Meet Me Under the Westway

by Stephen Thompson

  And yet I feel compelled to participate in the damned thing. I start to wonder whether I have any stories worthy of developing. I get out my notepad and begin to run through a seemingly inexhaustible list of ideas. Not one of them has a pulse and I fling the notepad to the floor in disgust. I think briefly about dusting off one of my old plays but they’re so bad I’m now ashamed to own them. I decide to let my unconscious mind take over. Experience has taught me that the less I fret about an idea appearing, the more likely it is to do so. Encouraged by this thought, I head off to bed feeling extremely optimistic. Lo and behold, just before I fall asleep, something begins to take shape in my mind. I dash out of bed, desperate to get it down on paper, and stay up half the night working on it.

  3

  I wake the next morning feeling inspired and energised but, instead of getting back to my desk, I decide to go and see Sarah. After being dumped, I need the reassurance of female company.

  I met Sarah a couple of years ago and it’s a moment that will stay with me forever. I walked into the Fluid Bar on Elgin Crescent and there she was. I remember exactly how she looked. Her gold tresses were held up by a plastic cocktail stick, with a few errant strands dangling in front of her eyes and over her ears. She was wearing a yellow figure-hugging dress with white daisies on it. She wore no make-up and no jewellery and her skin was lightly tanned. She looked absolutely gorgeous. When she asked me what I wanted, I became tongue-tied. I think I ordered something hideous like strawberries and dates. She giggled at my choice and set about preparing it. Then something came over me and out it popped.

  ‘You’re fit.’

  ‘And you’re trying to chat me up.’

  ‘What of it?’

  She smiled openly, revealing a set of perfectly crooked teeth. ‘Can I help you?’

  She wasn’t talking to me but to a coiffed and immaculately dressed old woman who had just then entered the shop. Miffed at the intrusion, I stepped aside so she could get to the counter. She couldn’t decide what she wanted and kept squinting up at the blackboard behind Sarah’s head. In the end she asked Sarah to recommend something and from her accent I realised she was American. She was obviously a tourist and was no doubt on the trail of the ‘quaint liddle ole bookshop’ where Hugh Grant worked in the film Notting Hill – that and the famous blue door on the flat where he lived. I shook my head and left quietly.

  I waited a few days then went back, only to discover that Sarah had left to take up another job. I asked her former colleague to tell me where she’d gone but he claimed to have no idea. For some reason I didn’t believe him. He seemed shifty, wouldn’t look me in the eye, and it occurred to me that he probably fancied Sarah himself. I quickly sized him up and decided he had no chance. He had peroxide dreads and a stud in his bottom lip and wore a bandana – not around his head but around his throat. He had so many tattoos on his arms they’d merged into a mass of indecipherable words and images.

  I knew his type only too well. They aspire to be ‘alternative’ but scratch them and they bleed conventionality. Within seconds of meeting them, they’re droning on about yoga and capoeira. Their every sentence begins with ‘When I was in India, …’ and ends with ‘man’. Once upon a time, they had the decency to confine themselves to Camden but nowadays they’re everywhere – as ubiquitous as beggars.

  I asked this one if he was sure he didn’t know where Sarah was. To my surprise, he tutted and rolled his eyes. I told him I didn’t care for his attitude – that if he wasn’t careful I’d rip the stud from his lip. It was a ploy to scare him but it backfired. He had more spunk than I’d given him credit for and he promptly offered me out. Coward that I am, I backed down, which only served to embolden him further. He started to come at me, forcing me into a speedy retreat. Out on the pavement I gave him two fingers and shouted, ‘Soap dodger!’ then marched across the road to the Duke of Wellington for a calming pint.

  I almost keeled over when I saw Sarah standing behind the bar, idly paging through a magazine. We had a long chat and she told me she wasn’t happy with her current employers, a grumpy middle-aged couple who allowed her no room for manoeuvre. She wouldn’t be there much longer, she said – another two weeks at the most. She had another job lined up around the corner at the Ground Floor bar.

