Читать книгу The O’Hara Affair - Kate Thompson - Страница 10

On the top of the double-decker bus that had been converted into a mobile canteen, the extras were on a tea break. Most of them were locals who had been working on The O’Hara Affair for the past three weeks, and most of them were playing starving peasants. The obesity rate in Coolnamara had plummeted, because as soon as word had got out that The O’Hara Affair was going to be shooting near Lissamore, half the population had gone on diets and taken up exercise classes in the community hall. The downside of playing a starving peasant was the costumes: they were filthy, raggedy old things. Bethany had been lucky: she was meant to be a lady’s maid in the Big House, so she got to wear something rather more stylish: an ankle-length black dress with button boots, starched white pinafore and matching lace-trimmed cap.

On this, her first day, Bethany had been hanging out with a girl called Tara, who had also been cast as a lady’s maid. There was a lot of hanging about on a film set, Bethany had discovered. In fact, she had come to the conclusion that extra work was deadly dull. She hadn’t had a glimpse of a single star so far: all the principals were sequestered in their trailers. Not only that, extras were treated like cattle, with assistant directors herding them about and shouting at them: ADs were the most irritable people she’d ever come across. And a lot of the extras weren’t the pleasantest bunch to work with, either. Because she and Tara had nicer costumes than the other girls, the pair of them were subjected to a lot of resentful looks, like the girls who won the challenge in America’s Next Top Model.

But Bethany didn’t care. She remembered what Madame Tiresia had said about the girls at school – the ones who’d been jealous of her because they hadn’t the courage to dream. And now that she had plucked up the courage to chase that dream, here she was on her way to living it, even though it was proving to be boring.

Tara was a seasoned extra, having worked on the film for a couple of weeks now. She had learned about hitting marks, she had learned not to touch the lasagne at lunchtime, and she had learned to stave off the boredom with the help of her laptop. She had shared all of this arcane information with Bethany earlier that day, and now they were messing around on YouTube, looking at video clips of craziest cats.

‘What’s Shane Byrne like?’ Bethany asked, as Tara clicked on ‘Kittens Dancing to Jingle Bell Rock’.

‘Shane Byrne,’ Tara told her, ‘is a sweetie. He’s real friendly – a gentleman. You might see him later – he sometimes joins us for coffee on the bus.’

‘On the bus? You’re kidding!’

‘It’s true. He’s not up himself, like the other stars, who wouldn’t be caught dead talking to a mere extra.’

‘He’s from around here originally, isn’t he?’

‘Galway. He had a fling years ago with the woman who’s doing the set-dressing, Río Kinsella. They had a son together.’

‘I remember reading about that in some online fanzine. It said something about a “love child” and a “tempestuous” affair. You can tell just by looking at him that he’s a bad boy, a bit like Johnny Depp, except that Johnny Depp—’

‘Shh!’ Tara stiffened suddenly. ‘Let’s change the subject.’

‘What’s – oh.’ Following the direction of Tara’s gaze, Bethany saw that Shane Byrne had just dropped into the seat behind her. He was accompanied by a man who was fingering a BlackBerry.

‘Hey! I’m bored with YouTube,’ said Tara, niftily changing tack. ‘Let’s have a wander around Second Life.’

‘What?’

‘Second Life. It’s another great way of passing the time when you’re hanging around waiting to be called.’

‘Is that the game where you pretend to be somebody else?’

‘Yeah. Except it’s not really a game. It’s more of a virtual world where you can interact with real people who are online at the same time.’

‘How does it work?’

‘You create an avatar who represents you – mine’s called Mitzy.’ Tara clicked on the Second Life icon, and waited for the site to download.

‘Wasn’t there something in the papers about a UK couple who divorced in real life after their avatars were unfaithful to each other on Second Life?’

‘Yes.’

‘Weird!’

‘That’s how seriously some people take it. That couple got married in Second Life before getting married in real life. And then, when she suspected him of having virtual sex with a Second Life lap dancer, she actually hired a virtual private detective to set up a honey trap. The funniest thing was that their avatars bore absolutely no resemblance to the way they looked in real life. In Second Life he was a six-foot-four love god, and she was a six-foot sex siren. Look – here’s Mitzy – isn’t she pretty?’

