Art
Art
Art Andrews always put a call in to his agent on the first Monday of the month, but for the last few months his agent had been strangely unavailable. According to his ferociously protective assistant, he’d been in an important meeting, or visiting a set, or playing golf, and, despite her assurances, he’d not called Art back. Even his NHS GP was not this difficult to get hold of.
Art was beginning to suspect that he was being deliberately avoided. He believed the modern expression was “ghosted.” He’d been one of Jaspar’s first clients, about forty years ago, but he’d spent more of his career “resting” than acting, so he’d never been anywhere near the top of his agent’s priority list. Now it seemed he wasn’t on the list at all.
For a while Art had found himself a niche, playing grumpy old men in wheelchairs and heart attack or stroke victims in hospital-based TV dramas. He had also become fairly renowned for his extremely convincing late-stage Alzheimer’s. How many actors could drool realistically on demand?
If Art were offered a part, it was very rare that he was alive by the end of his episode. On more than one occasion he’d been smothered with a pillow by a close family member. Sometimes, he wasn’t even alive at the beginning of an episode. He had spent numerous hours playing a dead body, over which siblings argued about their inheritance while he tried desperately not to sneeze. In his last job, he’d been one of the White Walkers in a Game of Thrones spin-off, and just had to shuffle forward as part of an undead pack, until he was incinerated by a dragon in postproduction.
But recently, even these less-than-glamorous opportunities appeared to have dried up.
Art picked up the phone. He was not going to let his career die without a fight. He dialed his agent.
“Shelbourne Talent Agency,” trilled Jaspar’s assistant.
“Hello,” said Art. “This is Mr. Shelbourne’s consultant speaking. I’m calling with the results of his recent medical tests. Is he available?”
“He didn’t mention any medical tests,” the assistant said, sounding hesitant, verging on vaguely suspicious. “Can I take your number and get him to call you back?”
“I’m afraid it’s rather urgent and very…sensitive,” said Art. “And I have a patient ready prepped in theater for an extremely tricky phalloplasty.” Thankfully, Art had appeared in several episodes of Casualty and Holby City over the years, during which he’d been examined by many arrogant, overbearing medical consultants, so the part was coming naturally. He should add it to his CV.
“Uh, OK, I’ll put you through, Dr….”
“Clooney,” said Art, which was the first name that came to mind.
There was a pause on the line, then Jaspar said, “Dr. Clooney?”
“Hi, Jaspar. It’s Art,” he replied.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said his agent. “Why the subterfuge? And couldn’t you have done better than Clooney ?”
“Sorry, dear boy,” said Art. “It’s just you’ve been rather tricky to get hold of recently.”
Jaspar sighed, which wasn’t a promising sign. “I’m afraid the work hasn’t been exactly pouring in for you recently, old chap. But you are”—there was a pause, and Art could picture Jaspar checking Art’s somewhat dusty CV—“seventy-five years old. You should put your feet up! Learn to play golf! Spend more time with your grandchildren!”
Art had never actually met his grandchildren, but this was hardly the time to revisit that old wound.
“But I don’t want to retire, Jaspar,” he said. “I’ve got so much life left in me.” And almost nothing left in the bank account , he could have added. “And seventy-five isn’t exactly old , is it? The president of the United States is older than me. The Queen, God rest her soul, carried on working right up until she died at ninety-six. The Rolling Stones are my age, and they’re still performing to packed-out stadiums.”
“I bet their insurance premium is massive,” said Jaspar, which was hardly the point.
“Do you not have anything I could do?” said Art, trying not to sound as if he were begging. Which he was.
“Hold on,” said Jaspar, with another long sigh, but at least it was punctuated by the sound of rustling paper.
“Nope. The only thing I can see that could work is a request for entrants for a TV talent show. It’s called Me and My Dog . They wondered if any of our talent have equally talented dogs and might be able to put an act together. I don’t suppose you…?”
“No,” said Art. “I’m afraid not.”
“Shame. There’s a hundred thousand pounds’ prize money to play for. And there’s the visibility, obviously. Well, that’s all for the moment, I’m afraid,” said Jaspar, in what Art recognized as his I’m wrapping this up now voice. “But I’ll be sure to call you the minute I find anything appropriate.”
This, Art knew, was highly unlikely.
“Sure,” he said. “Thanks, Jaspar. Speak soon.”
Art hung up and went to the cupboard for his emergency bottle of whiskey, before remembering that he’d drunk it in a fit of despair during another long dark night of the soul spent stalking Kerry on Facebook. He put on his coat and headed for the off-license.
As Art turned the corner onto King Street, he spotted a rather sweet-looking old lady, with white hair in a messy bun and the petite physique of a retired ballet dancer, carrying a ridiculously large whiteboard. She kept shifting it from one arm to the other, only narrowly avoiding assaulting passing pedestrians.
Art believed in helping people more disadvantaged than himself. It was the right thing to do, and it made him feel like a good person . The problem was, recently he’d been unable to find anyone more disadvantaged than he was. But here, right in front of him, was a lady who was almost as old as him, and significantly smaller.
“Can I offer you a hand with that?” he said, in his most chivalrous tone.
“Do I look like I’m unable to manage by myself?” she replied, not at all sweetly.
“Actually, yes,” he said.
“Do you think I’m incapable because I’m old? Or because I’m a woman?” she said, fixing him with a steely glare.
Art considered giving up and leaving this grumpy old bag to her own devices, but now he’d resolved to earn himself some karmic merit points, he wanted to see the whole thing through.
“I don’t think you’re incapable at all,” he said. “I just think you’re much smaller than that whiteboard. I’ll help you carry it home, if you like?”
“And let you know where I live?” she said, scowling at him as if he were some kind of criminal. Which he wasn’t. At least, not entirely. “What kind of fool do you think I am? Anyhow, if I did want help, I wouldn’t ask someone so…” She paused, looking him up and down, before choosing the word “unfashionable.”
Unfashionable?!?
“Look, I’m just trying to help,” said Art. “It’s obviously far too large for you to transport by yourself.” Art picked up the end of the board that was now resting on the pavement.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY PROPERTY!” yelled the woman, causing every pedestrian within a ten-meter radius to stop and glare at him.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” shouted two youths on bicycles, before collapsing over their handlebars in fits of giggles, then cycling off.
“Now, move out of the way, before I call the police,” said the woman.
“Certainly, my lady,” said Art, affecting the deep bow he’d perfected when cast as a random, nonspeaking courtier in an episode of Blackadder , and shuffling backward off the pavement, where he was sworn at, and nearly mowed down, by a man on a moped with a Deliveroo bag strapped to his back like an improbably fast-moving tortoise.
He watched the woman walk off down the road, sending pedestrians ricocheting out of her path, stopping every three or four meters to put down the whiteboard, then pick it up again in a slightly different position.
If Art had been just a smidgen less charitable, he’d have been willing her to drop it on her foot.