It's Fine, I'm Fine (2022–…): Season 1, Episode 2 - Where There's Smoke... - full transcript
Are you high right now, Maeve?
Yeah, I'm high.
Yeah, I'm high, hi, hi, hello.
Course I'm not fucking high.
Have you been drinking again?
Joanne.
You know what?
I'm outta here.
Oh.
Oh, shi- Shh, sorry.
Whoa, oh, that's where that was.
Woo-woo-woo!
Oh, my goodness.
No, I haven't been drinking,
regrettably, because,
of doctor's orders.
Well, I'm glad to hear you've been following medical advice.
She's drunk and high.
- Look at her. - I'm not high, you are.
- You're high. - You're high.
You're high.
You're high, you're high, you're high.
Fuck off, you're high.
She's a bit cunty today.
Oh, someone's a bit cunty.
You should get fucked once in a while, might cheer her up.
Yeah, I-I have a boyfriend, actually.
Frederiko, huge cock.
Oh, she's got a boyfriend. Frederiko Hugecock.
Oh, God.
Oh, for God's sake. Sit down, you're so awkward.
These free?
Everything else is expensive, I hear.
I mean, you're paying for this.
Oh, that is disgusting.
OK, so, ah, you wanted me here.
And here I am. Ta-da.
- Mum, could you just for once... - What?
- Mmm. - Just...
- What? - It's nothing.
- Huh? - Nothing.
Shall we continue?
Yeah, OK.
I know I've asked this before, but you know the question is
what, what does she want from me?
You've been sharing a lot lately
and it felt like we were making some progress.
I'm just really tired.
- I'm tired. - Here we go.
- Jeannie, let her speak, - Yes, thank you.
Thank you. Yes.
Cause it's just that some people.
Some people think too much.
They should stop thinking so much, you know?
'Cause it's really exhausting.
- Jeannie? - Hm?
Why don't you tell your mother about how you've been feeling?
Oh, yeah, good.
- Mum. - Mm-Hm.
When you...
..indulge, in addictive behaviours
it pushes those who love you away.
Like me. OK?
I've been witnessing it my whole life.
You just spiralling into cycles of destruction,
that you're alone, that you have nothing to live for.
And then you buy a fucking Prada handbag.
I fuckin' love Prada.
I've been cleaning up your mess since I was a child
and I'm tired.
Oh.
Ooh-wah.
Ooh, ah.
Mummy's been a naughty girl.
Naughty, naughty mummy!
How did this become my fucking life?
I'm a fuckin' survivalist. -
Oh, the flashing lights.
The cameras.
You know, she stopped making music decades ago.
No one, and I mean no one follows her around.
Mum, Mum, you're delusional, and you're irrelevant.
I'm not that old.
Inappropriate.
Inappropriate.
No one cares who you are anymore, Mum.
Oh, what do you know?
You wouldn't understand.
- I wouldn't understand? - No.
I followed you around the world.
Yeah.
As a child, I... You are kidding me.
I-I understand.
Oh, you didn't like the private jets
and you didn't like the private schools.
And you didn't like the private parties. OK, OK, OK.
Yeah. Bono said you were fat.
But Sting,
- Sting said you were a cutie. - A cutie.
I am NOT washed up.
No one can take your success away from you, Maeve.
Let's see.
Jeannie.
Hmm?
What about you, Jeannie?
Huh? You want me to.
Say what you need to say.
Go on say it.
Yeah, go on, say it, go on.
I just want my mum.
I miss my mum.
I'm here.
Oh, baby, I'm here.
Oh, baby, mummy's here, oh.
Oh, there, there.
There, there.
I remember this song.
I used to play it to you when you were little.
I used to sing it when I was on tour.
Oh, my little girl. Oh.
Oh, my baby.
Oh.
- OK, gotta go, I gotta... - Where are you going?
Huh?
- I'm pregnant, Mum. - Huh?
And I don't know what I'm gonna do but...
I need someone that I trust to be there for me.
Well...
don't let it call me Nanna.
Bye, Mum.
