Authors: Amanda Brobyn
“I’m confused, Tina. I thought I knew this passionate, ambitious and slightly quirky girl with a fierce reputation for success, but I’m not sure I got you quite right if
I’m honest. I’m not sure who you are.”
I want to jump up and down on the bed shouting,
“You do, you do, I’m here, the same girl you interviewed not too long ago – remember the chemistry?”
but I continue
to allow him the courtesy of no interruptions.
“Your disappearance today, that ring thing at dinner, the crystals on the bed, asking me if my parents thought of calling me ‘Richard’ . . . And why on earth you need to know
my horoscope is beyond me.” He picks the bag up once more, edging his way out of the door. “Things just don’t seem to add up here. I’m not sure who you are, Tina, but
let’s just call it a day.” He pauses. “I’m sorry. This is not what I wanted.”
The door closes silently. No bang, no creak. Pure silence. And the reality kicks in. I’m here in Manchester Alone. No man. No sex. Again. Brian was pretty quiet throughout dinner. I kept
asking if he was okay, and he simply nodded each time. His eyes lost their lascivious glint, which in turn made them appear bland and coloured with a very ordinary shade of blue. The flash of his
pearly whites lessened and, towards the end of the night, I could clearly see he no longer wanted to be in my company. In fact, I’d go as far as to say he looked like he didn’t want to
be in the same room as me.
I still can’t understand it. What’s his problem? So what if I disappeared? I have a perfectly valid excuse. So what if I used the dowsing ring? Millions of people do it, it served
its purpose perfectly. So what if I might have mentioned my acting career once or twice?
I didn’t know shop talk was the only item on our agenda, Mr Steen!
I make myself a much-needed gin and tonic from the mini-bar, ignoring the price menu. I’m not paying and what else is there for me to do right now? I long to call Kate but I can’t
tell her where I am. Although maybe I should – she must be close by if she was here early this evening. But I do nothing. I’m in a state of shock and not sure whether to laugh or cry.
But I can’t cry. For some reason my mind is so consumed by the earlier audition, I can feel no emotion other than sheer excitement. More than that, exhilaration, even a touch of euphoria, and
the walking out of a rich tycoon isn’t enough to get those tear ducts into flowing motion. I’m on a high, well and truly, and can’t come down. I don’t want to. I reassure
myself that Brian will come around.
He’s your soul mate, your destiny. Of course he’ll come around.
It’s just a temporary setback. Life is full of them and once he’s
realised his behaviour is a little irrational, he’ll be on his knees begging for forgiveness. I pick up at the thought of our reunion. The strength of feeling carries me through as I imagine
the intertwining of our bodies, the passion of our souls as we rekindle that pent-up sexual energy. But regardless of how we come together again, we simply will. We’re soul mates destined to
be together and if we have to suffer a few ups and downs in the meantime then it means our relationship will grow and develop. What’s meant to be is meant to be and no matter how ridiculous
his behaviour, fate has thrown us together and it’s far stronger than anything either he or I can do or say to each other. It won’t allow a relationship to be tampered with to the point
of closure. In fact, we’re practically invincible.
The blackout curtains do their best to cast an eerie bleakness across the room. My eyes dart as I try to make out shadows and varying colours of black, just for something to
do. Sleep appears not to be an option tonight. The same could be said for sex. I try to turn but struggle to move under the weight of a million tiny feathers which seem intent on crushing me and
punishing me for simply being me. I try to cry, once more reminding myself that I’m lost in this king-size bed, alone.
Flashbacks of days gone by overpower my thoughts and insomnia jeers at me, telling me I deserve a sleepless night, and a strange feeling of nostalgia sweeps over me as I suddenly recall the very
day I hung up my acting cloak. A day that still remains crystal clear no matter how hard I try to erase it.
As an aspiring actor I’d spent years struggling to make it, to get somewhere, battling against the crème de la crème who unfortunately included Kate Goodwin, my best friend.
