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‘The thing is, Dan, I have to talk to you and it’s really important…’
‘Sure, sure, yeah…MRS BROPHY? DID PAUL FORGARTY CALL ABOUT THE RACEHORSE WITH THE BROKEN FEMUR?’
I’m not joking, that is the actual decibel level you have to speak to Mrs Brophy at.
‘You see, I got a phone call from my agent in Dublin yesterday…’
‘MORNING, DAN,’ says Mrs Brophy, sticking her head around the kitchen door. ‘WHERE DID YOU DISAPPEAR OFF TO YESTERDAY, ANNIE? THERE’S A LOAD OF SHOPPING NEEDS TO BE DONE.’
‘DON’T WORRY, MRS BROPHY, I’LL GET TO IT…’ I yell back, before trying to grab Dan’s arm. ‘Look, something’s come up that I really need to talk to you about, before you rush off to start work…’
‘YES, PAUL FOGARTY RANG; HE SAYS WOULD YOU MIND CALLING OUT TO HIM AT SOME POINT TODAY, WHEN YOU’RE ON YOUR ROUNDS,’ Mrs Brophy cuts in.
‘TERRIFIC, WILL DO,’ says Dan, rubbing his eyes exhaustedly and dropping his voice a bit when he sees that between Andrew, James and Mrs B, we’ve got a kitchen-full of guests.
‘Morning all,’ we both say together, as I wonder how in hell I can try collaring him again.
‘Ah, there you are, Annie love. Any chance of one of your lovely juices?’ Andrew grins at me over his Irish Times and I grin back and say, yes of course, it’s on its way.
Juicing every morning is a little ritual I’ve had, ever since I discovered, a long time ago, that it was the only way I could make sure Dan was getting some kind of vitamins into him, given the number of mealtimes he’d end up skipping when he was out doing farm calls. Except these days, because our kitchen is like a bus station more often than not, I end up making juices for everyone else as well. So I head to the pantry, grab some apples, fresh carrot and ginger and get chopping, while Dan fills Andrew in on the difficulties he had delivering a calf late last night.
‘ANNIE, DID YOU NOT HEAR ME TELLING YOU TO GET TEA BAGS?’ Mrs Brophy snaps at me, on her way to open up the surgery with our new intern in tow.
‘YES, ON THE WAY,’ I smile back at her through gritted teeth, tempted to tell her that not only did I hear her, half of County Waterford did as well. Quick as I can, I feck the veggies into the blender as Andrew continues to quiz Dan about the intricacies of dystocia in cows.
(Loosely translated as a tough birth, for eejits like me.)
‘Any superfetation during the pregnancy?’ asks Andrew, peering over the top of his newspaper, with eyebrows exactly like one of the Marx Brothers.
‘No symptoms. But just to be on the safe side, I did prescribe a course of…’
‘…Anti-inflammatories. Good, good, that should do the trick. But no harm for you to pop out there on your rounds and check in again.’
‘Yeah, of course…don’t worry, I’ll make a point of it…’
‘And what about Fogarty’s racehorse?’
‘Hard to tell, I don’t anticipate any long-term damage, but I doubt he’ll be running again for the rest of the flat season…’
OK, I don’t mean to be rude, but I know only too well that this conversation could go on for about half an hour. And time is of the essence here before Dan disappears for the whole day, which leaves me with no choice but to step in.
‘Guys, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but, Dan, if it’s alright, I really need to have a lightning quick word with you before you start work…’
‘Oh yeah, you were telling me about…emm…sorry, what was it again?’ says Dan distractedly and even though I don’t have his full attention, I go for it. Let’s face it, it’s now or never. Knowing him, there’s a fair chance I mightn’t see him again till about two am tomorrow morning. If I’m lucky, that is.
‘Yeah…well, the thing is, it’s good news. At least it might be…I have an audition, you see…’
‘Hey, good for you,’ both Dan and Andrew chime disinterestedly, just as Dan’s mobile rings.
‘It’s today, you see, the audition, that is, and it means going back to Dublin for it…’
‘Hang on one sec, Annie, this might be Paul Fogarty. Hello?’