Bethany peered at the image that shimmered onto the screen of Tara’s notebook. A 3-D beauty with golden Rapunzel locks was standing poised on the step of a pagoda. She was wearing a fairy-tale ball gown, a glittering tiara, and ruby slippers.

‘Wow,’ said Bethany. ‘How did you make her?’

‘I chose a generic avatar, then customized her by changing her body shape and skin tone and hair, and shopping for outfits in the virtual mall. Look.’

Tara clicked a few times, and suddenly Mitzy was in a shopping mall, surrounded by other shoppers. These avatars ranged from the everyday – dressed in jeans and T-shirts – to the outlandish, in preposterous fancy dress. By pressing ←↑→and ↓ on the keyboard, Tara was able to move Mitzy in different directions. She promptly sent her off window-shopping.

‘Can you really buy this stuff?’ asked Bethany.

‘Yes – with virtual money called Linden dollars. You can buy anything you like here, be anyone you want to be.’

It was true. Those virtual Linden dollars could transform Mitzy into a cheer leader, a geisha or a trollop. She could be Scheherazade, Cleopatra, Pocahontas or Pink. The place was a virtual shopaholic’s dream.

‘It’s amazing!’ said Bethany. ‘Look – you can even get tattoos!’

‘And hair extensions. And nail art, if you could be arsed.’

‘Hey – look at that dude! The one with the floppy hair who looks like Johnny Depp.’

‘You really are into Johnny Depp?’ Tara asked her, with a wicked smile.

Bethany smiled back. ‘Big time.’

‘I’m more an Orlando Bloom gal myself.’

Tara walked Mitzy up to the avatar, whose nametag read ‘Silvius’. ‘Do you want to talk to him?’

‘How do you talk?’ asked Bethany.

‘You can use voice chat,’ Tara told her. ‘But I prefer instant messaging. Watch this’: Hello Silvius, she typed. I love your coat. Where did you get it? She pressed Return, and the words appeared on the screen.

Silvius seemed to hesitate, and then, perhaps impressed by Mitzy’s beauty and ruby slippers, the reply came back. Hello Mitzy. Ty. I got it in Kings Plaza Thanks, said Mitzy/Tara. I’ll go there straight away.

A couple more clicks, and suddenly the golden-haired avatar was standing in a department store where glam menswear and even more glamorous womenswear was on display.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Bethany. ‘Who creates these places?’

‘Members of the Second Life community. I find it a great way to chill. Loads of people say they’d rather get a real life than go on Second Life, but I’ve met some really cool people on here. Wait till you see this.’

Within seconds, Mitzy was standing in front of a Tudor building, courtesy of Teleport.

‘Where are we?’

‘It’s the Globe Theatre.’

‘Like – Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre?’

‘Yep. We’re on Shakespeare Island.’

‘I love it!’ said Bethany.

‘You can teleport to loads of places. You can even visit an Irish pub in Temple Bar.’

Abruptly, a real voice dragged them away from their virtual world. One of the ADs was standing at the top of the stairs. ‘There’s been a hitch, boys and girls,’ he announced, ‘and we’ve had to rejig. The interior’s been rescheduled for tomorrow. We’re moving on to the exterior.’

‘Bummer.’

Bethany and Tara drooped. The interior scene involved the staff of the Big House – including the ladies’ maids – while the exterior was all starving peasants begging the evil landlord for food. Since their scene was postponed they could have gone home, but they had no transport, and Lissamore was a six-mile walk away. They’d have to stay on until all the other extras had finished for the day so that they could board the coach together. More bloody hanging around.

The AD made his way past them to where Shane Byrne was sitting with his companion. ‘Mr Byrne, apologies for the inconvenience. I’ll call you as soon as we’re set up. May I get someone to bring you more coffee?’

‘Please,’ said Shane Byrne. Then he turned to his neighbour. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be congenial company for the foreseeable. I’m gonna have to go over my script.’

‘No worries,’ said the dark-haired man. ‘I have some business I can get out of the way.’ He reached for his BlackBerry as Shane reached for his script. ‘Some day soon, you’ll be learning your lines on screen,’ he observed.

