Chapter Five

The next entry in the diary was a series of words:

Padangusthasana

Utkatasana

Garudasana

Utthita Hasta Padangusthasana

I thought perhaps Constance was planning a trip to India and these were the stops en route but Chris disabused me and said they were poses in yoga. There were half a dozen more including  – for the yoga-initiated amongst you -

Astavakrasana

Tittibhasana

Parsva Bakasana

We did a bit of research and found that the first poses were not uncommon, fairly garden-variety postures, but the latter ones were practically impossible, involving gravity-defying leg-extensions, poising on your elbows as your head cranes up at a neck-breaking angle.

If these were contortions Constance Hill was capable of, she’d been spending a lot of time at the gym. Or on the ashram.

Clippings of newspaper reviews were pasted on the heels of the Sanskrit words, names carefully excised, as though protecting an identity:

‘TYPECAST a tapping good time’

‘Tragedian gives musical-comedy star turn’

‘...as Miss Fouquet she stopped the audience in the middle of its rollicking night-out to force us into reflection on the vagaries of love and the unexpected dignity of simply caring for another person..’

‘.. Another Olivier winging her way.’

Four months after the announcement of her husband’s departure, she wrote again.  She used a fountain pen and the hand was alternately orderly and sprawling:

3 May 2010

Well, it hasn’t been as bad as I thought.

I don’t mean that finding out your husband is in love with a woman he met in a pub three years ago and has been corresponding with regularly ever since and has decided to move in with her and her four children is a good  thing. I just mean it’s not as bad as I thought.

And the only explanation that occurs to me, in between the spasms of hysterical sobbing – because, obviously, that has happened – and dreams of flying, deliriously joyful and free – which I’m sure a therapist would find either fascinating or deeply disturbing-  is that I love Malcolm. And I want him to be happy.

I can hardly account for my own maturity. I have never thought of myself as wise. I have wanted to maim and injure producers, writers – this year I spent many happy hours imagining torture for ExAgentJohnWood.  I am hugely impatient with people I care for most - my own mother, wonderful example – I put the phone down on her, screaming. Then need a stiff drink. My mother.  But I have found every moment of trying to act the woman Malcolm wrong’d doesn’t work. It’s as though it’s a role I was just not born to play. I have no other explanation.

I was wildly confused at first and full of questions. I can look back now, four months later, to the night he confessed and realise he was distraught. He sat up with me all night, crying himself. I’d never seen that before.

He’d been unhappy for years.

If anything I feel ashamed. How could I not have seen?

Because I’ve been Constance Hill Famous Actress, that’s how. Then Famous Actress Too Old to Work.

I don’t like to think about it, of course – or, the opposite,  I want to think about it too much. I am filled with an insatiable curiosity to know who she is, what she looks like. I am astonished at the number of progeny she has and Malcolm’s willingness, eagerness, to care for them. This has humbled me as well.

He always wanted children. I never took that seriously.

It’s not serious with men, is it?

Money, power, status. Not important for women. They say.

I’ve been sexist.

He said she’s helped him keep away from gambling. She’s also offered to pay off all his debts, which I’m reeling about. That’s my job.

My month in the country with Fiona was life-saving. Did nothing but yoga and sleep. She fed me and got the children to teach me computer games. Hours of answering the Call of Duty, hundreds of bullets fired into my virtual body. The little blighters beat me every single time.

But they couldn’t do Parsva Bakasana. They took movies on their phones and invited their friends to watch. I’m probably on YouTube.

And now I’m back, rattling round the house that Malcolm has said I can have – he wants nothing, that hurts almost more than anything else - cleaning curtains and bleaching sinks, going through old files, letters, photos. Spring-cleaning my life, looking for clues. How did I get here? Almost 50, single. And in spite of my undoubted triumph and the good fun of Miss Fouquet – unemployed. Again.

But when I’m asleep - full of delirious joy.

As though I’ve been planning this for years.

**

Malcolm and I had lunch today. Our first time alone since he moved out.  I hadn’t been ready. I wanted to be sure I knew what to do with my face.

He walked in and smiled and  I felt watery, porous – as though my insides were melting from one world into another. It wasn’t a bad feeling, it was just disorienting. The last time we had eaten together without being married, I was nineteen.

This felt weirdly like a date.

He came towards me, stood at the table and looked down, an unusual perspective at any time, as I’m four inches taller than he is.

He took my hand and kissed it.

I felt myself starting to cry, I was so moved and he misunderstood, sitting down swiftly and saying

Malcolm:       Connie, Connie, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.

I shook my head, spraying tears over the empty wine glasses. He held my fingers as I fought the lump in my throat and groped for the menu with my other hand.

Con:                Let’s order.