And just like that, I’ve lost him. He takes the call, of course he does; phones never, ever go ignored in this house. Turns out it’s a local farmer who needs him to call out ASAP. No surprises there; just about every call we get to the practice is urgent. In fact, the day a client calls and says take your time in calling out, sure there’s no rush whatsoever, is the day that hell will freeze over.
Dan immediately whips out a pen and starts scribbling down symptoms on a spare supplement to Andrew’s paper that’s lying on the kitchen table, still talking away on the phone and never for one second losing focus.
‘OK,’ he says patiently, ‘just slow down, I’m on the way. Any symptoms of fever or loss of appetite? No progressive paralysis? General listlessness? OK…I’m on my way. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there. And don’t panic, I’m pretty certain we can sort this.’
I pour out two juices while Dan wraps up the call, then hand one to Andrew and try giving the other one to Dan, but he’s too busy packing up his bag and pulling on his warmest coat from where it’s hanging on the back of the kitchen door.
‘Sounds to me it might be a straightforward case of Listeria,’ he calls back to Andrew, ‘but I’d better go out there and take a look to be on the safe side. Are you OK handling the surgery here on your own till I get back?’
‘Of course, you head off and I’ll see you later on.’
I grab the juice I made for him and follow him down the kitchen passageway, as he strides on ahead of me, huge and hulking, making the passageway seem smaller just because he’s in it.
‘Dan, I still haven’t told you the most important part of my news…’
‘Can this wait till I get back?’ he asks, heading out the side door and over to where his jeep is parked.
‘But I mightn’t be here when you get back, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. My audition is up in Dublin, you see, it’s for a part in a new play…’
‘Good, good, good,’ he says automatically, although I know right well that he’s only half-listening. ‘Best of luck with it, love. You know I’ll be rooting for you.’
He’s already clambered up into the driver’s seat by now, engine on, raring to go.
‘Dan, that’s not really what I wanted to tell you…’
‘OK, gotta go. You’ll do really well at your…emmm…your whatsit…your audition…I’m certain.’
‘That’s not actually the issue here…’
‘…and I’ll try my best to catch you tonight…’
‘Dan! Don’t leave just yet, I urgently have to talk to you…’
Suddenly one of his black-eyed glares.
‘Annie, can you not just understand? I really have to go…so this’ll just have to wait. We’ll talk about whatever it is later, OK…?’
He’s sounding irritable and narky now which I try my best not to take personally; deep exhaustion always makes him a bit snappy.
‘But this will only take two minutes! I still haven’t explained to you why…’
Jesus, by now my face must be blue from the pressure behind it of needing to talk, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. And what’s really stabbing me is that I remember a long-distant time when he would have actually paid attention. Would have listened.
God knows, might even have been supportive.
‘See you when I see you, drive safe to Dublin.’
And just like that, he’s pulled the car out of the driveway and is gone, sending gravel flying in twenty different directions in his haste to get away. Most astonishing of all though is that this is actually the longest conversation we’ve had in I can’t remember how long. Honestly.
Which leaves me feeling yet again like I’m the lowest priority in my husband’s life. Or worse, that I married a man who’s just not that into me. Because everyone, absolutely everyone and everything else comes ahead of me: cats that need neutering, constipated race horses, his mum and all her neuroses, his sister Jules and her cash flow problems, Lisa shagging Ledbetter and her entire catalogue of woes…you name it. Show any kind of weakness or neediness and Dan’s your man, whereas a strong, capable woman trying to make the best of the hand life has dealt her will always be bottom rung on the ladder as far as he’s concerned.
Not his fault; I sometimes think that he’s just not calibrated to bring happiness to one person, not when he can serve the many instead.
Funny, isn’t it? How women spend the longest time trying to separate romance from friendship. And for the longest time, I thought I was the luckiest woman on earth because I had both.
And now it looks like I’ve neither one.
He never even touched the shagging juice.
