‘Guys, you’re on in five. You all clear with what you’re doing?’ One of the runners popped in to check on us. ‘You’ve all been dusted with make-up, yeah?’ We nodded.
‘Are you OK, Debbie?’ Samantha asked, concerned. ‘You’re a bit quiet.’ It had only been a week since Debbie’s second blast of chemo, and this time her experience had been a bit different. Her eyebrows had started falling out, as well as her eyelashes. ‘The most bizarre and gross thing is my pubes coming off in the shower, in my knickers, down the loo,’ she’d said after her chemo-enforced bed rest ended. ‘I knew I would puke; it goes without saying, but my mouth’s burning, things taste wrong, and it’s only going to get worse. Apparently I won’t be able to taste a lot of things after the third or fourth round. But I can’t focus on that, I have to focus on getting better.’
‘I’m OK,’ Debbie replied to Samantha. ‘Looking forward to meeting David and Mina. Honestly, this day out is such a treat when I was feeling so crappy last week.’
‘You’re not worried about live TV?’ Samantha pressed her, giving me a cursory glance as I tried to squash down my own nerves.
‘Not really. The amount of lectures I have to give in packed halls at university and conferences is good practice. This is fine, honestly.’
Why wasn’t I fine then? And Debbie had cancer and wasn’t feeling a hundred per cent. I needed to woman the fuck up.
‘You know your dad used to throw up before wrestling matches,’ Mum had said this morning as I fumbled about the kitchen attempting to make coffee while Grace was still asleep. Mum had come up to look after her while I zoomed off to Channel Five. She was going to stay a few days because I had four days’ work. It was the summer holidays and magical free childcare had disappeared for six weeks… ‘He used to get so nervous about a match that he would be in the toilet before going in the ring with his head down the bowl. His competitors always used to think he would be a pushover because they heard all the retching. And then this six-foot-four ginger man would wobble into the ring on shaky sea legs, and Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, he would have them in a half-nelson before you could say sick bag.’
‘But he was probably scared about getting killed or breaking something.’
‘It wasn’t the fear of losing and getting hurt, it was the fear of winning and what that meant.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Think about it. Winning creates expectations. You’re expected to handle bigger and tougher opponents, to overthrow them. Things get harder. And if you can’t do it, then you’re considered a useless one-hit wonder, which felt worse to your dad than never winning at all. At least if he lost admirably, no one wanted anything more from him and he could just enjoy the sport.’
‘So that what why he quit after only winning a few titles?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Clothes My Daughter Steals, come and get mics fitted,’ the other runner called through the door. Cunty McFuckflaps. This was it and I was no way near womaned up enough. My whole body was resisting standing up.
‘I knew I’d seen you guys before,’ a woman said excitedly, waiting by the coffee machine. ‘I love your vlog. That David O’Donnell makeover was inspirational. And you’re the woman who shaved her head?’ Debbie nodded. ‘Good on you. Good luck with chemo!’
‘Wow, now I know what it’s like to be you, Lila!’ Debbie laughed as we hurried to keep up down the corridor, my legs moving of their own accord, my thighs gradually turning numb, pins and needles spreading up my back.
‘Wait until they start going through your rubbish bins to see what dirty snacks you eat, then you’ll know you’ve made it.’
My hearing dipped in and out of range. I attempted humming Black Beauty in time with the yoga breathing that Jacqui had said would help – the Golden Thread one used in labour – but to no avail. The chunder bus had left the garage and was on its way. A potted palm tree stood innocently just before the partition screen where the monitors were tucked away from the actual studio. Debbie and Lila rushed ahead, eager to get their mics fitted before joining David and Mina on the sofa during the advert break. I slowed down, swallowing like a dog trying to counter the force of nature that is vomiting in public.