Oh, ugh.
I'm, I'm so sorry.
It's OK.
Oh.
Ugh.
Oh, ta.
Ugh.
Maybe I'm just a little bit high.
Do you know how to iron a fine shirt?
I, um...
- I suspect not. - Well, you gotta be really focused.
Music helps. Ambient sounds.
The trick is to strategise.
Start from inside the cuff, sweep into the sleeve,
then the shoulder, then the placket with the buttons facing down.
Then iron the whole of the back from the bottom hem,
right up to where the shoulder seam meets the sea,
where the shoulder seam meets the collar, I mean.
Press hard with the iron on the inside of that,
and always use a wooden hanger.
He taught you?
I watched him.
I watched his body, his eyes.
He didn't utter a word.
It's been two years.
How have those two years been?
- You miss him. - Come on.
- What? - Three words?
You're trotting out three words for me?
- How many would you like? - I don't know, Joanne. Less.
OK.
Him.
I like him.
Joel.
I miss him.
I miss him. God, it's not even close.
Every bit of him. His smell, his presence.
Ironing?
His ironing.
What about you?
How are you going?
I'm trying.
And I'm not, because most days I don't want to.
I've given away most of his things, his fitter and turner tools,
his engineering manuals, his Commodore VZ.
Didn't have much really.
But now you want to move on?
Did I say that?
Mm-hm.
'Cause I still catch myself waiting for him to come home.
I still hear the shower at 5am when he'd get up to go to work.
I lie there and I know it's not real, but I hear it,
even when his body blocks the water flow. Every morning.
I even get angry at myself because I think this has gotta stop.
I mean, mind tricks stop at some point, right?
Listen to this.
This is from this morning.
Hear that?
That's him taking a shower.
It's not him, Aziz.
Whatever.
So what are you keeping?
His shirts, I can't throw them out.
Tell me about the shirts.
They were his obsession.
Mine was Madonna's early stuff,
but that was like weak piss compared to his.
His was a serious work.
It was the first thing I noticed about him
when I saw him on the train. His shirt. It was a deep indigo blue.
And when he glanced up and caught my eye.
He liked form and function and the way things fitted together,
he thought a fine shirt
was one of the great engineering feats of mankind.
All the parts had to be mathematically accurate.
None more so than the yoke. You know the yoke part of a shirt?
- I don't. - It's the shoulder panel.
Shoulders bare burdens, don't they?
If the yoke's not cut right, then the whole shirt
loses its symmetry and the wearer loses some presence.
He actually said that one Sunday.
You know it was a Sunday?
The significant hours was Sunday afternoons after we'd come home
from a swim in the ocean and he'd iron his shirts for the week.
He'd ritualise it.
He'd set up the iron, the table, adjust the lights,
put on a Rolling Stones CD, and he'd give me this really sweet,
gentle look as if to say,
"I need my own private space now, see soon, Az."
I'd watched discreetly from the dining table in the dark.
You know that thing where you wake up before your lover
and you stare at them quietly.
It's such a stolen intimacy,
yet such an act of grace to see them without artifice.
I mean, no conditioning, no filtering. It's just, them.
I mean, no conditioning, no filtering. It's just, them.
Like a kid screaming in an art gallery.
I think you know when you've made the right decision
in those quiet moments where the air kind of, shifts.
You just can. Anyway, that's what this felt like,
watching him working on his shirts.
It became like this beautiful dance, constantly in motion,
flipping this shirt into position, diving in with the iron,
his arms drawing precise lines, withdrawing, repositioning,
everything in unison.
His gaze so focused.
I'd get this euphoric feeling
and the blood rushing through me.
And I just wanna get up and walk over and.
Hug him. And hold him.
And, kiss him.
Because of how he was being, ironing his shirts.
How mad is that?
I didn't move. Of course, I'm not an idiot because.
I think if I did, it would die.
I think what you experienced is called a rapture.
Maybe it was.
But the other times too, it was just nice being around each other.
We were comfortable in silence.
I think that's what love is.
Good.
That's good.
And now?
