SATURDAY
Alertness comes at me in a rush. I lay in the comfortable guest bed, weighed down by the cold knowledge that I royally screwed up. I begin making plans for how I can escape Jaq’s house without being seen. I want to disappear like I never existed. I never want to be seen again.
I see my vile high heel shoes on the floor by the bed.
I can run barefoot to the front door, and then tear down the driveway. So long as nobody tries to stop me, I’m fairly sure I can scale the fence. I may have to rip my pretty dress for freedom of movement. It won’t be elegant. I won't get to wear it again. That’s fine.
I’m not sure what happens after that. I’ll have to find a bus. Do buses even run around here?
I'm being a melodramatic idiot again.
I slowly sit up, and the headache hits me. I’m so thirsty. I will have to make a detour through the kitchen.
I fumble around clumsily with my feet, trying to pick up the shoes. I put a little bit too much pressure on one foot and am rudely reminded of the twisted ankle I gave myself last night. I grimace. Once the shoes are in hand, I creep gingerly to the door, mentally preparing to run at the first sign of another human.
I open the door quietly and look around. I hear Jaq, but I don’t see anyone yet. I step into the hall with a crunch.
There’s a newspaper under my foot. It’s open to the Culture section. There’s a photo of Jaq and I on stage last night.
‘…a beautiful performance by famed violinist Jaques Glarean, unexpectedly accompanied by contemporary dance artist…’
I swallow hard and lift my foot, cursing it for betraying me.
Once past the paper trap, I creep down the hall towards the kitchen. I don’t hear anyone in there right now. I carefully turn the handle, peek inside – empty. Perfect. I scramble in and go to close the door. It sticks.
‘Hey-‘
Shit.
I release the handle and let the person on the other side open it.
‘Hi, Lionel.’
That was maybe a little too glum in tone. Despite my best efforts, my shoulders sag, dragged down by my own self-loathing.
‘Good morning to you too,’ he says, chipper as ever. ‘You had a rough night, huh?’
I nod, slowly making my way to the cupboard for a glass.
‘You never told me you could dance.’
I don’t want to hear this, but he persists;
‘Maybe when this is all over, I should take you out dancing.’
‘Stop teasing me.’
‘I’m serious. That was pretty cool. Nobody suspected anything. Well, I did. I know Jaq wouldn’t have agreed to that if you'd suggested it, and if he had agreed to it, he wouldn't have been able to keep that a secret.’
If only I could just will myself into deafness.
‘Even Mother was impressed.’
Oh no. Frances.
She saw the whole thing.
‘She went on at length about classical influences and musical narrative something, instead of just criticizing Jackie’s sloppy finger placement and general laziness.’
My brow furrows.
‘I think she likes you.’
‘What?’
Lionel is smiling at me – not a cruel smile. A triumphant one.
‘You heard me. You’ve won her over. I mean, as much as anyone can.’
‘I… just got caught in the spotlight, and improvised.’
I put my glass down. My hands are shaking too much. I don’t want him to see. He approaches slowly.
I never really paid attention to how tall he was. I feel so small in his shadow.
‘Hey.’
He pulls me close, arms wrapped tight around me.
‘It’s okay.’
I relent and sink into the hug. I never realised how much I relied on human contact. Casey was always there to hug me if I even showed the slightest bit of emotion, and often when I didn’t.
Living alone in the hotel this long…
Living under stress this long.
It’s not healthy. Not for me.
‘You did good, Jo. Really good. Sophie was jealous.’
‘Sophie?’
‘Yeah. I took her to the show as a favour.’
‘You saw it too?’
It only clicks in my mind now. Of course, he saw it. I feel the vibration of his repressed chuckle.
‘I saw. I have to admit, I was probably more jealous than Sophie.’
This keeps getting worse. I bury my face in the crook of his elbow.
‘Jaq has all the luck, but he’s too dense to realise it.’