Kate and I had been friends since our first day at school and even as children we never wanted to do anything other than an act. Although physically we were chalk and cheese, as opposing
personalities went we were perfectly suited. Kate had long flowing blonde hair which hung heavily against her slight frame, in keeping however with her lack of height. “That girl is a
ballerina in the making,” my mother used to say. I, on the other hand, was five feet seven by the age of fourteen, carrying a mop of frizzy auburn hair and a face full of freckles, each one
carrying years of history. History of taunts from teabag to beans-on-toast-face, from ugly to sun-kissed. None of which I embraced emphatically, although neither did I bother to shed a tear for
something I could do absolutely nothing about, apart from avoid scorching hot days and wearing baseball caps and applying the thickest foundation available, removable only with paint-stripper and a
trowel! Beauty is pain as they say and believe me, my pain started young.
As talent goes, all probability indicated that mine was natural whereas Kate’s was bought from years at dancing school, private singing tuition and elocution lessons, the latter being
necessary living in Liverpool with its strange vernacular, not to mention its bizarre pronunciation that seemingly requires master classes from Spit the Dog. I never understood that about Scousers
and still don’t. A sense of humour, wit, humility and generosity typifies the average Liverpudlian, but where on earth the phlegm throat-clearing accent came from I have no idea. Needless to
say, neither Kate nor I had this – deliberately and as aspiring actors, our accents were universal.
As a child I found it hard to promote myself and my artistic ambitions and had reclusive tendencies, albeit sporadic. The concern of forgetting lines, being outperformed or singing a dud note
was often enough to stop me from auditioning for school plays or roles in my local youth theatre, whereas Kate quite rightly breezed through life without my deep and insecure analysis, which
ensured her insecurities, if any, remained truly hidden, while mine sat exposed and vulnerable. Kate made it long before we had even left secondary school. She landed a small role in a local TV
series which basically set her up in terms of equity membership and ink on her CV. I longed to follow in Kate’s footsteps and to achieve her certainty and status. We attended the same
castings, auditioned for the same principal roles and every time I came a close second. I’ll let you guess to whom.
The entertainment industry was cut-throat. It simply wasn’t enough to go in guns blazing, smile dazzling, and charisma screaming; the industry was almost more about luck than talent.
Countless times I watched the finished commercial I had auditioned for, critical of the casting decision, mocking the poor quality of the actor, convinced that had they picked me, I would have
been the selling point behind their marketing aspiration. I could have had orders flooding in for broadband, trebled the foot traffic at the Quayside shopping centre and every household fridge
would have contained Dairy Gate butter supplies in abundance. It should have been me. I remember Dad throwing his head back in laughter when I told him about my casting for Dairy Gate butter.
Giggling, as we reminisced about the previous advert with the talking cows, Dad wittily asked me, “Are you auditioning for the back end of it, love?” Charming. If my own parents
couldn’t take me seriously as an actor who the hell could?
The most memorable audition I recall was flying over to Dublin for the role of a young mother promoting the calming effects of Eazi Tea. My agent had advised that, based on the profile shots,
they were able to match me with two young children, a boy and a girl. I would simply meet them in the casting room.
After a hair-raising flight over the Irish Sea, less stressful if you’re a swimmer I’m sure, I arrived at Dublin airport. Still nauseous from the flight, I decided I was unable to
cope with public transport and would risk the cost of a cab. But instead of the enjoyment of a leisurely journey learning Gaelic and finding out Michael Flatley’s innermost secrets, I found
myself being thrown around the cab like a rag doll. Holding onto the car door with white knuckles, I prayed silently for my safe arrival, using a whole host of Hail Marys. Where the hell are a
bunch of rosary beads when you need them? I mean, this is the Catholic capital of the world, isn’t it? Aren’t they supposed to be dangling from the street lights all year round like
Christmas decorations? Not that I’m Catholic incidentally but still, you know, when in Ireland . . .
Anyway, arriving at the Courthouse studios looking wonderfully green, I scanned my casting brief and silently reminded myself that I could act my way out of nausea, mind over matter.
Entering the studio, which to my astonishment was nothing more than a glorified shed with, get this, a hole in the fence as the entrance, no kidding either, I was greeted by the noise of
hundreds of children, yelling excitedly, their innocent facial features enhanced by soft make-up portraying the barely there effect; and that was just the boys! Each child was scrubbed and preened
to their parents’ individual standards, some in school uniform, some looking chilled and unassuming in jeans and tee-shirts, while others had donned costly Irish dancing dresses decorated
with ribbons and a million hand-sewn tiny mirrors. How a poker-like poise and unnecessarily tight ringlets was going to help sell tea, I don’t know. Honestly, parents, all it takes is a bit
of common sense.
