Chapter 11
I wake up to a Google alert which tells me that there’s a new article on Ted Levy. The ping from the phone is an unwelcome wake-up call, making Johnny flip over on the bed to face the wall. The headline alone fills me with untold anxiety.
Shock & Awe star lands major Hollywood role
Ted Levy, the uber-talented actor who has already cut a dash through the Canadian theatre scene, is officially ready for the big leagues.
Levy and his agent have been in talks for months with Velvet Elvis pictures about assuming a major starring role in Three Kevins, the new comedy by eminent producer Scott Milburn.
The movie tells the story of a PR executive who falls in and out of love with a trio of friends who happen to have the exact same name.
The project is what insiders have been calling a ‘long overdue studio breakthrough’ for Levy.
Levy will star opposite Katie Kirshner, who is fresh from the box office smash Sunshine and Roses, in his first major rom-com credit. Kirshner will next be seen in Project Dolphin, which is being talked about as a potential Cannes opener. Sources tell us it’s at a budget exceeding $100 million.
The rush of emotions is strange, and new. A bubble of pride because I want to see him do well and succeed, but I also detect a ripple of panic and low-level threat. I absolutely don’t want Ted to become a Hollywood star.
Over on the Tedettes’ Facebook page, Katie Kirshner is already the topic of much animated discussion.
‘I hate her,’ writes Molly. ‘The goddam smile. The hair. The fakeness. She’s just not good enough for Ted. They don’t call her the “mattress actress” for nothing.’
‘She’s not on MySpace. She’s not on Twitter. Not on anywhere.’
‘She has casting couch written all over her,’ suggests Juliet. ‘No way will she create any kind of good chemistry with Ted. I think he is really compromising his artistic integrity with this move.’
‘Let’s all calm down, girlies,’ says Violet. ‘Katie Kirshner is married to a bona fide A-lister, Brad Jenkins. And do they really call her the mattress actress or is that something you just made up on the spot, Molly?? Never heard that one.’
‘Do you think for one second she won’t melt the minute he bats those baby browns???’ interjects Layla. ‘I reckon he could laugh anyone into bed, up to and including this fake-ass bitch.’
‘Sorry, but I’m just so mad at this!’ Juliet continues.
I decide to post something underneath this comment. It’s my maiden voyage, comment-wise, so I want to make an impression. How’s this for erudite and profane? I think as I type.
‘I always find that in instances such as these, it helps to remember that there’s a very good chance that this person has had a poo hanging out of their bum in the last twenty-four hours.’
Juliet immediately posts an open-mouthed emoji in response.
‘Who the freaking flip IS this?’ from Maxi.
‘Yeah, good one, Esther, lmao,’ Violet replies.
With a simmering fury towards Katie Kirshner, I google her only to find assertions galore that she and Brad Jenkins are the ‘strongest couple in Hollywood’.
She actually looks like someone you could be friends with, in a parallel universe in which you too are a beautiful, multi-millionaire movie star.
I fall down a rabbit hole reading article after article about them, each one more breathlessly enthusiastic than the last.
Johnny is out tonight, again. I’ve stopped asking where, who with and why, and he no longer volunteers that information.
Melanie’s Facebook offers no information as to his whereabouts, in any case.
I feel as though I’m losing him, or at least what we’ve had together, but I have neither the energy nor the vocabulary to approach it and figure it out. Neither does he, evidently.
Earlier in the afternoon, his phone rang and up came the name ‘Work Wife’. I caught it out of the corner of my eye, before he answered.
By the time he had finished the call in the bedroom, I was already beside myself.
‘Work fucking wife!’ I spat.
‘She did that as a joke,’ he replied. ‘Calm down, will you?’
‘Never in the history of humankind has a man told a woman to calm the fuck down and it’s actually had the desired effect.’
‘If you want, I’ll change it back to her regular name.’
‘Don’t bother on my account,’ I shouted. ‘Enjoy your work wife. Sounds like ye have a great thing going on. Good the fuck for you lads.’ Johnny’s face rearranged itself into exasperation all too easily.
At least we’re fighting, I thought at the time. Maybe we haven’t given up on this marriage altogether.
In a bid to stop wondering about who Johnny is out with tonight, I’m peeking in on Brigitte’s Facebook page, where she has posted a picture of herself, Carrie and Carrie’s bump, which has taken on a life of its own since I last saw her.
Brigitte’s hand is resting protectively on Carrie, their excitement almost in blazing 4D.
It makes me feel unbearably sad in a way I don’t know how to handle.
