She virtually staggered over to the first sink and looked at her face in the mirror, what others could see of her. In fact, the makeup was all fine. But she soon found herself for no apparent reason fishing frantically around in the ridiculous, gold, prop department bag for her lipstick, removing it and lightly touching up the lips that had only ever kissed two boys… and one very pretty girl.
Glancing behind her, the stall doors in the toilets were all open, she noticed. The restroom was silent. To her relief, she was alone. She had a few moments. Her breathing was shallow, she was perspiring. I’m panicking now, she thought. I never panic. This is ridiculous.
But nothing affirmed her now. All was vanity.
Fuck! she shrieked out, desperately, angrily, defiantly, but pathetically, affirmed the silence of blind panic. Nothing, said yes to her, especially. Nothing.
The yawning silence of an ugly, foreign, public lavatory laughed at her. She had heard the desperate horror in her own voice. It was undeniable. Something in her knew she was nearing catastrophe.
She tried to return the lipstick to the handbag neatly. Her professionalism as an actress had hitherto involved a certain neatness, which was betraying her now, for the first time. The lipstick slipped from her terrified fingers rebelliously, mockingly, and danced from side to side in the dirty, cream, crack-glazed unglamorous – ghastly even- London sink. She looked down in horror, shouted the word— shit! – pointlessly, laughably and lunged at the lipstick desperately, catching it successfully but somehow inauspiciously and awkwardly between the third and fourth fingers of her right hand. She was then still: an instinctive attempt to control herself, but found she trembled helplessly in front of the mirror, and her now uncertain future. She watched herself, just a girl, barely a teenager, more terrified than she had ever been before in her short life.
Nothing special about you, said her reflection. You’re scared out of your wits.
The would-be Hollywood star, paused in her life, and looked ahead at the unexpected, tragic destruction of it – listening to her own panting and her unfairly small, child’s heart, pounding wildly in her chest. I have to calm down. She looked down, leaned against the sink with both hands, not bothering to divest herself of the lipstick in her right. She took a deep breath and looked away from the treacherous lipstick and, bravely, back up into the mirror at her fourteen year-old face and spoke to it, trying not to plead, desperately.
“Listen to me,” she said. “You listen to me. If you can’t handle this kind of thing, you are NOT gonna be a success, you know that? You will be found out. Unmasked. Jesus…You HAVE to cope with this. He is just a FUCKIN’ BOY…” she shouted at herself, at the possibility of her destruction even, raising her voice to deliver the last two words at the latter possibility.
Then she paused, “A goddamn BOY… in love… with a movie star.” She was still panting, but she persevered, forcing herself through the thought of BOY. “That’s all.”
She continued in a more measured tone. “Happens all the time….”. And then she added wisely, “and this won’t be the last either.” She shook her head at herself. “All the time. Happens all the time…So fuckin’ GROW UP, get this done and get out of here.” She paused, then finished with, “Do your job!”
As soon as she heard the toilet flush, she realised she had, in the throes of blind panic, missed the smell of cigarette smoke in the bathroom. Also, that the person in the stall had heard every word she had said, worked out what it meant and waited until Jodie Foster, the famous American actress, had finished talking. The sound was too sudden and terrible and Jodie was too frightened to remember all of what she had just said out loud, exactly how revealing or incriminating it was. But the timing of the flush was enough and made up for the lack of specific recall of her desperate pleading with her own nerves and the truth. It could not be coincidental, she knew. The unnoticed occupant of the stall had waited until Jodie had well and truly hung herself and then had pointedly, symbolically, flushed the remains of the life Jodie wanted now, after so many years of not much caring for it, down the toilet.
Oh God, it’s over. Before I even got in there, she thought and closed her eyes.
Behind her, to her right, she now heard the hinges of the stall door squeak a little, as it was opened, presumably. Opening her eyes again and looking to her right, she saw a girl in uniform, clearly from the refreshment counter, emerge from the last stall, grinning broadly at her. Jodie stood up straight, tried to resolve the problem with the lipstick, pretend, and the lipstick fell back, clattering, into the sink. Jodie looked across at the girl, as if hoping for sympathy. But the girl was smiling triumphantly at her and just said,
“Awwright?”
Jodie did nothing in response, just looked back.. The girl went up to the sink opposite her stall and began to wash her hands, smiling all the while, occasionally looking up, cheekily, at the actress. Jodie looked back down into the sink, at the plughole and waited for the insult. The girl continued washing her hands, over thoroughly. Jodie looked up again, over at the shape of her ruin. The grinning, overly hygienic girl, who was keen to make eye contact, was short, had black hair, pale skin and a very large chest, which Jodie liked the look of. God, she’s sexy, Jodie in fact, thought (the wrong thought, but her career was over now). The girl was also, Jodie noticed, about seventeen years old.
Her destroyer turned off the taps and turned to face Jodie, wringing her damp hands, theatrically. She smiled and began to wipe those hands, sexily, overdoing it, all over her uniform, rather than walking to the towel dispenser near the door. The girl smiled as she rubbed herself and looking into the Hollywood actress’s face, sang out softly but confidently, and Jodie realised, viciously – “My name is Taluuuuu-lah!” and massaged her ample tits, all the while, smiling back at the paralysed actress. Jodie looked at her, sorrowfully, despondently and involuntarily aroused. The girl then rubbed her hands up and down her shapely thighs and began to walk past, behind Jodie. The ruined actress looked back down into the sink and was still, gazing down into the plughole. As the black-haired, ballsy girl passed Jodie by, she sang out, behind her, chirpily into the air —
“Not worried about ‘im are ya sweetheart?” Jodie heard a gentle whooshing sound, as the door to the exit was pulled open by the destructive, now empowered, ordinary girl, who then appeared to pause after the door was opened. There was silence, before the axe fell.
She’s clever, thought Jodie to herself, staring down at the ugly, ordinary sink, used by thousands of British girls before her. And then, laughing at her own vanity, Jodie thought—
Why shouldn’t she be, cleverer than me?
And then the axe fell—
“Coz ‘es a fuckin’ wimp.”
Then the counter-girl walked out, leaving the shaken glamorous actress, silent and apparently, this time, truly alone.
After a very long, quiet moment, Jodie Foster looked up from the sink and into the mirror. She stared at her now very famous and very beautiful face.
OK. OK, she told herself as she tried to steady her nerves. All systems, go. All systems are go. She paused.
Deep breath.
She took one. Then another.
Everything is gonna be fine today. Just fine.
But then much more unusually for her, she told herself—
I’m not alone. I’m not alone. Something is trying to tell me something. And I’d better listen to it.
So, she did.
Jodie Foster and the Super 8 