Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 7

  They both flip the folders open, whistling again at how impressive it all looks. But then, in my job, flash tends to win out over substance, it’s kind of like the first rule of PR.

  ‘Why Shakespeare?’ Laura asks.

  ‘Because he’s dead. No copyright to pay. And I can’t think of any writer that’ll show off Barbara’s talents more. You know what they say, if you can do classical theatre, you’re able for anything. Even an aul soap, anything.’

  ‘And why outdoors?’

  ‘No set, thereby keeping costs to a minimum. Plus, we’re coming into the summertime, and just look at how popular outdoor theatre is in New York. They get huge Hollywood stars earning buttons just to get a crack at the classical parts. Course we’re going to have to really brainstorm to come up with the right director, but I’ve got a great pitch for him or her: Shakespeare meets The Sopranos.’

  ‘Loving it,’ says Barbara, eyes gleaming.

  ‘I want this show to be contemporary and cutting edge and relevant, not like the held-together-with-Sellotape, crappy old productions of Hamlet, or the boring, boring history plays we had to yawn our way through in school. Oh, and I’ve got just the perfect venue in mind, the Iveagh Gardens. It’s romantic, peaceful, central . . .’

  ‘And there’s a cool bar just around the corner,’ says Barbara excitedly. ‘What are you both looking at me like that for? The cast will want to go for a drink after the show, won’t they?’

  ‘You’re going to be networking after,’ I say to her firmly, ‘like you’ve never networked before in your entire life. I’m taking personal responsibility to make sure every actor’s agent in town will be there. I want this gig to be the hottest ticket since U2 did their homecoming tour. Therefore I suggest we do three performances only, a bit like the opera companies, to keep supply well below demand. Everyone except special invited guests pays full price. My personal vision is that we’ll have ticket touts outside buying and selling tickets at twice their face value, like they did when Justin Timberlake played here. Remember? There were nearly fist fights.’

  ‘What about funding?’ Laura asks, flicking through the file on her lap.

  ‘Ladies, if you’ll kindly turn to your blue sticker, you’ll see a list of companies and clients I already represent, who might just be willing to invest. It’s a tax write-off for them too, you know. Now brace yourselves for this one, girls. My other idea is that any profit we do make is donated to charity.’

  ‘What?’ Laura nearly sprays the wall with margarita, she’s spluttering so much, but then money is always a touchy subject with her.

  ‘Because remember, this venture isn’t about making money. It’s about making Barbara a star.’

  ‘LOVIN’ it and LOVIN’ you,’ says Barbara, looking at me, stunned. ‘Keep this up and I’ll put you in my will.’

  ‘Oh yes, and a big question for you,’ I say to her. ‘What is your absolute dream role? The one part that you’d knife someone in the back for?’

  For once in her life, she doesn’t have a smart answer to hand.

  ‘Emm . . . oh . . . well, when you put it like that . . . jeez . . . can I think about it and get back to you? I just, well, I didn’t expect you to be this . . . emm . . . organized.’

  They both look at me, dead impressed, and I glow a bit.

  Then they give me a round of applause, and although I act mortified, I’m actually thrilled. Then . . . oh shit.

  I remember that I’ve gone to all this time and trouble over ‘project Barbara’, and I have sweet bugger-all for Laura . . . apart from one really tiny thing I thought of, but a) I don’t know how she’ll react, and b) I’m terrified of insulting her.

  I mean, at aged thirteen when the rest of us were all squabbling over Jackie magazine and stuffing our training bras with tissues, Laura was a fully paid-up member of Mensa. Honestly. I mean, she’s just so intelligent and brilliant, with first-class honours degrees hanging out of her, and what I’m about to propose is . . . well, it’s not a million miles from asking Thomas Edison if he’d mind changing a light bulb for you. Or Einstein to give a hand with your four-year-old’s sums.

  Anyway, and I’m not just playing for time here, I get up, mix more margaritas and am just sitting back down again, when she says to me, ‘So, Glenda the good witch of the East, don’t suppose you’ve anything in your bag of tricks for this particular Dorothy?’ I look hopefully over to Barbara, but no joy. She’s just looking back at me with an expression that might as well say, ‘Go on then, you’re the prime organizer here, you’re the one with all the colouredy folders.’

