The Tour Read online

  ‘Yeah, I wasn’t sure about the macadamia nuts either. What about pistachios? Shelled.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The pistachios, they’d be shelled.’

  Needless to say, nothing happened. Within a minute John was once more sound asleep.

  I lay there and obsessed about what sort of nut would make a good nipple. Brazil? Cashew? Peanut? I moved on to dried fruit. The muscatel came close.

  * * *

  We’d just turned into Bell Street when I felt it. It was on my chin. What the hell? Hadn’t I just done a thorough check for facial hairs before leaving the house?

  Oh my godfathers. I felt another one. They must have grown since I’d got into the cab. Great. At this rate I’d have a full-on beard by the time I reached the airport.

  ‘Oh no.’

  I must have said the words aloud, because the taxi driver looked at me via the rear-vision mirror, a concerned expression on his face. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing. I just remembered I left something at home, that’s all.’

  ‘Wanna go back?’

  ‘No, no, it’ll be fine.’

  Going all the way back home for a pair of tweezers seemed a little crazy, although if I hadn’t known for certain I could buy some at the airport I sure as hell would have considered it.

  At the airport I headed straight to the pharmacy and then to the ladies, where, with the aid of my el cheapo 2.5 spectacles, I did my plucking with the newly purchased tweezers. Then, with all the renewed confidence a hairless chin can bring a middle-aged woman, I headed to the departure lounge.

  Gideon, the tour manager, was already there. He had Ray-Bans sitting on top of his head, expensive aqua-coloured trainers on his feet—which I couldn’t help but think a brave choice—a tasteful small-checked designer suitcase in one hand and a disgusting oversized, putrid, filthy, bright-orange case in the other. He let go of the luggage and gave me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Ms Scott, how are we?’ He nodded his head towards the orange monstrosity. ‘That’s the merch. Coffee cups. Can you fucking believe it? We have to sell Comedy Festival coffee cups at the gigs. How funny is that?’

  ‘Not very,’ I replied, and we both laughed until we cried.

  Next to arrive was Stu, the tech for the tour. He had longish dreadlocks casually pulled up into a high ponytail that bordered on being a bun. There was a pale-blue stud in his nostril and a silver ring in his brow. Gideon introduced us. We shook hands. He had a lovely warm, friendly smile.

  A few minutes later Josh Earl arrived. Good God, that boy looked as though he’d just come out of the womb. How old was he? Surely no more than twelve.

  He was followed by Jeff Green, who looked pretty damn good for a man in his forties, all rosy cheeked and pretty much wrinkle free. Yes, I thought to myself, I could easily be older than his mother.

  Last to arrive, and quite breathless, were Russell and Sadie. (Lee, Benny and Jordan, the young trio known as Axis of Awesome, were flying out from Sydney and meeting up with us at Brisbane airport.) Russell Kane, a British comic, was the international act for our tour; Sadie was his fiancée. We Australians weren’t allowed to take partners on the roadshow, but the internationals were able to do so. I guess it was the only way we could get them to stay in the colony.

  I hadn’t met Russell before. He was charming and energetic and, as it turned out, a brilliant comic. Audiences loved him. But it was Sadie who knocked me for six. She was quite possibly the most beautiful young woman I had ever seen: perfectly shaped pale-pink lips, vivid-green eyes, long dark lashes, shiny jet-black hair, high cheekbones, long legs, pert breasts and a fabulous cleavage that somehow gave the impression of being accidentally on show, as though Sadie had simply grabbed the first top she could find with no regard to the final effect. And what an effect. She had that head-turning movie-star quality you rarely ever see in the flesh. Sadie’s skin was that smooth, creamy, white English skin and was utterly perfect, and what amazed me the most was the fact that this perfection was so evenly distributed. Her face, neck, cleavage, arms, legs: every part of her was smooth and creamy and white and even in tone. It was all I could do to stop myself from reaching out and touching her.

