Читать книгу My Pear-Shaped Life - Carmel Harrington - Страница 11

By the time Greta inched her way down the aisle of the aeroplane towards her seat, she had successfully managed to bury her feelings about how she had looked in that mirror. Until she sat down and realized that her seatbelt would not clasp shut. She felt her body tense in shock and took several deep breaths to try and calm herself down, not quite believing the situation that was unfolding.

She checked to make sure her belt was not tangled. It wasn’t.

She then pulled the lever to extend the belt to its full length, getting an extra millimetre by doing so. But no matter how hard she tugged and pulled, the two ends never met. A glob of acidic bile made its way into the back of her throat, as the enormity of this discovery hit her. The unimaginable had happened. She was too fat to fly.

In silent loathing, she went through her options. She could call the attendant and ask for a seatbelt extender. This she eliminated immediately, because she couldn’t bear the shame of saying the words out loud, feeling the judgemental side-eye of her fellow passengers as they took in the fat girl. There was only one other choice. Deception. Greta took her jacket off and placed it over her lap hiding her unclasped belt. With a bit of luck, the stewardess would only glance in her direction and not insist on double-checking that all was buckled under her jacket. Then her mind jumped to a movie she’d seen a few years ago. What was it? Not that it mattered. All that mattered was the fact that in the film an aeroplane took a sudden drop in altitude and a guy who’d undone his seatbelt had catapulted to the roof of the plane, where his head proceeded to split open. Touching her head, which she happened to like, Greta knew something for sure.

A scenario that included possible death was still preferable to admitting publicly that she was too fat to fly.

Greta glanced at the man who sat to her left. He had pushed himself closer to the window, as if touching her would contaminate him. She looked to her right at the woman who was reading a book, oblivious to her predicament. Maybe she was being polite, who knew? Greta closed her eyes for a moment and silently asked Dr Gale what would she do in this situation. She imagined her idol taking her hands between her own, saying, ‘Honey child, there are a lot of problems in this world, but this sure as hell isn’t one of them. Now you need to use your weight as your strength. Reclaim your power, be a grown-ass woman, and ask for that extender.’

Feck it. Taking a deep breath, Greta pushed the call button, and when the stewardess walked over to her, with a big pearly-white smile, Greta mustered every bit of the kind of dignity and defiance she believed Dr Gale would adopt in the situation.

‘My New Year’s resolution was to lose twenty pounds. Only twenty-five to go …’ Greta pointed to her tummy, smiling ruefully at the stewardess.

‘Oh I hear you!’ The stewardess smiled. ‘The struggle is real.’

‘For sure.’ Greta lowered her voice a fraction and asked, ‘Could I have a seatbelt extender, please?’

The stewardess smiled even more brightly and said, ‘With pleasure, I often use one myself, it’s far more comfortable.’ Then she trotted away to fetch it.

The man in the suit had contempt written over every chiselled part of his face as Greta added the extra section to the seatbelt and tightened it. She had only needed an inch, but that was all it had taken to shame her. The woman on her right had sympathy written all over her face. And there was something else there too. Relief. She knew what she was thinking. She’d seen it reflected in the eyes of many other women too. While that woman might be carrying a few extra pounds, she wasn’t as fat as Greta was.

Greta closed her mind to them all and concentrated on today’s audition. This month alone she’d read parts for two adverts, a play in The Gaeity and a new character in Fair City, Ireland’s longest-running soap opera. The odds should have been in her favour for at least one call-back. But each time she was told that while they’d enjoyed her audition, they’d decided to go in a different direction.

Greta wished someone would tell her what direction all these roles went in, so she could set it as a favourite in Google maps on her phone. The last time her agent Michelle had rung with bad news, Greta had joked, ‘If at first, you don’t succeed … it’s probably never going to happen.’ They’d both laughed for a moment, before awkwardly falling into silence.

But the audition today felt different. Even Michelle had said so when she’d emailed her the main characteristics of Clara: This role has your name on it! It could have been written for you. Clara, in her thirties, fat, unattractive, funny, wisecracker.

While Greta had long since given up on the dream of ever being cast as the good-looking lead, the fact that her agent had emphasized the words fat and unattractive still stung. Unfortunately she knew her agent was right: it did sound like a great part for her.

But Greta was a trouper and she shoved the hurt deep inside her and focused on the words funny and wisecracker. She’d been playing that role her whole life.

She arrived at the casting studio in London fifteen minutes early, which gave her plenty of time to freshen up before her audition. As she looked around the reception hall for the ladies, a woman marched over to her holding a clipboard.

‘I’m Maria. You are?’ Maria looked down at the page in front of her, while she waited for an answer.

‘Greta Gale.’

Maria tilted her head to one side as she contemplated the puzzle that was in front of her.

‘You mean like the real Dr Greta Gale?’

‘Real as opposed to me, the fake one standing in front of you?’ Greta said.

Maria smiled, ‘You know I have a friend called Tony Hadley. He does a pretty good version of “Gold”, as it happens. Right, follow me, we’ve had a cancellation, so you’re up next.’

