Meet Me Under the Westway

by Stephen Thompson

  Later that night Dad invites me to the pub. Now it goes without saying that going for drinks with your old man isn’t a cool thing to do and, had we been in London, I’d have declined for fear of being spotted. But, out in the suburbs, one is blessedly free from the tyranny of such concerns.

  I hate being alone with Dad. I find his probity suffocating. For instance, as we enter the pub I notice immediately that there are one or two decent women inside and, when Dad catches me giving them the eye, he starts tutting disapprovingly. He then subjects me to a lengthy, moralistic inquisition into the state of my love life. He asks about Rachel and berates me for never inviting her round. When I tell him we’ve parted company, he expresses regret that there hadn’t been a wedding. I make it clear there was never going to be one, to which he responds by questioning my commitment to the institution of marriage. I say that I believe in it about as much as the next bloke but that I’ve yet to find the right person. This makes him laugh, loudly and condescendingly, after which he proceeds to instruct me in a few home truths. There is no ‘right person’, he says, and it’s about time I recognised the fact. According to him, the main problem with my generation is an unwillingness to compromise. With us, he says, it’s all or nothing, which usually means nothing. He uses my writing as an example. He’s convinced it’ll end in failure.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, son. I wish with all my heart that you make a success of this … this …’ He doesn’t finish the sentence and for a brief moment a look of profound disappointment darkens his features.

  ‘Look, Pops, I appreciate your concerns, I really do, but the fact is I owe it to myself to go after my dreams even if they turn out be nothing but illusions – even if the effort costs me everything.’

  ‘And, in the meantime, the years are passing.’

  ‘As they must.’

  ‘But don’t you want children?’

  I hesitate before answering, ‘Only with the right person.’

  And so we’re back to square one. Had Mum been present she’d have made one of her tension-diffusing remarks but, without her, Dad and I are forced to finish our drinks in frustrated silence.

  By the time I come down the next morning, Dad’s already left for the office and I catch Mum on her way out to one of her ‘meetings’. I kiss her goodbye at the front door and promise to call in a couple of days. Before she goes, she warns me against feeding Dougal then reminds me, for the third time in as many days, not to forget Dad’s birthday.

  I get back to Ladbroke Grove around one in the afternoon. I call Evan, both at home and on his mobile, but reach him on neither. I think about calling Ollie but remember that, on Mondays and Wednesdays, he works as a bicycle courier. I wander down to Portobello Road and into the Grain Shop. One look from Sarah tells me I’m still in the doggie house and so I take myself home and spend the rest of the afternoon trying to write.

  Later that evening, I head off to the CCTV. I’m surprised by the turnout. End-of-term performances don’t usually attract such a sizeable audience. There are quite a few people standing outside the entrance, among them Hattie, Susanne and Jeremy, associate directors from the main house. My lot, including Evan, are bunched together a few feet away. It’s a clear display of them and us and I go and attach myself to my comrades. After a few minutes, Tom emerges from inside, fresh from some recent exertion. His chubby cheeks are flushed red and there are two massive sweat stains under the armpits of his white shirt. He announces that the performance will begin in five minutes then scurries back indoors. Slowly we begin to file in.

  It’s SRO inside. All the chairs are taken (all twelve of them) so the rest of us, numbering at least twenty, squeeze ourselves into a cramped little space at the back. Evan and I begin to mutter about the shabby arrangements. We notice Tom, Richard and Julia sitting comfortably up front next to Hattie, Susanne and Jeremy and we make the decision to lob missiles at their heads when the house lights go down.

