Dying inside

 This is an excerpt from Katy’s diary, written around that time. It sheds some light on the situation between her an her “boyfriend” Fraser. She was always very cagey about him:

 

June 30^th

I can feel things dying between Fraser and me. I need to get out. He is so controlling he is driving me mad. He calls me everyday to come over. I have to go round and see him. He wants sex, and if I say no he goes into a rage, saying I take advantage of him. So I have sex with him, it doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel like it used to, so I try to switch off until he finishes. Afterwards I say shall we get some food, and he says how are you going to do that, you have no money and you can’t cook. I need to get a new boyfriend. He throws thirty dollars at me and says get yourself some food on your way home, I’m not hungry. So I leave and pick up Japanese food on the way back home. But I don’t feel like eating it so I leave it on the countertop. I hate this flat. It isn’t my home. It’s Fraser’s flat. His spare flat. Who even needs to own two flats in Manhattan. So I call TJ. He comes over with some pills and we have sex on my sofa after taking some strong Valiums which he got from across the border. Would Fraser mind that I am having sex with TJ? I don’t think he would care. 

How’s your mum? Asked TJ. She’s still in the mental home. It’s sweet of you to remember. I said. 

I had an auntie once who was mad. He said. We went out on the balcony and smoked. I want to send her some flowers, I said, but I don’t have any cash. TJ pressed $100 into my hand. Call me any time you need anything, he said. 

The next morning I went to the florists, I felt woozy. I thought about asking the lady in there if there are any jobs going, but I knew they would probably pay about $4 an hour, and I was behind on my Uni work. I had an essay to finish, and I needed to be on set almost every day for the next month. I sent a big bunch of lilies to my mum. Then I called Nosey Erica our old next door neighbour, to see if there was any news. She said your mum is safe. What did she mean by safe? She was still on heavy medication, but was allowed to walk around town with her social worker. Erica had spotted them in Starbucks. How did she look? Thin. Said Erica. Just Thin. 

I googled my dad. There were just some news stories about his disappearance. Saying that he had defrauded his clients and run off. This isn’t true. What happened wasn’t his fault. The market turned against him, and he lost his money as well as theirs. Everyone forgets this. He lost everything. No wonder he needs to hide. He has no money, and everyone is chasing him. Maybe he has changed his name. It hurts to think about it. I look in my bag for Valiums but I can’t find them. I must have left them at home. I go to work on the set and try not to think about it all. 

Film is the only good thing in my life right now. I am collecting shells and lanterns for a grotto I need to make. And I went to MAC today with the makeup artists to pick out colours. 

 

My mother used to say that behind every car-crash of a woman, there is a deeply unpleasant man. I used to disagree with her on this, saying that women should shape their own destinies, and not blame men for their problems. She would say, “that’s all very well Cara, but you have a nice, generous father, and no-one has ever locked you in a Cambodian rape-camp.”

Then she would go back to smoking her roll-up and reading Simone de Beauvoir.

 

A Jigsaw

I was trying to piece together Katy’s life, without asking her too directly what she was up to. I was glad Annalika’s exhibition was over. I watched from my desk as workmen carefully wrapped the 8ft by 6ft pornographic prints. Too embarrassed even to make a lewd comment, there was something reverent in the way the worked. Placing each piece in a crate, and labelling it with a number. Sticking a “this way up” sticker, with a huge arrow. This amused me because half the pictures showed Annalika hanging upside-down in various poses.

I knew Katy was friends with several people on the indie-film circuit, so I called up a few of them. Katy had been spotted at several events, mainly with Fraser. She was still working hard on the film, and had attended a workshop run by Patricia Field. Her so-called friends from the film circuit sounded too blase when speaking of her. She was fun, and moderately talented as a film stylist. Did any of them really care about her? I doubt it. Wannabe scenes are difficult for friendships, aspiring film-makers, aspiring fashion designers, aspiring actors. Everyone is chasing after the same few opportunities, so it’s not exactly a crucible for perfect platonic friendship.

Porsche-guy asked me if I would meet up with The Model. Apparently she was lonely, and he was too busy to see her. “I’m busy,” I said. “Please,” he begged, “I’ve been a bit of a shit, leading her on, and now she’s got really clingy.”

“Is she your girlfriend?” I asked,

“God-knows, she stays over quite a lot, but really, I’m way too old for her, and we have nothing to talk about, she’s from Ohio.”

I felt sorry for her. “One drink,” I said, “tell her to meet me at Hollywould’s, five thirty.”

–

Image: Eye, print by Connie

Substitute for Mother

The only really bad thing about hanging out with Yasmin is that she is good friends with Kathleen Rixon, who seems to be at the flat all the time. She totally rubs me up the wrong way. We are kind of friends, and she knows a lot of important people in the art scene, so I have to be polite to her. I remember this conversation with her, about six months before Katy died. We were sitting at Yasmin’s drinking wine and waiting for chinese food to arrive. The girls order all this food, then eat like one spring roll each.

“I saw your friend the other day, that English girl, but I totally forgot her name,” said Kathleen,

“Oh, you mean Katy Charleston, I’ve not seen her much recently, I hope she’s not fallen out with me,” I said,

“She was in Bergdorf’s buying opaque tights, I said – that’s a weird thing to be buying in the middle of summer, she said it was for the actress on the movie,” replied Kathleen, pouring more wine. Katy was supposed to be the wardrobe mistress, but she was actually more of a glorified runner.

“Maybe she’s just busy on the movie, maybe that’s why she’s blanking me,” I said. I knew that Katy had deadlines, and she had to complete the movie project in order to get her MA, so I was trying to not take it personally. But then we’re all busy, and how long does it take to send a text?

“You’re being desperate, just drop her,” said Kathleen. Kathleen is a hard cow, but on this occasion I agreed with her. Katy was a flaky friend, and I could never quite tell what she was really thinking.

“I tried to get hold of her last week, rang her buzzer on the way to the library and left a note, but she never answered,” I said, feeing deflated about the whole thing.

“Oh, she moved,” said Kathleen.

Really. This was the first I’d heard of it. No one seemed to know the exact address. I wanted to give Katy the benefit of the doubt, and I knew she was having a hard time, so I left her a voice message suggesting we meet up. She didn’t reply. So I sent an email saying –

“Dear Katy, I hope everything is ok, I was worried because I’d not heard from you. I’m sorry Kathleen was rude to you. If it’s any consolation, I think she’s a bitch. I only hang out with her because she’s best-friends with my flatmate Yasmin. I’m really sorry about the situation with your mum and dad, but I understand if you don’t really want to talk about it. I’m sure they’re both ok. I hope your film is going well. If you ever need anything, just call. Love Cara. xxxx” 

I was also missing my own mum and dad. I’d taken to hanging out in stupid coffee shops, spending way to much money on milky Americanos, as it was the closest I could get to sitting in mum’s kitchen at home with a big mug of warm coffee. I couldn’t imagine what it must feel like for both your parents to desert you. I don’t entirely blame Katy’s mum for her “episodes” but I feel that if you are a parent you have to be strong for your child. And not sit around in a bathrobe all day taking pills. There, I’ve said it. I’ll probably get lots of hate mail from people in bathrobes, but I don’t care. I know when my life has been really fucked-up, helping other people has been the thing that’s got me through.

(Connie keeps telling me off about my coffee-shop addiction. She says it’s ritualistic and that I am feeding the capitalist machine. In case you hadn’t guessed, like most artists, Connie is a socialist. Above is one of Connie’s anti-capitalist pieces called: Substitute for Mother.)