An Actress

“…. Oh dear you must remember him: he was such a quaint little thing – terribly sweet. Must have been no more than 12 or so… oh I’m so annoyed I cannot recall his name. He played Pip opposite me…. Oh it must have been fifty years ago. Well before your time.

Now where was I? Oh yes, Estelle. She was one of my favourite parts. Beautiful, although I wasn’t considered the greatest beauty of the age – no that was Cynthia – but I – I properly shouldn’t say this – but I was better. That’s what the director told me anyway. I was the best Estelle he’d ever seen. Dear old Hengis, we were all so fond of him, and he knew how to take care of his actors…

We got on so well, that he cast me as Esmeralda in the hunchback, way back in ’63. We toured with that, all over Europe. I saw places that most people in England had forgotten even existed. But they were all so welcoming. I never meant a nasty communist…. Where was I?

Colin that was it – the boy who played Pip! I wonder what happened to him?

After we returned from Europe well, that’s when the film offers started coming in. My agent was flooded with them, at least that’s what he told me – such a darling, that man, I send a card every year to his widow, but she’s a nasty sort… never writes back.

Yes I might not have been quite up there with the Emmas and Cynthias of the world, but as Lancing said the directors still wanted me. Directors like Hengis to start with, and then well, you know the list…. I suppose my favourite would have to have been Duncal… he had such flare, but also delicacy. He was a true artist. Not like these phoney directors nowadays who rely on making things explore and hacking people up…. I still read the papers… I think it’s a crying shame that so few people go to the theatre any more, they’d all much rather sit and stare at the TV. I’m certain it rots your brain. But the stories they tell, and the women who act in them, I am quite sure that in my day none of them – none of us, actresses had to be that ill looking. I know some of us were thin, and you wouldn’t think to look at me now, that I could have been described as slender, but I was…. There are the photos – there up on the wall to prove it…. Do you see them?

Now you remember that I worked with Flowers, oh he had such naughty fun. He cast me alongside Garret for my first Shakespeare on the West End…. Garret and I had a long talk about how we should construct our Romeo and Juliet… we sometimes quite disagreed with Flowers. He could be frightfully stubborn. But still it was a success. It launched the career, although she was a little over the hill by that point, of Judy Brent…. Straight after she got the TV show, the one that made her such a big name. But she was a comic actress, not the type who really needed youth and beauty on her side. But she did her job, what we all do this for, you know, to bring entertainment and interest… to brighten what might have been a dull day, and maybe make the audience think. That’s what Osborn always said. Terrifying man. Of course, he so famous now, for all of those terribly long historical films…. but I remember him when he wasn’t nearly as big as he finally got. In his funny little bowler hat that he always wore around the theatre and how he use to shout… even at people like Stephen Jones… or Eddie Brent. Dear old Eddie – do you want to know a secret – Eddie was always a sweet boy- such a flirt, I’m certain you’ve heard some of the rumours. Well he asked me, it would have almost been insulting if he hadn’t. I said no, of course…. I was seeing Anthony Taigne at that point – he was the most marvellous Faustus that you ever saw. I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing such a thing. But I suppose its very flattering and at my age it’s very nice to remember all the compliments that you received….

I always knew I wanted to be an actress… well I suppose that’s not strictly true… I wanted to be so many things when I was little girl. A lawyer, or a doctor, or even a teacher…. I suppose I wanted to do something good, but then I thought what could be better that being all of those things? And I got to be every one of them. That’s the beautiful thing about being an actress you can be everything….and been able to convince them that it was true… although I suppose none of it really was…. But it is the greatest show ever, and if you do it really well then people remember. I’m sure they remember…”

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER….

“Excuse me. My name is Alexander Gibbs; I’m here to interview the actress Victoria Jones. I’m sorry I’m a little late the traffic was awful.”

“That’s quite alright. This way please.”

“So I’m not going to be interrupting her, am I? I don’t want to disturb her if it’s inconvenient.”

“Disturb Vicky? I don’t think so. She’s been here longer than I have. And I’ve been here nearly ten years. Don’t think she’s had more than four or five visitors in that all time. Poor dear, she’ll appreciate the company.”