‘Nah,’ said Shane. ‘I’ll stick to hard copy. I always auction scripts off when I’m finished with them, and send the proceeds to Cancer Research.’

‘Good idea.’

Behind them, Bethany and Tara were still slumped in their seats. The time on the screen of Tara’s laptop read 3.15. They could be stuck here for another three hours. On the screen, Mitzy sighed and yawned.

‘How did you make her do that?’ asked Bethany.

‘Easy,’ Tara told her, ‘I went to the gestures menu and selected “bored”. I can get her to do all kinds of things.’

‘Can I have a go?’

‘Sure.’

Tara passed over her laptop, and Bethany started playing around with the keys, selecting Page Up to propel Tara’s avatar towards a sign that read SLSC Academy of Performing Arts.

‘What’s SLSC?’ she asked.

‘Second Life Shakespeare Company. They put on plays apparently, but any time I visit there’s hardly anyone here.’

Bethany propelled Mitzy through a door.

‘Hey – look – we’re in some kind of a gallery! This is amazing!’ Around the walls were pictures of Shakespeare’s characters from Hamlet. Bethany guided the avatar past portraits of Hamlet and Ophelia, Gertrude, Claudius and the Player King, before finding herself in the playhouse. She manoeuvred Mitzy up onto the stage, and stood looking around. There was something marvellously out-of-body about this.

‘Where else can we go?’ she asked Tara.

‘How about a beach?’

‘Yes!’

In the shake of a lamb’s tail, Mitzy was standing on a deserted beach. It was night in Second Life, and dark waves were crashing onto the silver sand. Above her, stars pinpricked the sky, and seagulls called.

‘I came here once,’ Tara told Bethany, ‘and there was an avatar of a girl in a bikini, waiting for her boyfriend. She told me she was living in Florida, and he was in the UK, and they used to meet up on the same beach at a prearranged time to go swimming together.’

‘How sweet!’ said Bethany.

‘Hey – how about we set you up an account?’

‘An account?’

‘On Second Life. We may as well do something creative if we’re going to be stuck here for the next couple of hours.’

‘Cool!’ said Bethany. ‘I’d love that.’

Tara reclaimed her laptop. ‘We’ll have to fill in a form. The usual crap. And you’ll need a password. Never divulge your password to anyone you meet on Second Life, by the way, because if you do they can steal your avatar and impersonate you. And there are some dodgy areas you’ll want to stay clear of.’

‘Like what?’

‘Porn, of course. Sometimes you stumble across some pretty icky stuff. Let’s go.’

The next few minutes were spent choosing a generic avatar for Bethany. They hit upon a pretty girl whom they decided to call Poppet, after Bethany’s cat. Then Bethany dictated her email address and her date of birth to Tara, and supplied her with a password.

‘You’re in!’ sang Tara, checking out Bethany’s in-box, and clicking to activate her account. ‘Welcome to Second Life, Poppet! Let’s go and make some friends!’

She passed her laptop back to Bethany, who took her first stumbling steps into Second Life in the guise of pretty little Poppet in a pink-and-white polka-dot frock. Someone called Arabella flounced past her. Someone called Rambo bumped into her. Someone called Samuel invited her to sit beside him. By the end of the afternoon Poppet had learned how to fly, how to shop, and how to blow kisses. She’d visited a pub, a club, and Trinity College Dublin. She had made friends with a girl from Toulouse and a boy from upstate New York. She’d laughed and joked and stuck her tongue out at a clown who’d tried to dance with her. Bethany wasn’t shy here! She had none of the hang-ups that stymied her socially in real life. And just as she was about to approach a haughty-looking diva and ask where she’d got her hair, Tara’s laptop ran out of juice.

‘We’ll meet up tonight, yeah?’ suggested Tara. ‘Mitzy and Poppet could go virtual clubbing together.’

‘Cool! What time?’

‘Ten o’clock on Welcome Island?’

‘It’s a date.’

Tara shut the lid of her notebook and yawned. Then: ‘Sheesh,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I got so caught up in that that I didn’t even see him go.’

‘Who?’

‘Shane Byrne.’

Bethany glanced over her shoulder. The place where Shane Byrne had been was empty, his coffee cup abandoned. But his dark-haired companion was still working away diligently on his BlackBerry.

