Art Ache Read online

  Concentrate, Persephone. Concentrate. Forget about the deal. Stay on task. You can still do this. You may have just been dumped but you are going to work with this man whether he likes it or not, whether you like it or not. National unemployment rates for artists are at a record high, so you’re lucky to have been offered a paying job in the theatre. You are not about to sacrifice it for the prematurely bald prick who just stood in front of you and told you that you don’t do it for him anymore.

  I suddenly feel like William Wallace. You may take my marriage, but not my . . . livelihood! I am strong. I am invincible. Oh God, now I’m quoting Helen Reddy songs. I’m a loser. But I’m a loser who is going through with the contract, no matter what.

  I’m about to reach out and pull his designer jeans so far up his arse they will give him a permanent wedgie when, saved by the bell, our baby wakes up. My baby wakes up. Okay, he’s a little boy.

  HIM

  I’d better get going. I just wanted you to know before you found out from somebody else.

  The tears are stinging my eyes. I’m pleading with them not to flow. Cry later. But the lump in my throat is so huge it’s hurting and when I speak, I sound like a chipmunk.

  ME

  Other people know?

  HIM

  Probably, but it’s not common knowledge. I want to wait until next year’s theatre season is announced before I broadcast it. Don’t want people thinking we can’t work together. Might jeopardise some work opportunities.

  This isn’t fair. I want off this rollercoaster. I demand my money back!

  HIM

  Say hello to the little fella for me, will you? I’ll be staying at my mother’s.

  ME

  Don’t you want to say hello to him yourself? Don’t we have to tell him . . . the news?

  I see a moment of humanity in his eyes. He’s caught out. He’d forgotten someone would actually have to tell Jack.

  HIM

  You’re good at that sort of thing, Pers. Maybe you could tell him.

  His voice breaks. And with that, he’s gone. The door closes behind him.

  Nora’s door slam may have resonated throughout Europe when Ibsen’s A Doll’s House premiered in Norway in 1879, heralding a significant moment in the women’s movement but right now, I reckon my silky oak replica with stained glass kookaburra inlay could give her a run for her Norwegian krone. Only it wasn’t a slam, it was more a casual closing. But it’s also heralding some kind of women’s movement. A reverse women’s movement. I now epitomise female suffering, not suffrage. I have come face to face with my use-by date. I have been chewed up and spat out.

  Chapter 2

  The kitchen. A few minutes later.

  “A community is like a ship; everyone ought to be prepared to take the helm.” Henrik Ibsen, Norwegian playwright.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You can’t cry over someone who doesn’t even love you. Who are you if you let that happen? He may have just humiliated you, but crying over him takes humiliation to a whole new level. You don’t need to explore those depths right now, just focus on what has to be done. Stay positive. Look on the bright side. Think of how lucky you are. There are people in the world without arms and legs—you’re doing okay. It’s not the end of the world, Persephone. At least he’s told the truth. And the truth has a power all of its own. It’s kind of a relief in a way. You can’t argue with someone whose mind is so firmly made up; you can just accept it. So get on with life. Do what needs to be done. Lunch, that’s what needs to be done. Feed Jack. Hold onto something. A spoon will do.

  I scoop the food into Jack’s mouth. He’s perfectly capable of doing it himself, but I need to hold onto something.

  JACK

  I can do it, Mummy.

  ME

  I’ll do it today, Jack.

  JACK

  Okay.

  He chews and gulps it down. Healthy appetite, this kid. Another scoop. Don’t cry. Focus on what you’re doing. Another scoop. Another scoop.

  Breathe. Think of something else. Damn those tears, they’re starting to fall. Breathe. Think of Jack.

  He’s advanced, Jack. I’m sure he is. I’m not talking child prodigy . . . well, maybe I am, but he’s definitely advanced, perhaps borderline gifted. Okay, maybe not borderline gifted, but he is kicking some serious goals in the development stakes. For instance, he definitely knows I don’t have something in my eye when I use that as an excuse to cover up the fact I’m actually bawling my eyes out. The tears have a mind of their own and are now spilling down my face.

  ME

  I think it’s dirt, Jacky. Just dirt. Come on, let’s finish lunch so we can get to the park.

  I’m gulping back the tears and trying to stifle the sobs. Tears are one thing, but sobbing? Come on, Persephone. Be strong.

  JACK

  Why are you sad, Mummy?

  ME

  I’m . . . not . . . sad, I’m . . . just . . . you’re right, it’s not dirt, I think it’s a bug in my eye.

  JACK

  Bugs make you sick in your belly. Mummy’s crying ‘cause she’s sad.

  See? He’s gifted. So sensitive. His empathy is off the charts.

  ME

  Race into the bathroom, sweetie, wash your hands and then I’ll take you to the park.

  JACK

  Yay! The park!

  He stops in his tracks.

  JACK

  I need to do a poo!

  ME

  Off you go. I’ll help you in a minute.

  JACK

  I can do it all by myself. I’m a big boy.

