The people of spoken, and so I present the over-sized sequel to One More Couldnt Hurt. Well, sequel is a bit of a stretch
its a story in the same universe, at least. The theme of that one was youthful excess; the theme of this is wise moderation.
Sort-of.
Dont Mind If I Do
Richardson never rollicked or slobbered or staggered: It was not a sweaty fat man, but a dry and dignified one. As the great belly moved, step following step with great finesse lest it overtopple, the arms flapped fussily at the sides as if to paddle the body's bulk along. It was deliciously and subtly funny, not riotously so.
- Kenneth Tynan, reviewing Ralph Richardson as Falstaff in Henry IV at the Old Vic
Act I (of III): A New Show, A New Lovah
A gift, for my sweetest of sweethearts, he slurs, his fifth champagne sliding between the words as they left his mouth.
Jess Cinnamon wrinkles her nose a little bit, not in disgust but in curiosity; the box being proffered by her drunken guest seems to carry in it a little sniff of heaven. John Kemp, though the most devilish of agents and well-deserving of his nickname Smooth-Talking Jack, is not known to skimp out on gift-giving duty. Tentatively she begins to open the lid, only for him to snap it down again, just barely stopping him from doing her an injury.
For the love of - I mean, Jack, you clumsy beast! she replies, the shock nearly undoing two years of elocution lessons and letting her built-in Yorkshire accent emerge in full view of her public. You could have cut my finger off at the tip.
Clumsily, he bows before her, his stick-insect-like figure assaying a few dramatic gestures while keeping the box fairly balanced. Forgive me, my dear, he says, But this is a gift to be savoured in private, not amongst this rabble. His hand sweeps languorously across the room, taking in the various denizens of the London stage world, many of whom glare or shake their heads at him - actors, directors, critics and the fellow agents whod have his throat if they let him.
Whats a drunken man like, fool? she smiles, taking both his box and his champagne-flute as he staggers back to the upright position. Its from Twelfth Night, and its been their game ever since they were school-yard friends, to quote the Bard at each other relentlessly.
Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman, he recites from the heart. One draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him. He does a little funny impression of the different stages, before his old friend Anthony catches him and begins to drag him away. Jess' own companion, her fiancé Richard, takes her by the arm as she tucks the box away on her bookshelf, innocently shelved between thick volumes of Marlowe and Keats.
The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You, that way, we, this way he calls out to her as Anthony shakes his head apologetically.
Ever the charmer, Jack, she calls back.
Johnny Depp plays me in the moviiieeee! he replies as the two men leave the party. She pouts, wishing they could have stayed on; experience tells her its not a party without him sticking around to amuse her.
Why do you tolerate him? Richard sighs into her ear, his stubble rubbing her cheek. I know hes your old childhood sweetheart, but this happens every time.
Ah, dont be such a misery-guts, she replies. There cant be a party without Fast-Talking Jack. He brings it with him. I wouldnt be where I am today without his charisma.
Richard shakes his head, but theres little he can do. Its her party, in her house. And she got a present and he didnt, she remembers. Jessica Cinnamon is petty like that, but pettiness comes easy when youre a star
*
Later, when Richard is showering off the sweat from their latest romp into sexual paradise (that back of his has seemingly no idea when to quit, and his long back hair is eminently grabbable), she leaps up out of the covers, the box suddenly on her mind again. Like a little girl on Christmas morning, she rushes to collect it, her duvet trailing behind her all the way up and down the stairs. Then, kneeling on the bed with the duvet flopped over her head, a one-woman fort, she opens it quietly.
Inside, are five little glass test tubes filled with a powder like Muscovado brown sugar, but finer and dryer and sparkled with gold flecks. And a small label-less container of body butter. Huh, she thinks. Its not what she was expecting at all. A signed photograph of George Clooney, a cruise around Corfu, maybe even a gold watch, maybe, but this?
She tenses. Maybe its drugs. Maybe Jacks finally snapped and he wants to drag her down with him. Maybe things are going south at last
Her train of thought hasnt caught up with her cat-like curiosity, and shes already dabbed a pinch of the powder onto the back of her hand and licked it up with the tip of her tongue. Not bad very sweet, though, with an aftertaste of ah! Cinammon! She laughs a little. Silly Jack, giving her some sort of cinnamon powder as a joke. Probably the body butter is the same flavour, but she doesnt test it because shes still laughing, laughing giggling like a real trooper like a tiny girl what in the a small part of her can only wonder why the hell shes so happy.
