I may have been able to bounce Robin McNee’s agent into talking to me, but I’m not so Machiavellian as to work out how to get into Robin’s dressing room.
The Last Laugh is at City Hall and I arrive at 6 p.m., an hour before curtain up. From what I knew of Robin’s habits, he will be here, swilling a beer, scrolling on his laptop, eating a tub of his lucky guacamole with extra hot Doritos (I’m not kidding, he did this. ‘Performers have rituals,’ he told me, as if he was Nikki Sixx with a bottle of Wild Turkey).
I could say I’m somebody other than I am, but then that’s not going to help me when I don’t know who that somebody who’d get access might be. ‘I’m a girl who’d like to have sex with the famed wit Robin McNee,’ might get Robin to say yes, but the venue wouldn’t wear it.
I’ll simply have to hope that once again, the unexpected nature of my appearance bears fruit.
‘Got a Georgina Horse Poo here for you,’ says the pallid girl on the desk, into the phone. I am tense with worry. I have no Plan B if he says no. ‘Sure, go on down, it’s on the left,’ she says to me.
I’m vaguely stunned. Robin’s show is called My Ex’s Diary, and he doesn’t think I’m here to tear a strip? Then it dawns: he doesn’t think or care about my motivations all that much. Ironically. My Ex-Girlfriend Who I Was Never That Bothered About’s Diary.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Robin says, after I knock and push the door open. He’s positioned at his laptop, wearing a t-shirt that says You Versus The Guy She Told You Not To Worry About with cartoon characters underneath. A large bottle of chocolate milk is next to his rose gold MacBook. Pretty ironic he’s about to spend an hour and a half ripping the stuffing out of my adolescent nonsense. At least when I was behaving like one, I was one.
‘You look sensational in this lighting,’ he adds, pen in corner of his mouth. Obviously thinking that by being here, I’ve finally come to my senses, and might be up for some preshow warm-up.
Ugh.
‘You read my diary,’ I say, flatly.
‘Had a little scan through,’ Robin says, with a ‘Forgive Me’ teeth grit.
‘You absolutely despicable, evil, morality free, thought rapist,’ I say.
‘Thought rapist!’ Robin puts his pen down. He is half affronted, half whirring about whether he can use this encounter for his act, too.
‘Really. You piece of shit,’ I conclude. ‘I don’t know how you can live with yourself. Reading a woman’s diary, a woman you were in a relationship with. Then putting it in your act, and leaving her to find out by accident, hours before you entertain hundreds of strangers with it. Please at least tell me you know who and what you are?’
‘You left me alone in your bedroom! The drawer was half open! It was practically an invitation.’
Rav’s cookie jar.
‘… I thought it was very sweet, very innocent, and that wonderful wry Georgina voice coming through so strongly … I was so infatuated, I wanted to know how you tick. Then I got jealous. Like, who is this rival who you desired more than life itself? Whose touch you craved like a drug?’
I flinch. Who would want anyone reading their callow erotica, much less hearing it repeated on a stage? If Lucas ever found about this show, he would surely work out it’s based on him. The two other performances he’s seen by Robin were about me, after all.
He’s trying to weaken me, and it won’t work.
‘It wasn’t for you. You didn’t ask to read it, you didn’t tell me you had. Please explain when you thought it was OK to share it, and humiliate me in public? I mean, walk me through the thought process?’
‘Right, a few points. No one’s being humiliated. It’s a very tender, very life affirming …’
‘I’d rather affirm your death.’
‘Hah! No, it’s not in any way vicious and your identity is completely concealed in it. I mean the whole thing even plays on whether you exist! Seriously, watch it. Make a judgement after.’ Robin sips more beer and does a palm up that’s that gesture. ‘I did try to meet you and warn you, but you wouldn’t consent.’
‘Yeah, because your campaign has been about getting me to date you again. Nothing about “oh hey, George I’m about to use your diary, any views on that?”’