I suddenly had a picture of Dad in my mind, his kind face and gentle manner belying the fact that he could disable an opponent in less than a minute with timed agility and brute force. ‘Let it out,’ he said. So I did. Into the palm tree. Curdled milk stung the inside of my nose and strings of puke hung from my chin. I didn’t have a tissue. Are you even a mum if you don’t have at least one tissue squirrelled away in a pocket somewhere? Mini Amanda castigated me. Debbie turned round when she heard the splatter and rushed over with a tissue like a hero. Lila was already round in the waiting area.
‘Are you OK?’
I nodded. Then shook my head. I could feel more coming. I dry heaved into the pot plant until I was sure it was over. Debbie handed me another tissue.
‘Oh, no!’ the runner cried, returning to see where we were. ‘Are you OK to go on?’
‘Yes. Just nerves,’ I said. ‘Sorry about the plant.’
‘Hey, no worries, you’re not the only one to puke in there,’ he said smiling. ‘I could tell you dozens of actors and performers who’ve puked with nerves before coming on the sofa. We should just get a sick bucket and do away with the plant.’ That made me feel marginally better, but I still had to face the music.
‘Come on,’ Debbie said. ‘Imagine everyone naked. It’s what I do when I have to speak to a thousand people.’
‘A thousand people are a lot of people to imagine naked!’
‘They are, but normally by the time I’ve finished imagining them all, I’ve finished the lecture!’
Twenty minutes later, the interview a total blur behind me, I breathed a huge sigh of relief as walked back to the green room on unsteady legs, Debbie and Lila chatting animatedly ahead of me. I had no idea what I’d even said or how the others had fared. If this was going to be a regular occurrence I had to find a way of beating my stage fright that didn’t involve beta blockers or vodka shots.
‘So I can’t believe Norman accused Linda’s son of growing drugs,’ Lila said incredulously as we wound our way back down the corridors, this time without a runner to guide us. Samantha must have been gossiping.
‘Yes! Samantha told me she even went into Norman’s house to see if she could smell the drugs coming in through the walls.’
‘What? That’s crazy!’
I still felt guilty when I thought about my conversation with Norman the other night. I’d had no idea what he’d really been hiding…
*
Norman had remained momentarily silent once I’d confessed about Linda’s medicinal cannabis in his hallway.
‘I’ll just go. I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but I was sick of knowing something that potentially might change your mind for Linda’s sake. Or maybe not.’
I turned to open the front door when Norman spoke.
‘My son died because of drug-induced psychosis.’
Bloody hell, words failed me.
‘I’m so sorry, Norman,’ I said eventually. ‘I had no idea.’
‘No one here knows I had a son or was married. Everyone assumes I have always lived purely as a gay man.’ I honestly wasn’t sure if people even knew that much. ‘I love your vlog you do with that little Chinese girl,’ he said brightly, swerving subjects. ‘The woman on the vlog with MS, is she Nick’s mother? She looked completely different from the woman I see arriving next door.’
I was even more speechless, if that was actually possible. Norman watched the vlog.
‘Yes – Linda. Why did you never say anything about watching it?’
‘I don’t know. After you came in here and pretended you couldn’t smell the cannabis, I felt stupid talking to you properly about it.’
I felt bad now, poor Norman. ‘You must think I’m a terrible person,’ I said, my shoulders drooping
.
‘No, I just thought you were having a fling with Nick and taking his side.’
I laughed contemptuously.
‘Oh, I got that completely wrong then?’
‘You could say that. Look, I just need to text Carl – he’s babysitting – and tell him I’ll be a little bit longer.’
‘Go back to Grace. She’ll be missing you.’
‘She’s asleep!’ I texted Carl. ‘Carl said I could stay as long as I like.’
Norman looked at me, his crinkly eyes quite beautiful when you actually looked into them, like flickering sky lanterns. I bet he had been quite something when he was younger. I hazarded a guess he was pushing sixty-odd now, but it was hard to tell.
‘Would you like to have a glass of something?’