Chapter Three
My audition is at lunchtime in Dublin, which gives me barely enough time to run to Tesco and buy everything that Mrs Brophy was whinging we didn’t have in the house earlier on. Plus I also have to call Agnes at the book store to let her know that I won’t be into work today. But if I was expecting her to be a bit put out at this, I was wrong; honest to God, the sheer relief in the woman’s voice when she realised she wouldn’t have to pay me for yet another day would have broken your heart. No problem whatsoever, Annie, she’d said, sure why not take a few extra days off too while you’re at it?
Anyway, between all of that, there’s barely enough time for a lightning quick shower before I have to hop into the car and start the marathon, two-and-a-half-hour drive to the city.
Right then. As I pull out onto the motorway, I make a decision. I’m going to use this incredibly rare bit of alone time to try to clear my head and concentrate on nothing but the audition ahead. So as I boot the car up into fourth gear, I start doing all the little pre-audition relaxation tricks I remember from long ago: some deep yoga breathing for starters, in for two and out for four, in for two and out for four…easy does it…then I start to creatively visualise a positive outcome…imagining myself bouncing into a rehearsal room…being a proper, paid actor again…being back in the city and far, far away from Grey Gardens, sorry, I mean, The Moorings…earning money at a career that I actually love and adore…after three long years of treading water by stacking shelves in an empty bookshop…oh and let’s not forget sweeping dead headed roses off the floor while doing yet another part-time job in the local florist’s…then I think back to that book I read because everyone was reading it at the time…The Secret…So I focus on attracting only a positive outcome and not dwelling on forgetting my lines or blanking out with nerves or similar…
Anyway, I’m just drifting into a lovely, soothing, zoned-out happy place, when suddenly my phone rings, totally shattering my concentration.
Audrey, surprise, surprise.
‘Where are you, Annie?’ she whimpers in the little-girl-lost voice. ‘I’m at The Moorings and Mrs Brophy tells me you’ve disappeared off to Dublin for the day yet again…can that be right? Would you really do such a selfish thing without telling me? I worried myself sick about you yesterday and you know how worry brings on one of my little turns. And not a phone call from you for the whole day, nothing.’
Do not let the guilt get to you, I tell myself sternly, at all costs, don’t allow her to guilt trip you.
‘Because I’m still not feeling very well today, you know, after all the worry of yesterday, and I need you to run a few little errands for me…’
I hear her out as patiently as I can and explain that everything is fine, and that I’m just going to Dublin for an unexpected audition. A pause, and I’m half-wondering if she’ll bother to ask me anything at all about it. You know, stuff a normal person would ask, like what’s the play, what part am I up for…but no, she doesn’t. Of course not. There’s the usual half second time delay while she filters the information I’m offering, then immediately figures out whether it’ll affect her negatively in any way. And decides that yes, it does.
‘But that’s no use to me, Annie, I’m doing my Christmas cards today and I need you to be here. You should have been here to help me yesterday and it’s not my fault that you weren’t.’
I can just picture her as she says this, all swelled up like a gobbler with enough ammunition to bitch about me behind my back for weeks to come. Then I sigh so deeply it’s like it’s coming from my feet upwards and wonder what she wants me to do exactly? Write out all the cards for her? Wouldn’t surprise me.
Anyway, at this stage I’ve had years of practice in dealing with her, so I draw on all my experience and do what I always do: lock my voice into its lowest register and at all costs, don’t let her turn me into her emotional punchbag. I calmly tell her that although I’ll be gone for most of the day, I’ll be back later in the evening and will be perfectly happy to take care of whatever she needs then.
‘But you’re not listening to me, Annie, I have to get my Christmas cards posted today and I need you to get to the post office before it shuts. You know perfectly well I can’t go by myself. Standing in queues brings on one of my weak spells and I’ve really not been myself all morning, you know. And another thing – you still don’t have the Christmas tree up yet, Annie. I don’t understand, what exactly have you been doing with your time?’
I let the veiled insult pass and suggest that, since it’s so urgent, maybe she should just ask Jules to do the post office run for her?
‘Well if I’d known you were flitting off to Dublin for the day then of course I would have, but Jules was still asleep when I left the house and I don’t like to wake her.’