Jesus, how did things become so bleak? So lonely?
‘Hey. You up?’ Violet types on MSN Messenger.
‘Kind of. Can’t sleep.’
‘Me neithahhh. Think I’m gonna watch Shock & Awe for the bazillionth time LOL.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ I write. ‘It always gets me out of a funk too.’
‘Yeah I’m feeling v. funk-ish these days,’ says Violet.
‘What’s up?’
‘What’s not, amirittte?’
‘…’
‘It’s just Mum.’
Violet has never put anything personal on to the forum, so this feels like a whole new frontier for us. But then I’m starting to realize that, once you have Ted in common, the kinships are intense, and they form fast.
‘Oh, OK?’
‘She has cancer and is going back in for chemo and it’s not exactly fun times at Ridgemont High if you know what I mean. Feels like she’s been sick forever, which I suppose is not a bad thing as we were told she will always have it.’
‘Oh wow, Violet, I didn’t know. I’m really sorry to hear that. That must be so tough.’ A whole new person is taking shape here.
‘We celebrated her 45th birthday last week tho, which was incredible. She got told she was dying when she was 34, so you do the math.’
‘How is the rest of your family doing?’ I ask, genuinely curious. I’m ashamed to realize that I never thought of Violet, or any of them, having another side to themselves, beyond their ardour for Ted.
‘Well, it’s just me really. No dad or sibs. There was a couple of Mum’s girlfriends but they’ve been out of the picture for a while.’
‘I’ve no dad or sibs either,’ I write.
I picture Violet in her Adelaide bedroom, drawing what she needs out of the squabbling, thirsty squealing and gossip on the forum. She has a mum that’s less than ten years older than me.
‘Hey, look, I don’t know how you feel about this but maybe we could Skype?’ I type.
Violet goes silent for whole minutes. Perhaps in asking about going on Skype, I have crossed a Tedette boundary that I didn’t even know was there.
‘Right on,’ she eventually writes back. ‘Soz, forgot my password there for a second.’
We connect on Skype, and finally I see Violet face to face, or as face to face as I will ever see her.
It becomes quickly apparent that the profile photo she uses on Facebook was taken several years ago.
She must be close to twenty stone. Her entire body fills the screen.
And she appears to be in her twenties, and not a teenager, as she led us to believe?
From what I can see over her shoulder, the room is bare, nondescript, white.
It could be anywhere in the world, any kind of life.
‘So that’s you.’ She appraises me with a shy smile.
‘This is me.’ I shrug. ‘You all right?’
‘Huh. Yeah.’ We both realize that this is a bit weird: two strangers talking together who have little in common but an appreciation for another stranger.
Violet starts absentmindedly tugging at a single hair, only stopping when it comes free from her scalp. ‘I guess. I just feel so sad for Ted, you know?’
‘Sad?’
‘Well, he’s always gonna have these vultures who are just all about the power and the money and the fame.’
I find myself nodding strenuously. ‘I’m not sure I’m all that thrilled about Ted Levy becoming this famous,’ I admit to Violet.
‘Me too! I don’t think it will work in his life. It’s not who he is. He never wanted to be famous. Ever. I know for a fact that the idea of fame scares the shit out of him.’
‘I believe you could be right, Violet.’
‘Anyway, what’s your story? Facey says you’re in London. That’s cool.’
Violet is familiar with Essie Marie, the blank slate. Maybe she could stand to know a little more about me.
‘Well, I’m Irish, grew up in Dublin but moved to London as soon as I humanly could, in my twenties. So I suppose I’m almost more British than Irish at this rate!’
‘Whoa, are you in your forties or what?’
‘No, no. Thirty-seven.’
‘What you do for work, Grandma?’
I haven’t the heart to tell her that I am a code jockey, the professional equivalent of licking toilets. ‘Therapeutic services,’ I lie, making sure to sound vague enough so that it could mean anything.
‘Do you live alone?’
‘I live here with my husband.’ I picture Johnny walking into the flat from his night out at this moment, seeing me Skype with Violet. Well, it would shake shit up around here.
‘Oooohh, there’s a husband, is there?’ Violet coos. ‘That’s cool.’
‘We’re not exactly in the best shape right now. I suspect he is having an affair with someone at work, but the worst part of it is that I’m not sure I even really care.’ It’s the first time I’ve said it to myself.
‘Still, must be nice to have someone there who’s got to be there for you at all times?’
‘Believe it or not, Violet, it can feel worse than the alternative.’