We were neither of us hungry.  Our meal sat picked at, much as it had when we were dating, desperate to get into the back of a cab and kiss until our lips chapped. I watched myself, noting my posture, my tone. ‘This is how one speaks to one’s estranged husband.’ Struggling with huge love as though it were an over-sized suitcase in a small train carriage. Where do you put it?

He shared stories about work. He was precise and intense in detail, not generalising but telling me the reasons for the mergers and who was taking over whom.  As though what he was saying was important. 

He spoke like someone who was used to being listened to.

I never had.

She obviously does.

He sweetly congratulated me on Miss Fouquet, saying he’d read all the reviews. I made him laugh, describing my tap -dancing hysteria, the night of whacking my head against a cast-iron lamp bolted on stage and singing the rest of the scene with blood trickling down my forehead and into my cleavage.

We spent the meal re-writing the show as a Hammer Horror spectacular where Miss Fouquet appears as a zombie intent on eating the boss she loves.

I glanced at him across the table, small and wiry, but looking stronger than when I’d seen him last. Beefier even. I stopped in mid-sentence and blurted

Con:    Are you working out?

He blushed. He shrugged.

Malcolm:       I’ve ignored the gym for 52 years.  It’s back-payment.

We kissed cheeks on the pavement under the restaurant’s green awning, smiling and slightly relieved.   I watched the taxis and cycles swimming by in traffic or stopped at the lights. Malcolm followed my gaze. He made a clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth. He nodded.

Malcolm:       It will be easier next time.

I imagined meeting her.

It was an image too far.

I kissed him again and turned to leave. He reached out, grabbed me and held me to him, fiercely. He felt unfamiliar under my arms, new thickness and breadth to his shoulders.  He pulled away.

Malcolm:       You’re the best wife I’ve ever had.

And in that moment the marriage ended and something else began. A new shelf for the love.

**

I haven’t been answering the phone. Outside of Fiona, there’s no one I want to speak to and she knows better than to call. This afternoon I had the strength to look and noticed that John Wood had left three messages. 

I was sure it was about his play and I haven’t had the heart to say I didn’t think I could do it. Even if he cut all the repetition.

I don’t know if I can ever act again. I don’t know who I am, and you have to know you are an actor, least of all, if you’re going to act.

After three different versions of ‘It’s John, call me’ he said:

John:              Constance, hello, god I fear the worst, you must hate my play, it’s been – well, not that I’m counting but thirteen weeks, and I’m sorry to keep harassing you.

A great lorry heaved by at that point and I couldn’t hear a word but it passed and his voice came through clearly enough for me to understand. And I screamed loudly and listened three times just in case I was imagining or daydreaming or hallucinating but I didn’t seem to be fantasising, he actually said

John:              And they want you. The National Theatre.  It’s Ibsen. (pause) We’re back, sweetheart.

And he cheered.

I don’t know what’s thrilled me more. The National or the sweetheart.

Chapter Four

Chris and I took a break from our marathon read of the diary to search on line for an actress who fit the description of  its author. There was no evidence of anyone in this century of any public importance by that name, only a lay historian who wrote an illustrated guide to Jane Austen, Her Homes and Friends, published 1923.  We admitted defeat and half and hour later returned, armed with more tea -  and the option of brandy -  to what we were now calling The Story of Constance (over the) Hill.

The next entry began in blue ink and the writing was even, almost decorative:

Saturday, 23 January 2010

I love rehearsal. I looovvvvveee rehearsal.  God, I love rehearsal. It’s the joy of the seaside with your best mates in the middle of the summer when you all have ice lollies, that’s rehearsal. And thrilling. Why is making things up so thrilling? I stand on the edge of Miss Fouquet, making her up. It’s erotic, the energy is the same.

We had a great morning. TYPECAST! is a sweet little play, I don’t imagine it will win a Pulitzer Prize but it has heart and it’s snappy and the actors are top drawer.

I burst into tears of joy over tea in the kitchen of the White Star Labour Club and was interrupted by the music director who stopped in the doorway, waiting and watching to see if she should hand me a towel or tip-toe out. I managed to look up and smile.

Con:    I’m sorry. I’m just so happy.

She nodded and made a sympathetic noise. She took the kettle out of my hand, probably saving me a nasty stint in a burn unit, made us both cups of tea and offered me a biscuit. We leaned against the counter, looking into a poster advertising holidays in France, circa 1998.

We ate our HobNobs. Someone somewhere must have published a thesis on the life-enhancing properties of milk chocolate HobNobs. I was in danger of crying again.

She didn’t say anything for a long time.

MD:    We’re bloody lucky to have you, you know.