‘Shut up’ – my voice is muffled by his sleeve.
‘Come on. I’ll take you home.’
Finally, he says something I want to hear.
----------------------------------------
When I emerge from the shower, I catch Lionel looking through one of my sketchbooks.
‘No, no, no!’
I dash over and slam it shut.
He looks up at me, guiltless and confused, then carefully extracts his fingers from between the pages.
‘What?’
I drag the book away and dump it into one of the open boxes.
‘I don’t like people looking at my unfinished art.’
Again, confusion.
‘What do you mean? It all looked pretty finished to me…’
‘That’s because you don’t know what finished looks like.’
I sigh, frustrated.
A little dejectedly, he says;
‘I’m sorry. I just… wanted to see more of you.’
Huh?
‘Ah. That sounded weird. I mean… how do I explain this... I don’t know how much of the person I know is an act and how much is the person you really are. I don’t see you drawing, but you did, right? I’m guessing you don’t do it around the house so you look more like someone my brother should marry.’
I don’t draw there because I feel too vulnerable to lose myself in my imagination…
I think I understand what he wants. I can’t really be the real me right now. I’m doing my best to method act someone far fancier than myself. I'm not particularly good at it, but I think it's worked relatively well so far.
I find my phone – my old phone. I plug it in by the table and place it in front of him. It’s full of photos of me and my friends – being silly, having fun, working in the theatre. Photos of people’s dogs, stray cats, weird bugs. Flowers and mushrooms growing out of the city’s unkempt alleys and gutters. Weird architecture. Beautiful skies. And, here and there, things I’d made. Things I was willing to show people.
I can’t be myself right now. If I’m honest with myself, I don’t even know who I am right now. But, these photos show the world through my eyes. The things I saw and cared enough about to take a photo to remember them by.
He swipes through the images while I search boxes, looking for my good pencil case. I find it eventually. Inside are several rubber bands that I saved from the last batch of brochures printed for the theatre. Unfortunately, they’ve perished and break apart in my hands. I need to get new ones… or perhaps I have a bracelet with a good elastic cord. I continue my search.
‘You look happier in these pictures than you look when you’re at the house.’
I glance over.
‘Photos are for happy times. It’s not always roses.’
‘No, I mean…’ his lapse into silence is somehow more distressing than his chosen topic of discussion.
‘do you hate us?’
He says it quietly, but I hear it nonetheless. I slip a bracelet over my wrist. It will have to do for now. I return to Lionel. He’s looking at a photo of Casey and I in an op-shop, wearing fantastically awful 70’s style shirts and sunglasses.
‘I don’t hate you.’
‘Jo-‘
‘I don’t hate either of you. I’m just… I guess, struggling to adjust. I’m used to being packed like sardines into a shabby, drafty house, with people who are always there, on my level. No secrets, no judgment. No hierarchy. Just being... just being friends.’
The screen blinks out. The black surface reflects my tired face back at me.
‘It’s weird being alone so often. I mean, it’d get lonely when people were busy with a production. Most of them are actors, so the house would really empty out. But… there would still almost always be someone there.’
I lean against the breakfast bar, thinking.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
‘It doesn’t help that I feel like I’m at work when I’m with Jaq. I’m not taking in the scenery, or thinking about trivial things like all the cute dogs I see people walking. I’m waiting for Frances to slither in through a window and behead me. So, I can’t take lots of fun photos. I’m not really having a ton of fun… so all the photos I take now are for the sake of the impact they will have if they leak onto social media. They're part of my work.’
He looks thoughtful.
‘Do you feel like you’re at work with me?’
I shake my head.
‘Not so much. I’m not pretending to be your fiancée… but I still can’t be seen being too familiar with you. I’m not sure what the proper boundaries are in a family like yours, so I’m worried I’m still generating juicy gossip for the staff by just chatting with you in a friendly way.’