  The stage is lit and the play begins. For the next hour and a half, we’re treated to the most excruciating liberal tub-thumping. The story concerns a group of asylum seekers, the bulk of the action takes place in a centre for asylum seekers and the piece is entitled … yes, you’ve guessed it … Asylum Seekers. All the ills of devised theatre are on show. There’s too much of everything – actors, plotlines, scene changes, prompting, shouting – and the whole thing lacks cohesion. A third of the audience leaves during the interval and the remainder of us groan and sigh and fidget our way through the second half. At one point someone cries, ‘Oh, my God! This is embarrassing!’ It may have come from the stage, in keeping with the declamatory nature of the dialogue, but the speaker is in fact a man in the front row who quickly stands up and starts heading rapidly for the exit. His honesty is admirable. Would that there was more of it in the theatre. As he leaves, Evan and I whisper to each other about a return to the days when it was permissible to throw fruit and vegetables at the actors.

  Finally the grisly ordeal comes to an end. After a short burst of applause, the actors run and hide, the house lights go up and the audience trip over themselves in a desperate attempt to get away. But not everyone leaves. Those of us with a connection to the Crucible are duty-bound to stay behind and show solidarity to the demoralised actors. As an inducement, we’re promised free wine and a finger buffet.

  The stage is quickly taken over by the gathering, such is the shortage of space. A trestle table is shoved up against a wall and covered with bottles of cheap plonk and trays of miniature sandwiches. True to our nature, we writers make free with what’s on offer. You can always spot writers at these events. We’re usually the ones trying to put together doggie bags to take home.

  Eventually the actors re-emerge, not knowing where to look. Julia darts from one to another dispensing congratulations. Commiserations would be more appropriate. In all my time at the CCTV, I’ve never seen a more talentless bunch. The mind boggles to think that some of them went to drama school and not just disreputable ones. One or two even have agents or at least so they claim. Either way, I’d be extremely surprised to see any of them achieve success. And yet each one burns bright with the flame of ambition of the sort unique to actors. By this I mean there’s a desperation to it, the type of desperation that drives otherwise sane people to do insane things – to don a rabbit costume outside a supermarket at the height of summer, say, or to stand in the cold, for weeks on end, as an extra for a film being shot in Antarctica.

  This lot at the CCTV have yet to reach that stage but they’re not far off. For instance, within seconds of setting eyes on him (how news travels), they’re sucking up to Evan in the idiotic hope of securing a part in his play. Never mind the fact that nothing’s been finalised or that the play contains no roles for which any of them would be suitable. The important thing is to lick Evan’s arse for, as the phrase goes (coined by an actor, I should imagine), you never can tell. With that attitude, they deserve every humiliation lying in wait for them.

  As the wine flows so too does the gushing. Everyone loves everyone else and there’s general agreement that we’re all lovely, talented, wonderful people who will, one day, have our names up in lights. The cry goes up for there to be music and some bright spark puts on an Abba CD. I die inside. Why oh why is it always an Abba CD? Still, at least it drowns out all the bullshit conversations – well, most of them anyway. There are always those determined to blather on – Tom, for example. At one point, Evan and I find ourselves cornered by him. He has many talents, our Tom, but tact isn’t one of them. Shouting so he is heard above ‘Money, Money, Money’, he proceeds to lavish praise on Evan. Made to feel worthless, I squirm and shuffle my feet and look about. I don’t know who’s the more embarrassed, me or Evan. Finally we’re rescued by Richard, who, eavesdropping nearby, butts in with a timely reminder to Evan not to count his chickens before they’re hatched. Evan swears that he won’t, that he wouldn’t, but Richard, wagging his finger for
emphasis, repeats the advice.

  The tension is palpable and is only alleviated when Julia comes over to join us, arm-in-arm with one of her now revived actors. ‘Daalings,’ she drawls, glassy-eyed. ‘You’re not dancing. Come on.’ She does a few jerky moves to demonstrate her pluck – a series of forward lunges that make her look as though someone were stabbing her repeatedly in the back. I’m always uncomfortable around Julia. Her Joan Littlewood affectations annoy me. She even dresses like the great woman – tatty old lady’s hat, grey cardigan, crumpled stockings, nurse’s shoes. In the confines of the CCTV, I’m happy to talk to her but, if I come across her out and about – she lives not far from me on the Harrow Road – I keep the conversation brief. If I’m lucky enough to see her before she sees me, I duck out of sight.