The parquet wooden floors in the living room were covered in luxurious red Turkish rugs. A glass and brass bar stood against one wall rammed with all the drinks you could ever think of, some of the traditional spirits hanging on optics from a shelf above with discreetly hidden lighting. Framed theatrical posters lined the walls, and several flyers had been mounted in a neat row above the bar, all depicting a drag night at Madame Jojos, Fiona Angel obviously star billing, her name splashed across the top.
I perched on the classic brown leather Chesterfield sofa and Norman handed me a gin and tonic with ice and a slice, then sat at the other end with his vodka and tonic.
‘How long ago did your son die?’ I asked warily.
‘Thirty-five years ago. He killed himself.’ I felt like the air had been punched out of my lungs. ‘He was sixteen.’
‘Oh God, that’s so young.’ I instantly thought of Freya, only a year older and my eyes prickled at the thought of anything like that happening to her.
‘It was…’ He braced himself and smiled at me, his eyes watery. ‘Frankie had always been such a happy boy, but he got in with a bad crowd when he was twelve, smoked weed – they all did – and he just couldn’t take it.’ Norman’s voice had slowed down, each word carefully considered, like they had been waiting in line for years to escape.
‘Did he start taking other drugs?’ I asked naively.
‘No, just cannabis, but he was addicted to that. I won’t bore you with it all. He nose-dived so quickly and was unable to do pretty much anything by the time he was fifteen. He had stopped smoking by then, but the aftereffects were catastrophic; the psychosis was embedded. His childhood had been stolen from him.’ He stopped and sipped his drink, his shoulders sagging. ‘I didn’t know about the full dangers of cannabis, but it’s the same as any other drug. It’s as deadly as some of the traditionally scarier ones like heroin and crack, if your body reacts the way Frankie’s body reacted to it. The doctors said he could have had an underlying mental health issue inherited from his natural father and possibly the drugs exacerbated it.’
‘So, you adopted him?’ I tried ineffectively to grasp the facts.
‘No, I brought him up as my own with his mother. Another long and boring story you won’t want to hear.’
‘Oh, I do!’ I settled back against the black and red velvet cushions and tried my drink.
‘His mother, Marie, was a friend of mine in the sixties, we worked together in the theatre. She was a seamstress, costumier. She fell pregnant from a married actor who insisted she got an abortion. It was still illegal then, so Marie was terrified. I offered to marry her, insisting she was doing me a favour. My parents were constantly asking when I was getting married, would I meet a nice girl at church. They didn’t like me working in the theatre: theatres were full of sin, apparently,’ Norman laughed disdainfully. ‘So it killed two birds with one stone. Marie is black, like me, but Frankie’s biological father was white. We didn’t know if people would suspect.’ He sipped his drink, his eyes glistening in the lamplight from the bar.
‘Did Frankie know you weren’t his real father?’
‘No. His skin was lighter, but not drastically so, and because we didn’t say otherwise, no one said a word. People see what they want to see. Marie and I lived like man and wife, even sleeping in the same bed, but that was where it ended; she knew I was gay. We were very fond of each other and loved Frankie, but it became increasingly difficult over time to keep up the charade because she had met someone significant and I had tentatively begun to explore the fact I was homosexual rather than getting caught up in the religious guilt surrounding it.
‘We were so young when we got married and didn’t think past the initial crisis, but Marie was desperate for another child, and her lovely young man knew about our unconventional arrangement. Lots of men had beards, wives or girlfriends as a cover because homosexuality was illegal until 1967, so our arrangement wasn’t frowned upon. Also, this was London, very different if we’d been living somewhere else.’
I nodded in agreement.
‘We decided to divorce, horrifying my parents, so Marie could get remarried. Neither of us wanted to admit it, but that probably prompted Frankie to experiment with drugs and to get in with the wrong crowd.’
‘Oh shit, Norman. That’s dreadful. But you can’t blame yourself. As you say, there was every chance he had an inherited underlying predilection to addiction.’
He nodded sadly.
‘Do you keep in touch with Marie?’