She didn’t look up from her tea. She seemed shy. I wanted to make a speech, I felt a wild stirring in my chest and if I’d been able I would have turned, taken her by the shoulders and said

“Do you realise what this job has given me? I was mad with doubt and I have been helped out of the morass of my own mind, I love your music, you’re so talented. What colour are your eyes? Green? Brown? You  are adorable, you must have a thousand lovers. Let me embrace you, sister in art, as we sing something uplifting and suitably expressive, maybe Puccini?”

Instead I managed to put my hand on top of her knuckles and squeeze. She made another noise.

It was full of biscuit. And compassion.

**

I didn’t realise I must be doing quite a good job until the day was ending.  I was alone with the director, working on Miss Fouquet’s big confession of love but wasn’t alone as the rest of the cast were all lingering at the edge of the room, watching.

The director is called Peter and is very clever because Miss Fouquet is heart-broken but we’re making her smile and love singing about how heart-broken she is. This is always an excellent choice as an actor. Play tragedy as comedy. Vice versa. I was trying to think of who Miss Fouquet reminded me of.  Gillian, my new friend the music director, had stopped playing piano to make note of an entrance cue and I stood in the middle of the scrubbed and well-worn floor and remembered. I looked at Peter.

Con:    Judy Garland.

Peter:  What’s that?

He is young and fashionably scruffy and although he’s very clever, I wasn’t sure he’d heard of Judy Garland so I explained.

Con:    From the Wizard of Oz and Meet Me In St Louis. A singer. In the 40s.

Peter:  I know who she is, Constance Hill. What about her?

He calls me by both names.  It’s adorable. As though I am an entity.  Or a ship.  

I told him she sings ‘The Man that Got Away’ - the torchiest torch song ever - on the verge of grinning. Full of joy.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his iPadPhoneTunePod, a machine that does everything but rise at Easter it seems and found the clip.   We all gathered around his shoulder for a moment and there she was, overdone, over the top, hopelessly old-fashioned in her manner but completely, undeniably compelling in the sheer juggernaut energy of her performance.

[Chris went on line and found the excerpt.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2h3SjisivsA

‘Very revealing’ she said, cryptically.]

Peter agreed entirely, we found all the places where Miss Fouquet would enjoy how unhappy she was and I did the scene and the song -  and I felt my ribs try to exit my chest in ecstacy as everyone clapped at the end. Even the stage manager.

Malcolm hugged me tonight and told me what a genius I was.  He knows stage managers never applaud.

**

I forgot to say I’ve finished JohnWood’s script.

I took it home with me the night of our drink at the Lamb, a night that finished fifteen minutes after I interpreted his hot, molten gaze as having nothing to do with sex or love but simply about art: he wants to be an artist and he wants my help – a gushing fountain of relief, I can assure you. As soon as that was clear,  I took the script, said goodbye and went home, told Malcolm I was working late, ran upstairs to my cupboard-sized study at the front of the house and read the thing in one sitting.

It’s not bad, it’s got promise, if he can stop saying everything more than once. You know ‘I hate it. I can’t abide it. It’s unbearable.’ ‘I love her. She moves me. I want her.’ Rookie mistake. Easy to fix.

What I am having trouble accommodating is the central character- a woman in her mid-40s whose husband gambled away her fortune, who can no longer find work as a supermodel and who is struggling to make sense of her life.

If you amend the rather shaky premise that a 45-year old model would be surprised to find she’s not being used to sell lip gloss and lingerie, it's an interesting exploration into what it means to age as a woman in 21st century Britain.

That’s not my problem.

This is my problem. From the ‘Cast of Characters’ page:

Dramatis personae

Catherine Dale – 45. Tall and pale as a willow, with dark hair that foams in waves and fingers that are well-manicured but strong. She carries herself with an unmistakable quiet authority of which she has no awareness and that others find intimidating. Her silences are born of shyness but are seen as inscrutable and even, sometimes, cold and unkind. This could not be further from the truth as she is fuelled by a passion for life and a commitment to her work that inspires all those who know her. Women fear her, men want her. She is oblivious to both, only driven to be the best in her field.

I am fascinated to know how one strives to be the best in one’s field as the face of Tesco. Showing up on time would probably be the apex of professionalism. And the dialogue is better than the prose but do you think, dear diary, I am mistaken in believing John Wood has modelled his character on someone we both know and love? Although someone I obviously don't know well enough, unfeeling bee-atch everyone Takes Me To Be.

There’s a scene where Catherine and her assistant, Gregory – Irish, living in London – discuss the morning’s shoot, she despairs about working again and he rubs the back of her neck. It’s virtually wordless, just detailed description of her reaction to his hand on the back of her neck and him pulling her hair away from her face. It’s well done, tense and full of sexual longing.

I don’t think I can look JohnWood in the face again.

