Dead Famous

DAY EIGHT. 3.00 p.m.

“What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?” said Jazz.

He and Kelly were sitting by the pool revelling in the sunshine and the fact that they must look absolutely terrific on camera in their tiny swimming costumes.

“No doubt about that,” Kelly replied. “Being a film extra. I hated it.”

“Why’s that, then?” asked Jazz. “It don’t sound too bad to me.”

“Well, I think it’s all right if you’re not interested in being an actor. Then you just take the money and eat the lunch and try and spot a star, but it’s really rough if you actually want to get into the profession properly like I do. Then being an extra makes you feel like you’re just never going to get anywhere.”

“So you want to be an actress, then?”

“Oh God, I’d love it. That would be sooooo cool! Except you don’t say actress any more, you know. They’re all just actors nowadays, even the women, because of feminism. Like Emma Thompson or Judi Dench or Pamela Anderson or whatever. They’re not actresses, they’re actors.”

“Is that right? Sounds a bit weird to me.”

“Well, I think so too, actually. I mean, they’re women, aren’t they? But we’ve all got to get used to it, otherwise it’s offensive, apparently. I’m not sure, but I think it goes back to a time when apparently all actresses were prostitutes, and I suppose Judi Dench doesn’t want anyone thinking that she’s a prostitute. Well, you wouldn’t, would you?”

“No, not if you’re a classy bird like her, certainly not,” Jazz conceded. “So that’s what you want to be then – a lady actor?”

“Absolutely, that’s why I’m in here. I’m hoping I’ll get noticed. I went in the confession box the other day and did a speech I’d learnt off The Bill about a girl doing cold turkey in the cells.”

“Fahkin’ hell, girl, well pushy.”

“Yeah, I rolled around on the floor and cried and everything. Don’t know if they’ll show it, though. I’d do anything to get to be an actress. That’s why I did the extra work. I thought I might learn something and even make a few contacts, but I hated it.”

David was swimming in the pool. Elegantly completing a series of gentle, desperately mannered laps in a perfectly unhurried breaststroke. A breaststroke which announced to the world that not only did David swim absolutely beautifully but that he had absolutely beautiful thoughts while he was doing it.

He had been listening to what Kelly was saying. “I don’t believe that anyone who would take extra work can truly want to be an actor, Kelly. I advise you to find a more realistic dream.”

“You what?” said Kelly.

“Fuck off, David,” said Jazz. “Kelly can dream what she likes.”

“And I can offer her advice if I wish. Kelly’s a big girl. She doesn’t need you to protect her, Jason.”

“Jazz.”

“I keep forgetting.”

“Come on, then, David,” said Kelly. “What do you mean, a more realistic dream?”

David hoisted himself up out of the water, quite clearly conscious as he did so of the splendid, glistening, dripping curves and tone of his muscular arms. He paused halfway out of the pool, arms stretched taut, taking his weight, shoulders rippling and strong, firm, shadowy clefts at his collar bone. His legs dangled in the pool and the hard, wavy plane of his stomach pressed against the terracotta edge. “I meant exactly what I said.”

David emerged from the pool completely, in one single, graceful, uncluttered movement. “Acting is the most demanding vocation imaginable. Harder, I think, perhaps, than any other.”

“Bomb-disposal expert?” said Jazz, but David ignored him.

“You have to believe in yourself utterly, and consider your dream to be not a dream but a duty. If you’re prepared at the very beginning to accept second best, then I suggest it is inevitable that you will never achieve your end. I personally would wash dishes, clean cars, wait on tables, rather than accept any job in the profession other than one I considered worthy of my dream. John Hurt resolved at the outset of his career to accept only leading roles, you know. I’m told he suffered thirteen years of unemployment as a result. But, ah, what triumph was to follow.”

“Well, what about all the actors who aren’t John Hurt?” Jazz asked. “The ones who suffered thirteen years of unemployment and then suffered another thirteen years of unemployment and then died of alcohol poisoning. What if that’s what happened to you?”

“If that were my fate,” said David, “then at least I would know that I had never compromised and that although my talent was not recognized I had never betrayed it. I would far rather be Van Gogh, tormented in life and dying unrecognized, than some comfortable portrait painter who prostitutes his talent for lack of faith in it. Winning is all. Consolation prizes are not worth having. I truly, truly believe that, Jason. I know you think me a pompous arrogant bastard…”

“Yes,” said Jazz.

“And perhaps I am. But I mean what I say. You have to have everything or nothing, and so you will never be an actor, Kelly, and I say that as a friend who has your best interests at heart. Do yourself a favour. Find another dream.”