  And that’s how it is with her. She’ll work at a place for a few months, get bored and move on. She never leaves the area, though, and, sooner or later, I track her down in some bar or cafe or restaurant. It’s become a running joke between us that I’m stalking her. She’s currently working at the oh-so-pretentious Grain Shop on Portobello Road, a Mecca for vegetarians. As far as I know she has no immediate plans to leave.

  * * *

  It’s lunchtime at the Grain Shop and the queue stretches out on to the pavement. Through the window, I can see that Sarah’s busy serving a customer, her face pink from the heat in the kitchen. I rap on the glass and manage to get her attention. She smiles and indicates that she’ll meet me across the road in the square in ten minutes. I give her the thumbs up and leave.

  For me, Saturdays in summer are not a good time to hang around the square. There are far too many people cluttering up the place – mostly buskers, tourists and nutters. Everyone sits on the ground, group singing is a real menace, children run amok and dogs chase pigeons. Perfect strangers start talking to you about all sorts of rubbish and it’s all you can do not to headbutt them. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people talking rubbish.

  I sit with my back against a wall, sandwiched between the launderette and the public phone booth. Usually, from this position, I can see almost directly into the Grain Shop. I often find myself there spying on Sarah. Today, however, my view’s obstructed by a group of New Age musicians who are sitting in a circle, dressed in rags, making a tuneless racket. I’m tempted to get amongst them and kick over their drums and smash their flutes and fiddles.

  Sarah eventually joins me. She’s wearing a washed-out blue T-shirt with a picture of The Clash, red linen trousers and flip-flops. She’s fashion conscious without being a fashion victim, unlike most people in the area.

  ‘Hey, you,’ she says.

  ‘Hey.’

  It’s our usual loaded greeting, carrying with it a faint trace of hostility with a concomitant sexual attraction. She sits next to me and stretches out her long legs. Although I’m not particularly hungry, I’m pleased she’s brought me some food and a bottle of mineral water. It’s a sign of her affection and I latch on to it like a drowning man to an inflatable.

  ‘Nice day.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about the weather, Jem.’

  ‘OK.’

  She begins to pick at her lunch, a foil container full of beetroot, red lettuce and celeriac. I have cheesy pasta, chilli and great big chunks of tofu. I absolutely detest tofu. Sarah asked me once if I liked it and, trying to impress her, I made the mistake of saying yes. Since then, whenever I go into her shop for lunch, I feel obliged to order the damn thing. Proof, if proof were needed, that it doesn’t pay to lie.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a few days, young man.’

  ‘You miss me?’

  ‘How’s your girlfriend?’

  It’s her usual cheap trick – a signal for me to back off, to keep my distance.

  ‘We broke up, actually.’

  I watch her closely for a reaction but it takes more than a pebble to ripple her calm surface. She eats her salad, chewing slowly and surveying the square. The New Age musicians are really working up a sweat and have been joined by a troupe of Brazilian male dancers. I can tell they’re from Brazil because each one has that country’s national flag draped about his shoulder.

  ‘It was never going to last,’ says Sarah.

  ‘Beg your pardon?’

  ‘You and what’s-her-face.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘She wasn’t right for you.’

  ‘You’ve never met her.’

  ‘Well, if you’re gonna split hairs…’
/>   She faces me, wearing a mischievous grin. I stare into her sparkly brown eyes, bewitched.

  ‘What are you doing later?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing much. Why?’

  ‘Fancy meeting for a drink?’

  ‘Are you asking me out, Jem?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Where and when? And please don’t suggest anywhere on the Bella.’

  I’m stumped and begin to hum and haw. Meanwhile, Sarah stands up, disposes of her empties and says, ‘Back to the grind. Some of us have to work, you know.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘The Napoleon at nine. Be there or be square. Ciao.’

  She winks then flounces off. I watch her till she’s out of view, then look down at my half-eaten lunch. I notice a fleabitten dog hankering nearby (in the square there’s always a flea-bitten dog hankering nearby) and empty the food out in front of him. He sniffs at it for a second then begins to lap it up. He puts away everything except the chunks of tofu.