That same part which hears a near-imperceptible sound, close and yet rooms away that goes:
*floomp*
Jess?
Jess throws off the covers, her eyes streaming, to find Richard looking over her wearing nothing but his bathrobe and a bemused smile. Youre that drunk, you try to play hide and seek and give yourself away with giggles.
Ih, its heeehehhehehee, not that! she gasps. Hoo! Whoooph. she takes in a deep breath, still smiling, and calms herself down. Jacks present, look. she points down, still grinning bemusedly, at the five test-tubes, but Jacks attention is drawn away.
Damn, girl everything OK with you?
Course it is, babe. Why wouldnt it she stiffens, coming down from her momentary high. Yes, there is something different about her now. She can barely perceptibly feel it, but its like like shes still got the duvet wrapped around her. Richard takes her hand and leads her to the mirror set into the door of her tall, expensive wardrobe.
There before her is a softer girl. A Jess Cinammon had she indulged in one or two more cakes and sweeties when she was a girl, instead of listening to her mother and jumping rope all the time and eating carrot sticks for snacks. There is a little sprig of voluptuousness to her figure now; shes gone from Rebecca Romijn as Mystique to Jennifer Lawrence as Mystique, in the course of a few minutes of hearty laughter.
What did that idiot give you? Richard asks, his fingers tracing the slightly more supple skin of her hips with wonder. She hopes its wonder.
Whatever it is, it can wait til morning. Right now, Id say its time for round two, she replies, turning and giving him a long wet snog.
He nods assent, not breaking the kiss, and leads her back to bed.
*
What the hell, Jack?
My hangover says good morning to you too, luv, he sighs down the phone. I personally cant wait to be rid of the bastard, but at least hes polite.
WHAT the BLEEDING ELL, JACK?! she says again, throwing ladylike elocution to the wolves. What could possibly have possessed you to give me A-Dust as a present?
Oh! he perks up, possibly because hes sipped his first coffee of the morning. So youve heard of it, then. I must apologise, my dear Cinammon, I was going to explain to you what it was but I was at a terrible disadvantage at that little party of yours.
What disadvantage would that have been?
As always, I was terribly drunk and all the girls wanted me. I have most of them here now.
Jess is about to laugh cynically, but a tediously upbeat American giggle echoes down the line and she realises he was only partly exaggerating. Fast-Talking Jack has done it again.
Another Broadway chorus girl, Jack?
Its a story for the grandkids and another set of incriminating negatives for the album. Advantage: me. In the background, Jess hears a Wait, what? from his latest conquest, followed by the sounds of scuffling and slamming doors. When he comes back to the phone, shes looking quizzically at the box again.
I did my homework, Jack. They call this stuff Bloom, because
It inflates the figure as they get high, yes I know.
Is it possible to be allergic to it? I tasted some and got a giggle-fit, and then
As adorable as that sounds, thats not an immune response. Youve just been getting a dose cut with powdered food supplement designed to replicate the flavour of cinnamon.
She smiles a little, though angrily adding That your idea of a joke?
My dear sweetest of sweeties! she can practically see him holding onto his heart with indignation. As if I could ever poke fun at you. Its a gift, I tell you, a career-enhancing gift. I trust you found the cream in the box as well?
Yup. What, making me a puffed-up junkie isnt enough, I have to have gorgeous-looking skin for the paparazzi?
Not at all. The science boffin I got off this owed me a few for a bong he bought off me at Glastonbury 98. Or 94, I cant remember. But he threw in the cream cos hes a fan of yours. Its laced with a well-developed enzyme that works with the Bloom. He called it Sponge, cos thats how it works.
So what you think you just explained to me, is
You got it. Smear some of that Sponge cream on your bum, sniff some Bloom dust, and youll be pear-shaped after an hour of giggling, adorable bliss. Rub it on your tummy and the hippies down the roadll be rubbing it too, for good luck. Add a dab on your cheeks and you can audition for the role of Babyface Nelson. And as for your chest
I get, I get it, Jesus.
Dont call me Jesus. Id like to think Im worth more than thirty pieces of silver.
So, what, your big break for me in acting is to get me to wear a she shudders to say the dreaded f-word. A bigger person suit, only without the suit? Youre really going around the bend, Jack, you know -
You got the RSC gig.
Her heart stops for only a second longer than she stops talking. I what?
