The Actress: Canceling Cordelia

Prologue

Once upon a time, there was an Ice Queen who loved only herself. She lived in an immaculate ice palace, which was built on a mountain of lies, regrets, anxieties, and disinfectants. Whenever she unwillingly ventured outside the so, so, so white palace walls, the Ice Queen acted like a happy, normal, fulfilled queen who needed only Listerine and English toffee pudding to endure life’s demands. However, inside the palace, the Ice Queen agonized about her numerous poor life decisions, which caused her to live a very lonely existence. Instead of spending nights in the arms of someone she loved, the Ice Queen commiserated with her friends—Prozac, Valium, and Grey Goose.

Then, one day, a most unexpected thing happened outside the palace walls. The Ice Queen met a fidgety impertinent Fire Princess who ignited her interest. The Fire Princess was impetuous, vibrant, and bold—all things the Ice Queen wished she could be. Yet, while the Fire Princess captivated the Ice Queen, she also feared what would happen if she got too close to her.

“Why the fuck are you standing so far away from me?” the Fire Princess rasped.

“Right, well...the cost would be excessive to stand any closer,” said the Ice Queen. “You are made of fire, and I am made of ice, and even I understand fire melts ice.”

“Um, but when ice melts, it transforms into water, which sustains life. Besides, ice is rigid, whereas water is flexible,” the Fire Princess explained.

The Ice Queen scowled. “But I do not know how to be flexible!”

An enormous, goofy smile filled the Fire Princess’s face. “Would you like me to teach you how?”

“Desperately,” stammered the Ice Queen.

The Fire Princess cupped the Ice Queen’s face, drew it close, and kissed icy lips. Gradually, the ice cracked, and the Ice Queen’s inhibitions eventually melted into water.

The water created by the Fire Princess’s heat and the Ice Queen’s, well, iciness, surrounded the ice palace and sustained its inhabitants in good and bad times—no matter what.

Part I

Fire Burns

Chapter One

The Crèche

May 12–June 24, 2017: Irvine, CA

Cordelia Anne Wainwright lived in an inflexible world constructed by her peculiarities for nearly thirty-seven years. Her world was built on order, routine, and, most importantly, cleanliness.

In her convoluted mind, life proceeded better when her phone’s alarm sounded at five every morning. She would then thoroughly shower and brush, floss, and rinse her teeth with Listerine, leave for work at six, return home at seven in the evening, eat a proper English dinner, go to bed at nine, and then make love to her wife—then, wash, rinse, and repeat. Of course, that was before Cordelia had a newborn. Now, she lived in a world of disorder, variation, and, most disturbingly, messiness.

William Henry Taylor-Wainwright wailed his way into the world on May 12, 2017, and continued bloody wailing for the next forty-two days. This was not a new experience for Cordelia, but she disliked it as much as the first time she’d encountered it with her daughter, Ophelia.

Give or take a few weeks due to an extended recovery in the hospital after her C-section, Cordelia survived the “Wail Tour” sixty-eight days on her first go-around as a new mother before she dumped her two-month-old child at her mother’s feet in England and escaped to Hollywood. This time, there was no escape unless she wanted to end up a twice-divorced thirty-seven-year-old lesbian.

Previously, when things became too stressful, Cordelia took an extra Prozac, a handful of Valium, and washed them down with Grey Goose vodka. Yet, just as there was no viable exit plan from William’s wailing, there was no chemical relief from ‘Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!’

Now, Cordelia’s wife, Aubrey, controlled her medication and forbade liquor to be kept in the house. As a result, Cordelia’s only refuge was the savory meat pies and English toffee pudding her housekeeper, Mrs. Holt, prepared. Cordelia gained fifteen pounds in a mere six weeks.

Like his mother, William had a voracious appetite and was punctual. He demanded milk every two and a half hours, tragically destroying Cordelia’s love affair with slumber. Just as she would drift into a deep sleep, the wailing would start, and Aubrey would say, “Cordy, check his diaper and sheets,” before preparing herself to be milked like a prized Holstein.

Aubrey insisted on breastfeeding and cloth diapers for William. Cordelia was relegated to laundry duty. As such, her life literally became wash, rinse, and repeat.

After she nodded to Aubrey’s demand that they have a baby, Cordelia never envisioned she would become a washerwoman like Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle. Instead, she’d wrongly assumed they would hire a baby nurse.

When Cordelia suggested to Aubrey in her third trimester they needed to interview nurses, she was disabused of this notion.

“We don’t need a nurse, Cordy.”

Now, Cordelia’s existence revolved around soiled nappies, onesies, and linens, and she had to endure the ick factor, with her abhorrence of germs, bacteria, and messiness assailed numerous times daily.