  I rearranged my scarf, making sure my neck was covered, and wished I’d done something about the red, blotchy, sun-damaged skin on my forehead. What am I saying? I had done something! I had been to see a skin specialist who had suggested, ‘You could always grow a fringe.’ I had heeded his advice. But at that moment, as I stood in the airport lounge gazing upon the lovely Sadie, I realised a fringe wasn’t enough.

  There was no getting around it: I felt like shit.

  I gave myself a mental pep talk. I told myself to get a grip and stop being ridiculous. Who the hell did I think I was, a young woman? Had I forgotten that we middle-aged women were invisible? (And to think some people see that as a negative. No way. Women becoming invisible is brilliant. Nobody notices your wrinkles, the extra weight, the grey hair, the thickening skin, because nobody notices you at all. They can’t see you! I feel exactly the same about my deteriorating eyesight: it’s fantastic—all the better not to see myself with.)

  Sadie bent over and rummaged around in her enormous carry-on bag. She was wearing an extremely short, summery cotton skirt. She stood up and must have noticed me looking at her. How could she not? My mouth was hanging open. For that matter, so was everyone else’s. Her hands flapped about apologetically. ‘I know, my skirt, it’s ridiculous. I shrank it in the clothes dryer last night. I’m such an idiot. I didn’t know it had shrunk until I put it on this morning, and by that time the taxi was there to take us to the airport, and I’m looking through my case to find something else to wear, and then Russell’s panicking, saying, “We’re going to miss the plane!” so I just thought, Bugger it, everyone can look at my arse, I don’t care.’

  Sadie, I thought, With an arse like that, why would you care?

  * * *

  I was the last one in our group to step up to the check-in counter. My heart was pounding and I felt sick. I had my reasons.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Denise Scott.’

  ‘Could I see some ID, please?’

  ‘I haven’t really got any,’ I laughed.

  The airline lady didn’t laugh.

  ‘Drivers licence?’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘You don’t have a drivers licence?’

  She sounded as though she couldn’t believe it.

  (What was the big deal? Just because I was the only adult in the entire continent of Australia who didn’t have one …)

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘That’s okay; your passport will do.’

  ‘I don’t have one of those, either.’

  ‘No passport?’

  ‘It got stolen.’

  ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘Just last week.’ (Or maybe it had happened six months ago, or, come to think of it, could it really have been over a year since I’d walked out of that cafe without it?)

  ‘Have you reported it?’

  ‘Of course.’ I left the words ‘I haven’t’ unspoken.

  ‘Well, have you got any photo ID at all?’

  I rummaged in my handbag. ‘What about this?’

  She looked at the plastic-covered card. ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s my Comedy Festival pass. You see that …’ I pointed to a tiny photo in the top left-hand corner, half the size of a postage stamp. ‘That’s my head.’

  ‘But what is it for?’

  ‘It’s what I used to get into the Comedy Festival club.’

  She handed me my boarding pass. I smiled. She didn’t.

  When we arrived in Mackay we drove straight to the motel, a brown-brick two-storey building conveniently located 3 kilometres out of town. There was no hint that we were in tropical Far North Queensland until you looked up and there was sky, so much sky, and the smell—a delicious fragrance of frangipani mingled with Hungry Jack’s, w
hich, much to the delight of the Axis of Awesome boys, was located just across the road.

  In the reception the manager handed us our room keys and asked for credit cards. I burnt with shame. ‘Um, I don’t have one. I usually just leave a cash deposit.’

  ‘That’ll be fine, but if I could just get some ID—your drivers licence, perhaps?’

  Gideon stepped up to the counter and offered his credit card details on my behalf.

  The manager then said, ‘Unfortunately, we don’t have wireless, so you’ll need this to hook up to the internet.’ He handed everyone a cable. I took one—easier than having to explain I hadn’t brought my laptop. I had a laptop: John had given it to me the previous Christmas, and I loved it—used it every single day. But, as I’d explained to John earlier that morning, I couldn’t take it away with me because—and it killed me to admit this—I’d never used it as a laptop before, as in I’d never taken it outside my office. Not once. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do, John.’