Thought Id soften the blow with my present, if youll excuse the pun. I know how you handle good news. He knows her well; a tear is already winding its way down her cheek. But, yes, my dear - you got the role of Titania in that all-female production of A Midsummer Nights Dream. Theres a catch, though his voice takes on that serious tone that shes grown used to over the years. The one where hes trying to behave serious, but comes off as an overdramatic arse who was wise to have quit drama school early. Which is why I gave you the Cinnamon Bloom-Dust. The director wants you bigger.
What? No way! Thats I mean, I couldnt possibly be expected to. I have a career to think of.
Oh come on, Jess. Im not saying you have to consider starting a career in Opera afterward. We both read our Shakespeare, and we both know Will wasnt as good at the spelling as he was at the raunchy insults. Titania translates to Land of Giants - its Tatiana that means Fairy Queen. So our director is taking that literally. He wants you towering over your fairy king, dwarfing him in every proportion. Let the audience really know what hes missing when she spurns him. Get Bottom looking at
Dont say it, she hisses, seeing it coming a mile away.
At your bottom.
Great. So, lets review my choices: turn away the part Ive been dreaming of ever since Mum drunkenly told me I was going to be an actress or I wasnt her daughter anymore, orrrrr I take an illegal, experimental drug in controlled doses to turn myself into a Rubens painting.
There is silence from the other end, as Fast-Talking Jack tries to smother a quick chuckle.
She was a scary woman, Jess.
Well, lets hope five feet of earth and a bloody great expensive tombstone can hold her. Theres no way I can wriggle out of this, is there?
If I were you, Id be taking the Bloom right now while groping three tanned Calvin Klein models off the back of a solid diamond yacht, and then it would sink and we would all die, in a frenzy of weird ecstasy. But its entirely in your hands. Let me know when youve made your mind up.
He hangs up before she can reply, leaving her staring quietly at the test tube of sparkling dust in the brilliant sunlight of a London June morning.
*
Months pass. Jess does some more of this homework shes mentioned, in-between preparing for the part. She finds that no-one really knows the exact chemical composition or origins of A-Dust, to the point of it becoming the cornerstone of a cult. Some people say it was left by aliens trying desperately to take advantage of humans by making them crazily hedonistic.
But that doesnt gel with the FDA science trials released last June in the USA. The say - weirdly enough - that it isnt addictive. Sure, they say, it has some adverse side-effects when people crave the same high over and over - the people who take the A-Dust with shrinking properties are particularly susceptible - but people arent coming back for more and more on street corners, which is why it has to be custom-made. It has no more of a latch on you than sugar.
And we all know sugar makes people fat, says the FDA chief in a video report she watches on her lunch break, if you eat too much. Thats the definition of too much, people. I cant stress that enough. The most adverse effects of A-Dust Bloom, for instance, are just getting too round to move; and we have surgery to fix that.
These are not addictive substances. But they are untested, undeveloped and uncontrolled substances, which is why FDA officers are still required to arrest you for carrying them. Dont get caught with Alice Dust, kids. Five years in jail aint worth it.
Whatcha watchin, Babe? asks Richard dully, returning from the gym.
Oh, nothing she replies, closing her laptop and picking up her dog-eared copy of An Actor Prepares. Shes getting tired of dating Richard these days, and hopes therell be someone cute to dally around with at the set in Stratford. She hasnt had a nice young stagehand over for tea in ages.
She reflects on how predatory that makes her sound, in her own head, for about twenty seconds before starting her vocal exercises for the day.
*
Stratford has arrived - or rather, Jess Cinnamon arrives in it, with Jack waiting to meet her at the station the week rehearsals begin. Cinnamon, my love, always so glad to see you, he coos, taking her suitcase in hand and pecking her on the cheek. Hes grown a Johnny Depp mustache and beard, that dont entirely suit him, but theyre a cute look anyhow.
"No Richard?" he asks, looking around suspiciously.
"Nah, I let him go. 'If you love something, set it free, blah de blah blah '", she recites in a sing-song voice. He smirks back at her. "One day I'll write a book about acting for women, and Chapter 5 will be entitled 'A New Show, A New Lovah'."
"I heard the 'h' in that pronunciation, you shameless hussy."
The town of Stratford is well-renowned for its most famous son, Will Shaxberd, and also somewhat for his wife Anne Hathaway, who received his second-best bed in his will. The place crawls with theme shops, pubs and performers, and the river Avon flows pleasantly through it in certain places. As Jess is driven to the Royal Shakespeare Company's Swan Theatre, she reflects that this might be the perfect place to settle down if she ever retires.
She sniffs a little. Once upon a time, that 'if ' might have been a 'when'. Ah well...
"You've been using the Bloom, then, I take it?" remarks Fast-Talking Jack over his shoulder.