“What about her family?”

“She hasn’t got any. No husband, no kids.”

“Friends then?”

“Not any that’ll visit anymore. Here we are, I hope you get what you came for.”

****

In the end my editor didn’t want the story. He said who cared about Miss Jones? She was a relic from the past that hadn’t really done enough to be worthy of mention, for all her allusions of glamour. That if she discovered something or seen the arrival of something or just been more or something, then maybe someone who remember her now, as it was she was just better forgotten…

Lunch

I’m late, and officially out of the time period in which you could claim to be fashionable. This is just late. Its not my fault, Rupert my husband somehow managed to brake the washing machine, then Megan the nanny was delayed with her train, and then to cap it all, Cathy my four year old said she didn’t want to go to school. All of this made me late. Most people you can explain this to… most of my friends, family and colleagues understand that having a family, a house and a job aren’t the easiest things to make run smoothly – Helene Hayward is not someone who understands this. Somehow she manages all of these three and, as I round the corner of Garrick Street I see she also manages to be prompt.

I enter the exclusive restaurant and pray the staff don’t ask me to leave. Helene looks vaguely like a Hitchcock Blonde and a fashion editor combined. She smiles broadly when she sees me and kisses my check. You may wonder why a woman such as this wants or needs a friend like me. I use to say that it was because we’d known each other on and off for years, since we did community theatre together aged eight (she played Titania, the fairy queen I played Thisbe, the guy in drag. Perhaps that sums up our relationship.) Her family owned the theatre, in fact her father; the Hon. Clive Hayward was probably the reason that theatres and shows still went on in London, if not the UK. Helene and I had drifted a lot when we’d reached our early 20s, we’d gone to universities at either end of the country… of course we’d both gotten top grades but she’d had a family place at Cambridge, and I’d went to Durham instead. After we said goodbye at 18, I’d not seen her for seven or so years, other than the occasional letter. I’d gone and taught in Australia for four years (that’s where I met Rupert) but when I got back to England there she’d been deputy editor in her uncle’s publishing business. We were bridesmaids at each other’s weddings. Through he last ten years of husbands, jobs, children, housing… we’d stayed in touch. But I could now admit, as I compared her caramel colored suit against the once pressed now sadly crimpled white shirt dress that I was wearing, that the reason why she wanted me as a friend, was because I made her look good. That may sound unnecessarily mean, but as I’ve got older and I’ve learnt more, I can see things more clearly – I believe I can see Helene for what she is.

“Oh it’s been an age. What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have what you’re having.” The waiter was back in a moment with a g and t. I smiled. She’s still talking “- Leopold is such a darling boy, and so bright-” (she has two sons) “and he’s taking after his father…”

I nod and listen. And then we discuss my kids. I agree with her, when she says she’d like our boys to meet up, although since she lives in South Ken and I live in Langdon in Kent I can’t imagine this happening any time soon.

The waiter returns and we place our order. The restaurant (she always chooses where we eat) is beginning to fill up. A smart couple in their mid forties walks past our table. The woman’s large handbag nudges Helene’s chair and she turns and shifts it out of their way. I’m too busy admiring the woman’s lovely dress to pay attention, but when I look back at Helene she is whiter than white. And looks like she might throw up (I’ve only seen her do this once when we were fourteen and stole her father’s whiskey.)

“What’s the matter?”

She’s turned back to the table and is staring down at it. Her hands, which rest either side of her plate, are shaking.

“Are you ill?”

“Shhh.” Her voice is both shrill and quiet so that only I hear it. “I have to leave. Now.”

“Okay.” I glance back at the couple they are sitting two rows away. The woman doesn’t appear to notice us, but I see the man glance more than once at Helene almost as if he were trying to remember her. I look back at Helene but she’s gone. She’s got up and ran from the restaurant. I find the waiter and settle up. When I get outside, I see her BMW, is waiting for me. I climb in, certain the Helene must be having an affair. If you saw Sal you probably wouldn’t blame her.

She’s still white, shaking and now she’s started crying.