What are you gonna do when you, let's say go home
after this session?
- Literally? - Yes.
There's a bit of laundry I want to do.
And then?
And then I want to hear him come home to me
and start cooking bangers and mash 'cause it's Tuesday,
and that's what he did really badly every Tuesday.
I'm concerned you're in stasis.
Can I tell you about this other alternative narrative
that came to me the other day? I think you'll like it.
Sure.
Do you know the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice?
I do.
I imagine myself as Orpheus descending into Hades
and getting him back.
Joel.
But at the cave mouth, I don't look back because,
I don't wanna make the same mistake as Orpheus did with Eurydice.
So I go down into Hades and I get Joel.
We head out towards the cave mouth.
I can feel him behind me.
And before you know it,
we emerge into the land of the living, we're sitting in our backyard
under the pomegranate tree with a couple of cans of Guinness,
and in spite of everything, even though I don't look...
..I can sense him fading away right next to me.
Like one of those teleporter things in 'Star Trek',
you know, still holding the can.
I know, I-I know I have to let him go.
But when I glance up....
Stingray.
It's just a fucking stingray.
Cried so hard, I gave myself a nosebleed.
I don't know why I did it to myself.
Have you watched Moana?
No.
You should.
Moana's grandmother turns into a stingray,
and she guides her out to sea on her journey.
I'm not turning into a bloody stingray. I don't even like them.
Last week, you said that you still feel your grandmother's presence.
You know this woman goes to the toilet,
sits in the cubicle, and cries?
I know, I was watching her.
And I suggested perhaps acknowledging that presence that you feel.
Finally, I'm here.
You don't think that's, weird?
You've known your grandmother your whole life.
Acceptance and healing happens gradually.
Mm, I don't know.
My whole Catholic upbringing makes me feel like if I did do that,
I'd be communicating with the devil.
Excuse me!
Can we change the subject? It's, it's getting hot in here.
Let's try something.
I want you to pretend that I'm your grandmother.
No.
Come on, let's just give it a try.
I'm now your 'Booboo', and we are sitting down for a cuppa.
White people, always trying to be like us.
Hello, darling, how are you feeling?
- She doesn't talk like that, - I don't talk like that.
Nah, she's more...salty.
More blunt.
Mm-hmm. Uhh, OK. Um.
Betty, what's going on?
Nah, not like that either.
Definitely not.
She's more...
..black.
Let's not do that.
How's your sleep?
Go on, tell the crazy lady you've been binge watching
that 90 Day Fiance crap.
Oh, my God1
A lot of people who experience profound grief
have issues with sleep.
No, ah, that's.
My sleep is fine, no issues there.
- No! - Ah s-sorry?
Sorry.
I'm so sorry. I lied.
My sleep's not great.
Would you like a list of natural sleep aids?
I don't care if I'm dead. You're still not allowed to do drugs.
I just wish she'd...
I just wish it would stop.
Wish what would stop?
Her voice.
What's wrong with my voice?
She would always just bitch and complain.
Nothing I ever did was good enough.
And how did that make you feel?
Like fucking shit.
Like no matter what I did, it always meant jack shit to her.
- She never had anything nice to say. - That's not true.
I'm sorry.
I don't know why I'm telling you all this.
Please, don't apologise. Your feelings are completely valid.
God, I don't even know why I'm here.
Do you remember what we talked about last week?
- The lobster? - That's right.
You deserve to be the happiest, brightest, biggest lobster
in all of the sea.
Let's outgrow your shell.
I'm a stingray, you're a lobster, what's next?
- Is she a dugong? - This is a safe space.
There's no one here to make fun of you.
Mm-hm.
I'm just gonna...
I'm sorry.
Can you feel your grandmother's presence now?
Like, do I feel like she's here, with us?
Yes.
Tell her I know what she did in the toilet.
Nothing is too crazy or weird,
unless you tell me you've murdered someone
and then I'd have to put on my running shoes.
I'm kidding.
- That was a joke. - OK.
Yeah, I'd report you.
Wait, you didn't.