The heat was unbearable on one of the hottest days Ireland had ever known. The humidity filled the air with a light smoke effect and fresh pre-pubescent perspiration soaked into the atmosphere,
the remains of any fresh air disintegrating rapidly by pure intimidation. Thank heavens the money was good, otherwise I wouldn’t have lasted more than five minutes and my hair was in severe
danger of making Crystal Tips look smooth and sleek and very closely related to John Frieda.
As is typical at these events, the registration form was completed documenting height, weight, eye/hair colour, dress size, body-mass index and latest TV exposure. These things were so
repetitive but at three thousand euro, plus expenses, it wasn’t to be sniffed at.
I spotted the casting agent looking somewhat flustered, drowned out by the wannabe kids, completely deafened by the pushy parents gleaming with pride at their child on the verge of rising
stardom.
“Christie Harding, Christie Harding!” he called, voice strained.
Christ, that’s me! Jumping up, I followed the rather lanky Irishman into the casting room, watching his bony shoulder blades jut out from beneath his soaked shirt, noticing his narrow
waist and shapeless hips, which on a dry day would no doubt be hidden beneath his baggy attire. Painfully thin, obviously not enough Guinness. Catching sight of the camera and boom (or ‘dead
squirrel’ as Kate and I call it), reminded me why I was there. I loved the thrill of it, the buzz, that feeling of undeniable euphoria, the desperate propulsion to be someone else,
surrendering to its dominance.
At the back of the room, three guys hunched around what was no more than a glorified camping table, squashed into the corner to make room for the plethora of filming equipment. The director,
creative director and producer introduced themselves briefly, very briefly; time is money in this industry as they say. Just as my agent had promised, my newly adopted children were there and were
already in place. Quite painless really, the agony of childbirth is so exaggerated.
I studied them closely. My little girl, Cloada, had light-brown hair swept back into a single ponytail landing just on the nape of her neck – she was dressed in a denim pinafore to the
knee with a baby-pink top underneath, matching ankle socks and black patent-leather shoes. My guess would be that she was no more than four and she really was so cute, particularly with her tiny
gold-rimmed specs. She was paler-skinned than I but with a nose full of tiny freckles, and I could clearly see why they’d put us together. My son, an older boy, Kieran, was half-hidden
beneath his baseball cap and had ‘attitude alert’ oozing from him. Personally, I struggled to see the resemblance. I’m no English rose but, please, someone tell me my own son will
be better-looking. They took their turn first and, with the camera running, proceeded to communicate who they were, their ages and their agent details. Cloada decided she didn’t possess a
surname, which sent my newly found son into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. The poor child was looking around frantically for her mother to help her, but her mother, oblivious to the stress put on
her tiny child, was probably already replacing her bathroom and kitchen with the fee and royalties. Selfish cow. This is not an industry for keeping kids stable or sane. Nor adults for that
matter.
“Cloada,” the producer asked gently, “do you think you could remove your glasses for me?”
“I can’t! I go a bit cross-eyed and me mammy won’t let me take ‘em off,” she squeaked in embarrassment. Bless her, I just wanted to get hold of her and squeeze her,
even though our chances of portraying the aspirational family were reducing dramatically.
Anyway, mocking her with the sarcasm of an eight-year-old, Kieran confidently stated his name, age and agent, gloating at Cloada. For God’s sake, she was only a baby and if he were my son
I’d have him adopted by now. Under orders, suddenly looking rather sheepish, he reluctantly removed his baseball cap for the profile shots, only to reveal a mass of shocking-pink spiky hair.
I couldn’t believe it! Come on, what type of respectable mother allows a child to dye his hair? And pink, what on earth was going on there? I’m not suggesting the Irish are homophobic
but how on earth his head wasn’t kicked in I’ve no idea. The baseball cap, the scruffy hooded sweatshirt, baggy jeans hanging below his underwear I could cope with, but surely
it’s against the law to inject dye into a minor’s hair?