  Right, nothing for it, then.

  ‘Right then, Laura, here’s the thing. The way I see it is, of course you’re dying to get back to the Bar the minute the baby is in proper, big school . . .’

  ‘Which will be in approximately twenty-eight months’ time,’ she interrupts. ‘But who’s counting?’

  ‘But until that happy day dawns, you need a way to generate cash while working from home.’

  ‘You could become an escort,’ says Barbara, crunching an ice cube between her teeth. ‘You know, like in the film Belle de Jour. Pays in cash, too.’

  A withering glare from Laura and it’s back to me. I fish around in my briefcase, and after a lot of rummaging produce a copy of this month’s glossy new Tattle magazine.

  ‘What, you’re suggesting I become a gossip columnist? Or an agony aunt?’

  ‘Hear me out, honey. Have a look at this.’ I hand over the magazine, with a page turned down. ‘Now remember, it’s only an amuse-bouche of a moneymaking idea, that’s all.’

  I threw that in casually-on-purpose, hoping the posh word would hook her.

  ‘Amuse-bouche?’ She shrugs. ‘Fancy.’

  ‘Thanks so much, please use it in a sentence by Monday.’

  ‘“I was in love and then he dumped me like I was radioactive waste,”’ she reads aloud from where I marked.

  ‘No, not the problem page, beside it. There.’

  ‘Blah, blah, blah short story contest, blahdy blah blah, theme is a brand-new take on modern motherhood blah blah blah three thousand words, blah blah blah, open to anyone over the age of eighteen, blah blah, closing date for submissions . . .’

  Barbara’s now stopped her ice-munching and is looking at me as if to say, ‘You’ve certainly wiped the amuse off my bouche.’

  ‘Take a look at the prize money,’ I say, sticking to my guns.

  ‘First prize, five thousand euro, second prize, two thousand, third prize, a grand . . . dearest, this is all very well and good, except for one minuscule detail you seem to have overlooked. I can’t write. Treatises, yes, legal reports, yes, fiction, are you kidding me?’

  ‘Laura, you are officially the funniest woman I know. Especially when it comes to stories about your kids.’

  ‘Agreed,’ says Barbara. ‘Certainly the most unintentionally funny. I mean, you telling the story of how Emily is refusing to eat until you get cable is worthy of a slot on The Late Late Show.’

  ‘Don’t remind me. The little madam said I should change my name to mean.’

  ‘You see? That’s the kind of razor-sharp wit and humour they’re looking for,’ I say.

  ‘And you honestly believe that anyone would want to read about my family life?’

  ‘Come on, sweetie, if I can go on two dates, me the man repeller, and if Barbara can turn into a producer . . .’

  ‘. . . And do bear in mind my last paid acting job was over a year ago, a stunning portrayal of a lump of cholesterol on a beach in the Benecol ad. Unforgettable, really. And the answer to your next question – “Why aren’t you playing Broadway as a direct result?” – is “Beats the hell out of me”.’

  Laura’s cornered and she knows it.

  ‘Well, if nothing else, I’ve just thought of a title,’ she eventually says.

  ‘Tell us.’

  ‘It’s a sign I hung on the kids’ bedroom doors. “Checkout Time is at Eighteen Years”.’

 
Barbara cracks up, with her big he-man laugh, but this time Laura doesn’t join in.

  ‘You really think I can do this?’ she asks me, looking a bit pole-axed.

  ‘What’s the worst that can happen? All you can do is try.’

  ‘In my world, trying merely brings you one step closer to failure.’

  ‘Christ alive, you think what you have to do is a challenge? In the next month I have to try and get two guys to date me.’

  But I know exactly how she feels.

  Chapter Five

  RIGHT THEN, MIGHT as well get this over with. It’s Sunday morning, well, mid-morning would probably be a bit more accurate; myself and the girls having sat up till waaaaay late last night, giggling and messing and generally acting like three overgrown tequila tarts. Laura even got to stay out till well after 1 a.m., which for her is a new kind of record, but then she got so worried that her phone hadn’t rung with updates on whatever row was going on at home, that she panicked herself into thinking that the house was probably on fire and that she should therefore leg it home post-haste.

