L'eta

Myopic, she peers into the mirror. She really should book an eye test. But she prefers a little blurring round the edges. Life’s better that way. Soft focus. Never having to pretend you haven’t seen them. Dodging behind the bouquets in Tesco, or slipping into Woolies. But of course Woolies has gone, along with everything else.

So that’s the latest. Heidi. Heidi. Seeky. Findy. She squints. She’s older in real life. Heidi catches her eye and stares, lip curled. Scorn or pity? She’d take scorn any day, she wants none of her pity. She looks away. Takes a sip of lemon tea. Grimaces. She can no longer taste the honey.

She traces the crows-feet around her eyes and adds a little filler. She doesn’t know why she bothers, but it’s automatic. It’s character parts now. Marcellina. ‘Decrepit old Sybil’ as Heidi’s Suzanna will call her an hour from now. But you should have seen her Carmen at La Scala.

The wardrobe mistress helps her into a plain black gown. She feels dowdy, looks funereal. That won’t do. She plasters lipstick in the shape of a smile. But the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

She turns and holds out both hands. ‘Heidi. What a pleasure.’ And she thinks she’s kept the sarcasm out of her voice. The diva embraces her. Sequins scratching. She draws back . Looks her rival up and down. Make-up have done there best to hide the tattoo on the other woman’s, décolletage, but the serpent quivers with each breath. She looks down and there’s a flesh coloured stain across her heart.

‘A little botox, here and here would work wonders. You know you have very pretty eyes.’ Heidi is saying. She flinches. ‘I’ll give you the number of my salon, very exclusive.’ And she wants to slap her. But she isn’t in the wrong and she won’t put herself in the wrong. Not in front of wardrobe.

On stage Heidi will taunt her, as her character Suzanna taunts Marcellina. Repeating l’eta, your age, your age, over and over. Although there can’t be more than a decade between them. But she feels it. Every bloody year of it. God she feels old. And she aches with the bone weary tedium of it all.

In her day it was about talent, but it’s all about looks now. Attracting a younger audience. Bleach, silicon, liposuction, not timbre, not sheer hard work. A bit of totty for the publicity shots. Legs spread, tits hanging out. Or, of course, you could just screw the musical director.

There’s no fool like an old fool. As nanny used to say. It won’t last. Never does. No it really won’t. But this time he thinks it really will. Deluded idiot. She heard him taking to his solicitor, late one night in New York. Working out his options. That’s when she made her decision.

He opens the door, then raps to get their attention. She’s already seen him but pretends she hasn’t. Heidi flaps and buzzes over. Embraces him, flaunts it. He doesn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed.

‘So kind of you to step in at the last moment’, he murmurs as he kisses her cheek. The last moment. He has no idea.

‘Darling, there you are hiding in that corner’. And his voice is strident now, showy. ‘You look fabulous.’ Liar. And he hugs her. Too tight. Suffocating.

‘I can’t breathe you great oaf’. And she pushes at his arms. Still muscular. It’s his character that’s weak.

‘How’s your head dear? Still coming to Rosita’s later?’ Oh yes. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. She smiles. By then she’ll have something to celebrate.