I can’t help smiling in spite of myself; typical Jules. She’s a terrible stickler for getting her twelve hours’ sleep. Plus, she always says that even if she’s lying wide awake in bed it’s a far, far better thing to stay put, than to get up and enter Audrey-land. And, in all fairness, can you blame the girl?
‘Oh and another thing, Annie, when I went upstairs to use the bathroom just now, I had a little look around and I couldn’t help noticing that you still hadn’t made your bed and that there were unlaundered clothes belonging to poor Dan strewn all over the floor as well. You know I hate to say it, but I really think you should think about organising your household chores a little bit better. It really upsets me when I see that the house isn’t being cared for properly and no man likes to live in a messy house you know…’
Just then I lose the signal on my phone, so mercifully this conversation ends before the mental image of Audrey combing through our bedroom when I’m not there takes root deep in my psyche.
Note to self: if I don’t get this job, then I’m asking Dan if we can buy a caravan for our back garden so we can go and live in it instead. A little mobile home that could sit in the back garden and look like it was adopted by The Moorings out of charity. With deadbolts on every door and window, to ensure some minor degree of privacy. Or if it comes to it, then I’ll just move out and live in the shagging thing on my own. Because life in a four-wheel trailer certainly couldn’t be much worse than life at Grey Gardens, could it?
Anyroadup, I arrive in Dublin a good forty-five minutes before the audition starts, park the car and head back for the National theatre. It’s a miserable winter’s day – icy cold, with a sharp wind blowing and only a weak, watery sun desperately trying to break through the heavy overhead clouds…but to me, with an audition to go to and with a spring in my step, it’s only bloody beautiful.
Funny, but in The Sticks I’m completely surrounded by natural beauty and probably the most stunning scenery you’re ever likely to see, yet somehow, I never seem to notice it. But being here, back in the city and striding purposefully down a busy, bustling street packed with stressed-out Christmas shoppers tripping over each other to grab their last minute bargains…everyone laden down with bulging bags, looking frozen and panicky and with mounting hysteria practically ricocheting off them…and I can’t help thinking that it’s just the loveliest sight I’ve seen in I don’t know how long. But then I suppose, after living in the dark for so long, a glimpse of the light can suddenly make you giddy.
Tell you one thing; even if I don’t get this job, at least one good thing has already come out of it – just being back in the city and doing an audition has put the bounce back into me and aligned my spine again, as if I just got a jolt of vitamin B straight to my heart. And a flood of gorgeous, cheering memories come back too; when Dan and I first left school, we both came to Dublin to study at Trinity College, him to do veterinary medicine, me, drama studies.
We shared flat after flat in the city, gradually working our poverty-stricken, dole-poor way from renting places where the washing machine had to double up as the dining table, all the way up to the dizzy heights of actually owning our very own apartment right after we got married. Happy, happy days – by far the happiest of my life – and now it’s like every street corner I turn holds a very different memory of a very different time.
Buoyed up with adrenaline, I run into a little coffee shop just across the road from the theatre to grab a bottle of water and no one knows me or any of my business and it’s bloody fantastic. No one asks me about Dan or Audrey or whether Jules has any intention of getting some kind of a job any time soon. No Bridie McCoy telling us about how useless her chiropodist is, no Agnes Quinn to playfully elbow me in the ribs and remind me that I’m not getting any younger, then ask me when exactly I’m going to put that huge nursery up in The Moorings to good use? No Father O’Driscoll to gently probe me about whether he might see myself and Dan at Mass one of these fine days…I am utterly and totally anonymous here and it’s wonderful. Feels like being able to breathe freely again after years of long, silent suffocation.
I bounce along to the stage door of the National and the receptionist is almost flight attendant friendly. Yes, they’re expecting me and I’m to go ahead to the green room and wait there. She politely offers me tea or coffee while I’m waiting and I thank her but say no. Then I find my way to the green room which is directly behind the main stage, guessing that some other poor actress is out there strutting her stuff right now. I plonk down on a faded leather armchair and start thumbing through the script yet again.
