybe he just had his ego bruised because I confronted him. Men hate being told what to do.
MARJORY
Maybe you’re rationalising.
ME
Maybe I’m being honest.
Marjory takes a breath and hands me a box of tissues. She’s used to clients breaking down in her office.
MARJORY
Tell me about her.
I can barely bring myself to speak. If I tell someone about her then she becomes really real. It’s really, super-duper happening.
ME
She’s um . . . she’s . . .
And more tears, great big splashing tears, come galoshing down my cheeks.
MARJORY
Take your time.
ME:
She’s . . . she’s . . .
And now I’m sobbing.
ME
. . . just like me!
MARJORY
Just like you are now? Or just like you used to be?
Of course she’s hit the metaphorical nail right on its metaphorical head. I answer her astute question through a barrage of sobs.
ME
Just . . . like . . . I . . . used . . . to . . . be!
MARJORY
Describe her.
More sobs. Marjory repeats her instruction.
MARJORY
Tell me about her.
Then I take a deep, centring breath.
ME
She’s bright, funny, pretty . . .
Collect your thoughts, Persephone.
ME
Kind of light and carefree. She looks fit. Like she has energy. I’m not fit. I used to be. She’s . . . independent, confident.
MARJORY
And this makes you feel . . .
ME
Like shit!
MARJORY
Could you unpack that statement for me? What do you mean by that?
How the hell do I know? Like shit. Like dog shit, horse shit, human shit, chicken shit. Any type of shit you can think of.
Then it hits me.
ME
Betrayed. It makes me feel betrayed.
MARJORY
By whom?
ME
Him!
MARJORY
In what way?
ME
Well, he’s getting those
things from her instead of helping me find them inside me. Or rekindling them in our relationship.
MARJORY
That’s not his job. The “helping you find it inside yourself” part. The relationship part, yes, but that part, no.
ME
But I helped him.
MARJORY
That was your choice.
ME
That was my interpretation of marriage!
MARJORY
Those qualities you mentioned, the ones she has that you used to have, where did they go?
ME
I don’t know. We got consumed by our careers. Then we had Jack. Tom kept telling me I’d changed. Of course I’d changed. I became a mother . . .
MARJORY
And how did that change things? How are you different now?
ME
I’m . . . tired . . . I’m . . .
MARJORY
Let it out. Let it go. It’s time.
And I let it rip. I cry for Columbine. I fill me up a big old pig’s trough. I cry like a woman who has been betrayed, abandoned and replaced. And Marjory watches. I hate this woman for telling me to give my ex-husband an ultimatum. I hate her for being perceptive about him. I hate her for knowing what was going on for him emotionally when I couldn’t see it. I hate her for being so hard on me, for not letting me off the hook and I tell her. I tell her how much I hate her, how much I hate Witchypoo, Boofhead, Sonya, the hammy actor with the great rack, and Cynthia, the incredibly hot lighting designer who does it for my husband. I tell her I want to be the victim here. I want someone to tell me I’ve been hard done by. But what good would that do? The reality is—it’s over. I have to accept it.
Then I tell her that I like her for forcing me to put my life jacket on. For teaching me to swim. I like her for being her. For being calm, rational, soothing. I like her artificially blonde hair. I like the slight whiff of cigarette smoke on her clothes. I have an image of her sitting on her back step, dragging on a durry before she greets her clients. And she doesn’t bat an eyelid. She just continues with her calm, calm voice.
MARJORY
Let it out. Let it go.
That’s about all she says, but that’s enough.
Then I tell her how much I hate myself. For not being who he wanted me to be, for not being who I wanted me to be. For allowing him to reject me, for allowing me to reject myself. All the tears, all the pain, all the pent up . . . what is it? Loss, I guess. Yes, that’s the word. All the loss. All the hurt, all the anger and sadness and fear and disappointment. It all comes out, streaming down my mascara-stained cheeks and splashing onto her aloe-scented tissues. The tears have moved beyond choking and gagging tears and now they’re sobs, strangling each other as they come out my throat. Snot mingling with tears, tears mingling with mascara. I’ve turned into my mother and I don’t care.