  He strides down the hall to the toilet, full of confidence and excitement about his impending excrement. Ah, if only life could remain that simple.

  I take his bowl of pasta to the sink. There’s only one piece of ravioli left. I really should put it in the compost, but I can’t be bothered. Add it to the list of things I can’t seem to get right. I scrape the solo piece of ravioli into the bin, gulp back tears and snort back snot. Get it together, Persephone. Take your son to the park and get it together. Cry later. Right now, you need to get on with your life. Make arrangements . . .

  But before I know it, my face has contorted into a mask similar to Edvard Munch’s, The Scream. All silent, open-mouthed, private anguish and despair. And to complete the picture, my hands have flown up to either side of my face. Tears and sobs have escalated and huge, convulsing gulps are heaving out of my mouth as I slide down the kitchen cupboard door and onto the floor.

  Why is this happening to me? I ask as I rock back and forth in despair. We were a pair. A twosome. An us. A we. We were happy . . . weren’t we?

  In the beginning, yes. When we met fifteen years ago at Uni, we were happy. I’d already done my undergraduate degree in drama straight from high school. I was going to be the next Judy Davis. Then, after a handful of Theatre-In-Education tours, way too many profit-share shows and about three million disheartening and humiliating auditions, I decided to go back to Uni. The unemployed actor lying on the couch waiting for the phone to ring was never a role that sat comfortably with me. So I signed up for my postgraduate year. I’d still be able to do plays around the study and it would give me something to do instead of waiting for that phone to magically ding-a-ling-ling. In actual fact, I was thrilled to be in an environment where it didn’t matter how tall I was, how old I was, how big my boobs were or if my teeth were straight. It gave me a bit of distance from the demanding, harsh reality of being an actor trying to survive in the world of theatre, with the occasional screen test for ads or bit parts in movies or TV series. It was during this year of study that I met my soon-to-be ex-husband. I really should give the bastard a name. I’ll call him Boofhead.

  Boofhead was standing o
n a walkway waiting for our tutorial to start. I was standing nearby, bum-puffing my Kent cigarette and wondering what the hell I was doing at university with a bunch of squares instead of collecting an AFI Award (or whatever they’re called now). Boofhead wandered over to me and struck up a conversation. He was cute with a handsome, chiselled face; the type of face that always looked handsome and chiselled, like those girls who always look pretty. I hate those girls. I look pretty after about forty-five minutes carefully applying make-up to make me look like I’m not wearing any. And if the light’s good, if my hair’s obeying, if my hormones aren’t going mad and giving me adult acne or blotches, then I can look borderline pretty . . . until about 11am. Then it gets too humid, my make-up melts, and I look like a raccoon with a rash.

  But Boofhead was cute. And friendly. And interesting. The ponytail should have been a dead giveaway. But no, I fell for the flannelette shirt, tea tree oil deodorant, and the herbally shampooed, naturally blond ponytail. We flirted and chatted, and we liked each other. It was an idyllic time. We did laps at the inner city baths, sat down at the Comedy Club to take in a stand-up comedian, saw two movies in a row at the cute, suburban cinema and studied like mad to finish our respective postgraduate theses.

  But that was then, and this is now. In between were the thousands cuts of a relationship. Good times, not so good times, and a gradual wearing away of that initial connection. The slow dawning that maybe you’re not meant to be together forever, offset by the commitment to see it through no matter what. He obviously didn’t think that way, even though he appeared to be going along with it. A willing participant. But not anymore. He just stood in our (soon-to-be my) semi-renovated suburban cottage and told me it’s over, or rather he’s over. Me.

  Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t completely out of the blue. About three months ago I saw a counsellor, suspecting I might be suffering from a lesser known, delayed form of postnatal depression. I’d fallen flat. I felt isolated and alone. I couldn’t seem to get happy about anything. I didn’t tell anyone I was seeing a counsellor. Not Mum. Not dad. Not my sister. Certainly not Boofhead. I just wanted to see what was going on for me.

  I found it quite confronting. Sitting in the counsellor’s outside courtyard, decked out with mini-Buddhas, ‘You Can Heal Your Life’ affirmation cards artfully displayed on the table and the heady scent of patchouli oil. I wanted to flee. And then she arrived, floating out the door of her home office.

  MARJORY

  Hi. I’m Marjory. Marjory Worth.

  ME

  Good name for a therapist. Kind of like a constant affirmation.

  MARJORY

  Sorry?

  ME

  Worth.

  MARJORY

  That’s my surname, yes.

  ME

  As in, ‘you have worth.’ Isn’t that what therapy’s all about?

  MARJORY

  Let’s find out. Come on in. It’s Persephone, isn’t it?

  ME

  Yes, unfortunately.

  MARJORY

  You don’t like your name?

  Of course I don’t like my name. Who would? I figure that’s a bit too much information for our first meeting. Instead, I just smile.

  ME

  It’s fine.

  She narrows her eyes, really taking me in. She looks at me as if she knows the truth. I don’t know what she knows the truth about exactly, but she knows it anyway.