I don’t think that was the answer he wanted to hear. I didn't want to upset him. I try to push through the discomfort;
‘I didn’t think it would be so painful to help him. He just seemed so… miserable. Desperate. It’s only been… what… two weeks? And I’ve already been in tabloids and newspapers, I’ve been robbed, blackmailed, kidnapped, accidentally crashed a live music performance, and had more panic attacks than I’ve had in years. Normally the only things that stressed me out this much were things like where I was getting my rent money from and how I was going to eat. That was enough worry for one person. Basic existential stress. Add more on top… it gets excessive.’
I watch his face. He’s slouched over more than usual. There’s a dispirited look to his features.
I made it worse.
I say;
‘It’s not your fault.’
He looks up, as though just realising he was still in the room with me.
‘I know.’
He rubs his face.
‘I just wish we could have met under different circumstances.’
He gestures towards my old phone, as though it can explain his cryptic statement. It does.
I check the time.
‘Hey. Get your coat. We’ve got maybe two hours before closing.’
‘For what?’
‘You’ll see.’
He obeys without further questions – thankfully.
I take him to a nearby bus stop. We don’t have long to wait. Of course, he doesn’t have a ticket. I swipe mine and herd him to a seat. He’s probably never had to use buses and trains.
So long as a ticket inspector doesn’t catch us this time. We can get him a ticket for next time.
‘I could have driven us.’
‘I don’t know the way by car.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t drive, so I’m not looking at landmarks the way a driver does. I don’t know street names. I just know stop 53 on the 75 bus route is where I want to go right now.’
‘What stop was that?’
‘Stop 3?’
‘How long is this going to take?’
‘Maybe… thirty, forty minutes, depending on traffic.’
‘I could have driven us.’
I shake my head.
‘That’s no fun.’
‘You said we had two hours.’
‘Yep – we’ll have an hour and twenty once we get there.’
‘Driving would have been faster.’
I roll my eyes.
‘You know the song Common People by Pulp?’
‘…yeah…’
‘You wanted to know what I'm normally like, so I’m taking you to do the things common people like me normally do. That includes taking the bus.’
I think we’ve stepped up from confusion to befuddlement.
‘You felt so bad a minute ago. About me being forced to hide my real self, staying away from my friends, not drawing or whatever. I’m turning the tables.’
‘So you’re taking me to see your friends? I've been to the theatre before.’
No, not that. This surprise idea was never going to work. It was stupid anyway.
‘No, not yet. First, we’re going to a shop so you can dress how common people dress. That way you fit in when I drag you and Jaq to the cast party on Monday to see my friends.’
And now he looks terrified.
Oh well.
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This is one of my favourite op-shops. It’s big. There are always new things, and it hasn’t gone the way of the sleazy op-shops closer to the city, trying to pretend they’re havens for trendy counter-culture, charging higher than new prices for their donated, second-hand goods.
This place is honest. It knows its purpose. It serves the underclasses. There’s no gross marketing spin.
Better yet; the volunteers know me – they put things aside for me. They’re always saving me weird stuff that they can’t sell but thought I might want to use for a set or a prop or something.
‘Joanne!’
‘Rita!’
The elderly woman bustles over to me, giving me a friendly hug and a kiss on the cheek.
‘You’ve been away for so long! You used to visit me every day! I thought you had died.’
I laugh. I missed Rita so much. Everything is bigger, more important, more real with her.
‘No, I’m still completely alive.’
‘And who is this Adonis you have brought with you?’
‘Lionel, this is Rita. Ask her about her nieces.’
‘Oh, you’re single! Joanne, why is he single? You should have him all wrapped up in chains, so he doesn’t get away!’
She narrows her eyes and cocks her head to the side.
‘Joanne, tell me the truth. Is he unemployed?’
I lean close and whisper to her.
‘Worse, he’s rich.’
Her eyes widen and she throws her hands in the air.
‘Oh! I have three nieces, all very beautiful, let me give you their phone numbers!’
