CHAPTER THREE
Looking for Lara
September
IT’S 5.30 A.M.I’M WEARING RUBBER GLOVESand wielding a loo brush. How did my life come to this? I left Amy Air so full of hope and promise, now here I am, not even a year later, with my arm stuck down a toilet. I hate my job, I hate my life, and I hate myself for having got into this mess.
What was I thinking of? I should have carriedon flying; okay, so it wouldn’t have altered the fact that Nigel left me and some other woman stole the life I should have had, but at least I would have been a comfortably off singleton. Thanks to some hare-brained that I could become the next Meryl Streep, I am now an impoverished forty-something without a place to call home, my life packed away in bubble wrap at a warehouse off the M4.
Who needs therapy or self-help books to mend a broken heart? All you need do is follow these three easy steps: a) Give up your well-paid, secure, and interesting job. b) Sell your comfortable home and move into someone’s poky back room, complete with resident psychocat. c) Forgo all luxuries and live from hand to mouth doing menial jobs.
Et voilà!You’ll have so many majorly serious problemsto contend with (like SURVIVAL) that being dumped by your boyfriend will seem a minor blip by comparison.
My positive side tries to persuade me that jobs like this are all good, character-building stuff. Besides, should The Rovers Return or The Queen Vic be casting for a cleaning lady, my hands-on experience may just give me the edge over actresses who’ve never operated a squeezy mop or emptieda Dyson.
Pah! Dream on. It’s time I faced up to the fact that I’ll never make it as an actress. One thing I have learned over the last few months is that acting isn’t just about remembering lines and moves; you have to let go of your inhibitions, be a little bit daring, and take the plunge. Something always holds me back – fear of making an idiot of myself, I guess, and the harder I try, themore awkward and nervous I feel.
‘Stop thinking so much,’ Portia keeps telling me. ‘Thinking about how we sound or look makes us self-conscious. Be brave, go with your instinct, and don’t analyse situations. It destroys the magic.’
I shudder when I think of the huge sacrifice I’ve made – and for what? I squirt another dollop of Toilet Duck and scrub furiously, tears plopping into the bowl.
‘G’day!’
Startled, I wheel around, toppling over onto my bucket of cleaning stuff.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ says the tall, young stranger, crouching down and handing me my grubby J-cloth and can of Mr Muscle. His Pacific-blue eyes hold my gaze.
‘I’m Dean. New night security. I must have been on patrol when you arrived.’
‘Emily,’ I sniffle, proffering a yellow, rubber-glovedhand. ‘The cleaner … in case you were wondering.’
‘Well, Emily, nice to meet you,’ he says, treating me to a dazzling smile. ‘Maybe see you around tomorrow.’ And with that he is gone.
* * *
That evening, as I climb the steps of Dramatic Ar s for the very last time, I stop to admire the full moon.
I close my eyes and centre myself by breathing deeply. Faye believes this is a timefor cleansing, for new beginnings, for emotional and spiritual growth. She told me to make a wish out loud in front of the moon then visualise it coming true.
She also said it’s a time for looking in the mirror and saying nice things to yourself. I draw the line at that one though.
I came to drama school to learn how to make sense of Shakespeare, how to walk in a bustle and corset withoutkeeling over, to flirtatiously flutter a fan, and to move and sing simultaneously without getting breathless. No one warned me that you had to take part in a Jeremy-Kyle-type reality show before you were allowed to pass ‘GO’. If they had, I think I would have stuck to serving chicken and beef at thirty-two thousand feet.
Maybe now it’s time to put stability back into my life. I should forgetmy dream, wake up, and behave like any normal middle-aged woman, by getting a proper job with a pension scheme and Christmas bonus.
* * *
‘You’ve had twenty-four hours to think about this, and now you’re telling me that your motive, the event that’s going to get those anger juices flowing, that’s going tofuelyour performances in time to come, is the fact that you had a puncture, werelate for your first day at work, and your boss was mean to you?’ says Portia, scrutinising me with a look of despair in her kohl-rimmed, piercing green eyes.
Here we go again. I must be some kind of masochist, to have spent the last nine months putting myself through this kind of torture.
I’m realising that the optimist in me has been telling lies – encouraging me to keep on keeping on,because any day now I’ll find the key to that secret door that leads to the actor’s holy grail; that special place that separates the truly talented from the merely mediocre. But let’s be realistic for once: I’m never going to find the key, am I? With no Plan B, where does that leave me? Bitter tears sting my eyes. I swallow hard. God, please don’t let me cry. My toes clench together in my jazzshoes, my face and neck flushing the colour of a strawberry smoothie.
‘Come on, Emily, surely you can do better than that? Haven’t you ever been accused of something unfairly or had your heart broken in two?’
‘Sure, but …’
‘Well then, how did that make you feel?’