"How could you tell?" she says absently, though she finds herself suddenly terribly conscious of how comfy her 'back seat' is on the car's...back seat. She's used perhaps a tablespoon of the stuff since receiving it, ever cautious of doing something that could never be undone. Besides, it wouldn't do to be giggling all through her line-learning.
"Ha bloody ha, love, but you'll have to do better than that if you want to impress Camillo. You know him by reputation, but he's even more demanding in-person."
So our poor Ms. Cinnamon finds when she's led to the rehearsal space, there to be met by Mr. John Camillo, Director of this year's production, who resembles a bulkier Pete Postlethwaite. Grasping her by the hand, he assures her he's greatly looking forward to working with her, then eyes her belly. "Eating well, I trust?" he murmurs confidentially.
Jess blushes with indignation at such a sensitive question - as well as Mr. Camillo's gaze being drawn to such an innocuous area of her body - but Jack pats her on the shoulder and stage-whispers "Show must go on," before exiting stage left. She assumes her most beatific of sincere-looking smiles.
"Certainly I am, Mr. Camillo. I'm sure we'll be able to guarantee a memorable production, and I intend to do my bit for it."
"Atta girl," he says, and suddenly all is normal and non-harrassment-esque again. Over the next few hours Jess is introduced to the principle cast, as well as the extras, all of whom are completely lovely and supportive. Set-designers and choreographers make sure to block in a part of her schedule, and the costume designer makes sure to keep plenty of material for her costume - they're going with an earthy feel, so that in scenes involving the Lovers and Mechanicals Titania can become mistaken for a mighty tree.
Finally, she does dialogue rehearsals with her two 'lovers' - Oberon King of the Fairies and Bottom the Weaver, who later wears the head of an Ass. Oberon is played by Nick Ross, a well-spoken bearded gentleman, and Bottom by Henry Elbow, a shy young lad of 22 who comes alive in his performance, drawing on wild gestures and lewd body language.
Jess is all dignity and grace, really sinking herself into the role. But of course, inside she's bubbling with joy. Never has she wanted to be anywhere else, so much.
*
That night, going over her actions and gestures in front of a mirror in her new flat, she notices how much her track suit bottoms seem to be hanging off her figure. She bought them, she reflects, one size too big...in fact, since accepting the inevitability of this new development in her life, she's splashed out on an entire wardrobe of loose-fitting, stretchy-material garments, knowing she can't be in costume all the time.
She hugs herself, looking in the mirror at the barely perceptible suppleness of her skin and the slight roundness of her face. This wasn't so bad, right? And of she's going to commit , she might as well commit now...
Quickly she marched over to the kitchen area and puts the kettle on. While it brews, she takes not one, not two, but four heaped teaspoonfuls of Cinnamon Bloom and mixes it delicately into her sugar-bowl. That should last her until final performance, and it'll be easier to get used to in doses rather than all-in-one-go.
As the coffe brews in her mug, she takes care to smear the proper areas with the "Sponge Cream", reflecting fondly on Fast-Talking Jack's penchant for terrible nicknames. A miniscule dab on her face to keep her innocent and doll-like; a good dollop on her chest area, arms, thighs, rear end...and only a little for her tummy, despite Mr. Camillo seeming to think that so essential. She can't let herself be completely led by him, after all.
The coffee is imbued with a fine sweet flavour that tingles in her nostrils and makes her nose wrinkle. She waits for it to cool, sips...drinks...gulps. Utters an in-ladylike belch, reflecting that gulping might not be the best course of action.
"Then I must be thy lady," she begins to recite from memory , "
but I know/When thou hast stolen away from fairy land,/Ah - ah, ha, ha, and in the shape of Corin sat all day/Playing on eeeeeeheeheehee, puh- puh- pipes of corn and versing love/To amorous Phillida."
*floomp*
She stumbles, half-drunk on a caffeine and sugar high, back towards her bedroom, suddenly amorous and full of dreamy relaxation, and very much needing to be naked. She catches a sight of herself in the full-length mirror, and...
She gasps a little, and giggles. She hefts a swollen breast in one hand, feels her more malleable tummy with an unexpected delight. Her body is grown by only a few pounds, barely three or five, but the effect is noticeable, and she has begun to take on a solid apple shape. Even her suddenly puffier face is adorable.
"Why art thou here," she whispers,"Come from the farthest Steppe of India?"
She skips merrily into the bedroom, looking for the little bag in which she keeps her 'helpers' for bored and lonely nights, next to a store of batteries, and can't help but keep reciting as she flops down on the soft double bed:
"But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,/Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love..."