I shouldn’t have done that. At least… not without warning him. I feel a little guilty. I used to take Rita’s talk about relationships in stride. Now…
I don’t know how I feel.
She means well. She comes from a different time, where things worked differently. It’s not like she’s doing it to gain prestige or some cold strategic exchange of wealth. She cares. She cares about everyone.
I think back on Daniel’s mum. She was the same. She saw I was honest and polite enough to return her clothes, and she thought I might be a good option for him, despite my extremely obvious failings. She cares about him.
Not like Frances. She wanted Jaq to marry to avoid shame. She selected women with looks and money for his partners. Not women who would understand him. Not women who could relate to him. She certainly wouldn't have considered a man for his partner - I doubt the possibility would even register.
I rummage through the racks, looking for clothes that might fit Lionel. Jaq’s a fairly similar size, maybe a bit skinnier. I want to bring him to the cast party too – it should be good for him. I also can't pass up the opportunity to take photos of him with me and my friends as more evidence that he's just that in love with me. Frances probably won't approve of my friends, but she'll likely construe Jaq's actions as sincere affection. We need her to think he'd do anything for me.
I couldn’t bring him here to try things on though. Judging by the last time we went clothes shopping; he’d have a fit. I'm also desperately trying to delay the inevitable argument over his crippling inability to communicate with the people who care about him.
I still want to get him an outfit though.
It would be nice if both Jaq and Lionel got along with my friends… if they do, then maybe they will join my little tribe of oddballs and eccentrics after this is over. They could both do with more exposure to 'normal' people. People who are supportive and kind.
‘Here.’
I place a bundle of clothes into Lionel’s hands. Suddenly armed with an excuse to flee, he races for the fitting room.
Rita, deprived of her prey, returns to fussing over me.
‘Have you lost weight? You should be eating more. Oh!’
Hand to her heart, she points at my fake engagement ring. I hold it out so she can see it.
‘Who is he? Why is he letting you out in the company of such men as that? He is no good.’
‘He’s a musician.’
‘Terrible! Terrible! Dump him right now. I have a good nephew, still available. He is working as an electrician. Very good income.’
I see today's newspaper on the shelf behind the counter. I could show her Jaq. With me, even. I don’t want to see it. I really don’t want to see it. I do want to see Rita’s face when she sees it though.
I hate myself.
‘Is that today’s paper?’
She hands it to me. I open it to the Culture section and place it in front of her. Rita looks like she might faint.
‘You are a dancer now? A dancer?! Is this him? He is a bad influence.’
Exactly what Frances said about me.
Lionel steps out of the dressing room, looking awkward in unfashionable jeans and an ugly tee shirt. He has the jumper I picked out over his arm.
‘Jo, this is really itchy-’
Immediately Rita turns on him.
‘ADONIS. Tell Joanne to leave this man right now. You should marry her.’
He freezes, like a deer in headlights.
‘I… uh…’
I think he might actually be blushing.
‘Rita, leave him alone. You’re telling him to steal me from his brother.’
She scowls at me.
‘Why did you choose the musician over this? This is the better brother. You have always had terrible taste in men. Poets! Bah!’
She throws her hands up in disgust and retires to the back room.
Lionel is stunned.
‘It’s okay. She doesn’t bite.’
‘She gave me three phone numbers.’
‘She does that to everyone. I think I have her nephews’ phone numbers memorised at this point. So, you were saying the jumper is too itchy? It probably just needs to be washed with conditioner.’
I look him over.
‘Shirt fits fine. The pants are probably too big. I think I gave you a corduroy pair that were a little smaller.’
‘Corduroy?’
‘The fuzzy brown ones.’
‘Those are hideous.’
I grin.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
He looks despondent.
‘I’m not going to make you wear them. Try them so I can see if they fit better. It will help me find other things that fit. The marked sizes can’t be trusted. They’re from all different countries and span decades. You kind of have to eyeball it.’
He obediently returns to the dressing room.