Additionally, she was told she would take a seven-month maternity leave and there would not be a St. Albans summer holiday. Cordelia was, to say the very least, stunned and annoyed by these decrees but nodded that she agreed.

But she couldn’t comprehend why they had spent an indecent amount of money decorating William’s Bob the Builder-theme nursery only to move a three-thousand-dollar Serena crib into their bedroom. While Aubrey was unable to have sex for six weeks after giving birth, Cordelia, as exhausted as she was, still had needs, especially after she watched Aubrey massage her enlarged breasts to express milk several times a day.

Whenever Aubrey spied Cordelia staring intently at this act, she would wickedly laugh and teasingly scold, “Um, who’s the pervert now? Would you like me to handle your desperation once I’m finished, mi amor?”

As tempting as the offer was, Cordelia was more repulsed by the idea of having an orgasm in the same room as William. Instead, her twenty-minute showers turned into twenty-five-minute ones.

So, Cordelia did what she was told for the first six weeks of William’s life. No nurse, no St. Albans, no drinking, no overmedicating, and, most importantly, no pouting or complaining about William’s wailing or the messiness that now consumed her life.

Then, a very unfortunate thing occurred. Aubrey’s gynecologist, Dr. Barkley, vulgarly declared, “The runway is clear for landing.”

This coarse statement embarrassed Cordelia and filled her with dread because Aubrey was a demanding freak in their eight-hundred-thread-count cotton bedsheets. Aubrey’s sexual appetite was challenging to satisfy under normal circumstances, but now Cordelia would be expected to do It with an audience.

When they came home from the flight check from hell, Cordelia made herself scarce. She had laundry to attend, calls to make, and three steak pies to nervously scarf down.

Yet, the bell eventually had to toll. So, after ironing the last of William’s freshly laundered nappies and onesies, Cordelia entered the bedroom to find Aubrey rocking a recently fed William to sleep.

Aubrey knowingly grinned and sarcastically asked, “Did you get all the wrinkles out?”

Cordelia awkwardly smiled. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m going to shower…if that’s all right with you?”

An absolute look of irritation engulfed Aubrey’s face at this innocent enough request.

No, the issue wasn’t that Cordelia had gone MIA for most of the day, leaving Aubrey to care for William alone, and then thought it was perfectly fine to shower before her. Cordelia had infinite character faults. Selfishness was at the top of that overflowing dump heap. The issue was that unbeknownst to Cordelia her family knew whenever she used contractions, she was nervous or withholding the truth.

“Of course, mi amor,” was Aubrey’s response, along with a sharp head tilt.

Cordelia was oblivious to most verbal and visual cues, but even she understood Aubrey was incredibly displeased when she tilted her head like she had just done. Cordelia didn’t care to ask why and quickly entered the bathroom, where she promptly locked the door and spent the next forty-five minutes under the shower contemplating her next move.

As she thoroughly brushed, flossed, and rinsed her teeth, Cordelia stared at herself in the mirror and silently prayed she’d spent enough time tending to her hygiene that Aubrey would have fallen asleep. Like so many things in life, Cordelia was wholly mistaken by this most desired outcome.

When Cordelia emerged from the bathroom wearing black silk pajamas, she found a naked Aubrey sitting in bed, wearing reading glasses with no book in sight.

“When did you start locking the door, mi amor?” Aubrey archly asked as fiery light-brown eyes watched a fully clothed Cordelia take her side of the bed.

Cordelia was a creature of habit and whenever she came to bed dressed, this was her signal she had no interest in having sex. A death glare told Cordelia that Aubrey didn’t like this signal.

“Right, well...I must’ve done that by accident. I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t need to use the loo, sweetheart,” Cordelia uneasily said as she pulled back the bedcovers and gingerly lay down on the very edge of the bed.

Oh, poor Cordelia! Five contractions in three sentences, pajamas, and back-turned edge-sleeping, not to mention she’d not attempted to say anything entirely sexually inept about her most absurd turn-on—a naked woman wearing glasses—shone bright like Clark Griswold’s Christmas light display that she did not want to have sex. Under normal circumstances this would’ve been permissible, but they hadn’t made love in three months due to her irrational concern with inducing labor.

Slowly sliding across the middle of the bed, Aubrey asked in an agitated, raspy voice, “Um, doesn’t the mother of your son deserve a goodnight kiss?”

The middle of the bed was a metaphorical Maginot Line. Once crossed by either of them, full-scale sexual engagement was expected.

