THE ACTOR
The actor sits in his leather wingback chair, listening to the pop and crackle of the open fire. He wears sunglasses and is clean-shaven. Despite the sunglasses, a far-away look fills his cold, clinical eyes; puffy and seemingly at war with the flames. This is his ‘together’ phase and it will be some time before he begins to lose it in a series of calculatedly, yet convincing embarrassing public meltdowns he will throw to the tabloid newspapers like cheap meat to captive dogs.
The actor watches the reds and yellows melding and parting high above the chopped wood they devour. Deep, occasionally existential thoughts play out in their entirety, but most of them are tossed onto the subconscious waste pile up in tightly tied black bags. Only the purest diamonds remain and are extracted; shiny and polished, in the form of character observations and ideas that will later wow directors and audiences in busy movie theatres and exclusive, private screenings.
The actor frowns as his calm is disturbed by the prickly anticipation of approaching company. There is no logical reasoning for this. With a frown settling clumsily on his brow, he sits back, crosses his legs the opposite way, and clears his throat.
The actor lights a cigarette and pours himself a whisky on the rocks. Marlon Brando’s prodigious womanising and Karen Black’s refusal to be labelled on anyone else’s terms in a male-dominated 1970s movie industry are inspirations that continue to marinate in his mind. With a dusting of his own rare spices, aromas of originality enter the room and he starts to salivate, conjuring the exotic flavour of this coming breakthrough performance. When it arrives, there will be no more need to accept advertisement voiceover roles to pay the rent, no more extra roles on period dramas that insult their source material.
The actor laughs alone, thinking of those he studied with at stage school, their blank expressions upon recognising him on talk shows. In their overalls, under hairnets behind supermarket deli counters, with name badges and two screaming, disadvantaged kids, they’ll yearn to be handed what he has earned and their entitlement will consume them when no white knight comes. In what fashion their postures will slump or stiffen when they get to watch him misbehaving on red carpets is a guessing game that could consume him for several evenings. His snigger erupts into a booming, triumphant roar, echoing around the tall, low-lit walls of his study.
The actor’s telephone rings. He jerks and grunts with surprise. He was right about looming company. Delicately placing the crystal glass down on the antique coffee table, he lifts the device to see his agent is calling. Removing the sunglasses, short of breath, he sits ups straight in his silk gown before eventually pressing the green button.
‘Mark, hi, Vicky. We’ve got a potential role for you. It’s on UK Criminal Watch. You’d be playing a sex-offender but the pay’s pretty good. Bit different this time as it’s a reconstruction, not a dramatised pervert like on the soaps you did.’
The gnash of the actor’s teeth crashing together is lost among the hiss of the fire’s embers sending tiny distress flares, which are snuffed out in the long night. The twist and writhe of his soul causes his ears to ring and his lips to purse. An ambulance siren wails a few streets away.
‘Mark?’
‘Yeah, sorry, cool. I’m here. Send me the details.’
‘I will. They want a whispy goat tee and a suspicious tan this time. Can you sort that in 10 days?’
‘Yeah, sure. Thanks, Vicky. Oh, Vicky...’
‘Yep?’
‘You know the chat we had about my direction, did you manage t-’
‘Leave it with me, Mark. I have a call with some people next week. We’ll get there.’
‘Will we though? It’s just that the 12 roles you’ve got me have all been...’
‘Look, I’m well aware of your ambition, but some faces are just lightning rods for certain… characters.’ The actor thinks he hears a chuckle in the background but chooses to behave in a professional manner. ‘It’s early days. Besides, there’s money in creepy. Steve Buscemi will tell you that.’
‘Sorry, yeah, of course. Did you send that email yet?’