Did you?
Oh, shit.
I did.
You did?
I killed my Bubu.
Yeah, I'm high.
Yeah, I'm high, hi, hi, hello.
Course I'm not fucking high.
Have you been drinking again?
Joanne.
You know what?
I'm outta here.
Oh.
Oh, shi- Shh, sorry.
Whoa, oh, that's where that was.
Woo-woo-woo!
Oh, my goodness.
No, I haven't been drinking,
regrettably, because,
of doctor's orders.
Well, I'm glad to hear you've been following medical advice.
She's drunk and high.
- Look at her. - I'm not high, you are.
- You're high. - You're high.
You're high.
You're high, you're high, you're high.
Fuck off, you're high.
She's a bit cunty today.
Oh, someone's a bit cunty.
You should get fucked once in a while, might cheer her up.
Yeah, I-I have a boyfriend, actually.
Frederiko, huge cock.
Oh, she's got a boyfriend. Frederiko Hugecock.
Oh, God.
Oh, for God's sake. Sit down, you're so awkward.
These free?
Everything else is expensive, I hear.
I mean, you're paying for this.
Oh, that is disgusting.
OK, so, ah, you wanted me here.
And here I am. Ta-da.
- Mum, could you just for once... - What?
- Mmm. - Just...
- What? - It's nothing.
- Huh? - Nothing.
Shall we continue?
Yeah, OK.
I know I've asked this before, but you know the question is
what, what does she want from me?
You've been sharing a lot lately
and it felt like we were making some progress.
I'm just really tired.
- I'm tired. - Here we go.
- Jeannie, let her speak, - Yes, thank you.
Thank you. Yes.
Cause it's just that some people.
Some people think too much.
They should stop thinking so much, you know?
'Cause it's really exhausting.
- Jeannie? - Hm?
Why don't you tell your mother about how you've been feeling?
Oh, yeah, good.
- Mum. - Mm-Hm.
When you...
..indulge, in addictive behaviours
it pushes those who love you away.
Like me. OK?
I've been witnessing it my whole life.
You just spiralling into cycles of destruction,
that you're alone, that you have nothing to live for.
And then you buy a fucking Prada handbag.
I fuckin' love Prada.
I've been cleaning up your mess since I was a child
and I'm tired.
Oh.
Ooh-wah.
Ooh, ah.
Mummy's been a naughty girl.
Naughty, naughty mummy!
How did this become my fucking life?
I'm a fuckin' survivalist. -
Oh, the flashing lights.
The cameras.
You know, she stopped making music decades ago.
No one, and I mean no one follows her around.
Mum, Mum, you're delusional, and you're irrelevant.
I'm not that old.
Inappropriate.
Inappropriate.
No one cares who you are anymore, Mum.
Oh, what do you know?
You wouldn't understand.
- I wouldn't understand? - No.
I followed you around the world.
Yeah.
As a child, I... You are kidding me.
I-I understand.
Oh, you didn't like the private jets
and you didn't like the private schools.
And you didn't like the private parties. OK, OK, OK.
Yeah. Bono said you were fat.
But Sting,
- Sting said you were a cutie. - A cutie.
I am NOT washed up.
No one can take your success away from you, Maeve.
Let's see.
Jeannie.
Hmm?
What about you, Jeannie?
Huh? You want me to.
Say what you need to say.
Go on say it.
Yeah, go on, say it, go on.
I just want my mum.
I miss my mum.
I'm here.
Oh, baby, I'm here.
Oh, baby, mummy's here, oh.
Oh, there, there.
There, there.
I remember this song.
I used to play it to you when you were little.
I used to sing it when I was on tour.
Oh, my little girl. Oh.
Oh, my baby.
Oh.
- OK, gotta go, I gotta... - Where are you going?
Huh?
- I'm pregnant, Mum. - Huh?
And I don't know what I'm gonna do but...
I need someone that I trust to be there for me.
Well...
don't let it call me Nanna.
Bye, Mum.
Oh, ugh.
I'm, I'm so sorry.
It's OK.
Oh.
