The changing room curtains swish open.
‘Perfect fit,’ says Sadie, the wardrobe supervisor at Peach Promotions, looking me up and down. ‘Could have been made for you.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ I say, the half-smile on my face disintegrating into a look of disgust.
Desperation has led me to join a promotions agency paying £12 an hour.
£12 x 6 hours x 6 days = £300.00 per week approximately after NI and tax. Three weeks and boom, dinner money sorted.
While other women my age are dashing for trains in business suits, lip gloss, and high heels on their wayto important meetings, I have rolled up at Waterloo station this morning dressed as a pineapple to promote a new brand of fruit juice.
I take up position on the concourse, waiting for battle to commence. I peer up at the clock: 7.05. I lower my gaze and wave to the orange and the strawberry, loitering by Lush. There’s an apple reading a newspaper by WHSmith, and I realise things could havebeen much, much worse, as I spy the one in the banana costume pacing up and down outside Accessorize.
God, I hope no one I know passes by.
The station is starting to fill up now. I pick up my tray of Caribbean Crush from the tropical-coloured stand and brace myself.
‘Good morning! I’m Pattie Pineapple. Would you like to taste a glass of Caribbean Crush to set you up for the day? Ithas all the vitamins you need …’
As the rush hour gains momentum, the gentle flow of sedate travellers turns into an ugly stampede. As fast as I can replenish my tray, the samples are snatched by a sea of greedy, clamouring commuters, sprinting full-pelt for ready-to-depart trains.
I soon abandon my carefully learned spiel, realising I might just as well be saying,
Would you like totaste a glass of extra strong laxative? Guaranteed to make you go ten times a day.
The bulbous design of the costume makes me rather unsteady, so when I’m struck by a briefcase at high speed, I topple over, my green-clad legs flailing in the air, Caribbean Crush all over the concourse. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and prepare to be trampled to death. What a way to go, dressed as a pieceof fruit. I’d always had something a little more glamorous in mind.
‘Here, hold on to me,’ comes a deep, cultured voice at my side. My eyes focus on a pair of shiny, black, lace-up, city-slicker shoes, attached to pinstriped legs. The stranger slides his strong hands under my armpits, and I sag against him, knees buckling. Slowly, steadily, I am raised from the ground, like a sunken ship.
‘Are you okay?’ he says, coming round to face me, firmly gripping my shoulders.
My eyes lock into his cobalt blue gaze, heart going pitter-patter, knees about to give way again.
No, I think I may faint. Please take me home with you.
THE TALL, DARK STRANGER SCOOPS PATTIE PINEAPPLE UP IN HIS ARMS AND WHISKS HER AWAY ON THE 0810 TO ASCOT.
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you,’ I mumble, comingto my senses, nails digging into my palms in acute embarrassment.
‘Take care.’ He smiles, handing me my sticky tray. I blush the colour of Caribbean Crush.
‘Thank you, I will. This isn’t my normal job … I don’t usually go around …’
‘Gotta dash,’ he says, stealing a sideways glance at the departure board.
‘ … dressed like this. Bye.’
I bribe the lady who works at the CurrencyExchange kiosk with Caribbean Crush, and she allows me to prop myself up there during busy periods to avoid any further mishaps. I’ve also cunningly hidden the wire to my earphones in my costume, so that I can listen to my lines while handing out samples.
With the temperature dropping as we move into winter, I’m grateful for the switch to playing Mummy Bear in a honey promotion for the finaltwo weeks. The faux fur costume keeps me cosy and warm on that freezing cold concourse, although the papier-mâché head has brought me out in spots.
* * *
I try with all my might to visualise a packed restaurant, a standing ovation, agents vying for my business, but with just one acceptance so far (from Portia, my old drama teacher), my old friend self-doubt has made an unwelcome return.Has all this effort been for nothing? Is it too late to cancel? What if Lionel finds out what I’ve been up to? I could end up with no agent at all.
I ration myself to just two e-mail checks an hour and try to focus on more rehearsal and Christmas.
Mum wasn’t too happy when I told her I can no longer spend New Year in Spain.
