Chapter Fourteen

I HAVE, AHEM, another appointment not too far from here, so, as it’s temporarily stopped raining, Barbara walks me there, so we can do a post-mortem. And it’s not pleasant.

‘OK, Vick, as my oldest, closest friend, I need you to tell me the truth and nothing but. Just exactly how bad was I in there?’

‘Well . . .’ I break off, not having the first clue how to be tactful here. And, to put it mildly, she’s vulnerable right now. This could well turn out to be one of those instances where honesty isn’t refreshing.

‘Come on, Vicky, tell me. Because the whole time we were sitting there, it was like, I could almost feel myself fucking-up invisibly.’

I say nothing, just walk on in silence. Mainly because her self-assessment may sound critical, but it’s not too far off the mark either.

‘She kept asking me all those questions,’ Barbara goes on, still torturing herself, God love her. ‘You know, about where I’d trained and what I’d done, all of that. And on the inside, I just felt like that Edvard Munch painting, The Scream. There was so much on the tip of my tongue, and it just wouldn’t come out. Story of my bloody life. Before an interview, I’m OK, after an interview, I’m OK, during the interview, I just fall apart. Please Vick, tell me honestly, how did I come across? If you were her, would you want to hire me? Come on, I’m a big girl and I can take it. Promise.’

I glance over at her, but it’s hard to make out her expression because she’s shoved her big, face-covering shades on. On probably one of the darkest, coldest days we’ve had in ages. She stops for a second to fish a cigarette out of the depths of her bag, and attempts to light up. Which is easier said than done as her hands are still shaking, and people keep bumping into her. And she doesn’t even tell them to piss off like she normally would. Which is unlike her. Worryingly unlike her.

We walk on and I make a decision. In her shoes, I would want the feedback, wouldn’t I? Course I would. It’s absolutely no different from me with fellas, is my reasoning: until I figure out where I’ve been going wrong all this time, how can I ever hope to get it right?

‘OK then, honey, it’s like this,’ I eventually say, picking my words carefully. ‘You’re a fabulous actress, no question about that. But . . .’

‘I was waiting for the but.’

‘. . . As they say in marketing, the product isn’t the problem, we need to work on selling you. Barbara, I don’t mean to rub salt in, but you walked into that restaurant with the job in the bag and you walked out without it. That waitress did a better job of selling herself. Yes, she was pushy, yes she was annoying, but you have to hand it to her, the girl saw an opportunity and went for it, acrylic fingernails and all.’

‘But I have an audition! With Serena Stroheim!’ she splutters at me in a cloud of smoke. ‘An hour ago, she’d never heard of me, and I’m going to get to do a classical piece in front of her. I mean come on, that’s some progress, isn’t it?’

‘Honey, my point is, you were a shoo-in for just about any part you wanted, and now you have to audition. God forbid and I hope I’m not tempting fate here, but worst-case scenario, suppose . . . just supposing . . .’

A tough sentence to finish but Barbara does it for me.

‘Supposing I flunk the audition?’

‘Then . . .’

Shit and double shit, I can barely finish that sentence myself. Then all of this will have been for nothing. All of my hard work, all the hours I put in and will certainly be clocking up over the next few months, will count for naught. Like it or not, we’re committed now. We have Serena Stroheim on board, we’ve the Children’s Hospital on board, and the ice cold reality is that, with or without Barbara, the show must go on. The only thing I’ll have succeeded in doing will be making stars of other actors, a gang of total strangers most likely, and if Barbara’s audition goes anything like today did, she’ll be doing well if Serena lets her hand out programmes or help with costume changes backstage. And that’s if we’re very lucky and she’s feeling charitable.

We cross the street, and keep walking on, each of us wrapped in thought. Or in my case, that sickening sense of frustration you get when you’ve worked your arse off on something and then realize, in spite of all your blood-sweating efforts, the kite just won’t fly. It’s only when Barbara stops to stub out her cigarette that I realize why she has the shades on.

Oh sweet Jesus, she’s actually crying. Barbara, the one who never cracks, at any time, EVER. In fact, I could be mistaken, but I think the last time I saw her shed a tear was when John Lennon was shot. And that was only because he was her favourite Beatle. And at the time, she was only about, like, six.

‘Oh, now come on, it’s not that bad,’ I lie, slipping my arm around her waist.

‘Yes, Vicky, it is that fucking bad,’ she snaps, pulling away. ‘In fact, I don’t know how it could be much worse. You don’t understand.’

‘Now, that’s not true, OK, so you were a bag of nerves in there, but . . .’

‘No, Vicky, I mean you don’t understand what it’s like for me. I am so completely bloody sick and tired of being a failure. And make no mistake, that’s what I am, a useless, bloody, washed-up failure.’

‘Come on, honey . . .’