  A silent phone tends to have that effect on her.

  Anyway, Barbara and I stayed up till all hours talking shite, taking the world apart and putting it back together again, and now here I am, still in bed, physically unable to budge, I’m that hungover. I’m in no mad rush to get up though, mainly because my bed is probably the most comfortable place to be in the whole house/building site, so I stretch over to my bedside table, grab a pen and pad and get cracking on my homework from last night.

  My dating cheat sheet, by Vicky Harper.

  Absolute minimum qualities my future life-partner (she sez hopefully) MUST have, otherwise I hereby solemnly vow not to go within six feet of him, regardless of how fit, loaded and sexy he may be. Which neatly brings me to point 1.

  He must be fit, loaded and sexy.

  He must go out of his way to win over entire family including messer brothers, who, let’s face it, will make it their life mission to reduce the poor fella to a gibbering idiot. And I needn’t fool myself into thinking that they’ll take pity on me and be nice: Vicky-boyfriend-baiting is something of a blood sport with them. Bastards.

  He must survive said brothers re-enacting the ‘hilarious’ story of the time, aged nine, I shaved off the front of my hair in an effort to have that high-forehead look that Glenda Jackson had in Elizabeth I (at the time, my favourite TV show). Sadly I ended up looking more like my Uncle Jim, with a stupid looking comb-over that lasted for a full year while I waited for my hair to grow back. If asshole brothers are in particularly vicious form, they sometimes produce photos of me with said comb-over, to maximize mortification, then ask potential DSM whether or not I remind him of anyone? (Correct answer: Baldrick from Blackadder.)

  He must find my complete inability to cook cutesy and endearing. Leading to . . .

  He must love and adore take-out food and be prepared to live off nothing else. Well, until I eventually sign up for one of those cookery courses that celebrity chefs host from time to time, thereby becoming effortless hostess with reputation for holding glittering soirées and making all my own really complicated-looking cakes, like Martha Stewart. Well, Martha Stewart before all that unpleasantness . . . right, then, like Jane Asher.

  He must on no account fancy Barbara, or Paris and Nicole from the office. Eyes only for me at all times, regardless of how badly my roots need doing, how haggard I look after a night out with Barbara, or how much water am retaining.

  He must not be a couch commando, and if I fancy watching Desperate Housewives, he’ll be suitably quiet throughout and not keep talking through all the juicy bits. Nor will he fancy any of the women in it, either. I am fed up of listening to guys salivating over that Latino one that plays Gabrielle.

  He must love that I live in a building site and be very handy with a power drill/bag of grout/good old-fashioned hammer and nails.

  It’s also a useful advantage if he knows his arse from his elbow, unlike Joe Egan (three . . . no, sorry, four boyfriends ago) who thought tsunami was an actual place somewhere. Laura had great crack altogether with this and wound him up that Nancy Pelosi was a 1960s folk singer in the Janis Joplin mode and how come he’d never bought any of her albums? Poor eejit, you’d nearly feel sorry for him.

  Oh for God’s sake, I think, crumpling up the list and flinging it on to the floor. Does such a man even exist?

  Right, getting into dangerously negative territory here, I decide, so I hop out of bed, put on a pair of trainers that are lying on the floor, and head downstairs to get my law of attraction book, which I’m pretty sure I left lying on top of a pliers and wrench set strewn somewhere across the living-room floor.

  As I’m racing downstairs, it strikes me that in this get-up I must look like that character from Little Britain that’s escaped from a mental home and spends her time running around in her nightie and trainers going ‘ah, ah AAAH’. Times like this, I’m almost glad I don’t have a fella to see the state of me . . . NO, scrap that negative thought immediately on the grounds that your word is your wand.

  When I do have a lovely, suitable DSM in my life, I will of course never wear the horrendous, ankle-length pink fleecy thing I’m in now. (Purely for warmth, you understand, I’ve no heating YET.) No, it’ll be La Perla and fluffy slippers all the way, with spray tan done at all times, because everyone knows that makes your lumpy bumpy bits look a million times better and can take a full half stone off you, according to the beauty pages.