Later that day, Fleur accessed Bethany O’Brien’s Facebook page. She’d changed her status to ‘Tiresia rocks!’

Tiresia rocks? A bogus fortune-teller with an imperfect understanding of amateur psychology? Fleur gave a mental shrug. Whatever. Maybe she had made a difference to Bethany’s self-esteem, and to the self-esteem of the dozens of other girls who had come to her for consultations. Her mumbo jumbo certainly hadn’t done any harm. She reckoned that, on the whole, she’d provided reasonably good entertainment and had been value for money.

Scrolling down Bethany’s update, Fleur smiled when she read the following: ‘Got myself a job on The O’Hara Affair! Positive thinking works, mes amis!’

Bethany had, Fleur noticed, acquired some new friends today, on Facebook. Lola, Kitten, Carrie and Tara had all sent her messages, thanking her for the add. Hmm. Maybe it was time for her to add another one. Clicking on her web browser, Fleur typed ‘sign up Facebook’. Then she entered the following into the relevant boxes.

First name? Flirty.

Last name? O’Farrell.

Password? Tiresia.

Gender? Female.

Birthday? Here Fleur hesitated. If she put her real birthday, would Bethany bother responding? Probably not. Why would an eighteen-year-old want to befriend a forty-something, after all? She reread Bethany’s post. Positive thinking works, mes amis! The girl was upbeat, happy. What if she started posting updates like the ones Fleur had read when she was researching her role as Madame Tiresia? She remembered the desperation, the fear, the loneliness in those posts:

…topping out at a hundred, I have more Facebook friends than real life ones. Sad, or what?…

some ‘friendships’ should never be resurrected, not even in a virtual sense…

Even tho I hate this person, I guess I’d better add them as my friend. I’ll take ANYONE now…

Fleur had helped Bethany recover a little of her self-esteem. She didn’t want to see that self-esteem plummet. Until Bethany was ready to take wing, Fleur would be there for her. She returned her attention to her Facebook application, typed 23/7/88 into the box marked ‘Birthday’, and pressed Save.

Flirty O’Farrell was just twenty-one, and she was going to make a new friend.

Poppet was flying over Shakespeare Island, wishing that somebody interesting would come out and play. Mitzy hadn’t turned up this evening in their usual meeting place, and when she’d texted Tara, the word back was that her broadband was malfunctioning.

Bethany had been visiting Second Life for a week now. Working on the movie kept her busy every day, and in the evening, living vicariously in front of her laptop was proving to be a good way of winding down.

Although ‘busy’ might be a bit of a misnomer. Hanging around the film set was as dull as ever. It was lucky that she was fed by the caterers, because come seven o’clock when she arrived home to Díseart, the last thing she felt like doing was feeding herself. Her parents had gone back to Dublin, her mother exhorting her not to hold any wild parties in their cottage. As if! Who would she invite?

It was the first time she had stayed in the cottage on her own. She had thought it might feel spooky, but tucked up in bed as she was now with the full moon shining through the window and the wash of waves within yards of the garden gate, she felt peculiarly tranquil. The lullaby lapping of waves had always had this effect on her. She remembered falling asleep to the sound when, on holiday as a child, her mother had finished telling her her bedtime story, before backing out of the room with a ‘Night, night, sleep tight.’ And Bethany had gone to sleep dreaming of princesses and dragons and unicorns and wizards. It was funny that now, in another century, the princesses and dragons and unicorns and wizards still existed for her, not in the fairy stories of her imagination, but in the virtual world on the screen in front of her.

Bethany had always had a vivid imagination. Shortly after her sixth birthday she had terrified her mother by readying herself to jump off an upstairs windowsill because she believed she could fly like Peter Pan. She’d queued with her father outside book shops at midnight, waiting for the new Harry Potter, which she would devour in a single sitting. She’d discovered a computer game called Final Fantasy, in which, for her, the characters lived and breathed. She supposed that her imagination, her facility for transforming herself into different people and transporting herself to different worlds, was responsible for her all-consuming desire to become an actress. But as an extra on The O’Hara Affair, so far the only emotion she’d been required to register had been one of resigned stoicism.