  MARJORY

  Come in.

  She’s onto me faster than I can say “Carl Jung” or “Sigmund Freud.” Off to a rollicking start. I follow her into an essential oil scented room. It smells divine, but even the heavenly aroma can’t lift the feeling of guilt and ridiculousness I’m carrying because I don’t like my name. I feel chastised, which is crazy. I’m a grown woman. I’m allowed to not like my own name. It’s all right for someone with a perfectly reasonable name like Marjory to point the finger or, more specifically, give me the evil eye because I have a ridiculous name. It’s like beautiful women saying ordinary women shouldn’t have plastic surgery. How the hell would they know? Leave the less fortunate alone, thanks. If a bit of Botox or monkey gut, or whatever it is doctors inject into their faces, makes them feel less Plain Jane and more Slightly Above Average Jane, then good luck to them. How the hell would lavender-scented Marjory know what it’s like to have a ridiculous name?

  MARJORY

  Take a seat.

  I’m jolted back to the reality of visiting a counsellor because I suspect I have delayed postnatal depression.

  ME

  Over here?

  MARJORY

  Wherever you feel most comfortable.

  Ah, this way goes the game.

  ME

  Look, I’ve/

  MARJORY

  /never done this before?

  ME

  That’s right/

  MARJORY

  /why are you here?

  We’re cutting each other off. This is like a David Mamet script or maybe Caryl Churchill; cut-off lines represented by a ‘/’.

  ME

  Um . . . I’m just . . . um/

  MARJORY

  /Go on.

  ME

  /I don’t know . . . I just feel . . . um . . . lost . . . yeah . . . a bit . . . lost . . . /

  MARJORY

  /That isn’t a feeling. What do you feel?

  I pause. I really need to think about this. To be specific. Actors don’t usually focus so much on what the character is feeling, they’re usually more concerned with what the character is doing. You take the character’s feelings into consideration, of course, but you can’t really “play” a feeling. You can “play” a doing. A verb. An action. Actors tend to look for the verb, the doing not the noun, the naming. She’s thrown me with the feeling question but then again, I’m not a character in a play now, I’m myself and I need to get in touch with what it is I’m feeling.

  ME

  Not much. That’s the problem. Flat. Different. Not like I normally feel.

  MARJORY

  That’s not a feeling either.

  I take a big pause here and let my breath drop deep into my body as if I’m in a voice class. Voice training focuses on feelings. At least, the voice training I’ve done. You’re asked to let the breath drop into your body so you can access your feelings and then release them when needed. There was one kooky, gorgeous teacher at Uni who encouraged us to breathe the colour blue through our anus, but that’s certainly not going to work here. I opt for the more conventional route. Through my mouth. As the breath drops in, I connect with my truth.

  ME

  Lonely.

  As soon as I say the word, it rings so true I could pick it up and answer it.

  MARJORY

  Lonely?

  ME

  Yes.

  I’m paranoid now. I think she’s going to tell me that emotion is somehow wrong.

  MARJORY

  What emotion is underneath that? You feel . . .

  I take another deep breath. Another truth pops up. I can barely bring myself to say it, but I know it’s authentic.

  ME

  Sad. I guess.

  MARJORY

  You guess?

  ME

  Sad.

  MARJORY

  Sad.

  She raises one eyebrow. If I were casting someone to play her in a play, I’d have to choose an ice blonde.

  MARJORY

  Elaborate on that.

  ME

  Disappointed. Sad. Lost. Alone. Lonely.

  MARJORY

  Sad.

  ME

  Yes. It’s silly I know because I’m married, I�
�m busy, I have a child . . . but I feel sad. Lonely.

  And then I go for broke. What the hell, just tell her how I really feel. What’s really going on. I think we refer to it as the verisimilitude of the character. Whatever. All this deep breathing has released some deep feelings. Or maybe it’s the essential oils. All I know is that I feel like shit and I tell worthy Marjory all about it.

  ME

  I was walking down the mall the other day on my way to the bank, and I just started crying. For no reason. In public. I don’t think anyone could tell. I was pretty discreet. The tears just fell down my face. I felt alone. I was in a crowd of strangers just going about their business and I was going about my business and I felt/

  MARJORY

  /Alone.

  ME

  Yes. Sad. Overwhelmed. Like there was no future. Nothing.

  MARJORY

  How does your husband feel about this?

  ME

  He works. He’s busy. He’s/

  MARJORY

  /You haven’t told him?

  ME

  No.

  MARJORY

  That’s a concern. Why haven’t you told him?

  ME

  Um . . .

  Oh God, no, I’m going to cry. Not now, not here. But why not here? Here is the perfect place. But it feels so weird, so odd, so new age, so . . . not here, Persephone, not . . .

  MARJORY

  Here.

  She pushes a box of tissues my way.

  ME

  He . . . he’s never home. And he probably wouldn’t care. I try to tell him what it’s like, but . . .