‘If I could just have five minutes …’ But before Greta could ask where the bathroom was, Maria had marched through a set of double doors, leaving her with no choice but to follow.

‘Greta Gale auditioning for the part of Clara,’ Maria called out, leading her into a studio.

Three sets of eyes looked up from their smartphones and scanned Greta up and down. Greta wheeled her luggage over to the side of the room, wishing that she’d had the foresight to put tissues in her trouser pocket. Could she ask for a moment to go to the ladies? Or would that go against her?

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Maria said. It appeared that no introductions were to be made.

Greta grabbed her résumé and headshot folder from her handbag and walked to the centre of the room. She stood in front of the panel, who were seated behind a long rectangular desk. Louise Cavendish, a casting director, sat at one end. Greta had auditioned for her a few times and she’d also taken one of her workshops. And while it was never promised outright, rumour had it that by attending a course taught by Louise you had a better chance at being picked for a role cast by her. It cost Greta a full month’s wages to go to it, so she hoped the rumours were true.

Greta smiled in Louise’s direction. She got nothing in return. Not even a cursory nod of acknowledgement. So she turned her attention to the guy in the middle. He looked as though he was no more than sixteen years old and was more interested in his phone than in Greta. A little less brightly, Greta smiled at the last member of the panel, a woman who was wearing earrings the size of satellites. Earring lady just shook her head in response to her smile, then looked away.

Why didn’t they say something? I should say something. This must be a test to see if I can channel Clara!

‘Hey everyone.’ It might not have been fierce, but at least it sounded more confident than she felt. She wiped a bead of sweat that had pooled above her lip with the back of her hand and willed her body to cool down. Her body ignored every plea she whispered, until her face was covered in a layer of sweat that dribbled down her double chin, landing in big plops onto her black tunic top. The panel began to whisper to each other, glancing back and forth towards her.

Louise was the first to speak. ‘Would you like a napkin?’ She waved a white tissue in her direction.

Greta nodded and bit her lip. She needed to pull herself together, fast. She walked over to Louise and took the tissue, which disintegrated into mush within seconds when she dabbed her face.

‘We’re going to need a bigger boat,’ Greta joked in her best Sheriff Brody voice from Jaws.

Laughter. Thank God.

Louise handed her the full pack of tissues. Greta nodded her thanks, then walked at a snail’s pace back to her mark, mopping her face as she went.

‘Would you like a glass of water?’ the man-child asked. His face had landed on a sneer.

Greta felt that she was in danger of losing them before she’d even started. She had to take control of the situation. So she straightened her back and said, ‘No thank you. I’m excited to read for you. I have never felt more connected to a part before. I am Clara. Albeit a sweaty one right now. But that’s real life for you. If Clara had been through my commute of a flight, the Gatwick Express, and then two Tube rides that frankly felt like an endurance test, then she’d be …’ She motioned towards her soggy face.

‘The Tube was like a sauna this morning,’ Man-child agreed.

‘Why do you think you’re a good fit for Clara?’ Earring lady asked.

‘Well, to start with, I look like her. Or at least how you described her, and how I read her in the script. She’s sassy. She’s got style. I’m the same size as her – not Bridget Jones fat – which has to be a plus.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Louise asked.

‘Bridget Jones was meant to be overweight. But clearly in the movie she was just an average-sized woman. I mean if Bridget Jones is fat, what does that make me? Actually, don’t answer that.’

Earring lady smiled. ‘You know what bugs me every Christmas? The way everyone keeps referring to Natalie in Love Actually as chubby and plump! Martine McCutcheon has a lovely figure.’

‘Yes! I felt sorry for Aurélia’s sister in that movie. They described her as Miss Dunkin’ Donut 2013. And pretty much said that she was too fat and ugly to get a man,’ Greta said. ‘Mind you, she was a bit weird the way she kissed Colin Firth.’

Heartened by their laughter, Greta continued, ‘I want to assure you that most days I can pull this look off.’ Greta laid her headshot and CV onto the table in front of them. She was proud of that photograph. She looked like herself, just the very best version possible.

They picked it up and passed it from one to the other.

‘Actually, this is how I saw Clara in my mind’s eye,’ Earring lady said to Louise and the man-child.

Louise said to her panel, ‘By the way, Greta played the part of that cute kid in the biscuit Christmas advert.’

‘I love that advert!’ Earring lady said.

This was Greta’s only real claim to fame. Her one big TV moment. Twenty-five years earlier, she had been cast in a Christmas advert for biscuits. The advert in question was played for the first time just before The Late Late Toy Show began, one of Ireland’s favourite Christmas TV shows on RTÉ One.

‘You were so cute!’ Earring lady enthused, clearly a fan.