In Cordelia’s uptight mind, they were in a ceasefire until William and his crib withdrew to its rightful encampment—the nursery. But she knew she could not say this without three things happening—ridiculing, arguing, and, as a result of these two things, William’s wailing at being woken up by Aubrey’s obstinate refusal not to have things her bloody fucking way. So, Cordelia quickly turned over, stiff-armed Aubrey, hastily kissed her good night, and just as quickly returned to her side of the bed and turned her back to her flabbergasted wife.

“Cordy…mi amor, are you upset at me?”

Cordelia wasn’t exactly upset, which would have been a violation of Term Four of their marriage contract—no withholding sex when she was, well, upset with Aubrey.

I am not upset, but bloody uncomfortable!

“Of course not, sweetheart. I’m just exhausted and not…in the right frame of mind to…give you what you obviously want,” Cordelia stammered.

Aubrey’s fingers slid suggestively down Cordelia’s back. “Turn over, mi amor…I want to see your beautiful blue eyes.”

Cordelia didn’t lie, but she was a master evader who averted looking at someone whenever she skirted the truth. Now she was trapped. If she didn’t do as instructed, Aubrey would say she was pouting—yet another violation of Term Four. If she did roll over, her icy-blue eyes would betray her, and there would be arguing.

Then she got an awful idea—a wonderful, awful idea!—swiftly rolled onto her side, looked directly at Aubrey, and said, “I would much prefer to snuggle, my love.”

Aubrey’s eyes narrowed and her face glowered.

Cordelia never snuggled. Only on infrequent occasions, namely after a particularly long and traumatic cessation of hostilities, did she want to be held after they made love.

After an awkward pause, Aubrey turned on her side and grumbled, “Um…okay.”

Instantly Cordelia spooned against Aubrey’s back. Next, she gently slid her hand across Aubrey’s stomach and rested it along Aubrey’s rib cage, while her chin nestled in the crook of Aubrey’s neck.

After a few pronounced sighs, Aubrey wriggled her ass provocatively against Cordelia’s silk pajamas. “Fuck, you smell intoxicating,” Aubrey purred as her hand drifted atop Cordelia’s and attempted to pull it downward.

However, Cordelia’s hand remained locked on Aubrey’s rib cage like a vise grip, while she prayed Aubrey would give up and go to sleep. Like most prayers, this one went unanswered when Aubrey spread her legs and began giving herself the relief she obviously desperately needed.

Rigidly pressed against Aubrey’s back, Cordelia listened to Aubrey’s moans and sighs of pleasure. It was unmitigated torture. By the time Aubrey arched against her frame when she came, Cordelia’s grip was so tight on Aubrey’s rib cage she worried she might break a rib.

Once she felt she could speak without revealing her arousal, Cordelia brushed Aubrey’s dark-brown hair away from her neck and whispered, “Good night, my love. I love you.”

For a body that should’ve been relaxed, Aubrey’s felt incredibly taut. And, instead of saying “I love you” back, she wiped away the evidence of her self-induced pleasure on Cordelia’s pant leg.

Miraculously, even Cordelia understood she shouldn’t say a word about this icky act, but, instead, made the very prudent decision to remain snuggled against Aubrey.

* * *

Never in Cordelia’s most disturbing nightmares would she willingly do what she was contemplating. She paced back and forth in the laundry room, washer agitating, dryer tumbling, and her nerves hanging by a thread.

How she’d survived the night without a complete and total meltdown was a miracle. She’d not slept one solitary minute—her body was on fire, both from the body heat created by being pressed against Aubrey’s back and her overwhelming carnal desires.

When Aubrey’s hand had gone between her legs, Cordelia tightly shut her eyes to avoid looking at William’s crib. She knew it was prudish, juvenile, and irrational, but she couldn’t do It. When Aubrey’s body flinched after she’d whispered in her ear that she loved her and the sentiment wasn’t returned, even Cordelia understood she was now in an untenable position.

Desperate times, and by God, I am so bloody desperate, call for desperate measures.

So, she did it.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Beatrice asked, her voice laced with genuine motherly concern.

Frustrated, Cordelia snapped, “Why is it every time I ring you, Mother, it is because something is bloody wrong?”

After an awkward pause, Beatrice soothingly said, “Delia, it is Saturday, five a.m. your time. You never ring your mummy and have deliberately chosen to avoid using FaceTime for this therapy session.”

“It is also my birthday, Mummy,” Cordelia retorted.

Chuckling was soon followed by caustic sarcasm. “And what age are we today, thirty-seven or eight?”

Silence.

Silence always meant trouble. Unspoken unhappiness, anxiety, or that Cordelia was on the verge of what Aubrey and Beatrice referred to as Emotional Overload System Failure. It was her silent SOS signal that she either didn’t want to discuss a matter or that she was on the cusp of a cataclysmic collapse. Knowing which was which was tantamount to understanding quantum physics.