But then, acting – proper acting – bore no relation to extra work, where you were just a piece of furniture, really. A mobile prop. Acting allowed your imagination to soar: an actress could be starry-eyed Juliet one day, tragic Ophelia the next. If she was in belligerent mode, she could be Katherina the shrew; if she was in good form, she could be vivacious Beatrice. All those fabulous heroines who had trodden the boards of the real live Globe Theatre, four hundred years ago! Rosalind, Viola, Portia, Cleopatra…

What would Shakespeare have made of this virtual world, where the theatre in which his plays had been performed was now displayed digitally, on an LCD screen? Would he applaud it, be excited by it? Or would he—

Oh! A green dot told her that someone else had arrived onto the island via Teleport. With a click of the mouse, Bethany sent Poppet off in search of the new arrival.

A youth was standing on a street corner, looking lost. He had floppy hair and Johnny Depp eyes. He was wearing something vaguely piratical: a bandanna, leather jerkin and boots. His name was Hero, and he was a cutie. Poppet moved over to him.

Hi, she said.

Hi, Hero said back. This place is a bit empty.

I know. Shakespeare Island’s always empty. Nobody seems to know about it. Is this your first time here?

Yes.

Bethany decided to be proactive. Shall I show you around? she asked.

I’d like that, he told her.

I’ll show you the Blackfriars Theatre if you like? she said. It’s this way. Or the Globe?

I’d like to see the Globe. I’ve been there in real life. Cool! she said.

Bethany felt a little fizz of excitement in her tummy. None of the other avatars she’d engaged with on Second Life had ever displayed an interest in anything to do with theatre. It was all gross-out movies and soap opera and sex.

I saw a production of Romeo and Juliet there in April, Hero told her. It was awesome.

The one with Ellie Kendrick?

Yes.

Wow. She was impressed.

Bethany walked Poppet around the corner and along a street constructed of Tudor-style, half-timbered buildings, pointing things out and chatting as she went. The entrance to the Globe was across a bridge.

This is awesome, said Hero. They’ve done a great job. It looks just like the real thing.

Wanna sit down? Poppet suggested.

Sure.

The pair of avatars sat themselves down on a wooden bench, and there was a slightly awkward pause as they looked at each other. In Bethany’s experience, conversations on Second Life tended to peter out and residents would often disappear without warning. On numerous occasions Bethany had felt tempted to teleport in the middle of a conversation that was less than riveting, but her good manners always got the better of her.

Have you been a Second Life resident for long? she asked Hero, then cursed herself for sounding so formal.

No. I’m a newbie.

Me too. Met anyone interesting?

Not really. You’re the first person I’ve had a proper conversation with. There are some real weirdos on here.

I know. And some real weird places too. I got stuck in a horrible building last week and had to teleport my way out of it.

What was it like?

Bethany didn’t want to tell Hero that the building had been a gallery, the walls of which had been lined with pornographic photographs. She’d tried to escape, flying past image after disturbing image, urgently searching for a way out, but she had just kept banging into walls. It had unsettled her deeply, and she’d been wary about the locations she visited since.

It was just a spooky old house, she lied.

Were you scared?

A bit.

You should take care of yourself on here.

Don’t worry. I’m a grown-up.

Over eighteen?

Yes. You?

I’m legal.

Hero stood up, and started to move around the theatre. As he explored, Bethany checked on his profile. Hero had created his avatar just two days after Bethany had created Poppet. He was interested in film and theatre, and his favourite actor was Johnny Depp. He lived in Dublin!

Hey, said Poppet. You’re Irish! So am I! No shit! What part? Dublin. But I’m in the west right now, in Coolnamara. My parents have a cottage here.

I know Coolnamara. Aren’t they making a film there?

Yes. The O’Hara Affair. I’m actually in it!

Hey! Are you an actress?

Sadly, no, she confessed. Just an extra. But acting’s what I’d love to do more than anything. I’ve applied to the Gaiety School.

I hear that’s a great course. I have a friend who’s a casting director. She says the Gaiety students get the most work.

He had contacts! This was amazing!

You have a friend in casting? she asked.

Yeah. I even help out sometimes.

How?