Even if I’m wrong, and of course it’s likely I AM wrong and it has nothing to do with how he, an Irishman living in London, feels about me, a married woman looking for work – I don’t THINK I’m wrong. And that will be smeared all over my face the next time we meet.

That may not happen for a

I was reading and showed Chris that the writing changed from its regular, handsome style to a very small, cramped, almost spidery script – one line only in a whole page.

Malcolm is leaving me.

There was no entry for two months.

Just Routine (Colin Firth, the Oscars and a Guy With No Hands)

Chris and I meet every week to discuss the state of the MYPC nation. When she worked at the Beeb they called these regular chats ‘routines’.

‘Not that anything about you or us is routine,’ she assured me as we wound up any other business over lunch in a Notting Hill café last week.  I smiled and nodded but I didn’t need reassuring.

Here is a recreation of one of our weekly conversations.

You tell me how routine it is.

Int. Starbucks. Day

Chris and Stephanie stand in a queue behind builders and beautiful Italian women. Chris points to the fruit bread, nods at the server then turns to Stephanie.

Chris:               Did you teach my children to do shark face?

Steph:              (looking for the ‘skinny’ lemon and poppy seed muffin) Why do they call those muffins ‘skinny’? They are slathered in icing. Icing is nothing but sugar. Which is why I like icing. But I resent eating any food that is described as ‘skinny’. I don’t want anything skinny.

Chris:               Did you teach my children to do shark face? I think I saw them glaring at each other with cold, dead eyes.

Steph:              Pencils can be skinny. That’s fine. A fat pencil is not a good thing. Impossible to hold. But skinny food? That’s insane.

Chris:               I don’t mind, I think it’s hilarious. But it’s going to give them nightmares.

Steph:              Wow. If they give each other nightmares doing shark face, they are doing a really good shark face.

Chris:               (sadly) I can’t do it. I haven’t got the teeth right.

Steph:              The teeth are easy. You’re trying too hard.

They make their way to a table by the window. Stephanie stops.

Steph:              Is this a good idea?

Chris:               What?

Steph:              When you sit at this window you attract death and destruction.  You always see pedestrians being run over by four-wheel drives and wayward delivery vans.

Chris:               (hushed tones) This intersection is lethal.

Steph:              Not when I look at it. You sit here.

They change places.

Chris:               You don’t mind Starbucks?

Steph:              I used to.

Chris:               (apologetic) It’s the chai tea latte.

Steph:              I don’t seem to mind anything anymore.

Chris:               Is that because you’ve lowered your standards and lost your values?

Steph:              I think it’s because you introduced me to chai tea latte.

Chris:               It’s nice to know your price, isn’t it?

[At this point Chris brings out her dedicated Muji notebook with the pretty lime-green cover. I noticed at our last meeting that I have a Pavlovian reaction of pleasure to the sight of that notebook.  I like Christine’s ordered printing, her coloured sticky-arrows indicating outstanding items. The neat crosses and stars.

Don’t mention this to Christine.]

Steph:              Did I tell you Andrew’s favourite moment at the Oscars?

[If you haven’t been standing outside my window every evening since 27^th February to hear my hourly shout of triumph or seen my YOUTUBE TRIBUTE*, you don’t know that my friend and a benefactor of MYPC, Andrew Ruhemann, won a bloody, “*@£!!ing Oscar last month for directing the best animated short, The Lost Thing.  A beautiful, heart-breaking film.]

 Chris considers.

Chris:               Andrew’s best moment. Let’s see. Winning?

Steph:              On the flight back the pilot said ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to announce we have two Oscar winners on the plane.’

Chris:               No!

Steph:              Andrew says Colin seems really nice.

Chris:               Firth! Colin Firth! No way!

Steph:              No stammer.

Chris:               Of course he has no stammer. He just won an Oscar for best actor. If he had a stammer and was playing a character with a stammer he would just win an award for someone with a stammer getting through a great deal of dialogue in a relatively short space of time. No such Oscar.

Steph:              It’s bloody heavy. You’d need a trolley if you won two in one night.

Chris:               Harold Russell.

Steph:              Who?

Chris:               Harold Russell. He won two in one night. One for supporting actor in The Best Years of Our Lives in 1946 and one for bringing hope and courage to others.

Steph:              To other actors?

Chris:               No.

Steph:              Because they could use it.

Chris:               He was a veteran and had his hands blown off and he was in this movie playing a veteran with his hands blown off. So he was bringing hope and courage to other veterans. Without hands.

Steph:              Hang on. He won an Oscar for playing a guy with his hands blown off and his hands really were blown off?

Chris:               Don't go there.