Using a less confrontational tone, Beatrice said, “Hmm…happy birthday, darling. Your mouth must be watering at the thought of Mrs. Holt’s sticky English toffee pudding birthday cake.”

“Right, well, Mother, I was wondering…you think I’ve…grown up a bit these last few years, right?” Cordelia stammered.

For anyone who knew Cordelia alarm bells would have instantly sounded. Not only had she used a contraction but she’d also asked for an affirmation. Cordelia’s conceit had no bounds, and whenever she asked for praise, she was on the cusp of doing something completely stupid.

“Yes, darling…you have made exceptional strides,” Beatrice answered apprehensively.

“Right, well, you know I love Aubrey and William with all of my heart—”

The call abruptly went dead. Cordelia stared at her iPhone in disbelief.

Did she just bloody hang up on me?

Not twenty seconds later, she saw it—FaceTime. Cordelia didn’t know if her nerves could endure Beatrice’s judgmental glares, but she pushed the green answer button and saw beyond-concerned ice-blue eyes staring daggers at her.

“Cordelia Anne Wainwright, I want to know this instant. What have you done? Or I will call Aubrey and ask her myself.”

It was said with steely determination and dared to be defied.

For several moments, Cordelia stared at Beatrice’s anxious, accusatory face, attempting to formulate words to communicate what she didn’t want to say.

“Mother…I have done everything I have been demanded to do. I admitted I love her to anyone who would listen. I married her not once but twice—Vermont is freezing in February! I even learned to drive—and Americans drive like bloody terrorists. We have a child—who I disturbingly watched be born. I change and wash nappies. I literally get pissed on and spat upon by our son. And I do all of these things without complaint. But…”

Yet the words just wouldn’t come out.

“Goddamnit, Delia, you’re frightening me. Just say whatever it is—I promise we will both feel much better once you do,” Beatrice gently prompted.

“Do you promise not to ridicule or laugh?”

“Of course, darling. I find nothing humorous about an unsolicited, predawn call from you. Mummy is quite aware that whatever has transpired to elicit it must be dreadful.”

Cordelia tilted her head to the side, closed her eyes, and said words to her mother she never imagined she would utter.

“I want to…be intimate with Aubrey, but I cannot…perform in front of a live audience.”

Beatrice’s lips pressed together and then a palm cupped her mouth.

There were many things Cordelia vehemently despised discussing with Beatrice. Sex was at the top of the list.

After a long moment of silence and a few deep breaths, Beatrice finally asked, “Have you not told your wife this?”

“No, Mother, I have not. I do not wish to be told to listen while she speaks and then nod my bloody head that I understand and agree that William needs to sleep in our room while one of his mothers loudly and luridly demands his other mother do things to her body. And once they are done, screams at the top of her bloody lungs, ‘Oh, my fucking God, Cordy!’ And then, not fifteen minutes later, demands to do It all over again. Mother, I do not think I can…be satisfied in such a circumstance.”

Wide-eyed shock filled Beatrice’s eyes.

In St. Albans, Cordelia and Aubrey slept across the hall from Beatrice. To say the couple had an active and loud sex life was an understatement. Yet, it was never discussed—until now.

Again, Beatrice took an awkward pause before somewhat jokingly asking, “Can you not, to paraphrase Lady Hillingdon, just lie down on your bed, close your eyes, open your legs, and think of England?”

“For fuck’s sake, Mother! I’m not some nineteenth-century Victorian virgin!” Cordelia shouted. “And, my wife…my very demanding wife won’t tolerate such...passiveness in our bed.”

As she rolled her eyes, Beatrice took a deep breath. “Why must you always take everything so literally, darling? It’s a bloody metaphor. Some...unpleasantness must be endured for a nation’s future—and, in your case, the future of your marriage. I don’t know what idiotic parenting podcast you’re currently listening to, but I assure you William won’t remember his parents shagged in the same room where he slept as a newborn.”

“But, Mother, I’m incapable of—” Cordelia began.

“Nonsense!” Beatrice said, smiling. “If this were ten years ago, I would agree, but you have proven that you, Cordy, can do whatever you put your mind to. You are a wife, mother, and a moderately good actress—which you can use to…perform your marital duties. View this as just another role you’re playing, but instead of applause, you will get orgasms.”

“Mother!” Cordelia shrieked as her face burned red.

Chuckling, Beatrice shook her head. “Darling, after a conversation like this—with your mummy nonetheless—you’ve lost any right to ever be embarrassed again.”

* * *