“I want my mummyyyy” shrieks the child downstairs, putting on his wellies in some vain attempt to make us take him seriously on the matter. He doesn’t. We know he doesn’t. We know he knows that she’s at work. We’ll ask him this later and he will concede that he knows precisely where she is, then forget and start crying for her again, or say some piece of paper is his mummy, or ask where is teddy is, or ask what Richard’s doing, or just mumble nonsense while waving a plastic shopping basket over his head and potentially injuring himself, and that’ll have to be written up in the accident book so why the hell won’t he just put the fucking basket down.
Kim Kardashian is asking me if I want to run her business in Miami, a job everyone has told me to take because it beats folding clothes in wherever it is I’m currently working. I’ve been blowing off work for days now, jetsetting around the world to have my photo taken in the same clothes because I can’t afford anything else. I look Kim Kardashian dead in the eye and say yes, I’d love to run your business, only I’m going to attend some more photo shoots and be in commercials and try and build my own brand rather than actually run your business because I’m a free goddamn spirit that’s why. Kim Kardashian is pleased, I think, I don’t know her face doesn’t move. She shows me how to do a shift. I fold clothes. I flew from one coast of the US to the other to fold clothes while Kim Kardashian’s lifeless face stares me down.
The child has ceased his desire to find his mother. I tell him to take his wellies off. He snaps back a short “no” but takes them off anyway. He sobs while he does it.
Kim Kardashian asks me if I like men or women. I’m not sure why I can’t like both. I ponder the question for a while. I defer to the person whose name I’m using for my character, and she says she doesn’t mind either way. We settle on men. Don’t want to mess with the status quo. Kim Kardashian wants to know if I like athletic or arty types, and let’s be honest here there’s no chance I’m gonna date someone who thinks of themself at athletic, so I go with arty. She knows just the right guy for me. He’s not even a nerdy sitcom writer. I’m a little hurt. I meet him though. He’s called Mitchell. His eyebrows are very special. I don’t find out what kind of writer he is. I spend $100 on wine. We call it a night.
The child downstairs is asking where his mummy is. I tell him that she doesn’t love him and has left him here for the rest of his life so that we may raise him as our own. He nods solemnly and asks where his daddy is. I tell him daddy’s at work.
Kim Kardashian doesn’t know that I muted her a long time ago and replaced her soundbites with the Bastion soundtrack, but I’m not sure she cares either way. She’s resting in her mansion in Hollywood or Beverly Hills or something. I think she drives there but I have to get a bus, and I’m wearing one of those dresses that has kinda see-through bits so I feel a bit weird about taking the bus, but sometime’s that’s the best you can do in this life. My agent calls and says he’s got me a spot in a commercial for glass wipes or something. I’m not listening. I go to the filming and spend a chunk of my energy doing precisely nothing, checking my makeup, checking the lighting despite having no qualifications in the area, and then once running through my lines. I nail it. I’ll be the talk of the town in precisely forty seven minutes and twenty six seconds. It might push me onto the D-list. It probably won’t.
The child asks where my mum is, and I tell him, and he is dissatisified, and I want to tell him all about how we can’t have the things we want in life, that sometimes we end up disappointed and stuck and there’s nothing we can do, but then he asks where his teddy is and I realise that I’m fighting a losing battle and tell him to shut up instead.
Kim Kardashian grins at me some more. It’s starting to freak me out.