“What’s going on? Who was that? Helene….” I pat her hand. I really cannot handle her crying, just because I’m not use to it. “Are you cheating on Sal?”

“God I wish it were that simple.” She takes her hands off the striving wheel and turns towards me. “Please promise me that what I tell you next – you – you won’t repeat.”

“I promise.”

“That man inside he was one my johnnies.” Her fingers have laced through mine and she’s crying even more.

I frown, “Ehh?” I don’t know the expression that she just used.

Her face scrunches up, lines, tears, make up mashed together. She could be all of 16 again. “I never told anyone who didn’t already know … But you weren’t there…I didn’t want to say…” There are more tears, it is like watching one of my pupils whose cheated on a test and been caught, but this could she be that she’s ill, dying…. She takes a deep breath. “I slept with that man in there, years ago –”

“So he’s an ex. God the number of times I’ve-”

“No he’s not an ex. We never were an item. He paid me…”

“What the f-” I know wouldn’t be helpful but if you could pick someone to tell you that they‘d once been paid for sex, you wouldn’t have chosen Helene. She wouldn’t have even gotten on the list. She smiles very faintly at my interruption.

“He wasn’t the only one. He just stuck out, because he was the first one to hit me. He chipped my tooth.” She starts crying again.

“But your family –” They may have been snobby and overly privileged but they cared, especially her mum Grace.

“They tried to help at first, but I was hooked, and they realized the tough love was the only thing that was going to work. It did eventually,” she grabbed my hand once more, “look at me, Rachel, I’m better.”

I stare at her, wondering what made her do it, “What were you addicted to?”

She’s stopped crying. She opens her handbag and begins to wipe away the mess. “Smack.” She daps on some more make up, does her eyes and lips, and once again is the haughty prim London princess. She turns on the ignition. “Lets go get a drink.”

I nod, unable to disagree.

“I really need you not to tell anyone about this. Sal knows, but imagine if the parents council or worse….” Her voice is back to its clipped perfection, and I hope that I never see her cry again. She isn’t the friend I thought she was. And I don’t know with this pleases me or not, and don’t want to think about the kind of person I would be if it did.

I’ve had a fantasy and potential fear for the last few years. It is that a stern looking adult is going to walk in, and explain that –

1) That I am doing everything wrong

2) That the world really works like this &…

3) STOP! You’ve just a child; go back and play with your dolls and stop for the love of God, pretending you know what you are doing.

Perhaps part of me fears that I am just not grown up enough but I don’t this is that uncommon. I was convinced for example, that the first time I took the pill – a great brass band would appear followed by the aforementioned adult who would say, “Do you know you’re taking CONCEPTION? DO YOU? DO YOU? Very well, now you are a woman.” (The judgement glance the chemist use to give me, doesn’t count.)

I fairness if I’d been using it for sex this might have been more appropriate but since it was just for acne, I feel a certain opportunity has passed me by. I suppose what I am searching for, is a rite of passage that will make me feel ready for the absolutely insane world in which we live in.

This might explain why I have chosen to indulge in a fantasy that perhaps underlines my immaturity. I have decided that rather than slog my guts out on the job market with little or no gain and go to Italy instead. To eat ice cream, pasta, risotto. To go the Uffizi and stare at some of the world’s most beautiful paintings. To flirt with cute Italian chaps. I will work as a waitress, tutor, guide, and I’ll be doing in a warm climate, without the London tube system. You may say that I am being foolish, but you can’t say that it doesn’t sound like brilliant fun, and an experience of a lifetime?

It may be childish and potentially Julia-Eat-Pray-Love-ish (if I were to pass up James Franco I would be insane), but can you honestly tell me that you are looking forward to working in a country that treats us the way our government is acting towards us?

Frankly I have reached a point that this ‘adult’ of my fears, begins to look more like a stupid prig, who has decided that this is how HE wants things done, and I realize that actually, no he is wrong. Just because someone tells you something, you have to question it and see why they are saying what they say, or how would we ever learn anything?

I am no longer a believer in the saying, ‘If life gives you lemons…etc’ in response I am going to say, “throw back the lemons and go and drink some wine.” And I fully intend to do so, in Italy.