And she wasn’t the only one who thought so. The nation sighed a collective aww when the pigtailed little Greta, in her red plaid pyjamas, filled their TV screens. She walked into her living room, wiping her tired eyes with her little chubby hands, where she found a rosy-cheeked Santa eating biscuits she’d left for him earlier. ‘I want one too, Santa!’ she cried with a perfect pout, one hand held on her hip. Then she snatched a biscuit from Santa’s white-gloved hand. He laughed a big ho, ho, ho, and the advert ended with the little girl winking at the camera. It was an instant Christmas hit, one of those adverts that never failed to make people yearn for yesteryear and good old family values.

‘Say the line!’ Earring lady begged.

Greta put a hand on her hip, then said, ‘I want one too, Santa!’, then winked at them all. They all clapped and Greta took a bow. The biscuit advert that had haunted her for years was helping her out of a tight spot. ‘Twenty-five years later and some things never change!’

‘I like that! OK, let’s hear your prepared piece,’ Louise said, scribbling something into her notebook.

Greta straightened her back and began to recite her Clara monologue. As soon as the first word left her, she felt a familiar shift, as she morphed into Clara. She felt the energy in the room change too as the panel sat forward and listened to her words. This was it. The stars were finally aligning in her favour.

She finished her lines, ending with a perfectly arched raised eyebrow. Greta took a moment to compose herself, then looked over to the panel to check out their reaction. They loved it!

‘Excellent work, Greta,’ Louise said. ‘I really enjoyed that, a truly believable performance.’

‘Thank you!’ Greta said and resisted the urge to do a victory dance. ‘If you cast me, I promise I’ll eat, sleep and dream Clara! I’ll work so hard, I won’t let you down.’

‘I believe you!’ Man-child said, grinning now too. It was an unadulterated smile-fest in the audition room now. ‘Can we confirm that you are available in September for filming?’

She might not know his name, but right now Greta wanted to run across the room, take his baby face between her hands and kiss him. ‘I know I should be all cool here and tell you that I need to check my diary. But honest to goodness, I’d cancel my own wedding to do this show if you cast me.’

‘I told you she was funny,’ Louise said, then turned to Greta. ‘We’ll be in touch. Now go and get a cold drink – you look like you need one.’

Greta grabbed her bags, adrenalin pumping through her body, and she Beyoncé’d her way out of the room, messaging Dylan as soon as she got to the lobby.

Greta: I nailed it! They asked me if I was free for filming later this year.

Dylan: I knew you would. You better not forget me when you get this part and leave Inspector Clueless behind.

Greta: How very dare you. I liv and breeve for ze murder in ze Castle.

Dylan: Ha! Go out and celebrate. I think you’d love Soho – there’s loads of fringe theatres in the West End.

Greta: I’m gonna peel back this city’s juicy layers and take a big old bite out of it. Promise. Chat later!

By the time she’d taken the two Tube rides to get to her hotel, her adrenalin had leaked a bit. It didn’t help that the ten-minute walk to the hotel from the Tube turned into a twenty-minute hike because she turned right instead of left when she exited the station. Exhausted, she told herself that as everything was open so late in London, it made sense that she should take a short break to recharge. She’d been up since the crack of dawn and her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d not eaten since her breakfast. She popped into a Sainsbury’s Local on the way to the hotel to pick up some refreshments. With the audition going so well, surely she could treat herself to a celebration? Wine, cheese, crackers, chocolate and crisps. She threw in a bunch of grapes, an apple and a pear too, sorting her five a day. She’d snack, rest, then head to the West End early in the evening.

But when Greta got back to the hotel, the buzz of the audition had worn off replaced by all-too-familiar doubts creeping in. Greta sipped a glass of wine and munched on a bag of cheese and onion crisps, trying to switch off her brain to the constant buzz of the what-ifs. Would the sweating put them off? Or had she managed to turn the audition around with her reading? What were they whispering about when she delivered that final line? What if her five minutes of fame had happened when she was a child in that Christmas advert and that was it for her? This thought crippled her more than anything else. She simply could not imagine a world where she wasn’t an actress. The feeling of transformation when she played a role – sharing a character’s pain, happiness, fear or joy with an audience – was all consuming. Being someone else. Leaving Greta Gale behind. If she wasn’t an actress, then who or what was she? Over and over, the thoughts continued, until her eyes stung and her head pounded. She couldn’t ditch the feeling that time was running out for her. Her eyes stung with tiredness because she’d only managed a few hours’ sleep the night before. But yet her mind would not switch off. On and on it continued, telling her she wasn’t good enough. If she could just lose some weight, then maybe people would pay more attention to her? Maybe then she would be more than the fat girl with sweat patches under her arms. She disgusted herself, she couldn’t really blame anyone else for feeling the same way.

When had her life gone so pear-shaped? Then she noticed the green pear she’d bought earlier. Lying toppled on its side, wobbling on a round body. And she started to sob, because she didn’t want to be a pear any more.

Enough. Only one thing could ever silence her horrible, sad thoughts.

Greta opened her toiletry bag and pulled out her pack of sleeping tablets. She placed one onto her tongue, then washed it down with a glass of red. Then she broke a second one in half and popped that in too.

London could wait.