Meet Me Under the Westway

by Stephen Thompson

  Difficult though it is, I put aside my jealousy for a second and step into Evan’s shoes. He may have a few misgivings about the director but, weighed against all the other stuff, the stuff of his dreams, of all our dreams, then there’s really only one decision to make.

  ‘You’ve got to go for it, mate.’

  ‘There was never any chance that I wouldn’t. But I wanted to talk to you about it because, well, I don’t know … it just doesn’t seem right somehow. It’s not quite how I imagined it would be. To be perfectly honest, the whole thing feels like a bit of an anticlimax.’

  I shake my head. ‘My heart bleeds for you. I tell you what, why don’t we swap places? You can be the one busting a gut trying to get a rehearsed reading and I’ll take the full production at the prestigious fringe theatre. How’s that sound?’

  He doesn’t respond. I feel sorry for him. He’s spent so long on the hunt, he’s lost his appetite for the kill. I pray the same thing never happens to me.

  ‘We should go out for a drink. To celebrate.’

  ‘Actually, I really don’t feel up to…’

  ‘Nonsense. I’ll call Ollie. What you doing tonight?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Then it’s settled. A night on the piss will be just the tonic you need.’

  ‘All right but I get to choose the bar.’

  ‘Uh-oh.’

  * * *

  I’ve come to the conclusion that the darker the bar, the more Evan likes it. When we walk into Beach Blanket Babylon (yes, that really is the name), I have to put my hand in front of me to feel where I’m going. I inch forward lest I bump into a plump porcelain cherub or a brass gargoyle or bang my head against a hanging plant pot. And the décor! I don’t know whether I’m in a bar or an art gallery. I’m not sure whether to park my arse on the red designer armchairs or stand back and admire their smooth lines.

  When our eyes have adjusted to the gloom, Evan and I pick our way through all the beautiful people to a secluded spot at the very rear of the premises. There we find an empty booth, which is empty precisely because of its proximity to the loos, out of which wafts a terrible stink. Great. They spend a fortune making the place look like a cross between Ancient Rome and the Starship Enterprise but scrimp on the drains.

  What was intended to be a night of celebration for Evan turns into the Mo Bartram show. He and Ollie show up accompanied by a small film crew, who are making a documentary about the rise and fall of Britpop and want to do a special section on The Plugholes. The crew are from Copenhagen, where Britpop was very big. The interviewer, a sexy blonde called Marianne (pronounced Myanna), wants us to try to ignore their presence – even though, from time to time, she’ll be asking Mo questions and despite the fact that the light above the camera is blinding not only us but everyone else sitting nearby. In fact, at one point, the manager comes over to ask what the hell’s going on but Marianne flutters her eyes and he goes away thinking he’s pulled.

  For the rest of the night, we’re confined to the booth, trying to act naturally but behaving in the most unnatural ways imaginable. For instance, Ollie (and here’s that desperation I spoke of earlier) can’t stop acting up for the camera. Despite being told not to by Marianne, he keeps speaking directly into it and making remarks like, ‘Yo, my Danish bros, whassup?’ or ‘Listen up, all you peeps over there in freezing Copenhagen.’ Marianne, biting back her rage, is forced to inform him that it’s currently summer in Copenhagen.

  Ollie continues to act up until, finally, Marianne has to ask the cameraman to stop rolling. With a surprising firmness, she tells Ollie that his imbecilic addresses haven’t the faintest chance of making it out of the cutting room so he may as well behave. Ollie agrees to do so but only after a supplementary lecture from Mo, who’s taking the whole thing so seriously he keeps asking the cameraman to ‘make me look good’.

  Meanwhile, Evan and I are having a great time. We take every opportunity to make Mo look ridiculous. We keep referring to his comeback album, highlighting the number of years it’s been in the making. We cast doubt over the existence of any new songs and speculate on whether the album won’t be rehashed old material. We enquire after the whereabouts of the other Plugholes and discover that one’s a teacher and that the other runs a flower stall. We suggest that there should be a reunion gig – free on Portobello Green possibly – during which Mo could premiere some of his ‘new’ songs wearing his Afghan jacket.