Steph:              Another industry double standard. No such category for people who stammer but ooooohhh, if you’ve got your hands blown off –

Chris:               He won because his acting was good.

Steph:              ‘We at the Academy wholly believed you had no hands. Have an Oscar. Wait – a - minute. YOU HAVE NO HANDS.’

Chris:               He was very brave.

Steph:              It’s sick, really, isn’t it? ‘Let’s give two of these bloody heavy things to a guy with NO HANDS.’

Chris:               What’s on the agenda?

Stephanie consults her notebook. They bring out (skinny) pencils and discuss insurance and director’s liability. Chris indicates the next item and her eyes light up.

Chris:               The bank account!

Steph:              Yes!

Chris:               It’s official.

Chris hands Stephanie an envelope with cheques, paying-in-books and a small electronic device that looks like a miniature calculator.

Steph:              What’s this?

Chris:               That is your secure entry device into our account. Share it with no one.

Steph:              I’d only share it with someone who’d tell me how to use it.

Chris:               Now we have a place for it, the money can come. I want you to memorise these numbers: six five four four three four three seven, zero eight nine two nine nine. 

Steph:              What?

Chris:               If there is ever a pause in conversation ever, with anyone, ever, I want you to whisper these numbers under your breath. Then, by subliminal influence, people will be drawn to those numbers. They will feel attracted to these numbers and want to give to these numbers.

Steph:              These are the numbers of our account.

Chris:               Account and sort code.

Steph;              That’s an excellent idea. (reciting) Six five four four three four three seven, zero eight nine two nine nine

Chris:               (repelled) That’s freakish.

Steph:              It’s working. Someone is coming now, obviously drawn by the power of the account.

A handsome waiter approaches and smiles.

Server:             Your plate? You’re finished?

He leaves with dinnerware. Stephanie winks at Chris.

Steph:              I guess it wasn’t the account that drew him.

Chris:               The cutlery drew him.

Steph:              Did you see the way he smiled?

Chris:               He’s friendly.

Steph:              He would have stopped and chatted if we’d started conversation.

Chris:               He’s paid to be friendly.

Steph:              Don’t worry. At the first pause I’d have said six five four four three four three seven, zero eight nine two nine nine. I’m on the case.

Chris:               (standing) The sun is in my eyes. Let’s swap.

Steph:              (rising) Sure.

Chris:               (turning and looking out the window) Oh my god! Did you see that? The HGV nearly took out a pram! That woman was about to be an ornament on his bonnet.

Steph:              (sitting) I’m sorry, you have to put up with sun.

Chris drops into her original seat. Shading her eyes, she pulls out a folder.

Chris:               Fine. Okay, here’s the clipping, sent to us by our fabulous board member, Richard.

CU: on newspaper clipping.

Steph:              Ah, Board Member Richarrr.

Chris:               You don’t have to call him that.

Steph:              He’s French.  I like to call him that. Richaarrr.

Chris:               Please don’t do that when he’s around. He lives in England. He speaks perfect English. Could we talk about the article, please.

Stephanie reads.

Steph:              Excellent. This is excellent news. Fabulous press.

Chris:               It’s perfect, isn’t it?

Steph:              Ideal. Just what we want.

Chris:               I was thrilled.

Steph:              Ideal!

Chris:               We couldn’t have paid for a better quote.

Steph:              Thank you, Hermione!

Chris:               Such good news.

Stephanie and Chris pause. They glance at each other. Quiet.

Steph:              We’re being a bit insensitive.

Chris:               This is actually very bad news.

Steph:              For Hermione.

Chris:               I wonder what Hermione’s doing right now.

Steph:              Probably reading back issues of The Stage in the Swiss Cottage Library.

Chris:               Watching Inside the Actor’s Studio on YouTube.

Steph:              God, I love that show.

Chris:               It’s an excellent show.

Steph:              Matt Damon is surprisingly erudite.

Chris:               Why are you surprised?

Steph:              I always think of him as that janitor in Good Will Hunting.

Chris:               He played a janitor who was surprisingly erudite.

Steph:              There you go!

Chris:               This isn’t helping Hermione.

Steph:              We are doing our best. How many leading roles for women over 35 exist in the scripts we’re developing at the moment?

Chris counts.

Chris:               Fourteen.

Steph:              How many more is that than you currently see in television drama?

Chris:               Fourteen.

Steph:              It’s a start.

Chris:               Anyway, it doesn’t say she’s unemployed, it just says “the thoughts of women over 40” aren’t represented.

Steph:              That’s what we’re doing. Representing thoughts of women our age. Our preoccupations.

Chris:               Our griefs.

Steph:              Exactly.

Beat.

Chris:               I wish I could do shark face.

Steph:              You need to relax. Allow the aquatic predator within. (beat) I feel a pause coming on.

