The Motherhood Walk of Fame. Shari Low
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my dead Tinseltown-bound body!
‘But we can’t. Mark, Hollywood doesn’t work that way!’ said I, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. I’d seen Fresh Prince of Bel-Air twice, I watched Beverly Hills 90210 for years and I never missed an episode of Baywatch; I was a seasoned LA veteran.
I took a huge breath then went on the offensive.
‘Mark, they’re interested in me this week, but it’ll be someone else next week if I don’t get over there and make the most of it. And Sam says we should plan to stay for a month–four weeks without preschool for Mac is hardly going to scar him for life. He’s four–they’re still painting with their fingers and singing songs about blind mice for God’s sake. As for your work, Mark, you need a holiday. The whole legal backbone of this country is not going to crumble if Mark Barwick takes a month off. And don’t even get me started on money. If lack of money were a barrier to everything I wanted to do in life then I’d have done nothing. To hell with it, that’s what credit cards are for, I say!’ I finished with a dramatic flourish and accompanying triumphant hand gesture.
I peeked at the boys. Mac’s expression showed he was definitely on my side–I think it was the whole school-avoidance thing that swung it. Benny, however, just looked puzzled. Then, a split second later, his face lit up and he blurted out, ‘Three Blind Mice, Three Blind Mice…’
That boy was a walking request show.
Mark didn’t notice–he was far too busy getting pissed off. Or as close to pissed off as Mister S. T. Able ever got.
‘Carly, we know that’s your attitude to money and that’s probably why you had more debt than Peru when we met.’
He must have spotted the blaze of anger that went across my eyes because he switched to a more conciliatory tone. ‘Honey, it’s just too tenuous for us to risk blowing a fortune, not to mention my job. If Warner Brothers were on the phone right now with their chequebook at the ready, I’d say go for it. But how many people are in Hollywood right now trying to sell a script? Hell, the whole city is made up of wannabes who are convinced they’re the next big thing. Tell Sam thanks, but we’ll pass. We’ll maybe go over for a fortnight later in the year. The kids can do Disney and you can perhaps set up some meetings then.’
I was furious. What do you call a Taurean with the hump? Raging bull. Or ‘me’. But I was suddenly aware that the kids were watching the whole exchange, their heads swivelling from side to side like something out of The Exorcist.
I morphed into Mary Poppins. ‘Right, guys, come on then, bath time,’ I said in a singsong voice.
‘Don’t want a bath,’ Mac replied petulantly. ‘Want to go to see Spiderman.’
‘ Spiderman, Spiderman…’ Oh, Christ. I scooped Benny up, and invoked Method Number One in the Parental Code of Discipline and Behavioural Adjustment–blatant bribery.
‘Mac, fifty pence for sweets if you’re in that bath in five minutes.’
He shot up the stairs. That boy will do anything for cash to finance his E-number habit.
I crossed the hall to follow him with Benny wrapped around my neck, drooling milk down the back of my shoulder.
Mark was standing at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’m going,’ I said deadpan, when we were face to face. ‘This means a lot to me, Mark, and I’m going.’
I carried on up the stairs, furious that he’d so ruthlessly burst my little happy bubble of optimism and excitement. How often is the repetitiveness of everyday life interrupted with such an exciting prospect? One of my biggest ambitions in life had always been to sell one of my books to someone in the movie industry. Anyone. I didn’t care if it was the bloke who drove the tour bus in Universal Studios and he bought it for a tenner. But all my beloved husband could think about was the cost, and the fact that it wouldn’t allow him the statutory two-week lead time to fill out his company’s administration form, number 2334: Holiday Request Form for the Anal Retentive.
In fact, Sam wasn’t the only major A-list movie star who knew how serious I was about my dream. Kate Winslet knew too. Oh yes, we were close personal friends once. For about five minutes.
A few months before, the boys and I had been having a picnic in Richmond Park. It all sounds very Enid Blyton, but in truth it involved two Happy Meals from the nearest McDonald’s and a rug I got free with an order from a catalogue. We were lounging in the sun, when another family plonked down not far from us. I nodded a friendly hello, a gesture that was reciprocated by the blonde woman who was unpacking a picnic from a real hamper. Flash cow. I was furtively shoving my Happy Meal boxes under the rug, when I realised that I’d seen her before somewhere. It came to me in a flash. Checkout number six at Waitrose. She was the girl from Newcastle who was trying to break into glamour modelling. Suddenly the blonde with the picnic shouted to a little girl who was with her. Nope, no Geordie accent. But…oh, good grief, Kate Winslet! I was sure of it. I considered bursting into the theme tune from Titanic just to check.
‘Mac,’ I hissed, ‘go and play with that little girl.’
‘Can’t,’ he replied, completely matter-of-fact.
‘Why not?’
‘She’s a girl. Don’t play with girls.’
‘Mac, please. Just this once.’
‘Nope.’
I was getting desperate. I needed an ‘in’ and I wasn’t above resorting to desperate tactics to get it. Ever since Nipple Alert had been published I’d carried a copy around in my bag, just waiting for the day that I would bump into Steven Spielberg in Woolworths and present him with the material for his new blockbuster.
Time to call out the big guns.
‘Mac, a Spiderman magazine, a pound for sweets and you can watch The Simpsons every night this week if you go and play with her.’
He knew when he was beaten. But five Curly Wurlies would cushion the blow. Off he wandered with his football, and soon he had a game going with the little girl–two-touch soccer with Benny as a goalpost.
I wandered over as casually as I could. ‘Ah, kids–they just make friends so quickly, don’t they?’
Ms Winslet smiled, a grin that was no longer on her face ten excruciating minutes later after I’d feigned surprise at recognising her, told her how great she was, thrust my book into her hand and given her my phone number. I’m sure she was surreptitiously pressing a panic button on her hi-tech, A-list mobile phone to summon her security by the time I collected up the kids and left. I walked quickly just in case the police had already been tipped off about a demented stalker who was casing Richmond Park giving out free novels. Oh the shame.
Mark had laughed when I told him the story–then reminded me to carry his mobile number at all times so that I could get hold of him to post bail. That was in the days when he still had a sense of humour, before it went the way of Miss Winslet’s maiden voyage on that big cruise ship.
The splashes as I bathed the boys snapped me back to the present. I watched as Underwater Action Man whupped Scuba Spiderman in a fight for supremacy of the octopus squirty sponge and then we sang four choruses of ‘Row, Row, Row the Boat’.
‘Look at me, Mummy, look,’ shrieked Mac as he made a bubble Mohican on his head. I know I’m biased but my boys are extraordinarily gorgeous. Sometimes I wonder if I had sex with Brad Pitt and George Clooney.
The strange thing is, neither of my boys look particularly like Mark or me. Mac has jet-black hair, almond-shaped blue eyes and the most gorgeous smattering of freckles across his nose. Benny, on the other hand, is blond with the hugest green eyes, long black eyelashes, a little upturned nose and perfect little lips. At that time both the boys had spiky inch-long crew cuts–I’d love to say it was fashion but it had more to do with an outbreak of nits that had reached our house about four