End of Act I
Sort-of.
Dont Mind If I Do
Richardson never rollicked or slobbered or staggered: It was not a sweaty fat man, but a dry and dignified one. As the great belly moved, step following step with great finesse lest it overtopple, the arms flapped fussily at the sides as if to paddle the body's bulk along. It was deliciously and subtly funny, not riotously so.
- Kenneth Tynan, reviewing Ralph Richardson as Falstaff in Henry IV at the Old Vic
Act I (of III): A New Show, A New Lovah
A gift, for my sweetest of sweethearts, he slurs, his fifth champagne sliding between the words as they left his mouth.
Jess Cinnamon wrinkles her nose a little bit, not in disgust but in curiosity; the box being proffered by her drunken guest seems to carry in it a little sniff of heaven. John Kemp, though the most devilish of agents and well-deserving of his nickname Smooth-Talking Jack, is not known to skimp out on gift-giving duty. Tentatively she begins to open the lid, only for him to snap it down again, just barely stopping him from doing her an injury.
For the love of - I mean, Jack, you clumsy beast! she replies, the shock nearly undoing two years of elocution lessons and letting her built-in Yorkshire accent emerge in full view of her public. You could have cut my finger off at the tip.
Clumsily, he bows before her, his stick-insect-like figure assaying a few dramatic gestures while keeping the box fairly balanced. Forgive me, my dear, he says, But this is a gift to be savoured in private, not amongst this rabble. His hand sweeps languorously across the room, taking in the various denizens of the London stage world, many of whom glare or shake their heads at him - actors, directors, critics and the fellow agents whod have his throat if they let him.
Whats a drunken man like, fool? she smiles, taking both his box and his champagne-flute as he staggers back to the upright position. Its from Twelfth Night, and its been their game ever since they were school-yard friends, to quote the Bard at each other relentlessly.
Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman, he recites from the heart. One draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him. He does a little funny impression of the different stages, before his old friend Anthony catches him and begins to drag him away. Jess' own companion, her fiancé Richard, takes her by the arm as she tucks the box away on her bookshelf, innocently shelved between thick volumes of Marlowe and Keats.
The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You, that way, we, this way he calls out to her as Anthony shakes his head apologetically.
Ever the charmer, Jack, she calls back.
Johnny Depp plays me in the moviiieeee! he replies as the two men leave the party. She pouts, wishing they could have stayed on; experience tells her its not a party without him sticking around to amuse her.
Why do you tolerate him? Richard sighs into her ear, his stubble rubbing her cheek. I know hes your old childhood sweetheart, but this happens every time.
Ah, dont be such a misery-guts, she replies. There cant be a party without Fast-Talking Jack. He brings it with him. I wouldnt be where I am today without his charisma.
Richard shakes his head, but theres little he can do. Its her party, in her house. And she got a present and he didnt, she remembers. Jessica Cinnamon is petty like that, but pettiness comes easy when youre a star
*
Later, when Richard is showering off the sweat from their latest romp into sexual paradise (that back of his has seemingly no idea when to quit, and his long back hair is eminently grabbable), she leaps up out of the covers, the box suddenly on her mind again. Like a little girl on Christmas morning, she rushes to collect it, her duvet trailing behind her all the way up and down the stairs. Then, kneeling on the bed with the duvet flopped over her head, a one-woman fort, she opens it quietly.
Inside, are five little glass test tubes filled with a powder like Muscovado brown sugar, but finer and dryer and sparkled with gold flecks. And a small label-less container of body butter. Huh, she thinks. Its not what she was expecting at all. A signed photograph of George Clooney, a cruise around Corfu, maybe even a gold watch, maybe, but this?
She tenses. Maybe its drugs. Maybe Jacks finally snapped and he wants to drag her down with him. Maybe things are going south at last
Her train of thought hasnt caught up with her cat-like curiosity, and shes already dabbed a pinch of the powder onto the back of her hand and licked it up with the tip of her tongue. Not bad very sweet, though, with an aftertaste of ah! Cinammon! She laughs a little. Silly Jack, giving her some sort of cinnamon powder as a joke. Probably the body butter is the same flavour, but she doesnt test it because shes still laughing, laughing giggling like a real trooper like a tiny girl what in the a small part of her can only wonder why the hell shes so happy.
That same part which hears a near-imperceptible sound, close and yet rooms away that goes:
*floomp*
Jess?