  ‘They’ll give you a password, and you type it in, and you’ll be connected.’

  ‘No I won’t, John. It’s never that simple with me. And what if I had to use one of those cable things? I don’t even know where to plug them in.’

  ‘It’s easy. I’ll show you.’

  ‘But what about the other end? In the hotel room?’

  ‘It’ll be obvious, Scotty.’

  ‘But what if it’s not?’

  ‘You’ll be travelling with a group of young people. Ask them. They’d love to help you.’

  But I couldn’t do that. I would have felt like a fool. And so here I was in a motel room with no computer, and the weird thing was, that made me feel even more foolish.

  The room was plain but functional: brown-brick walls, comfortable double bed, clean sheets, a small TV with an uncomplicated remote, some instant coffee, a box of longlife milk and two complimentary biscuits in cellophane packaging. It might have been a little soulless, but it was free of clutter, and as someone who hails from a house full of what I fondly like to call ‘shit’, where kitchen lights could be out of action for seven years before an electrician was called, I loved this motel room with its functioning fluorescent light.

  I lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. What else was there to do? I had no computer. I thought about the fact that I also had no drivers licence, no passport and no credit card and was forced to ask myself if indeed I did exist. If so, given the circumstances, why didn’t I just go the whole hog and pop on a floral frock and sun bonnet, get me a horse and gig, bake some bread and go and live with the Amish?

  Because the Amish don’t drink alcohol, that’s why.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon we gathered in the foyer, where we were introduced to Jeremy, a journalist from the local paper. ‘So how’s the tour been going?’

  ‘It’s been brilliant, bloody brilliant,’ Jeff answered.

  ‘Where have you been so far?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Jeff rubbed his chin, appearing to ruminate. ‘We’ve been to our motel rooms, which are very nice, and … that’s about it, really.’

  ‘And Hungry Jack’s,’ Jordan chipped in.

  Jeremy introduced us to Stan, the photographer, who wanted to get a few ‘whacky’ shots to accompany the article, even though there was no article to be had. We obligingly climbed into a white Tarago and headed to the nearest location with a tropical feel.

  I had never walked between rows of sugarcane before. None of us had. I thought about Roo and Barney and Pearl and Olive. I loved that play, Summer of the Seventeenth Doll. So this was where Roo and Barney worked. It was so green, like plush carpet. And the cane was so tall and thick on either side—it was like a jungle.

  ‘Stop!’ Stan the photographer yelled.

  We turned around to face him.

  ‘Okay, now GO!’

  Dutifully, we held hands and skipped towards the camera, laughing our heads off, evoking the strong bond that being on the road together for less than a day can bring.

  It killed me. The arthritis in my right ankle hurt like hell. But I said nothing. I even jumped when commanded—not easy with that wonky ankle and big breasts.

  * * *

  At 7.30 pm Gideon gathered us together backstage at the Mackay Entertainment & Convention Centre and told us the line-up for the show. In comedy there is a very straightforward approach to sorting out order of appearance: basically, you go in order of funniness. The least funny performer goes on first, and you proceed accordingly, working your way towards the final, headline act—the funniest.

  ‘Okay, Denise, you’re on first.’

  Oh God, kill me. Kill me now. I felt sick. A tsunami of hopelessness threatened to engulf me. What the fuck was I doing? I’d been in the biz for twenty years and I was going on first?

  I found a dressing room, a dull brown-brick cloakroom with a pale-yellow linoleum floor and Hollywood light globes surrounding the large mirror. I switched them on; only two lit up. If I had been asked to describe in one word what I was feeling at that moment I would have said, without any hesitation, ‘Disappointed.’ Disappointed with my face. Disappointed with my personality. Disappointed with my career. But, most of all, disappointed that I was disappointed.

  I willed my spine to keep me upright, but it was no use. I physically slumped. Oh God, how much did I not want to go onto that stage? I forced myself to sit back up, and that was when I ascertained that the benchtop was made of a soft wood—my teeth marks were in it.