She has a small baby. That means she can’t get to all the shows she needs to see. I go on her behalf, and make recommendations.

What a cool job! Being paid to go to the theatre! Bethany was so excited that she was typing too fast.

Beats being on the dole, observed Hero.

Maybe you’ll get to see me in something some day!

Let me know.

How?

A box opened on the top right-hand corner of her screen. Hero is offering friendship, Bethany read.

Accept me as a friend, Hero continued. Then we’ll know any time we’re online simultaneously. We can meet up here and talk. Maybe we’ll meet other actors. That’s why I came to Shakespeare Island in the first place. I thought it would be full of actors all wanting to chat about things thespian.

Me too! You’d better not tell them that you work in casting! Then they’ll all be after you to try and get a job!

Good point. You won’t mention it to anyone, will you?

Not if you don’t want me to.

It’s bad enough having to cope with wannabe actors in real life. I don’t want to have to do it in Second Life too!

LOL!

A silence fell. But Hero didn’t look twitchy. He didn’t tap his foot, or look away, or scratch his head, as if thinking of something banal to say. Bethany knew he was only an avatar, but she could swear that there was something meaningful about the way he was looking at Poppet.

I have to go now, he said, finally. When are you likely to be here again?

I come most evenings. Yikes! Bethany hoped she didn’t sound like too much of a loser. There’s nothing else to do in Lissamore, she added hastily.

Why don’t you come back to Dublin?

Because of The O’Hara Affair. I would have gone back with Mum & Dad, but I want to get as much work as I can before I’m a full-time student and broke again.

Do you live with your parents in Dublin?

Yes. It’s great to have the place here to myself. There’s no one to nag me about the state of the bathroom.

LOL. Aren’t you lonely in Lissamore? No. Not with Second Life. I usually hang out with my mate Mitzy here.

There was another pause, then:

Well, Poppet, here’s to many more conversations, said Hero.

Yeah. Slainte! Hey – there’s an Irish pub here you know.

Cool! Maybe we should visit it together next time?

I’d like that!

It’s a date. Bye for now.

Bye.

Take care.

I will.

Bethany watched as Hero disappeared. She wondered where he was off to next. Back to real life? Or maybe he’d teleported to somewhere more interesting in Second Life. Maybe he’d found her boring, and had just made up an excuse to leave. Maybe he wouldn’t contact her again. But he was special – she knew he was! He had been the first person to offer her friendship on Second Life, and it had been the first time Bethany had had a half decent conversation with anyone apart from Tara. And he loved theatre! The only way to find out that he was genuine, she supposed, would be to come back tomorrow and see if he showed up.

Moving Poppet towards the stage, she wondered what it would be like to have someone watch her from the balcony. If she used her microphone rather than instant messenger, she could perform a soliloquy for her spectator, do a virtual audition! She could recite her favourite speech of Juliet’s:

Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night, Give me my Romeo; and, when I shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars…

Little stars. For some reason the words of the fortune-teller she’d visited last week came back to her. That special boy is out there somewhere, Bethany, waiting for you. But you must be patient…That special boy. Her Romeo! Her Hero!

Oh – don’t be so stupid! she scolded herself. Don’t be such a dreamer! One offer of friendship on Second Life hardly constituted a romance. But if – just if – she and Hero met up again and got on – well, why shouldn’t things develop further? She’d heard loads of stories about people meeting up in cyberspace and then afterwards in real life: she’d even read a magazine article recently that had related the stories of three couples who’d met online and gone on to get married. She’d heard the horror stories, too, of course, about the paedophiles who preyed on young kids and groomed them over the internet, but she was a grown-up. She was, as Hero had said earlier, ‘legal’. And she wasn’t stupid.

Moving her cursor, Bethany selected an action, and Poppet started to dance. She lay back against her pillows, watching her avatar through half-closed eyelids. She’d seen couples dancing together on Second Life, locked in a tender embrace. It would be nice to think that one day she and Hero might dance together like that…

Ten minutes later, a cloud had obscured the face of the moon, the stars were washed out, the waves had worked their lullaby, and Bethany was fast asleep. But Poppet was still in motion, swaying all by herself on the stage of the timberframed, cavernous theatre on Second Life’s Shakespeare Island.