  On my way home I bump into Ollie under the Westway on Ladbroke Grove. He tells me he’s just won a part in a new film (his important news) and that it begins shooting in a month. The announcement sets my teeth on edge (another friend on the verge of success) but I congratulate him nonetheless. He suggests we go and sit on Portobello Green to watch ‘some honeys’. It amuses me to hear him talk this way. Granted he’s from the streets and therefore has every right to its lexicon but I can’t help feeling he hams it up for my benefit.

  ‘I must get home and do some writing, Ollie.’

  ‘Writing-schmiting. You sick in the head or what, bro? There’s the most fit gulleys on road today. Now come on. Let’s go.’

  I sigh and allow myself to be dragged away.

  The green is teeming with people. As open spaces go, it’s a bit on the small side, two hundred square metres at the most. Consequently, with so many people, there’s hardly anywhere to sit. The few available benches are occupied by the usual collection of winos and deadbeats and practically every blade of grass is covered with sunbathers. Eventually, we find a tiny spot and flop down on it. It’s half in shade, half in sunlight and Ollie and I agree to take the sunny patch in turns – ten minutes each. Then his mobile starts ringing. He shows me the name on the caller ID screen.

  ‘How’s the comeback album?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s still working on it.’

  I roll my eyes.

  Ollie smiles and answers the phone. ‘Yo, Mo, whassup? … Portobello Green … With Jem … Yeah … Nuffing much … Just kicking it, you know how we do … Where you at? … Well, get your arse down ‘ere, bro – there’s a million females … What? … No, for real … It’s all good … They’re really letting it hang out … Yeah … So you ready for the jelly or what? … Aaaaaight! … That’s what I like to hear … No, no take your time … We ain’t moving for now, are we Jem?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘See you in a bit, then, Mo … Yeah … Cool … Laters.’

  The moment he hangs up I say, ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your time’s up.’

  ‘No, it ain’t.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Now move.’

  We swap places. Ollie starts ogling a group of girls lying on their stomachs nearby.

  ‘There’s one for you, Jem.’

  ‘No thanks – I don’t make passes at girls with fat arses.’

  Ollie laughs. I start to look about, shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare. It’s mostly women on the green. Quite a few of them are dressed in short skirts and skimpy tops and there are even one or two in bikinis. Seeing all this flesh, all of a sudden, after months without anything, will take a bit of getting used to. I don’t want to stare but can’t help myself. Ollie isn’t even trying to be subtle and wears the expression of a man recently released from prison.

  While the women are dressed appropriately for the weather, most of the men on the green look as if they’re off to the North Pole. There are parkas and fleece tops and even one or two woolly hats. The reason for this is perfectly simple. The summer is a time when we men have all our physical flaws laid bare – the sunken chest, the beer belly, the matchstick arms and legs – so it’s no wonder we cover up for as long as possible. On a day like this, for example, I should be wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Instead I have on thick jeans and a polo neck. Ollie’s wearing a fairly light cotton shirt but can’t give up his heavy combat trousers. He has the right idea with the open-toe sandals but has defeated the purpose by wearing socks.

  He starts to skin up and I use the opportunity to press him for details about this new film. Surprise, surprise, it’s a British gangster comedy. Just how these brain-dead projects continue to attract funding is beyond me. As Ollie describes the plot, I find myself wanting to yawn. A group of lovable rogues get mixed up with underworld psychos and spend the rest of the film trying to save their arses. Sound familiar? There’s lots of gratuitous violence, plenty of misogyny and lashings of racism. Ten years ago, such offensive rubbish could not have been made but these are post-PC times and anything is permissible. Am I alone in thinking the world is a poorer place because of that?

  Ollie goes on to talk about the part he’s just won. To describe it as small is to give the impression that he’s actually in the film. He isn’t – at least not in any recognisable way. He plays a burns victim and has one scene, near the end of the film, where he’s in hospital wrapped in bandages from head to toe. The hero is on the same ward being treated for gunshot wounds. Ollie, trussed up in the neighbouring bed, gets to ask him, ‘What you in for, mate?’ He has no other line and is never seen again. No doubt the role will feature prominently on his acting CV.