  Anyway, I find the book lying beside some kind of wrench thing that almost looks like something they’d have used in medieval times to torture Catholics and get them to renounce their faith (don’t waste your breath even ASKING, is my motto with Useless Builder), and I hop back upstairs and into my snug, toasty warm bed. I randomly flip open a page from the book, which was dog-eared to start with, but is practically falling apart by now, I’ve been dipping in and out of it so many times this week. Honest to God, there’s whole chunks of it I almost know off-by-heart at this stage. Miracle I managed to get any actual work done.

  Anyway, I come across an ancient quote from Robert Collier, dated 1925, which says,

  See the things you want as already yours. Know in your heart of hearts that they will come to you, then simply let them come. Don’t fret and worry about them, just think of them as absolutely belonging to you, as already in your possession.

  Yes, love it, it’s the perfect affirmation for me. And amazing that, although written so long ago, somehow it’s still relevant today. Right then, time for a bit of unwavering faith. Belief in the unseen.

  OK, fair enough.

  Walk in the park really, I mean all I have to do is imagine my ideal life, or in my case, my ideal partner. The book says you’re supposed to spend about ten minutes a day, morning and evening, meditating or channelling or whatever it is you want to call it, but basically it all pretty much involves the same thing: me lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, really, really, REALLY focusing on what I want out of life.

  OK then. One simple, clear image that to me encapsulates what would make me happy, or as it says in the book, what would be my ‘bliss’. There’s also a quote from Einstein, of all people, about imagination being the highest kite you can fly, so with that in mind, I close my eyes and off I drift . . .

  Yes, there I am. Still in bed with my wonderful partner stretched out beside me, except just not this bed as it’s ancient and a bit creaky; no, what I’d love is one of those fabulous four-poster beds that really suit old houses, you know, you see them in posh hotels all the time. Oh, but then, how would it fit into the room? Oh I know, they’d have to dismantle it then reassemble it . . .

  Shit, shit, shit, this is not exactly what you might call focused concentration, now is it?

  I start again, bearing in mind that the point of the exercise is to visualize my perfect life; soft furnishings are a detail that I can worry about later. Although, while we’re on the subject, I definitely do wa
nt those stunning Frette sheets that cost a fortune, but that are just the sexiest thing against your skin, like satin only warm to the touch, and I’d nearly swear I saw that they were on sale in the House of Fraser . . .

  Oh for f**k’s sake, even Laura’s seven-year-old has better concentration skills than me. Right, go again.

  Yes, here I am all snuggled up in my yet-to-be-decided-what-it’ll-end-up-looking-like-bed as my boyfriend/life-partner/future husband spoons into me from behind.

  I chose that particular image on purpose, so I could hear what he sounds like but not actually see his face, because otherwise, knowing me, I’ll only hold it in my mind’s eye like some kind of Identikit picture and then measure any subsequent, future DSMs against the picture of perfection I’m about to conjure up. And, let’s face it, how could any flesh and blood fella possibly compete? At this stage in my long and chequered dating career, the one thing I can say with absolute certainty is that it doesn’t matter a shite what he looks like.

  Although the voice is definitely . . . Johnny Depp’s? No, no, I keep thinking of the way he sounded like one of the elderly Rolling Stones in Pirates of the Caribbean . . . James Mason’s? No, too creepy . . .

  Got it, George Clooney’s. You know a gravelly, sexy, cigars and brandy voice . . . mmmm . . .

  HIM: ‘Darling, would you like me to bring you some breakfast in bed? You know how I trained to be a cordon bleu chef in my spare time, before I floated my company on the stock exchange and became a billionaire, and right after I won the Olympic silver medal for having such a hot bod?’

  ME: ‘Mmmm.’

  HIM: ‘But in spite of all my humble achievements, Time magazine Man of the Year, all of that, there’s still nothing in this world that gives me more pleasure than to cook for you, my sweet, slumbering angel.’

  ME: ‘Fair enough, make it . . . ehh, two rashers, two sausages, scrambled eggs on wholemeal toast and a cappuccino, low fat. Thanks, love.’

  HIM: ‘It’s my pleasure. Have I told you so far today how happy you’ve made me, darling?’