Jess throws off the covers, her eyes streaming, to find Richard looking over her wearing nothing but his bathrobe and a bemused smile. Youre that drunk, you try to play hide and seek and give yourself away with giggles.
Ih, its heeehehhehehee, not that! she gasps. Hoo! Whoooph. she takes in a deep breath, still smiling, and calms herself down. Jacks present, look. she points down, still grinning bemusedly, at the five test-tubes, but Jacks attention is drawn away.
Damn, girl everything OK with you?
Course it is, babe. Why wouldnt it she stiffens, coming down from her momentary high. Yes, there is something different about her now. She can barely perceptibly feel it, but its like like shes still got the duvet wrapped around her. Richard takes her hand and leads her to the mirror set into the door of her tall, expensive wardrobe.
There before her is a softer girl. A Jess Cinammon had she indulged in one or two more cakes and sweeties when she was a girl, instead of listening to her mother and jumping rope all the time and eating carrot sticks for snacks. There is a little sprig of voluptuousness to her figure now; shes gone from Rebecca Romijn as Mystique to Jennifer Lawrence as Mystique, in the course of a few minutes of hearty laughter.
What did that idiot give you? Richard asks, his fingers tracing the slightly more supple skin of her hips with wonder. She hopes its wonder.
Whatever it is, it can wait til morning. Right now, Id say its time for round two, she replies, turning and giving him a long wet snog.
He nods assent, not breaking the kiss, and leads her back to bed.
*
What the hell, Jack?
My hangover says good morning to you too, luv, he sighs down the phone. I personally cant wait to be rid of the bastard, but at least hes polite.
WHAT the BLEEDING ELL, JACK?! she says again, throwing ladylike elocution to the wolves. What could possibly have possessed you to give me A-Dust as a present?
Oh! he perks up, possibly because hes sipped his first coffee of the morning. So youve heard of it, then. I must apologise, my dear Cinammon, I was going to explain to you what it was but I was at a terrible disadvantage at that little party of yours.
What disadvantage would that have been?
As always, I was terribly drunk and all the girls wanted me. I have most of them here now.
Jess is about to laugh cynically, but a tediously upbeat American giggle echoes down the line and she realises he was only partly exaggerating. Fast-Talking Jack has done it again.
Another Broadway chorus girl, Jack?
Its a story for the grandkids and another set of incriminating negatives for the album. Advantage: me. In the background, Jess hears a Wait, what? from his latest conquest, followed by the sounds of scuffling and slamming doors. When he comes back to the phone, shes looking quizzically at the box again.
I did my homework, Jack. They call this stuff Bloom, because
It inflates the figure as they get high, yes I know.
Is it possible to be allergic to it? I tasted some and got a giggle-fit, and then
As adorable as that sounds, thats not an immune response. Youve just been getting a dose cut with powdered food supplement designed to replicate the flavour of cinnamon.
She smiles a little, though angrily adding That your idea of a joke?
My dear sweetest of sweeties! she can practically see him holding onto his heart with indignation. As if I could ever poke fun at you. Its a gift, I tell you, a career-enhancing gift. I trust you found the cream in the box as well?
Yup. What, making me a puffed-up junkie isnt enough, I have to have gorgeous-looking skin for the paparazzi?
Not at all. The science boffin I got off this owed me a few for a bong he bought off me at Glastonbury 98. Or 94, I cant remember. But he threw in the cream cos hes a fan of yours. Its laced with a well-developed enzyme that works with the Bloom. He called it Sponge, cos thats how it works.
So what you think you just explained to me, is
You got it. Smear some of that Sponge cream on your bum, sniff some Bloom dust, and youll be pear-shaped after an hour of giggling, adorable bliss. Rub it on your tummy and the hippies down the roadll be rubbing it too, for good luck. Add a dab on your cheeks and you can audition for the role of Babyface Nelson. And as for your chest
I get, I get it, Jesus.
Dont call me Jesus. Id like to think Im worth more than thirty pieces of silver.
So, what, your big break for me in acting is to get me to wear a she shudders to say the dreaded f-word. A bigger person suit, only without the suit? Youre really going around the bend, Jack, you know -
You got the RSC gig.
Her heart stops for only a second longer than she stops talking. I what?
Thought Id soften the blow with my present, if youll excuse the pun. I know how you handle good news. He knows her well; a tear is already winding its way down her cheek. But, yes, my dear - you got the role of Titania in that all-female production of A Midsummer Nights Dream. Theres a catch, though his voice takes on that serious tone that shes grown used to over the years. The one where hes trying to behave serious, but comes off as an overdramatic arse who was wise to have quit drama school early. Which is why I gave you the Cinnamon Bloom-Dust. The director wants you bigger.
