Art Ache by Lucy Arthurs Page B

Leave it out.
    ME
    A rehearsal room is the perfect place to express emotion.
    How lame. I sound like some pious do-gooder who thinks she actually has some control over the universe. Why do I sound so lame? Because he’s right. Because it was embarrassing. I was embarrassing.
    BOOFHEAD
    It’s a comedy, for God’s sake. We’re doing a bloody sitcom about a bloody dysfunctional family, not bloody Chekhov.
    ME
    More’s the pity. At least then, I’d be able to throw myself under a train or something.
    BOOFHEAD
    If you can’t handle it, don’t come.
    ME
    I can handle it.
    BOOFHEAD
    Then keep it together. I don’t want anyone knowing we’ve broken up until next year’s season’s finalised. I don’t want it affecting professional opportunities. If people think we’ve broken up/
    ME
    /think?
    BOOFHEAD
    If people know we’ve broken up, they might think we can’t work together.
    ME
    We can’t.
    BOOFHEAD
    People think we can.
    ME
    You mean, you haven’t told anyone?
    BOOFHEAD
    A few people, but not the whole bloody rehearsal room. Have you?
    ME
    Of course.
    BOOFHEAD
    Who?
    ME
    My family.
    BOOFHEAD
    Yeah. And?
    ME
    No one else.
    BOOFHEAD
    Just keep it together at rehearsal, or don’t come at all.
    Once again, I am reminded why not being married to this man is a marvellous idea.
    The phone rings. A great excuse to extract myself from this conversation. I grab the phone before the answering machine clicks in.
    ME
    Hello.
    MR.GORGEOUS
    Hi.
    It’s Mr. Gorgeous! He’s on the phone. My phone. He’s talking to me! I feel like a child. Like an adolescent. Like a love-struck teenager. Like Gidget or something. I should have toe separators on my feet, a cucumber-scented skin mask on my face and be wrapped in a towel while I paint my toenails coral pink. Mr. Gorgeous is talking to me, on my phone!
    I freeze. I want to take the phone into another room but I feel self-conscious. Clandestine. Naughty. Ridiculously, I feel as though I’m being unfaithful. I press my ear to the phone to ensure Boofhead can’t hear who it is, although my beet-red face and girlish giggle have probably already given it away.
    MR. GORGEOUS
    I just thought I’d touch base with you. Today must have been tough.
    ME
    Um . . . yeah. It was, a bit.
    MR. GORGEOUS
    You did good.
    A sexy actor who also happens to have written the occasional award-winning play is talking to me on my phone and using bad American grammar. I love him even more.
    MR. GORGEOUS
    It’s not easy. It’ll get harder, believe me. Wait ’til the actors start tearing it to shreds. But what you’ve got is good, so hang in there.
    ME
    Thanks.
    MR. GORGEOUS
    My pleasure. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, I’ve got a box of Kleenex.
    Another Americanism.
    ME
    Sure.
    MR. GORGEOUS
    Don’t be afraid to use them. I can always buy another box.
    ME
    Thanks.
    MR. GORGEOUS
    No worries. Hey, see you tomorrow.
    ME
    See you then.
    And I hang up, gobsmacked, glowing and oh so Gidget. I am Gidget. I’m adorable, sun-soaked, able to solve my problems with a witty voice-over narration and a cute look and I’ve just had a chat with Snoop Doggy. This is way cool!
    BOOFHEAD
    Who was that?
    Bright red. Even redder than before. What is the red after beet red? Not sure, but I’m it.
    ME
    Just a friend.
    BOOFHEAD
    Sure.
    Is that a miniscule flash of jealousy crossing his metrosexually cleansed face? Who cares? I’m not being unfaithful. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m simply talking to a man on the phone. A colleague. It’s not like I’m cheating on anyone, least of all my husband. I no longer have a husband. I have a soon-to-be-ex-husband, but not a husband I need to confess feelings of lust about another man to.
    BOOFHEAD
    I’ve gotta head off.
    Boofhead crosses to door, but pauses before exiting.
    BOOFHEAD
    If you start seeing someone, make sure you keep him away from Jack.
    I feel cheap. Dirty. A wayward single mother. Like I’m going to have an endless stream of men frequenting my