out scenes all by myself in my bedroom.’
‘So you’ve never acted in public?’
‘No. I used to help out with the drama group at school, but I didn’t have the nerve to audition. I just used to fetch and carry for the stage manager, and sit on the book in the prompt corner during shows. And then when people found out that I had – well, aspirations – they decided I’d got too big for my boots. They started sniggering and saying things like, “Got yourself an agent yet?” and, “When’s DiCaprio coming to find you?” And I’d have to laugh and pretend I can take a joke. I’ve got pretty good at pretending. Maybe that’s why I identify so much with Laura in The Glass Menagerie. They’re doing it in November, in the Gaiety School. I’d give anything to play Laura. In my dreams!’
‘Dream building is a good starting point. Tell me this. Assuming your application is successful, how are you going to put yourself through school? Will your parents finance you?’
‘I’ll live with them, because I can’t afford to rent anywhere. But I’m going to have to get some kind of a part-time job.’ Bethany gave a mirthless laugh. ‘That’ll be a challenge, the way things are in the employment market.’
‘So you’ll be looking for work when you go back to Dublin?’
‘Yeah. I’d much rather stay here, though, until term starts. I love it here.’
‘Why don’t you try and get a job in Lissamore, then?’
‘I’ve tried. There’s nothing going.’
‘You’re wrong. There are jobs going. Did you look for work on The O’Hara Affair?’
‘As an actress? Are you – serious? I wouldn’t have the nerve.’
‘Not as an actress, no. As an extra.’
‘I’d have loved that, but somebody told me there was no point. Apparently hundreds of wannabes like me applied. Oh – that’s an awful word, isn’t it! Wannabe.’
‘No. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something. Wanting something is proactive. Apathy is far, far worse. That’s why your classmates made jokes at your expense. They don’t have the courage to dream.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said an interesting thing earlier. You said that people decided you’d got too big for your boots. That’s because you have a dream, Bethany, and maybe they don’t. And because they’re jealous of your dream, they want to destroy it. Seeing you fail will make them feel better about themselves. Think about it.’
Bethany thought about it, and as she did, she felt a creeping sense of relief that what she’d always suspected to be true had been put into words by someone so much older and wiser than her. Was that the reason she was confiding all her secrets in Madame Tiresia? ‘That’s horrible, isn’t it?’
‘It’s human nature. But a much easier way of feeling better about yourself is to have a positive mantra. You lost your phone recently, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. How did you – oh. The crystal, of course.’
‘Of course,’ echoed Madame. Was Bethany imagining it, or was there a smile in her voice? ‘And when you lost your phone, what did you say to yourself?’
‘I told myself that I was an idiot.’
‘You see? You told yourself.’ Madame shook her head. ‘If you are telling yourself that you’re an idiot, Bethany, you are simply giving other people a license to do the same. If your self-esteem is rock bottom, you can hardly expect other people to respect you. So next time you lose your phone, don’t tell yourself you’re an idiot. Say, instead: “Oh! I have lost my phone – but hey, that happens to everyone from time to time. Losing my phone doesn’t mean I am an idiot. In fact, I think I’m pretty damned special.”’
Bethany wrinkled her nose. ‘But isn’t that kind of arrogant?’
‘Not at all. I have never understood why people think it is an insult when someone makes the observation, “You think you’re so great.” Tell me – how would you respond if someone said that to you?’
‘I’d tell them no way – I don’t think I’m great.’
‘You see! How negative is that? The correct response is, “That’s because I am great!”’
‘I’d never dream of saying that!’ protested Bethany.
‘You don’t actually have to articulate it. Say it to yourself. Say it now, Bethany. Say, “I think I’m great”.’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘Say it!’
‘I think I’m…great,’ said Bethany, without conviction.
‘There you are! Say it to yourself every time you want to call yourself an idiot. Say it over and over. “I think I’m great, I think I’m great, I think I’m great!” Let it be your mantra. Picture that little girl who pretended she had a confirm ation dress with petticoats, the little girl who could only act a role in the privacy of her bedroom. She’s afraid – she needs reassurance. Get to know her, make her your friend. Give her the respect she deserves, and I can guarantee that people will start to respect you, too.’
Bethany’s mind’s eye saw herself as a child, standing in a circle of little girls all comparing notes on their confirmation dresses. They’d been insecure, too, of course, with their bragging about how much their dress had cost and where it had been purchased. As for those girls she’d seen earlier – the ones with the swingy hair and orthodontic smiles – maybe they too sought help from internet sites or cried hot tears while updating their blogs? Maybe even Daisy de Saint-Euverte suffered from the blues, or the mean reds, like Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
‘The crystal tells me you should try for work on the film.’ Madame Tiresia’s tone was authoritative.
‘What?’
‘The crystal is certain that if you try, you will succeed. Go home now, and send off an email application for work as an extra. You’ll find it on The O’Hara Affair website.’
‘You really think I should?’
‘I do. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’
Bethany smiled. ‘That’s what my mum always says.’
‘Mums can be pretty wise women.’ Madame Tiresia passed her hands over the crystal, setting her bangles jingling. ‘Alas, Bethany, your time is up. The crystal’s gone cloudy.’
‘Oh. Well – thank you for your advice, Madame. I’ll send off an application right away. I’ll send off two! One to the movie people, and one to the Gaiety School! My horoscope said I should heed the advice of a wise woman.’
‘Do you believe in horoscopes?’
‘No,’ she lied. ‘But I believe in you.’
‘That’s the
