What People Think

Fresh from the shower, Bronwyn applies a layer of primer to her aging features. She knows one should do this from her research on the Internet. Something about making the make-up last longer. The tube features words like ‘perfecting’, ‘minimising’ and ‘long-lasting’, which she finds mildly comforting.

Next, the foundation, recommended by the girl in the shop for its apparent ability to ‘illuminate mature skin’, is applied with a small, damp sponge in dabbing motions, as the online tutorials have mandated. Something about the fingers being too oily.

As she applies orange stripes to the circles under her eyes and the frown lines descending from the corners of her mouth, she wonders how other women have come to be in possession of such knowledge. Sisters, she supposes; something she didn’t have. The orange, she understands, ‘neutralises’ dark lines, before being covered by something called a concealer. A concealer, as opposed to a highlighter, which comes later in the process.

The orange prompts an unwelcome memory from her very early teenage-hood: Bronwyn, along with her beloved and admired friend Tash, had contrived to amuse themselves for that holiday afternoon by applying strips of iridescent orange sticky tape to their faces and leering at passing motorists from the corner of their street. Upon discovering this public and treasonous assault on her reputation as a parent, Bronwyn’s enraged mother had slapped her face in full view of Tash.

She squints into the mirror to apply a first layer of colour to her eyelids. Bronwyn does this imprecisely, as she can’t see properly; a combination of inadequate lighting and her poor eyesight. She is supposed to wear glasses, as did both her brothers, but she abandoned them in her teenage years, aware of the impediment they posed to her attractiveness. She had long been aware of this fact; she can well remember her mother’s unconcealed disappointment when the spectacles were prescribed for her at age four.

Bronwyn knows she is probably making mistakes here that other people will be able to see. She recalls, with some embarrassment and small amusement, the young female co-worker who had approached her in the office with an air of both compassion and helpfulness with the words: “FYI – you have a grey eyebrow hair.” Bronwyn consequently suffers a slight anxiety about all the times she has gone, and will go, out into the world with the evidence of her ineptitude plain for others to see on her face.

Having attended to her eyes and eyebrows, completed the contouring, bronzing, blushing and highlighting processes, and straightened her naturally wavy hair, Bronwyn dresses in the outfit she has selected for this evening’s rehearsal. It has been chosen with a number of considerations in mind: it is colour and style coordinated, it hasn’t been worn to previous rehearsals, and most importantly, it disguises - to some degree anyhow - her stubbornly plump form.

The theatre is a realm that Bronwyn, in her mature years, has boldly claimed for herself. Her family is littered with performers: singers, musicians, dancers and thespians, a few of whom have achieved local, and even international, acclaim. Bronwyn has longed to be a part of this world; to experience the esprit de corps she has so often witnessed and envied. She has always been instinctually aware, though, that she dare not pretend to emulate the genuine talent of her family members.

An interstate move following her retirement, however, has freed her from the potential scrutiny and judgement of family and friends. Embracing the boldness that such a move has entailed, and granting herself rare permission to pursue something that she alone wants, she has joined the local community theatre group.

After several years of performing secondary, yet utterly satisfying roles, she has now been offered something approaching a leading part. She can scarcely believe that she stands in these shoes. Despite the kind words of some others over the years, Bronwyn finds it difficult to shake her deep conviction that she is an imposter here. She tries to come to terms with the reluctant knowledge that she is not a naturally gifted performer.

Accordingly, she throws herself headlong into the challenge that she knows she cannot fail. What she lacks in natural talent she will make up for in assiduous preparation. And prepare she does: character analysis, speech, movement, and lines, lines, lines, committed to memory and practised, and practised again.

She arrives at the hall in good time, and greets the small group of fellow cast members, all people she fondly regards as being among her ‘theatre family’. She is conscious of making an effort to connect with them; to affirm her membership of their company, because there has been the unsettling inkling of a sense of alienation from them over the weeks. She has noticed – or has she imagined? – their tendency to gather on the opposite side of the stage, away from her. She catches fragments of conversation which indicate they have been in touch with each other between rehearsals.

It is not an unfamiliar sensation for Bronwyn. She feels a sinking sense of dread and a rising sense of hurt and injustice. Dread, because she has been here so often before, and injustice, because she doesn’t understand why. She tries so hard to ensure it is otherwise. Side-stage, Bronwyn wills herself to put aside the emotion, and concentrate on the task at hand.

The scene is called, and Bronwyn enters, armed with her hours of preparation to deliver the line. It is met with gales of laughter and hilarity from her cast mates. She is performing the wrong scene. Bronwyn joins the laughter, genuinely appreciating the funniness of it. Nevertheless, she does feel puzzled by the extent of their merriment.

Rehearsal over, and one of the cast approaches her. With a warmth that Bronwyn has not detected for some time, she says: “Bron, sorry for laughing, but thank you SO much for doing that.”