  I step outside for a moment to get a bit of fresh air. I sit on the pavement with my back against the wall. Soon I’m joined by Emily. She looks exactly how I feel – bored.

  ‘Great bash,’ I say.

  ‘Terrific,’ she replies. ‘Well, I’m off home.’

  ‘No. So soon? But they’re playing our song. Listen.’

  I cock my ears theatrically. ‘Dancing Queen’ is building to a crescendo.

  ‘Enjoy the summer, Jem.’ She goes to walk away.

  ‘Sit with me a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have a spliff.’

  She smiles. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  She sits down beside me. I get out my pre-rolled one-paper.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s only small.’

  ‘It’s not the size that matters.’

  ‘Still, I bet you’re used to big ‘uns.’

  She clouts me round the head really hard and follows up by yanking on my ear. I try not to show how much pain I’m in.

  ‘Gimme those,’ she says, grabbing both the spliff and my Zippo. I watch her light up. She squints to avoid getting smoke in her eyes. After a few deep drags, she hands me the spliff then says, ‘Doing Edinburgh this year?’

  ‘Thinking about it – you?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Got accommodation?’

  She says she’ll be staying in an area a few miles outside Edinburgh, somewhere in the Borders region, at a house owned by a friend’s parents. The parents are away so the house will be free. It sounds too good to be true.

  ‘Room for me?’

  ‘There’s room all right but it’s a man-free zone, I’m afraid. I’m under strict orders. Sorry.’

  Damn! There just had to be a catch. I hand her the tail end of the spliff. She takes a quick couple of tokes then flicks it away.

  ‘So you’ll be in this house all on your ownsome?’

  ‘No. April’s coming with me.’

  ‘I see. Very cosy.’

  ‘I wish you could stay with us. I’m sure it’d be a laugh. This is my first time, you know.’

  ‘Really? You’re gonna love it. Ah, I remember my first Edinburgh.’ For a moment, I’m lost in reverie. I see myself haring around the city, trying to catch every free show in town, giddy with excitement. That feeling has never been recreated on subsequent visits but I go back every year hoping that it might be. I know I labour in vain. My first visit was more than ten years ago. I was a very different person in those days – less jaded, less cynical, not so beaten down. Back then, I could enjoy the spectacle of two guys standing on a street corner reciting Shakespeare while balancing pints of lager on their heads. Here was theatre for the people, removed from stuffy auditoria, accessible and egalitarian. Somewhere on my travels, I left such high-falutin’ notions behind. When I go to Edinburgh these days, I do what everyone else does and elbow the street performers out of the way.

  The others from the group come out – all except Evan, whom I imagine to be hobnobbing with Susanne, Hattie and Jeremy. He’s one of them now.

  ‘Oh, I get it – private parties, eh?’ says Fatima.

  ‘Thought you were going home, Em?’ says April.

  ‘I’m about to,’ Emily replies. She stands up. Fatima looks knowingly from her to me. Emily says a few final farewells, urges me to try to make it to Edinburgh then leaves with April. With nothing to say to the others, I head off home.

  When I get in, I wait till I know she’s finished work and is back indoors then call Hana on her mobile. Twenty minutes later, around one in the morning, she rings my doorbell. She looks freshly scrubbed, her dyed-black hair still damp, her pale cheeks aflame as though she’d just stepped from the shower. I drag her inside and immediately start to strip her. We’ve only had sex the once but already I’m hooked – mostly because she allows me to do what the hell I please. I take a great deal of pleasure from ordering her around. Touch your toes. Play with your breasts. Do a few star-jumps. Her obedience makes me feel like quite the stud and I know that, when the time comes, it’ll be difficult to give her up.

  6

  It’s only just turned midday so the Grain Shop has yet to fill up with the lunchtime crowd. Sarah’s at the till getting change for a customer. I march straight over there.

  ‘Can we please talk?’

  She ignores me. Her colleagues do their best to look uninterested. ‘Well?’