  The Danes lap it up and it’s clear, to me at least, exactly what sort of slant they’ll put on their film. I imagine it’ll be a gently mocking, rags-to-riches-to-rags portrait with the emphasis very much on the rags. I begin to wonder how they sold the idea to Mo. No doubt they pitched it as a serious retrospective look at the music of Britpop and its main players. These Vikings – they’re a devious bunch. So determined are they to get their footage, they won’t even allow us to pay for our drinks. When we eventually leave the bar we can barely stand.

  7

  I’ve always found the South Bank complex to be like a massive adventure playground. Whenever I’m there, I become nine again. I want to run and climb and scream and kick people in the shins (I was a naughty child) and throw litter and deface the walls. The whole place is ill conceived and badly designed and I absolutely love it. I love all the walkways and underpasses and winding stairwells and footbridges. I love all the buildings with their grey slabs of concrete. There’s something appealing about their austerity, something forbidding, like parks at night or empty swimming pools. And I love the fact that, despite being decades old, they still retain their ‘futuristic’ look. It’s not hard to picture them as part of the set for one of those old sci-fi series from the sixties or seventies – Logan’s Run, for example, or The Prisoner. I can just see Patrick McGoohan darting between the stone columns shouting, ‘I am not a number! I am a free man!’

  Sarah and I arrive early enough to have a drink in the bar and to study our programmes. Sarah recognises one of the actors from TV, which increases her anticipation and decreases mine. Not that I know who he is. Sarah says it’s because I don’t watch enough television. Her comment reminds me of the time I applied for a job as a part-time script reader at the BBC. I didn’t get the job because they said I had insufficient knowledge of primetime TV. Then, as now, I took it as a compliment.

  Losing Your Marbles has become something of a theatrical phenomenon. The critics have lavished praise on it, it’s been playing to sell-out audiences since opening night and it’s now gone on to win several awards, including an Olivier. I’ve been meaning to go and see it for some time. Not because of all the hype, but because the writer (who, I see from the programme notes, is only two years older than I am) is a former member of the CCTV.

  During the interval, Sarah and I find it difficult to speak to one another. The first half of the play was like being hit over the head with a hammer. We sip our drinks and agree to save our verdicts till the end. But already I’m beginning to formulate mine and, so far, I’d have to say the critics are right. I’m definitely enjoying myself but it suddenly occurs to me that Sarah might not be.

  ‘All right?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Not finding it too heavy, are you?’

  ‘Schizophrenia? Heavy?’ She waves away the suggestion and we giggle nervously.

  Not long afterwards the bell rings. We quickly down the rest of our drinks and head back in. As we settle into our seats, something astonishing happens – Sarah rests her hand on my thigh and I get an immediate erection. I can’t believe she doesn’t notice. I think she’s going to remove her hand but instead she keeps it there, with brief interludes, for the entire second half of the play. I become wholly distracted and eventually abandon all pretence of trying to engage with the onstage action. At the end, after the cast has taken its final bow, I decide to brazen it out. I stand up and, sure enough, there’s a small but visible bulge in my crotch. I walk as slowly as I can without holding up the exiting traffic, making sure to keep
one step ahead of Sarah, praying that, by the time I get outside (into the light!), things will be back to normal. Mercifully they are.

  On the tube on the way back, Sarah and I try to get to grips with the play. She says she found it really hard hitting and that it made her think how lucky she was to be in full possession of her faculties. She thought the performances were excellent and found the TV actor to be particularly good. The writer, she surmises, must have some first-hand knowledge of his subject matter and she wonders whether he may have a history of mental illness. I tell her it’s possible but that it’s wrongheaded to take it for granted. Writers, I say, hate nothing more than when people assume they always write from personal experience, as though they cannot imagine or intuit. She feels a bit chastened and apologises, claiming she hadn’t meant to offend me. I apologise to her, saying I hadn’t meant to give her a lecture.

  After a long pause spent reading the ads in the carriage, she asks me what I thought of the play. I tell her it’s the best thing I’ve seen in a long time, for all the reasons she gave and more. I want to leave it there but she’s desperate for me to share what she calls my ‘special insight’. I tell her that I don’t have any and she says how much she appreciates my honesty. There’s such sincerity in her voice that I’m forced to level with her. I confess how much I hate discussing the work of my contemporaries and how I long to be the one being discussed.

  She smiles sympathetically and says, ‘Don’t worry – you will be one day.’

  The moment we leave the train Sarah says, ‘Can we go back to yours?’