What? No way! Thats I mean, I couldnt possibly be expected to. I have a career to think of.
Oh come on, Jess. Im not saying you have to consider starting a career in Opera afterward. We both read our Shakespeare, and we both know Will wasnt as good at the spelling as he was at the raunchy insults. Titania translates to Land of Giants - its Tatiana that means Fairy Queen. So our director is taking that literally. He wants you towering over your fairy king, dwarfing him in every proportion. Let the audience really know what hes missing when she spurns him. Get Bottom looking at
Dont say it, she hisses, seeing it coming a mile away.
At your bottom.
Great. So, lets review my choices: turn away the part Ive been dreaming of ever since Mum drunkenly told me I was going to be an actress or I wasnt her daughter anymore, orrrrr I take an illegal, experimental drug in controlled doses to turn myself into a Rubens painting.
There is silence from the other end, as Fast-Talking Jack tries to smother a quick chuckle.
She was a scary woman, Jess.
Well, lets hope five feet of earth and a bloody great expensive tombstone can hold her. Theres no way I can wriggle out of this, is there?
If I were you, Id be taking the Bloom right now while groping three tanned Calvin Klein models off the back of a solid diamond yacht, and then it would sink and we would all die, in a frenzy of weird ecstasy. But its entirely in your hands. Let me know when youve made your mind up.
He hangs up before she can reply, leaving her staring quietly at the test tube of sparkling dust in the brilliant sunlight of a London June morning.
*
Months pass. Jess does some more of this homework shes mentioned, in-between preparing for the part. She finds that no-one really knows the exact chemical composition or origins of A-Dust, to the point of it becoming the cornerstone of a cult. Some people say it was left by aliens trying desperately to take advantage of humans by making them crazily hedonistic.
But that doesnt gel with the FDA science trials released last June in the USA. The say - weirdly enough - that it isnt addictive. Sure, they say, it has some adverse side-effects when people crave the same high over and over - the people who take the A-Dust with shrinking properties are particularly susceptible - but people arent coming back for more and more on street corners, which is why it has to be custom-made. It has no more of a latch on you than sugar.
And we all know sugar makes people fat, says the FDA chief in a video report she watches on her lunch break, if you eat too much. Thats the definition of too much, people. I cant stress that enough. The most adverse effects of A-Dust Bloom, for instance, are just getting too round to move; and we have surgery to fix that.
These are not addictive substances. But they are untested, undeveloped and uncontrolled substances, which is why FDA officers are still required to arrest you for carrying them. Dont get caught with Alice Dust, kids. Five years in jail aint worth it.
Whatcha watchin, Babe? asks Richard dully, returning from the gym.
Oh, nothing she replies, closing her laptop and picking up her dog-eared copy of An Actor Prepares. Shes getting tired of dating Richard these days, and hopes therell be someone cute to dally around with at the set in Stratford. She hasnt had a nice young stagehand over for tea in ages.
She reflects on how predatory that makes her sound, in her own head, for about twenty seconds before starting her vocal exercises for the day.
*
Stratford has arrived - or rather, Jess Cinnamon arrives in it, with Jack waiting to meet her at the station the week rehearsals begin. Cinnamon, my love, always so glad to see you, he coos, taking her suitcase in hand and pecking her on the cheek. Hes grown a Johnny Depp mustache and beard, that dont entirely suit him, but theyre a cute look anyhow.
"No Richard?" he asks, looking around suspiciously.
"Nah, I let him go. 'If you love something, set it free, blah de blah blah '", she recites in a sing-song voice. He smirks back at her. "One day I'll write a book about acting for women, and Chapter 5 will be entitled 'A New Show, A New Lovah'."
"I heard the 'h' in that pronunciation, you shameless hussy."
The town of Stratford is well-renowned for its most famous son, Will Shaxberd, and also somewhat for his wife Anne Hathaway, who received his second-best bed in his will. The place crawls with theme shops, pubs and performers, and the river Avon flows pleasantly through it in certain places. As Jess is driven to the Royal Shakespeare Company's Swan Theatre, she reflects that this might be the perfect place to settle down if she ever retires.
She sniffs a little. Once upon a time, that 'if ' might have been a 'when'. Ah well...
"You've been using the Bloom, then, I take it?" remarks Fast-Talking Jack over his shoulder.