Chris:               You know what to do.

Steph:              (quietly) Co-operative account number 65443437, sort code 089299.

Deleted scene:

Stephanie finishes whispering just as someone enters the café.  Tailored trousers approach. Chris and Stephanie’s faces brighten as handsome, polished shoes stop beside their table. A golden statue hangs into the shot, gleaming in mid-morning light.

Voice:              Excuse me, I’m so sorry to interrupt you but I wondered if you were Mofardin Young Production Company.

Chris:               Are you Colin Firth?

Voice:              I would love to play opposite a complicated and hilarious 40-something woman in my next film. Or stage play.

Steph:              I’m hilarious.

Chris:               And her filing system is complicated.

Voice:              May I commission you?

Chris:               If I can have your Oscar.

Voice:              What?

Chris:               Hold it, hold your Oscar.

Chris reaches out and the statuette moves into her hands.

Steph:              I just want to say that I would like this to be routine. Every week. (glancing up) Muffin? Col?

Chris:               (weighing the Oscar) And they gave him two. The bastards.

Voice:              Ah, only one. So far.

Steph:              (knowing) I’ll write you another.

A hand reaches down and takes a muffin. The muffin hovers in mid-shot.

Voice:              Is this skinny?

Fade to black and credits.

SPECIAL FEATURES

*Stephanie’s tribute to Andrew Ruhemann , Oscar-winning director of THE LOST THING:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7sDZlse8HQQ

Shark face (note the cold, dead eyes):

Constance (Over The) Hill returns next week.

Chapter Three

 15^th January 2010

I’VE GOT THE JOB!!! I’ve got the job, I’m Miss Fouquet, head of the steno-pool who tries to tap-dance into the heart of her stuffed-shirt employer and it’s Equity minimum wage and I’m thrilled to death and EX-AGENT JOHN WOOD GETS NONE OF IT.

We’ve just had the first read-through. We are on lunch break and I’m writing on my lap instead of talking to people and it’s fantastic, I wish I’d done it years ago. Week one is agony for me, I am cripplingly shy in front of people I don’t know. This seems like an anomaly in an actor but years ago Malcolm accepted it’s not an affectation.  There’s no script to be me.  I stare, dumbly over the coffee urn and wish there was an auto-cue. I watch people who talk to strangers with a scientific fascination. How do they do it?

Case in point. I am listening to a conversation between the very young and pretty blonde lead, Nicola, and her love interest – a dark, brooding, frighteningly-thin young man. I heard his name but I’ve forgotten. Let’s call him Heathcliff. Heath for short.

Heath:             I told him, mate, I’m not paying that. And he said ‘I can make you pay’ and he stood up and he was fucking huge. HUGE. And I thought Jesus, he could stand me on my head and use me to sweep the car park so I said ‘Of course I’m going to pay you. I was joshing.’ I said ‘joshing’. That threw him. And he was, you could see, completely scrambled, because he didn’t want to seem stupid, he looked at me sideways, and I said ‘I’ve checked my wallet, I will retrieve it now’ and  I gave him the thumb’s up, headed to the coat check and legged it.

Nicola:             (laughs)

Heath:             I can hear him, panting behind me, he’s got asthma or something and then there is a bloody great scream and screech of brakes and I think ‘Don’t turn around, don’t turn around’ but I turn around and the bastard has just been hit by a car. And he’s flat out on the pavement and the driver – scarpered. I spent the rest of the night with him in A&E. Best mates now.

Nicola:             Gosh, that’s amazing.

And I think - it’s a good story but it’s just a story, it’s not a conversation.  And Nicola isn’t stupid. She’s a bloody good actor. She’s just got nothing to add. Unless she’s been trying to cheat her drug dealer too. And spending nights in hospital with him.

I’ll make a point of sitting next to her after lunch. We can have nothing to say together.

Oh. Here comes someone. The designer? He’s smiling and looking friendly, wanting a chat. Fuck.

***

Home now. Malcolm is in his study. We had soup for dinner, very companionable. We haven’t had a cross word between us in almost twenty years.  Of course we have no interest in each other’s worlds, I have no idea what he does at the bank all day. And he hated stage management so theatre talk just makes him edgy. We give each other cups of tea and foot rubs and watch DVDs.

I don’t do drama for free, I’ve always said. You have to pay me for that. Home is no place for tragedies.

It’s not that it hasn’t been difficult. After six months of unemployment I stopped talking, stayed awake watching bad television, slept all day. The worst moment was staring out the window in the sitting room, hearing a distant alarm, looking up and seeing Malcolm come downstairs. Going to work.

I hadn’t been to bed.