Ugh.
Oh, ta.
Ugh.
Maybe I'm just a little bit high.
Do you know how to iron a fine shirt?
I, um...
- I suspect not. - Well, you gotta be really focused.
Music helps. Ambient sounds.
The trick is to strategise.
Start from inside the cuff, sweep into the sleeve,
then the shoulder, then the placket with the buttons facing down.
Then iron the whole of the back from the bottom hem,
right up to where the shoulder seam meets the sea,
where the shoulder seam meets the collar, I mean.
Press hard with the iron on the inside of that,
and always use a wooden hanger.
He taught you?
I watched him.
I watched his body, his eyes.
He didn't utter a word.
It's been two years.
How have those two years been?
- You miss him. - Come on.
- What? - Three words?
You're trotting out three words for me?
- How many would you like? - I don't know, Joanne. Less.
OK.
Him.
I like him.
Joel.
I miss him.
I miss him. God, it's not even close.
Every bit of him. His smell, his presence.
Ironing?
His ironing.
What about you?
How are you going?
I'm trying.
And I'm not, because most days I don't want to.
I've given away most of his things, his fitter and turner tools,
his engineering manuals, his Commodore VZ.
Didn't have much really.
But now you want to move on?
Did I say that?
Mm-hm.
'Cause I still catch myself waiting for him to come home.
I still hear the shower at 5am when he'd get up to go to work.
I lie there and I know it's not real, but I hear it,
even when his body blocks the water flow. Every morning.
I even get angry at myself because I think this has gotta stop.
I mean, mind tricks stop at some point, right?
Listen to this.
This is from this morning.
Hear that?
That's him taking a shower.
It's not him, Aziz.
Whatever.
So what are you keeping?
His shirts, I can't throw them out.
Tell me about the shirts.
They were his obsession.
Mine was Madonna's early stuff,
but that was like weak piss compared to his.
His was a serious work.
It was the first thing I noticed about him
when I saw him on the train. His shirt. It was a deep indigo blue.
And when he glanced up and caught my eye.
He liked form and function and the way things fitted together,
he thought a fine shirt
was one of the great engineering feats of mankind.
All the parts had to be mathematically accurate.
None more so than the yoke. You know the yoke part of a shirt?
- I don't. - It's the shoulder panel.
Shoulders bare burdens, don't they?
If the yoke's not cut right, then the whole shirt
loses its symmetry and the wearer loses some presence.
He actually said that one Sunday.
You know it was a Sunday?
The significant hours was Sunday afternoons after we'd come home
from a swim in the ocean and he'd iron his shirts for the week.
He'd ritualise it.
He'd set up the iron, the table, adjust the lights,
put on a Rolling Stones CD, and he'd give me this really sweet,
gentle look as if to say,
"I need my own private space now, see soon, Az."
I'd watched discreetly from the dining table in the dark.
You know that thing where you wake up before your lover
and you stare at them quietly.
It's such a stolen intimacy,
yet such an act of grace to see them without artifice.
I mean, no conditioning, no filtering. It's just, them.
I mean, no conditioning, no filtering. It's just, them.
Like a kid screaming in an art gallery.
I think you know when you've made the right decision
in those quiet moments where the air kind of, shifts.
You just can. Anyway, that's what this felt like,
watching him working on his shirts.
It became like this beautiful dance, constantly in motion,
flipping this shirt into position, diving in with the iron,
his arms drawing precise lines, withdrawing, repositioning,
everything in unison.
His gaze so focused.
I'd get this euphoric feeling
and the blood rushing through me.
And I just wanna get up and walk over and.
Hug him. And hold him.
And, kiss him.
Because of how he was being, ironing his shirts.
How mad is that?
I didn't move. Of course, I'm not an idiot because.
I think if I did, it would die.
I think what you experienced is called a rapture.
Maybe it was.
But the other times too, it was just nice being around each other.
We were comfortable in silence.
I think that's what love is.
Good.
That's good.
And now?
What are you gonna do when you, let's say go home
after this session?
- Literally? - Yes.