"How could you tell?" she says absently, though she finds herself suddenly terribly conscious of how comfy her 'back seat' is on the car's...back seat. She's used perhaps a tablespoon of the stuff since receiving it, ever cautious of doing something that could never be undone. Besides, it wouldn't do to be giggling all through her line-learning.
"Ha bloody ha, love, but you'll have to do better than that if you want to impress Camillo. You know him by reputation, but he's even more demanding in-person."
So our poor Ms. Cinnamon finds when she's led to the rehearsal space, there to be met by Mr. John Camillo, Director of this year's production, who resembles a bulkier Pete Postlethwaite. Grasping her by the hand, he assures her he's greatly looking forward to working with her, then eyes her belly. "Eating well, I trust?" he murmurs confidentially.
Jess blushes with indignation at such a sensitive question - as well as Mr. Camillo's gaze being drawn to such an innocuous area of her body - but Jack pats her on the shoulder and stage-whispers "Show must go on," before exiting stage left. She assumes her most beatific of sincere-looking smiles.
"Certainly I am, Mr. Camillo. I'm sure we'll be able to guarantee a memorable production, and I intend to do my bit for it."
"Atta girl," he says, and suddenly all is normal and non-harrassment-esque again. Over the next few hours Jess is introduced to the principle cast, as well as the extras, all of whom are completely lovely and supportive. Set-designers and choreographers make sure to block in a part of her schedule, and the costume designer makes sure to keep plenty of material for her costume - they're going with an earthy feel, so that in scenes involving the Lovers and Mechanicals Titania can become mistaken for a mighty tree.
Finally, she does dialogue rehearsals with her two 'lovers' - Oberon King of the Fairies and Bottom the Weaver, who later wears the head of an Ass. Oberon is played by Nick Ross, a well-spoken bearded gentleman, and Bottom by Henry Elbow, a shy young lad of 22 who comes alive in his performance, drawing on wild gestures and lewd body language.
Jess is all dignity and grace, really sinking herself into the role. But of course, inside she's bubbling with joy. Never has she wanted to be anywhere else, so much.
*
That night, going over her actions and gestures in front of a mirror in her new flat, she notices how much her track suit bottoms seem to be hanging off her figure. She bought them, she reflects, one size too big...in fact, since accepting the inevitability of this new development in her life, she's splashed out on an entire wardrobe of loose-fitting, stretchy-material garments, knowing she can't be in costume all the time.
She hugs herself, looking in the mirror at the barely perceptible suppleness of her skin and the slight roundness of her face. This wasn't so bad, right? And of she's going to commit , she might as well commit now...
Quickly she marched over to the kitchen area and puts the kettle on. While it brews, she takes not one, not two, but four heaped teaspoonfuls of Cinnamon Bloom and mixes it delicately into her sugar-bowl. That should last her until final performance, and it'll be easier to get used to in doses rather than all-in-one-go.
As the coffe brews in her mug, she takes care to smear the proper areas with the "Sponge Cream", reflecting fondly on Fast-Talking Jack's penchant for terrible nicknames. A miniscule dab on her face to keep her innocent and doll-like; a good dollop on her chest area, arms, thighs, rear end...and only a little for her tummy, despite Mr. Camillo seeming to think that so essential. She can't let herself be completely led by him, after all.
The coffee is imbued with a fine sweet flavour that tingles in her nostrils and makes her nose wrinkle. She waits for it to cool, sips...drinks...gulps. Utters an in-ladylike belch, reflecting that gulping might not be the best course of action.
"Then I must be thy lady," she begins to recite from memory , "
but I know/When thou hast stolen away from fairy land,/Ah - ah, ha, ha, and in the shape of Corin sat all day/Playing on eeeeeeheeheehee, puh- puh- pipes of corn and versing love/To amorous Phillida."
*floomp*
She stumbles, half-drunk on a caffeine and sugar high, back towards her bedroom, suddenly amorous and full of dreamy relaxation, and very much needing to be naked. She catches a sight of herself in the full-length mirror, and...
She gasps a little, and giggles. She hefts a swollen breast in one hand, feels her more malleable tummy with an unexpected delight. Her body is grown by only a few pounds, barely three or five, but the effect is noticeable, and she has begun to take on a solid apple shape. Even her suddenly puffier face is adorable.
"Why art thou here," she whispers,"Come from the farthest Steppe of India?"
She skips merrily into the bedroom, looking for the little bag in which she keeps her 'helpers' for bored and lonely nights, next to a store of batteries, and can't help but keep reciting as she flops down on the soft double bed:
"But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,/Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love..."
End of Act I