‘Just hear me out, will you? No one knows more than me how you slaved over this, to get every tiny detail right. And I just went in there and buggered it all up on you. And you know what the worst thing is?’

‘Shhh, shhh . . . here, love, have another ciggie.’ But the tears are tumbling down now and there’s no stopping her.

‘Time was, I used to be a good actress. I know I was good. I was confident in myself. It was all out there for me. I could have gone the distance. But, right now, I have to face up to the fact that I have wasted the best years of my life on a pathetic career that didn’t work out for me the way I wanted it to, the way it should have done. Look at me: I’m well into my thirties, the death years for any actress; I live in a rented flat which I share with a couple that are slowly driving me more and more mental every day; I’ll never own my own home, I’ll never be famous. Christ alive, I’ll be doing well if I ever get another acting gig ever again. I’m somebody that could end up homeless, Vicky, sleeping rough. And what I don’t get is . . .’ She breaks off here, voice trembling, to suck on a fag. ‘I followed my dreams. I mean, I thought that was what you were supposed to do in life? I look at you, with your booming business, and Laura who’ll go back to the Bar in a couple of years and just pick up where she left off, and what have I got to show for myself? Nothing, absolutely big, fat nada, because I’m worthless and hopeless and useless, useless, useless.’

‘Hang on one second, you are NONE of those things,’ I say firmly, stopping to fish a hanky from my bag, which she reluctantly takes from me, as if by doing so, she’s acknowledging just how upset she is. ‘And, let me tell you, “project Barbara” is going to work. You are going to do the best audition you’ve ever done in your life, and you’re going to be cast in a leading role, and that’s all there is to it. Yes, OK, so we had a setback today, but on the plus side, now we’re clear about one thing: it’s not your acting that’s been the problem all this time . . .’

‘It’s me. Go on, you’re thinking it, so you might as well say it.’

‘I was going to say your presentation skills let you down, that’s all. Come on babe, don’t shoot the messenger.’

‘The messenger had it coming,’ she sniffs, but I notice the tears have stopped. Which, at least, is something.

‘You’ve got to help me, Vicky. I watched you in there and thought, “God, I wonder if she ever realizes how amazing she’s being?” You were so cool and articulate and unafraid. I need you to train me to be like you for this bloody audition. Cos the way I feel now, you’re more likely to get a part in this than I am.’

‘You can count on me, you know that,’ I say, squeezing her arm. ‘We’re in this together, and I’ll never let you down. We just . . . have our work cut out for us, that’s all.’

Two cigarettes and a lot more walking later, Barbara’s heart rate seems to be back into double figures. But as we slowly turn down street after street, all the while getting closer and closer to the scene of my, ahem, next appointment, guess what, now it’s my turn to start getting antsy.

We turn a corner and now we’re on the street where the Café en Seine is, scene of my scheduled rendezvous. With Peter. Handsome, funny Peter, guy number two from my miraculous night of the hat trick. And it’s just the freakiest thing. It’s like every shred of nervous tension that poor old Barbara had to deal with has, by some mysterious osmosis, left her and taken over my body, like in an Alien movie.

‘Now remember, you’re just trying him on for size, to see how he’ll fit, that’s all,’ says Barbara, sounding an awful lot stronger and more assertive again, now that we’ve moved into her particular field of expertise; and nothing like the gibbering wreck she was only a few short minutes ago. ‘Just think of this guy as the flesh-and-blood equivalent of a Donna Karan dress. You know it may not necessarily suit you, you probably won’t end up buying it, but it’s there, so you try it on anyway.’

‘Right, yeah, OK,’ I say, a bit short of breath, but otherwise no visible panic-attack symptoms. Well, not really. ‘Right, here I go, once more into the fray. Check me for mascara gloop, will you?’

‘You’re perfect. Want me to stay with you till you’ve made a connection?’

‘I’d love you to stay with me for the entire date, except it might look a bit like I’m clinging on to my security blanket.’

‘OK, so here’s your instructions. See how you bond in daylight hours, only stay for forty-five minutes and not a minute longer. I’ll ring your mobile and you can pretend it’s the office and that you’ve a crisis you have to go and troubleshoot.’

‘Why the time limit?’ I ask, a bit panicky, thinking, suppose, just suppose, we’re getting on? Won’t I look a bit aloof and snooty by just abruptly getting up and leaving?

‘So he’ll realize just how busy and important you are, dopey. Haven’t you ever heard the old showbiz saying, “Leave them wanting more?” Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve never cut a date short before.’

I’m too embarrassed to admit that I haven’t. Even with Eager Eddie, I stuck out an entire three-course meal. The triumph of optimism over experience, that’s me. When it comes to fellas, I’ll stick anything out, no matter how miserable, because there’s always the hope that things might improve.

‘Let him pay,’ Barbara continues, ‘then, when you’re back at work, send him a short text message saying thanks for coffee, and see you soon. Nice and vague, so it’s up to him to make another arrangement.’

