Method Living

‘I’ve got something special for you,’ I say.

My son rolls his eyes at his big sister, and turns back to his PlayStation. ‘Sure you do, Mum.’

‘Arnott’s bake-your-owns,’ I say, undeterred. ‘They’re rich in iron, fibre, and vitamin C. But most importantly, they’re delicious.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ my daughter says, flicking through a magazine. Her blonde bangs curtain her face like a wimple.

‘Try one,’ I insist, holding out the baking tray of biscuits.

My son sighs reluctantly, takes a biscuit, and nibbles on it. His eyes widen. ‘Wow!’

My daughter looks over, and takes one. ‘Mmm,’ she says, a smile spreading across her face. ‘Thanks Mum!’

‘Cut!’ the director says.

The smiles vanish instantly from their faces. The boy throws his half-eaten biscuit in the bin, the girl spits out her mouthful into a napkin. Their parents stand on the sidelines, nervous. A boom mic swings over my head.

‘What’s the problem?’ I ask.

The director ignores me. He takes off his baseball cap and scratches at his straggly hair, like a flea-bitten dog. ‘Where’s the costume designer?’ he demands.

I look down. Pristine tennis shoes, skinny-leg jeans, white tank top. I look like a happy, middle-class mother. I look like I have a gym membership and a sense of style. I look like I’m in touch with the needs of my kids and I always put them first.

I look like everything I’m not.

‘Right here,’ Christine says. She’s tiny, shrunken; like a ventriloquist dummy left out in the sun.

‘She’s not wearing a wedding ring,’ the director says. ‘Single mums don’t sell biscuits.’

Christine quickly pulls off her own wedding ring. She beckons.

I hold out my hand, and Christine jams the ring onto my finger, nearly scraping the skin off my knuckle. It’s tight. If the shoot takes more than another hour, the digit might drop off.

The biscuits are odourless and stone cold, but they look delicious. I can’t look away. I haven’t eaten a biscuit in years.

‘Janine,’ the director says.

My gaze snaps back to him. ‘Yes?’

‘More confidence when you’re talking to the kids,’ he says. ‘You’re in control. You’re a young, beautiful mother, you have two beautiful children, and you’ve just baked some healthy biscuits you know they’ll enjoy. The subtext is “buy these biscuits so your children will love you”, but don’t let the subtext become the text. Confidence. They depend on you, not the other way around. Got it?’

I nod. I can’t mess up this job. I couldn’t work for five months while my teeth were being straightened, and I still owe rent on my ground-level apartment. But if I do twenty more of these commercials I might be able to afford a microwave with a light that works, or a bed with springs that won’t give me tetanus.

The boy is having his makeup redone. I wasn’t much older than him when I was doing pimple-cream ads. I had to scrub my face ten times a day, keeping my skin perfectly clear, so the makeup artists had room to dab the fake pimples on for each commercial.

The girl looks about sixteen. Soon she’ll be doing shoots at bars and nightclubs and parties. She’ll be the hot girl who isn’t interested in the rugged boy until she sees him take a sip of the right brand of beer. I did plenty of those too. So many, in fact, that I never got to go to an actual bar or nightclub or party.

I’m thirty-three now; I only get to play mothers. Other women my age are dressing up and raising kids and cooking, but I don’t have time. I’m too busy selling them dresses and nappies and Arnott’s bake-your-owns.

Some actors live as their characters, so they can play their parts better. It’s called method acting. But what do you call it when you act instead of living? When your parts are the only life you get?

When I’m sixty, will I be playing grandmothers? Imagining what it’s like to have a family – imagining it for a living? Still getting paid to look like what I’m not?

‘Good to go,’ the makeup artist says. The boy sits back down on the couch.

‘Places,’ the director calls, pulling his cap back on. The girl grabs the magazine. I pick up the tray of biscuits, and walk back to the kitchen doorway.

‘Rolling,’ the cameraman says.

‘Action,’ the director says.

‘I’ve got something special for you,’ I say.

‘Sure you do, Mum.’

‘Arnott’s bake-your-owns. They’re rich in iron, fibre, and vitamin C. But most importantly, they’re delicious.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Try one.’

My son eats. ‘Wow!’

My daughter eats. ‘Mmm! Thanks Mum!’ She takes a second biscuit.

‘Not hungry, you say?’ I flash her an indulgent smile, and tousle my son’s hair. He bounces into my arms for a hug.

Happy family.

‘And, cut,’ the director says.

There’s a pause. ‘Uh, it’s over,’ my son says, his head still pressed against my chest.

I look at the big couch, the biscuits, the kitchen door. I look at my teenage daughter.

‘Let go of me,’ my son says. ‘Let go!’

I stroke his peach-scented hair, and look at the wedding ring on my finger. This is the only life I get.

‘Let me go!’ He struggles free of my arms. Stumbles back. Everyone is staring at me.

‘Sorry,’ I falter, ‘I didn’t hear the cut.’

‘That’s a wrap,’ the director says.

The kids run back to their parents. The bounce boards drop, the hot lights click off, the camera tripod is disassembled.

‘Janine?’ the director is saying. ‘Are you okay?’

I walk over to the fake windows of my fake house. Like yesterday, and the day before, I watch my children be taken away by their real parents.

I can’t wait to get back to work tomorrow.