‘Christmas cards only now. She has two boys in their thirties. She’s still married, living in the Midlands, a nice conventional life. I can’t actually see her: it brings back memories, flashbacks. I know she feels the same. We tried to do the right thing and it just didn’t work out.’
I leaned over the sofa and grabbed his hand.
‘Things were different then; what you did was admirable and right at the time. Frankie knew he was loved. You don’t know that if you had stayed together the outcome would have been any different.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So the smell coming from Nick’s house must have been another hideous trigger.’
‘Yes. I kept seeing Frankie’s face, the day before we found him. He’d given up, wasn’t there. An empty carapace…’
‘I can’t even begin to imagine, Norman. I’m so sorry. The death of a child is something you never recover from.’
‘I had tried to block it out, but this forced it to the surface. Maybe it’s a good thing though… Why is Nick so secretive about it?’
‘Because his dad is anti-drugs and he’s scared of losing his job if anyone reports him. The whole thing is like an undercover operation.’ I explained about John’s police background. ‘So, in fact, your and John’s views are actually quite similar on the topic.’
‘However, I think if it can help Linda, surely that’s a good thing. I don’t think it’s going to turn her into an addict! I was more terrified Nick was a dealer, like the ones who supplied Frankie. But I actually found that scenario quite hard to believe as Nick doesn’t seem to fit that stereotype. In the end, it became about the fact he was lying and messing with my old head.’
I sat there quietly absorbing everything he’d said. No one ever really knew what went on behind closed doors, even in the Mews where life was much more open than in a regular neighbourhood.
‘What do you do, Norman? Or rather, what did you do, when you worked in the theatre?’
‘I started off set building but ended up in hair and make-up, my true love.’
37
New Beginnings
‘Norman, meet Lila,’ Samantha said as we trooped into his house straight from the cab.
‘Hello, dear,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. You and Ali were especially eloquent on the sofa this morning. Loved dressing to impress a serious illness and fake it till you make it, wonderful. And wasn’t Debbie great too, talking about the different wigs and her cancer journey? She’s good in front of the camera, such an accomplished communicator.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Lila cried in the hallway, suddenly registering who Norman was. ‘This place is like some secret showbiz village. Who else is hid
ing here, Beyoncé’s mum and dad and the cast of EastEnders?’
‘Don’t even ask,’ he laughed. ‘You don’t want to know.’ It was so bizarre seeing Norman in his element, without a permanent scowl or pained look behind his eyes. I was sure that other version of himself still existed but I guessed this version had just come out of an extended hibernation.
‘What do you want to drink? Tea, coffee? I’ve made some shortbread biscuits if you’d like one.’
‘Now you’re talking, Norman,’ Lila said. ‘I love shortbread and tea!’
He ushered us into his lounge where he’d set up the biscuits on a pretty china plate on his glass coffee table.
‘I’ll just make the tea. Back in a mo.’
‘How did this come about?’ Lila hissed under her breath. We’d kept her in the dark because we didn’t want any preconceived judgements before she met him, knowing what she already knew from the Mews gossip.
‘Ali fell upon the idea the night of the drug bust, as it were…’
‘Why should we work together?’ Lila asked Norman in her flagrantly direct manner as he poured tea into our china cups. ‘What are you going to bring to the table, apart from initially doing this for free?’
I checked out Norman to see if he was offended by her youthful inexperience and ballsy attitude. Instead, it appeared he was enjoying himself.
‘Oh, young lady,’ he laughed, sitting down, taking up his teacup and drinking while we all waited for him to finish his sentence. ‘I can bring whatever you want – what are your wildest dreams?’
Lila burst out laughing, hailing shortbread crumbs onto her lap.
‘We need someone who can work alongside the girls, helping to create a wonderful experience for the women. Sometimes it may be frivolous, but sometimes a degree of sensitivity will be required,’ Samantha explained.
Norman stood up. We all looked at each other in alarm.
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