That seems over, thank god for Miss Fouquet! But maybe it’s never really over.  Maybe unemployment is like malaria – once you’ve had it, it could come back at any time. I ask myself this, but only when I’m alone. Malcolm doesn’t need to see that look on my face.

This afternoon, however, I was considering very different questions and had, I suspect a very different look on my face.

QUESTION NUMBER ONE: Why did Ex Agent John Wood call again, today – the fifth time this week – inviting me for drinks, insisting I have a drink, saying he would hunt me down and force me to have a drink?

NUMBER TWO:       Why did I agree?

We are rehearsing TYPECAST! in a working man’s club off the Seven Sisters Road. Six months ago I would have spent the day weeping in the loo at how far I’ve sunk – from the polished, sprung floor boards of the Royal Shakespeare Company rehearsing at Jerwood Studios, to cracking linoleum stained with weak coffee and a hallway smelling of cheap beer wafting in from the pub. After fourteen months of no work, however – I’ll tour Pinocchio for schools. As the Whale.

We'd finished for the day – we’re going to do music tomorrow, thank God. Everyone is so stressed by having to sing that no one is chatty now and I’ll be able to work right through lunch. I love singing and I haven’t even got much of a voice. People seldom realise that.

I checked my phone as soon as I got out on the pavement. There were two more messages from JohnWood.

It’s tantamount to harassment.

Just to be rid of him, I called back.

Voice:              Wood, Graves and Smart.

Con:                John Wood, please.

Voice:              Constance?

Con:                Yes.

Voice:              It’s Wendell.

Con:                Wendell, why do they have you answering the phones?

Wendell:         Hard times, Constance. Spirit of the Blitz. I’m licking the carpets clean later this afternoon. You’re well shot of us.

Con:                Goodness. Well, lick but don’t swallow.

Wendell:         Always sound advice. Are you ringing for John? I’ll put you through.

I felt an exquisite pang, an unbearable sense of loss – what refugees must feel when they think of their abandoned homes. I had a cartoon heart, elastic and stretched out of my body towards Bloomsbury and the offices in that derelict Regency house. I hadn’t cried in this whole horrible year but I had to sit on a bollard and swallow what felt like my tonsils before I could speak when John answered the phone.

John:                Oh thank god.

Con:                What?

John:                How are you? Where have you been? Why haven’t you answered my calls?

I laughed. Relief, hysteria, disbelief. I didn’t know what to say. I haven’t answered your calls because I hate your guts, oh no, of course, I quite like you, but you’ve stabbed me in the back and now I’m ready to play Julius Caesar.

He thought I was amused. I could feel him expand.

John:                Oh good. Good, good, good. Let’s have a drink.

I was sluiced with feeling. Huge desire to see him, to be with the witness to all my greatest achievements, the audience to my best work – a kind of partner that even Malcolm could never be. Part girl-friend, part-priest. It’s rare for an artist to be as supported, as seen, as accompanied as I have been by John Wood.

I wanted to say yes, have a drink, look at me as the success I was.

After which I will kick you in the stomach.

I didn’t say it of course. And by the end of the evening, I didn’t want to.       

**

Malcolm has just come in and asked what I’m doing. I lied and said prep for the show. Why did I do that? I don’t care if he knows I’m keeping a diary. I’ll make sure I tell him when we get to bed. Ridiculous.

***

[Chris was reading aloud and pointed out the writing changes at this point, becoming smaller and more controlled. Constance also seemed to have changed pens.]

Ex-AgentJohnWood volunteered to meet me near the club but I am proud enough not to want him to see me rehearsing in such an insalubrious postal district.  I felt ashamed and then was ashamed of my shame so distracted myself by quickly suggesting The Lamb, one of our old haunts, even as the nostalgia nearly choked me. Nostalgia!  I haven’t seen him for five weeks. He agreed and forty-five minutes later I was looking back into his green eyes, past his fringe.

Or past where his fringe used to be. He’d cut his hair. It was stiffer and styled, although still thick as a shoe-brush.  While he was buying me a gin and tonic I added up my change to see if I could possibly afford to buy a round.  Me not working means we've fallen behind on the debts and I've hated that. Even though they aren't my debts. As such. But gambling is a sickness and I think of it as Paying for Malcolm's Private Health Care.  For better or worse, after all.

Today I had enough money for John's beer but not enough for another gin so I drank slowly. I would be able to say ‘Oh no, not for me’ when the time came.

John came back with our drinks and sat down. We cleared our throats and clinked our glasses. We said nothing. Moments passed. I smiled, probably weirdly. I was resisting the impulse to throw my arms around him and weep and had very little energy left to be normal.  And I don’t even know what I wanted to weep about. Lost  glory. Lost fame.

Lost income.