‘Er well, sugar pie, last time I saw you, you were telling stories about me making a pissed-up idiot of myself in front of your fam. No application for permission was received by me. So who’s using who here, exactly? Looks like we’re doing exactly the same thing.’
I knew he’d say this, and it makes my hands curl into fists.
‘The diary is completely different. What happened at my mum’s house involved both of us, and what happened in my diary happened to me and me alone. This is a transgression of totally different magnitude and nature, and you know it.’
He shrugged, completely indifferent.
‘Seems like I’m in trouble for simply playing this game better.’
Game.
‘Fuck you, Robin. Have you even thought about the context around what you’re using? What might have happened with that boyfriend off the page? What else might have gone on in my life at that time?’
‘Well if he dumped you, he’s the fool, isn’t he?’
Imagine. Imagine being a man, and thinking your approval has such value, that this sort of oily fob-off compliment can stitch a wound this big.
‘You are a disgusting person. Don’t hide behind this light-hearted, carefree bullshit. What you are doing to me is utterly serious and completely unfunny.’
‘Oh, look. You knew who you were involved with. How many girlfriends do you think end up in acts? Loads. Lots. This is what artists do, we cannibalise our lives. We feed on its flesh. You were very into all that until Lou happened. You were quite the fangirl. Look how we met. Tell me this: on the night we met, who was using who? Who dragged who home? You wanted Robin McNee on your score sheet.’
I feel queasy. I’ve learned a lesson: if someone can justify anything they want to do to themselves, they will do anything. What did Lucas say? People with no boundaries are dangerous people.
Robin’s standing up now, brushing the Doritos crumbs off him, preparing to shoo me out.
‘… And I tell you, I could win the Perrier with this. Imagine. You’re too close right now. Years from now, you’ll look back and be so glad of it. It’s a tribute, it’s a love letter. I go on and on about how … mesmerising you are in it, Georgina. I mean, the person who looks a chump in it, is me. You’re the muse. You think Warren Beatty is still bothered that Carly Simon called him vain?’
I try to contain my rage as I know I won’t get him to listen if I go ballistic, but it’s taking every last drop of my self-control.
‘You have no idea who I am. We spent six months going out and you never bothered to find out. You’re using my diary for cheap ridicule, to burnish yourself. You don’t know what’s happened to me, in the past. Or the present. You don’t know the damage or the hurt caused by using what you’ve stolen.’
‘But then do we ever know anyone? I mean the show explores that exact thing. You should come see it! I think once you get past your shyness, you’ll be blown away.’
I’ve been in control up until now, but calling it ‘shyness’ tips me into full blown warlord mode. I slam my hand on the desk, leaning forward, forcing him to take a half step back.
‘You’re not some great, fascinating artist, Robin! You’re a passable comedian trying to elevate himself with bogus sensitive “insights”, pretending to be New Man Caring Dude, when you’re anything but. You’re a selfish twat, posturing as something more interesting than that by using a woman’s words, against her will.’
Robin’s face is all of a sudden, a mask of pained fury.
‘Oh really! Great to have your critical verdict, tavern wench. At least I’ve put myself out there. What have you ever done? Whinged, expected men to help you and coasted on your boobs, that’s what.’
‘Robin. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re goin
g to cancel tonight due to a sudden bout of ill health and second thoughts. Then you’re going to rewrite the show, before you perform it again, and take out everything from my diary. Do some actual writing. Do what you said, and invent an ex-girlfriend, and her diary entries. Change every last detail from anything that was ever associated with, or adjacent to, Georgina Horspool.’
Robin makes an As If smirk.
‘If you don’t, I will fuck you up. I will go on every place I can find you discussed online, and I will post about how you have betrayed me. I will give interviews about how it feels to be turned over by someone you cared about. I feel like this is just begging to be in Grazia, or The Pool.’
‘Mmmm, I mean, that would draw more attention …?’ Robin says, his eyes shifting back and forth, still looking for the win.