  ‘Can’t you see I’m busy, Jem?’

  The woman she’s serving sneers at me as though I were a slug.

  ‘I don’t mean now. Meet me for lunch in an hour.’

  ‘I’ll meet you in two hours.’ She speaks without looking at me, making it clear that her terms are non-negotiable. I leave without further ado.

  How to pass the time? A whole two hours to kill. I walk across to the square and sit outside the Italian cafe and order a latte. I feel strangely nervous – as though I were waiting to see the dentist. Sarah alone has this effect on me. With her, I’m never less than fretful – worried about saying or doing the wrong thing. I know it’s not her fault yet a part of me resents her for it. She has all the power and I suppose my little display in front of Evan was a way of testing that power – a way of seeing whether I could wrest some of it from her. I should be so lucky. The fact that I was the first to re-establish contact proves that I skip to her beat. The bottom line is women like Sarah are pursued. They never pursue anyone because they don’t have to. This gives them, if not arrogance, then a certain haughtiness, a certain sureness of foot when it comes to dealing with men, derived from a lifetime of compliments about their looks. They have something all men want – and most women envy – and they know it. Getting close to them can be dangerous and I believe this is why Sarah frightens me so much. I’m not sure I want to become a moth to her flame.

  After an hour of sitting and thinking, who should turn up but Ollie? Without being invited to, he draws up a chair and decides to tarry a while. I can tell from his jauntiness that he wants to hang out but I tell him not to get too comfortable as I’m expecting Sarah any minute. He ends up spending the next hour with me, regaling me with the gruesome details of some of his recent sexual conquests. He might have been describing porno movies. I have no doubt they’re his chief source of inspiration. I’ve seen enough of them lying around his flat to know. While he talks, I listen with a combination of revulsion and curiosity. Either he’s a liar or he’s the world’s most prolific Lothario. What women see in him is questionable. He’s quite short and stumpy, with the bushiest eyebrows I’ve ever seen. I asked him once if he’d ever thought of having them plucked. He took offence and avenged himself by pointing out a few flaws of my own. My pallor, greasy hair and beanpole physique all came under the most severe attack. Fortunately for him I’m not sensitive about my appearance – otherwise I might have punched him on the nose.

  ‘So we’re waiting for Sarah, are we?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘You two gettin’ kin’a tight, innit?’

  ‘What if we are?’

  ‘Dunno what she sees in you, personally.’

  He says this as a joke but I detect a note of genuine resentment in his remark. If I’m honest, this is the
main reason I like hanging out with Sarah so much. When I’m with her, other men can barely conceal their envy.

  I see Sarah leaving the shop and tell Ollie to beat it. He lingers for a second or two, as though intent on cramping my style, but a murderous look from me is enough to send him on his way.

  Sarah’s brought me some food. This is a good sign and immediately I feel more at ease. Because we’re regulars, Maria, the cafe owner, allows us to eat at the table – provided we buy a drink, of course. Goodwill is one thing but it must never be allowed to interfere with commerce. I order a mixed-fruit juice, while Sarah opts for a bottle of sparkling mineral water.

  I observe her for a second or two, trying to assess where her mind is. She’s making intermittent eye contact, which tells me all I need to know. The door’s been re-opened (to use Evan’s analogy) but I won’t be invited back in without a formal apology.

  ‘Sorry about the other day.’

  ‘And so you should be.’

  ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

  Using her fingers, she puts a lettuce leaf into her mouth. I look at what she’s brought me. Although it’s mostly tofu, I’m pleased nonetheless for it suggests she thought about me while she was preparing it. I cannot bring myself to eat the thing, though, and instead concentrate on the kidney-bean chilli. I watch Sarah the whole time, scrutinising the way she sits, the way she chews her food, what she’s wearing. Today she’s dressed in a pair of flared black trousers with wide pinstripes and a tight white body top. She’s leaning forward in her seat, with her elbows on her knees, her back straight and her legs slightly apart. She might have been posing for a fashion photographer.