  Mo wanders on to the green, casting a lascivious eye over the women. He’s a sight to behold, dressed in what appears at first glance to be a carpet rug but is in fact an Afghan jacket. He draws a few stares, not to mention sniggers, but, to someone like Mo, it’s all of a piece with being a local celebrity.

  I met Mo a few years ago at the Cobden Club. His first words to me were, ‘I used to be big, you know?’ He was drunk at the time so I didn’t take him seriously but I found out later he was telling the truth.

  He used to be the lead singer in a band called The Plugholes, who were quite popular in the early to mid nineties. Until I met Mo I’d never heard of them but I’ve since discovered that they were right at the forefront of the Britpop explosion and had several hits. Then it all went pear-shaped. They lost the magic touch, the hits dried up and they turned on each other. After some very public spats, Mo decided to go solo. Success was limited. His new stuff – an experimental fusion of reggae and Gregorian chanting – alienated his fans and his last single peaked at ninety-eight in the charts. Not long after that, his record company dropped him so he took to releasing material on his own label, called Up Yours. He ploughed hundreds of thousands into it and a similar amount went on heroin. The label eventually went belly up and he wound up bankrupt and in rehab. He’s been clean for a few years now and talks of nothing but his infernal comeback. He’s more Ollie’s friend than mine. They met that same night at the Cobden and have since become inseparable.

  Mo walks over and flops down next to Ollie.

  ‘’Sap’ning, Mo?’ says Ollie.

  ‘You know, working on this new album.’

  ‘Nice jacket,’ I say, keen to change the subject.

  ‘Like it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Spin on it, Jem.’

  Ollie laughs.

  Mo clips him round the ear and swipes the spliff from him. He takes a few tokes on it then hands it to me. I suck on it greedily.

  ‘You were right, Ollie,’ says Mo. ‘There’s some real talent here.’

  Our eyes begin to rove, accompanied by the usual lecherous remarks.

  Mo: ‘Oh, my God, look at that!’

  Ollie: ‘Now that’s t’ick. That’s really t’ick.’

  Me: ‘There should be a l
aw against breasts like that.’

  A tramp staggers by, clutching a beer can and reeking of stale alcohol. He stops in front of us, points his finger and, swaying slightly, says, ‘Oi, you lot! Wha’s the bes’ par’ woman’s body?’

  Mo: ‘Breast!’

  Ollie: ‘Leg!’

  Me: ‘Wing!’

  We start chuckling like schoolboys. The tramp shouts,

  ‘Fools! ’s her brain!’ He gives us a dismissive wave then staggers off. We look at each other for a second then burst out laughing.

  I consult my watch. It’s almost three o’clock. ‘Right, you guys. I’m off on a drinks run. Who wants what?’

  ‘Anything cold and fizzy,’ says Ollie.

  ‘Anything cold and still,’ says Mo.

  ‘Back in a sec.’

  I leave them and head straight home, determined to put in a few hours at my desk before going off to see Sarah. I lose my impetus when I get in and see the state of the flat. Other writers can work in a mess but I need order. I set about tidying up with real purpose, hoping it won’t take very long, but the job turns into a proper spring clean and lasts almost two hours. Now I’m hot and sweaty and must take a bath before I can do anything else. I end up nodding off in the bath and wake up only when the water turns tepid. By now, it’s six thirty and I begin to panic. I’m faced with a straight choice – start writing and run the risk of becoming so absorbed that I blow Sarah out or leave the writing till the following day. I take half an hour to decide on the latter. Now, of course, I’m angry. Sometimes I feel as if there are cosmic forces conspiring against me. All I want to do is write but, wherever I turn, there are distractions of one sort or another. It’s so difficult to stay focused, especially in London. Perhaps I should move somewhere quiet and remote – some place where I can’t be got at. I wonder what the water’s like in the Orkneys.