‘Right, got it.’

‘Oh, and remember, don’t talk about yourself too much, just keep asking loads of questions, like with Eager Eddie. Tell yourself you’re Jonathan Ross and he’s a reluctant guest that needs the answers coaxed out of him.’

‘OK. Got it.’

‘Remember your ultimate goal is to take him as your date to the PR do in a few weeks time.’

Shit, I was kind of hoping she’d forgotten about that.

‘Don’t forget, he’s already survived my incredibly thorough screening process, so before you even go in there you know he’s single, available, interested and straight.’

‘Got it.’

‘And like the law of attraction book says,’ she goes on, ‘just believe in your own fabulousness and you’ll attract guys to you that think you’re fabulous, too.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘Well, words to that effect. Piss off and leave me alone. I’ve had a rough day.’

‘Nice to have you back to yourself. I always know you’re feeling better when you start telling people to piss off.’

‘If you’re not careful, I’ll march right in there and tell him that up until a few weeks ago, your nickname was The Dateless Wonder.’

If there’s one thing I love about our Barbara, it’s her ability to bounce back. From deep despair to wisecracking in the space of one short walk. She’s amazing.

Anyway, one big hug later and in I go, with our watches synchronized, like in an espionage thriller. The lunchtime rush is well over and I immediately spot a lovely bright table in a corner so quiet and discreet, it might as well have a sign hanging over it saying ‘suitable for first dates’. Right then, I text Peter, to say I’m here, as per our arrangement, then whip a colouredy folder out of my briefcase and pretend I’m studying it intently while I wait for him. Oh, and re-apply lip-gloss while I’m at it. Approximately four minutes later, the door opens as someone comes in, I look up and there he is.

Pro.

Oh my God, so much handsomer than I remembered. Dark hair, lovely piercing green eyes, and he’s dressed in casual teacher gear: blue shirt and chinos. Put it this way, if I was a student in one of his classes, I would definitely have a crush on him. No question.

Another pro.

He’s straight over, full of chat and how am I and how was my lunch meeting? It’s all very easy and relaxed, then, as he goes up to order for both of us, Barbara’s words come back to me. Shut up going on about myself and concentrate on him.

Slight con.

The minute I ask about how work is going for him, he starts talking about Clare. The ex-girlfriend. Turns out the school the two of them run together teaches those English as a foreign language TEFL courses, so this is probably the busiest time of the year for them. His conversation is peppered with ‘Clare was just saying’, and ‘Clare had this terrific idea’, and at one point we even had a: ‘You just have to meet Clare. You both have lot in common.’

Definite pro.

Turns out they were together for seven years. SEVEN years. That beats the longest relationship I’ve ever had in my entire life. By about, ahem, six years to be exact. Anyway, isn’t it a healthy, emotionally mature thing that they still run the business together and get on so amicably? Course it is.

After a bit more of Clare this and Clare that, I eventually pluck up the courage to ask the one question that’s been burning me up. There’s a slight lull in the chat so I go for it. ‘So, Peter, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you and Clare break up?’

‘Oh, you know how it is, we just grew apart,’ he replies, stirring the froth around his cappuccino. But he’s smiling at me when he says it. And me like . . .

Biggest pro of all.

Barbara calls me precisely forty-five minutes later and, although I’m glad to see her back in messing mode again, I can only hope Peter doesn’t overhear any of what she comes out with.

‘Hi, Paris Hilton here,’ she says in a faux-LA-valley-girl voice. ‘There’s an emergency and you have to come back to the office right NOW.’

‘Oh, what kind of emergency?’ I ask, acting all pretendy-concerned, purely for Peter’s benefit, you understand.

‘Well, I was photocopying my arse, and my G-string got stuck in the machine, and I’m having afternoon tea with my godmother, the Duchess of Cornwall in half an hour, so you’d better get back here with sharp scissors right now or else Auntie Camilla will set the corgis on you.’

‘I’ll be right there,’ I say, snapping my mobile shut immediately, so Peter can’t hear the raspberry she’s now blowing down the phone.

Then, just as we’re getting ready to go our separate ways, he lets slip, ‘Actually, it’s no harm to cut our date a bit short and leave now. I’d better get back to the school fairly pronto, or else I’m in for a right slagging.’

‘Why’s that?’ I ask innocently.

‘Because I told Clare I was meeting up with the first gorgeous woman I’ve met since we broke up – and if I’m gone any longer, she’ll think I’ve run off with you.’

All this delivered with this cute, broad, slow smile he has.

Yummmmmm . . .

I wait till I’m safely back in a taxi before I ring Barbara.

‘I don’t want to jinx it,’ I say excitedly, ‘but I think we might just have a keeper on our hands. Now I ask you, when is the last time you heard me say that?’