Fag Ash Hil was at pains to point out that, at this stage, I wasn’t expected to have actually memorised the lines, considering the short notice I’d been given to come and read for the part in the first place, but I know well enough how these things work. You’re told, ‘Oh, no need to be off book, darling,’ but the reality is that you’re expected to have studied the script the same way Egyptologists study tomb writings and it doesn’t matter a shite how late in the day you got the script.
So I’m just re-reading through a pivotal scene for the character when the door opens and the stage manager comes to get me. No time to react, no time for nerves. I get up and obediently follow him.
Two minutes later, and I’m standing on stage and it’s beyond weird having sat in the audience last night, now to be over on this side of the fence. The set, by the way, is a health spa in a five-star resort, with sun loungers dotted across the stage and offstage doors leading to a sauna, pool and steam room. It’s dimly lit and hard to see, then suddenly a split second later, it suddenly goes Broadway bright. I’m momentarily dazzled but then a disconnected voice from the dark auditorium tells me to come on down to the front of the stage. I do as I’m told, clutching the script like a talisman.
Next thing, a striking-looking, long, lean guy is swooping down the centre audience aisle and striding towards where I’m standing centre stage, in a ball of sweaty tension.
‘Well, hello there,’ he calls out smoothly. ‘I’m Jack Gordon.’
Not every day you come face-to-face with the David Beckham of the theatre world, so even though I’m blinded by the hot stage lights, I manage to squint through the darkness to get a half decent look at him. He’s a lot taller and slimmer than I’d have thought, wearing an impeccably-cut, slate grey suit with an open-necked, crisp, white shirt underneath, which somehow makes him look older than he actually is, even though he can’t be much more than early thirties. For a second, I can’t actually remember the last time I saw a proper well-dressed, metrosexual guy in a proper suit, outside of the local courthouse in Stickens, that is. Blue eyes and light brown-ish hair, but with slanting eyebrows that kind of give him the look of a satyr when he frowns downwards. And self-confidence that practically bounces off the auditorium walls; not a word of a lie, if the guy had antlers, they’d probably be well past his shoulders.
In short, he looks like a Michael Bublé song.
Anyway, he marches all the way down to the apron of the stage, walking as though he’s in his own spotlight and extends a smooth, lotioned hand out to me.
‘You must be Annie Cole,’ he smiles, flashing teeth brighter than a toxic blast from a nuclear bomb. ‘So good of you to come at such short notice. It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.’
And his voice is thicker than a jar of Manuka honey. A twenty-fags a day voice, if ever I heard one. Anyway, I mumble something inane and shake his ice cold hand. He’s focusing really intently on me now, keenly looking me up and down, then down and back up again and it’s making me bloody nervous. And the danger with me is that when nervous, I tend to act like I’ve got St Vitus’s dance of the mouth and start gabbling like a half-wit about complete and utter shite. Mercifully though, he doesn’t initiate any more chit-chat or small talk; just directs me towards the scene that he’d like me to read, coolly telling me to start in my own time.
And for better or for worse, I’m on.
Good sign: I’m asked to play one particular scene five different times, and in about five different ways. The logical part of my brain says, would Jack bother spending so much time on me if he thought I was really shite?
Bad sign: As I leave the stage, I meet the other actress who was in before me, having a fag in the tiny yard off the green room. We both instantly cop on who the other is, the giveaway being the script we’re both clutching to our chests and each of us launch into a big post-mortem. Anyway, she says she was asked to do exactly the same thing. So much for that.
Good sign: One of the pivotal scenes, feels completely fantastic. It’s impossible to describe the massive adrenaline rush I get from performing it – closest thing I can imagine would be like what a fighter pilot must feel on take-off. Or a cat burglar. For the first time in years, I find myself feeding off the sheer pleasure of acting and loving every second of it, thinking feck it anyway; even if I don’t get the part, I’ve come this far, so I may as well enjoy myself.
Jack does a kind of deep, throaty, snorting laugh at some of the gag lines I deliver and this I find hugely encouraging.
Bad sign: Then he excuses himself to answer his mobile phone and does precisely the same laugh.
Good sign: After I’ve been put through my paces, he politely asks me about my personal life and whether the significant commitment involved in this gig would be an issue for me.