An hour and twenty really isn’t enough to browse a shop like this, but I can't control closing time. We find Lionel a suitable outfit that he doesn’t completely hate, and we have an acceptable ensemble for Jaq.
Provided that Lionel knows approximately what Jaq likes to wear.
I hope he does. This could go very badly if he’s wrong. I don’t want Jaq to be on guard all night because he’s feeling out of place due to being comically overdressed, but I also don’t want him to feel embarrassed by the outfit I give him to blend in.
We board the bus back to the city. With a cheeky expression, Lionel nudges me.
‘Poets, huh?’
Okay, I deserve this.
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A new dress awaits me at my hotel room; this one is designed for dancing. Graceful ruffles and frills spill out of the garment bag, eager to illustrate just how perfectly they will accentuate their wearer's movements.
I can already feel my blood thickening like a stew and refusing to pump through my veins.
That wasn't an act I could do twice. I'm not a solo dancer. I'm fine in a group - on a chorus line. I don't take the lead.
The lead is always reserved for named characters anyway - that's not me.
Casey plays named characters. Casey dances in the front. Casey takes the spotlight.
I'm happiest as a stagehand, dressed in black from head to toe, pushing scenery across the stage in the shadows. I'm fine as an extra, filling in a space on the stage. I'm okay as a chorus girl, one of a set, nothing special, nothing to remember.
The spotlight is my antithesis.
I forgot that, because it happened once, the audience will expect it to happen again.
I can't.
I put the dress down on the table.
It doesn't have to be me.
I try to come up with alternatives.
All the people I can think of to take my place are in the Streetcar production.
I lay down on the floor, suddenly unable to carry my own weight.
People bought tickets not knowing that there would be a show alongside the music. They just wanted to hear Jaq. Would they really be so disappointed if they don't get a dancer?
I hate myself.
I don't even remember if the review in the paper was positive. I never got further than the photo and headline.
I hate myself.
Frances thought it was good.
Frances expects me to be there.
The rest of the audience doesn't matter. If I don't show up, will she think less of me? I just barely won her support.
I hate myself.
Will she even be there? Why go to both performances?
Why go to even one? She seems to hate everything Jaq plays.
If she's not there... I don't have to go, right?
She might have friends attending who will act as inadvertent informants.
I need to be there.
Feeling hollow and numb, I roll over and crawl across the floor. I still have all the junk that Charles sent me. I have a few hours before I need to be there.
A simple mask isn't much effort. I've had plenty of practice with them. The Greek plays are all meant to be staged with masks, though modern directors don't always do that. Hollis loves the masks - they let him do weird and wonderful things with casting. As a result, you could probably wallpaper the entire theatre with masks I've made for him.
A mask won't make me anonymous. I don't really have anonymity to preserve. I was seen; photographed.
It's still something that might help me feel less exposed. I won't have to concentrate as much on hiding my terror. It'll give me more mental leeway.
I search frantically through my life's refuse to match colours to the dress. I have to do this without using any paint; paint takes too much time to dry. Wet paint ruins dresses.
Once I have my materials, I bury my fear between sequins and hot glue. In a few minutes, I hold a me-shaped shell formed of shredded fabric from my old, discarded clothes.
I'm lucky. It doesn't take long. The result isn't sturdy. It won't last more than a few uses.
I support the thing in my hands as the last of the glue cools, careful to keep it from warping. I send a message to the stylist from yesterday, asking if she's got an opening for me.
She'll be here soon.
Once the glue has cooled, I pour myself a glass of water and take out my pill bottle. I don't know if the tiny pill in my hand will be enough. Two is probably a bad idea.
I take one. I certainly won't survive this without at least one.
I've never taken two at once before. I don't know what kind of effect it might have on me. I'd rather not go up on stage acting like a drunk. It seems like an unnecessary risk...
...but I want another one.
I put the bottle away.
I force myself to breathe deeply.