‘It would, but I wouldn’t believe that thing about any publicity is good publicity, if I were you. I wouldn’t test it, when it’s mistreating a woman. Check out how a few careers are going, since the man in question was outed as a creep. Other women have a way of feeling solidarity with that woman. They might even turn up to heckle. Comedy festivals might think twice, if I’m ringing up saying they’ll have blood on their hands if they let you perform it. Sooner or later, the story isn’t your life-affirming whimsical diary show, it’s the fact your ex is following it around like a curse, calling it the abusive treachery it actually is.’
Robin exhales windily, but I’m not done.
‘Thinking about those interviews, and the fact I can say we split because I caught you shagging someone else, something you’ve publicly confirmed. I mean, it could get really scummy. I wonder how long it would be before Idiot Soup decide they needed some fresher, more wholesome faces on the roster. You always said you wanted to be like Bill Hicks, being dropped from Letterman. This could be your chance to find out what being too dangerous a comic to touch is actually like.’
Robin is tapping his fingers on his desk, trying to figure a way out. I play my final card.
‘I’m also going to outline this proposition to Al. See if the man who does the sums thinks the risk versus reward makes sense,’ I add, turning the screw as tightly as possible.
‘You can wind your fucking neck in, with this calling my agent,’ he snaps, all geniality gone. ‘That is over the line, he’s a business associate, not someone to be used in your spurned woman games.’
I relish the real Robin being revealed now. Despite his begging for me to come back, I’m a spurned woman, and despite it being a sole act of retaliation, I’m the one playing games. The same old misogyny, behind modern shop frontage.
‘Oh, so different from spurned man games! Like talking shite about me to my parents, behind my back, finding out where I worked—’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re becoming slightly mental.’
And there it is: ‘that one, she’s crazy,’ the last refuge of the arsehole with any woman who calls him to account.
Robin has now judged that given he won’t ever be meeting up with me again, he can invent as he wants.
‘So what’s it to be?’ I eye him steadily. ‘Do we leave here with an understanding that you’re doing some rewriting? Or is it a declaration of all-out war? As you said, tavern wenches don’t have much to lose, compared to great artists.’
He huffs and he puffs and I can see the very moment he decides it’s not worth it.
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’ll rewrite it. This was only a preview anyway. You really are a small-minded person, with limited horizons.’
The degree of nastiness affirms he is ditching the show, and needs somewhere to dump his needled anger.
All he cares about is his writing, I realise.
‘You know. When we first met, I couldn’t figure how someone so bright was a waitress. Now I can see it. You’ve got the chance to be immortalised in, let’s face it, a fairly uneventful life, and you’re rather be a bitter shrew. That’s incomprehensible to me.’
‘Well. I guess you just answered your own question about whether you’ll ever understand women then,’ I say. ‘See you later.’
Seconds later, I put my head round the door, catch him scowling murderously.
‘Hey, Robin. I think this is what they call a “teachable moment”.’
I don’t believe in fate, or karma, or Noel Edmonds’ cosmic ordering. Yet the timing still seems pointed, and cruel. As if there is someone up there, trying to tell me something.
After I lurk long enough to see the surly receptionist paste a ‘show cancelled’ sign on both doors, I leave West Street, high on the feeling of having faced the dragon and won. And then, heading towards my bus stop, I see him, across the street. His pin-thin, drawn wife has dark wavy hair and a hassled air, in a hoodie and tight jeans. He’s looking bored, and they’re debating where they go next, or how long they have left on the car parking meter.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him, since sixth form. I’ve jolted at the stray tagged photo, heard rumours of him being back to see his folks for Christmas, yet never seen his face. And now, here he is in the slightly baggier flesh.
I’m hardly unbiased, but it strikes me that he hasn’t aged well. Perhaps due to his former standing, I judge him more harshly. The mop of lead singer hair is the same length around his collar, but thinned and greasy looking, the eyes are pouchy, the set of the mouth is mean. The leanness you take for granted in youth has filled out. At school he was a superstar, now he looks like any other bloke.
The time though, something is different, there’s someone with them I’ve not seen before. He turns, stoops and picks her up, throws her over his shoulder with practised ease. She’s wailing, wearing stripy woollen tights and a tiny pinafore, maybe three years old. He kisses her cheek.