He seemed just as distracted, studying the 19^th century etched glass around the bar and reading the small print on the beermats. I felt suddenly nervous as well as tearful and groped around every file in the cabinet of my brain for something to say, anything, when he spoke up, smiling.

John:              You look well.

Con:                Oh.

I was wrong-footed. I’m sure he’d said I looked well before. I don’t know why it felt like the first time.  I blurted out

Con:                You cut your hair.

He was gentlemanly.

John:              Yes. I thought it was time to move into this century.

Con:                I liked it long.

I wasn’t even sure this was true. Had I liked it long? Did I not like it now? I was disoriented.

John:              Oh.

Con:                This is nice, too.

He seemed relieved.  I felt sorry but didn’t know what for.  This was turning into a disaster. Talking to each other was like trying to negotiate Oxford Street during the Christmas rush – collision after collision.  I stole a glance at his new shorn self, was he dressing differently as well? and with a sudden clarity, I understood the problem and felt foolish for not having seen it before.

In fifteen years we had never met outside of business. In fifteen years of lunches, teas, late night meals, opening nights, award ceremonies and movie premieres he had been with me, earning money.  Fifteen years of contracts, negotiations, billing-haggles and producer-wrangling he had been earning his fifteen per cent and I had been happy to pay up.

I had no idea who JohnWood was when he wasn’t working for me.

I didn't like this.  Now he was just -  a man.  With hair cuts and clothes and probably a private life. For fifteen  years he had been that perfect mix of intimacy and discretion - which meant I could tell him anything and he told me very little.  Now I felt as I did with strangers over the coffee urn. I wanted my script. 

Suddenly meeting up seemed like a very bad idea. 

I eyed the door and he saw my glance.

John:              Plotting an escape?

Con:                Ha!

John:              (defensive) Do you want to go?

Con:                (lying) No. Do you?

John:              (unconvincing) No.

Con:                Well then, what did you want?

John;              What do you mean?

Con:                Why have you been calling me and leaving messages and insisting we drink together?

John:              I haven’t insisted.

Con:                Five calls.

John:              You didn’t call back. If you’d called back I would have called once. That’s not insistent.

Pause.

Con:                Well?

Long pause. He inhaled sharply and seemed to be steeling himself. Finally, with the air of someone about to plunge from an aeroplane at 10,000 feet he shouted –

John:              I’ve written a play!

Beat.

If he’d confessed to torturing and killing a gymnasium-full of children he could not have looked more ashamed or guilty. I had to ask him to repeat himself, I was so thrown by his face. He looked down.

John:              I’ve written a play.

Beat.

Con:                Well. That’s good. Isn’t it?

John:              I have no idea. It might be shit.

Con:                Well, yes, it might, but I mean writing it. That’s good.

John:              (sulky) If you say so.

He was suddenly thirteen years old. If I hadn’t been so frustrated I would have been amused.

For him, however, this was deadly serious. He seemed to sink into the green leather banquette and looked very small, which is an accomplishment for a 6' tall man. I dug about for a scrap of useful encouragement.

Con.                For - instance. (Still digging) Going to stab one's self as Juliet, missing, and taking out most of Romeo's eye, which bled all through the climax and denouement of the play so that for the curtain call he looked less like a youth of Verona and more like Oedipus Rex is bad - winning an Olivier award for Juliet is good!

I felt pleased with my analogy. Having had experiences of a very similar nature – well, exactly those experiences of that nature, actually -  I knew of whence I spoke. And as John took Romeo to hospital where he got seven stitches and an eyepatch he wore for the rest of the run - he knew I knew.

 

He fiddled with his beermat.

John:              This play might be the literary equivalent of gouging out someone's eye.

I shrugged. Art is something you have to allow. I have nothing to say to someone who doesn’t. And I don’t mind that they don’t allow it. I just have nothing to say.  I think this makes me quite a bad teacher. But it probably makes me quite a good actor.

I looked at him, waiting. I was staring into his new trendy non-fringe. I realised in moments of high feeling he doesn’t look up.

John:              God, I feel like a right idiot. A colossal idiot. I’m sorry. What an idiot. Forget it. Forget it. Have another drink, can I buy you another drink? We shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have called. Stupid! I just – I just thought, because we weren’t colleagues any more I could finally, finally – I could tell you. I’ve imagined this conversation for years.

He stared at me as a man stares at a woman he loves. It was my turn to look down and I wished I had a beer mat. There was a cloud of electricity between us, almost visible.  Bewilderingly, I felt myself blush and in the depths of my being, for the very first time in twenty years, I felt unfaithful to my husband. I was confused and breathing with difficulty. We sat there, not speaking  - and then it dawned on me what was happening.

Oh. Malcolm’s coming. I have to go.  

Damn.