  I began applying my new Laura Mercier make-up. It had cost a fortune, but, as the salesgirl in David Jones had said, ‘It’s worth it—such a smooth finish. If you were to wear anything heavier your face would just look dead.’ I spread the foundation across my skin and then added concealer. Could concealer hide my age, my fear? I put on some mascara. I did another quick check for facial hairs. All clear.

  I was already dressed in my stage outfit. I was wearing a pair of miracle jeans, the miracle being that they promised to make you look one size smaller, which they did for a whole minute, until all the fat that was being squashed down just went, ‘Oh, fuck that,’ and came splodging back out over the top of the waistband. It was the same with my minimiser bra: 16G promised to make me look 16F, but how was this possible? That extra breast fat had to go somewhere, and I’m here to tell you where: under your arms. It’s true. Take it from someone who spent a whole day trying to put her arms down by her sides. I could not do it. I had perfect little A-cup breasts under my armpits and F-cup breasts out front.

  However, I was pleased as punch with my top. It was a gorgeous silky, flowy, bluey-green sheer number that came perilously close to being a caftan without actually being one, a detail I found tremendously comforting. I was also happy with my necklace. Just as well: it had cost a small fortune. It was a heavy Moroccan-silver pendant in the shape of a heart, with fine gold-filigree detail. And to think I nearly hadn’t bought it.

  * * *

  As I’d explained to the woman in the jewellery store, ‘I love it, but I’ve already got a silver necklace at home.’

  ‘Can I ask what it’s like?’ she had replied.

  ‘It’s a large butterfly —’

  ‘Butterfly?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a butterfly, and —’

  ‘Are its wings open?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The horrified look on the saleswoman’s face indicated this was not the right answer. ‘Denise, can I tell you something? Big-breasted women like yourself should never wear a butterfly with open wings on their chest. A wide necklace makes your breasts look even bigger, whereas this necklace narrows down towards the cleavage and takes focus away from your breasts.’

  I went and stood at the side of the stage. I peeked a look at the audience. I wished I hadn’t. The average age appeared to be seventeen.

  The lights went down in the auditorium. Chaser lights flashed around the edge of the stage. Edgy, loud contemporary music played as Jeff, the MC for the show, bounde
d on and grabbed the mike out of the stand. ‘Hi, Mackay, how youse going? Are you ready for a big night?’

  Judging by the screams from the crowd they were indeed ready for a big night.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing and my mantra: ‘As soon as this tour finishes I can quit. As soon as this tour finishes I can quit. As soon as this tour finishes I can quit.’

  Meanwhile, Jeff, as they say in the trade, was killing. The audience loved him. ‘But enough of me! It’s time for the real funny stuff now, so, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, make welcome our first act for this evening …’

  I took a deep breath. This was it. I wanted to vomit.

  ‘This woman is one of the funniest women I know. She is a legend.’

  Legend! God, how that word depressed me. Why not just say ‘old’ and be done with it?

  ‘You may have seen her on the TV or heard her on the radio. You are going to love her, so go wild, go crazy, go absolutely mental, Mackay, and give it up for the one, the only, the hilarious … MS DENISE SCOTT!’

  Oh, that name. Denise Scott. Honestly, it had all the excitement of air escaping from a beach ball.

  I walked onstage.

  Twenty minutes later I walked off.

  I’d gone okay. Quite good, in fact. Even my incontinence gag had worked. Not that it had been a straightforward triumph; indeed, at one point I’d appeared to be hurtling towards an almighty train wreck, quite possibly the biggest of my career, and that’s really saying something.

  It was a routine I’d done many times. As usual, I started by asking if there were any adult kids in the audience who still lived at home with their parents. Immediately, a girl way up at the back of the theatre raised her hand.

  ‘And how old are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Thirty-seven,’ she replied.

  Thirty-seven and still living at home with her parents? I was rapt. This was comedy gold! I became so excited that I left the stage and headed into the audience, making my way to the back of the theatre, cracking jokes at this woman’s expense the whole way. If I say so myself, the audience ate it up—they were killing themselves laughing.