Richard Hardy is a father. Richard Hardy has a daughter.
What did I just use to vanquish the hold Robin had over me? Words. My words saved me.
I put my mobile to my ear and call Devlin.
‘Would you mind if I still do the last Share Your Shame thing, now I’ve left?’
40
I let Jammy out of his hutch for a roam around while I sit at the table and get my A4 notebook out.
‘Imagine if I had my own place,’ I say to Jammy, as he makes slow but steady progress in the direction of the sink, ‘This could be us every day.’
Karen is away for the weekend, back to see her parents in Aberdeen, and the timing couldn’t be better. Not that Karen going away would ever be unwelcome. I print at the top:
My Worst Day At School
It’s the final Share Your Shame subject, and although I haven’t decided if I can bear to get up and perform it, I know what I want to say.
I write. I write some more. I try to rephrase the first thing I wrote and score it out. It’s all so facetious, so striving to amuse, so false. In the peace of the kitchen, with the hum of next door’s maggot tanks, I try to banish the thought that keeps bubbling up, every time I look at the block print subject letters.
My chest rises and falls and eventually it heaves. Fat tears roll down my face and spatter the paper, so I move it from under me.
The door behind me bangs and before I have any chance to gather myself, or conceal the fact I’ve been weeping, Karen is in the kitchen, with sticky-uppy hair, a rugby top and her usual look of flushed belligerence. She drops a Karrimor rucksack down.
A pause.
‘What’s up with you?’
I try to talk, and I can’t, having to cup my hand round my mouth while I make a strange wheezy inhalation noise, the inward drawing of air in a sob.
‘Have you had some news or something?’ Karen says. Even in my diminished state, I notice how she’s sort of angry that I might’ve had a bereavement and that it’s affecting her enjoyment of her own kitchen.
I shake my head and fight to get control of my vocal cords.
‘I’m writing about My Worst Day At School for a writing competition at the pub,’ I gasp. ‘And I know they
want something funny and light and easy. But my worst day at school. It was terrible. I think it might’ve ruined my life.’
I put my hands over my eyes and sob and wipe the tears, and afterwards, when I’m back in control, Karen is still staring at me. I gulp again.
‘It’s the truth but no one ever wants the truth. I’ve never told anyone the truth. I’m sick of being the person who tries to fit in and tells people what they want to hear and acts like nothing bothers her, it’s not got me anywhere.’
‘So tell them the truth,’ Karen says, shrugging. ‘Fuck the fuckers. Worst day at school, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not funny or light or easy or whatever. Worst. They asked for worst, give them worst.’
‘Should I? Even if everyone sits there saying oh that’s grim, you’re grim, thanks for ruining my evening?’
‘They’ve all turned up to hear people talk about their worst days at school. As far as I remember it, school was fucking awful. If you had to live through your worst day and they only have to hear about it, in the name of entertainment, I’d say they got off lightly.’
I nod, slowly.
‘I should just hit them with it?’
‘Yeah. Pull no punches. Why the fuck should you? Why is it your fault that your worst day was that bad?’
With Karen saying that, something clicks.
‘Yes. OK. Thank you. You’re right. I’ll write it my way.’
‘Right. Glad that’s sorted. I’ve had the worst train journey of my life and when I got halfway, my mum calls to say they’ve been snowed in and to turn back round. Pile of piss.’
No one is as wedded to the using of swear words as Karen, and I include myself here.
‘Karen,’ I say. ‘Thank you. You’ve really helped.’
‘Have I? OK.’
She looks nonplussed and a little self-conscious.
I offer to make some Ovaltine, and a newfound camaraderie settles between us, until Karen screams: ‘WHY IS THAT CREEPY TERRAPIN WANDERING ABOUT, PUT IT BACK IN ITS BOX!’
When she goes up to bed, I spend an hour writing, barely pausing to take my pen from the paper. The words flood out of me.
Don't You Forget About Me Page 28