There's a bit of laundry I want to do.
And then?
And then I want to hear him come home to me
and start cooking bangers and mash 'cause it's Tuesday,
and that's what he did really badly every Tuesday.
I'm concerned you're in stasis.
Can I tell you about this other alternative narrative
that came to me the other day? I think you'll like it.
Sure.
Do you know the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice?
I do.
I imagine myself as Orpheus descending into Hades
and getting him back.
Joel.
But at the cave mouth, I don't look back because,
I don't wanna make the same mistake as Orpheus did with Eurydice.
So I go down into Hades and I get Joel.
We head out towards the cave mouth.
I can feel him behind me.
And before you know it,
we emerge into the land of the living, we're sitting in our backyard
under the pomegranate tree with a couple of cans of Guinness,
and in spite of everything, even though I don't look...
..I can sense him fading away right next to me.
Like one of those teleporter things in 'Star Trek',
you know, still holding the can.
I know, I-I know I have to let him go.
But when I glance up....
Stingray.
It's just a fucking stingray.
Cried so hard, I gave myself a nosebleed.
I don't know why I did it to myself.
Have you watched Moana?
No.
You should.
Moana's grandmother turns into a stingray,
and she guides her out to sea on her journey.
I'm not turning into a bloody stingray. I don't even like them.
Last week, you said that you still feel your grandmother's presence.
You know this woman goes to the toilet,
sits in the cubicle, and cries?
I know, I was watching her.
And I suggested perhaps acknowledging that presence that you feel.
Finally, I'm here.
You don't think that's, weird?
You've known your grandmother your whole life.
Acceptance and healing happens gradually.
Mm, I don't know.
My whole Catholic upbringing makes me feel like if I did do that,
I'd be communicating with the devil.
Excuse me!
Can we change the subject? It's, it's getting hot in here.
Let's try something.
I want you to pretend that I'm your grandmother.
No.
Come on, let's just give it a try.
I'm now your 'Booboo', and we are sitting down for a cuppa.
White people, always trying to be like us.
Hello, darling, how are you feeling?
- She doesn't talk like that, - I don't talk like that.
Nah, she's more...salty.
More blunt.
Mm-hmm. Uhh, OK. Um.
Betty, what's going on?
Nah, not like that either.
Definitely not.
She's more...
..black.
Let's not do that.
How's your sleep?
Go on, tell the crazy lady you've been binge watching
that 90 Day Fiance crap.
Oh, my God1
A lot of people who experience profound grief
have issues with sleep.
No, ah, that's.
My sleep is fine, no issues there.
- No! - Ah s-sorry?
Sorry.
I'm so sorry. I lied.
My sleep's not great.
Would you like a list of natural sleep aids?
I don't care if I'm dead. You're still not allowed to do drugs.
I just wish she'd...
I just wish it would stop.
Wish what would stop?
Her voice.
What's wrong with my voice?
She would always just bitch and complain.
Nothing I ever did was good enough.
And how did that make you feel?
Like fucking shit.
Like no matter what I did, it always meant jack shit to her.
- She never had anything nice to say. - That's not true.
I'm sorry.
I don't know why I'm telling you all this.
Please, don't apologise. Your feelings are completely valid.
God, I don't even know why I'm here.
Do you remember what we talked about last week?
- The lobster? - That's right.
You deserve to be the happiest, brightest, biggest lobster
in all of the sea.
Let's outgrow your shell.
I'm a stingray, you're a lobster, what's next?
- Is she a dugong? - This is a safe space.
There's no one here to make fun of you.
Mm-hm.
I'm just gonna...
I'm sorry.
Can you feel your grandmother's presence now?
Like, do I feel like she's here, with us?
Yes.
Tell her I know what she did in the toilet.
Nothing is too crazy or weird,
unless you tell me you've murdered someone
and then I'd have to put on my running shoes.
I'm kidding.
- That was a joke. - OK.
Yeah, I'd report you.
Wait, you didn't.
Did you?
Oh, shit.
I did.
You did?
I killed my Bubu.