  ‘Can’t face your flatmate?’

  ‘Who?’ She gives me a look of mock confusion.

  My heart begins to pound and my mouth becomes excessively dry. Sarah links her arm in mine and we complete the hundred-metre walk from Ladbroke Grove station to my flat in total silence.

  This time, the flat’s a mess and I dash about clearing away dirty mugs and straightening cushions and opening windows.

  ‘Don’t bother with all that,’ says Sarah and she goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

  The flashing red light on the answering machine indicates one message. I press play, expecting to hear Mum reminding me of Dad’s birthday. To my horror, it’s a message from Rachel, who sounds drunk. She says how much she misses me and that she would love us to meet up for ‘a coffee or something’. I look across at Sarah. She’s making the tea and pretending not to listen but her actions betray an acute uncomfortableness. When the message ends I immediately press erase. Why, I don’t know.

  Sarah comes over with two mugs of scalding tea. Despite her brave face, I can tell she’s a bit put out. We sit down and attempt small talk but, in the end, the situation becomes so awkward I feel I have to address it.

  ‘Listen – about that message…’

  ‘Please, Jem, you don’t have to explain anything to me.’

  ‘But I want to.’

  ‘Really, there’s no need.’

  We sit in silence for a minute or so, avoiding eye contact, the mood almost funereal.

  Eventually Sarah says, ‘I should go.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No, really, I should. It’s getting late.’

  She gets to her feet and starts heading rapidly for the front door, with me not far behind. At the door, she suddenly turns round and I end up headbutting her. ‘Ow,’ she says, rubbing her forehead. When I try to inspect the damage, she waves me away. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You mustn’t call her, Jem.’

  Before I can react, she’s up the metal stairs and away.

  I go back to the front room feeling confused. I don’t know what to do with myself. I pace up and down. I look out the window. I think about tidying up then, next minute, I’m wondering whether to go out. I want to put on some music to distract myself but I also want peace and quiet in order to brood. I put on some music and brood.

  I feel disappointed and frustrated with the way the evening ended – a shag was definitely on the cards. If only I hadn’t played that stupid message. Then again, it at least showed Sarah that I have nothing to hide from her. The intensity of her jealousy was frightening, though, and it sounded a bit of a warning, to be honest. Might she be the highly strung, possessive type?

  I once went out with someone like that (haven’t we all?) – so long ago now I can’t even recall the girl’s face. Weird. Anyway, what I remember most about her was her insecurity. If I came back late from the shop, she’d accuse me of infidelity. Daily she questioned my commitment, my loyalty. She needed constant reassuring. She analysed everything I did, everything I said, deconstructing and re-interpreting it to suit her twisted, paranoid fantasies. She was beyond help and I wasted two years of my life with her.

  I have no intention of going through all that again. Independence is a thing worth cherishing – not least because it’s usually hard-won. Giving it up is an act of self-betrayal and I don’t wish to betray myself to anyone. That was partly the problem with Rachel. She began by admiring what she called my ‘free spirit’ but ended up trying to bend me to her will. I’m not saying the same would be true of Sarah for no two people are ever the same but, in these matters, I’m having to learn to be careful.

  * * *

  I get up the next morning to find two more messages on the answering machine. I must have slept like a statue because I didn’t hear the phone ring. There’s another message from Rachel. She wants me to ring her at home with a view to having lunch that afternoon. The other message is from Sarah. She apologises for ‘running out’ on me and also suggests we meet for lunch. I let out a manic laugh and head off to the shower.

  I don’t leave the house that day. I spend the first half of it finishing off Piers’s plays and the second half working like a demon on my own. Around midnight, I call Hana. She wants to come over but is worried about being out so late on her own. I’m appalled at myself for not considering her safety, then or in the past, and I apologise to her unreservedly. She asks whether I can come and pick her up. I agree but, so keen am I to avoid being spotted, I take a minicab.

  When the driver hears where I’m going he says, ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  I tell him I’ll pay him an extra few quid not to ask questions. Five minutes later we pull up outside Hana’s place on Golborne Road. I’m relieved to see that she’s already waiting in the doorway, which means I don’t even have to leave the cab. She slides in next to me on the back seat and says, ‘Hello,’ as though she were meeting me for the first time. There’s a definite innocence about her. Who could abuse it without condemning themselves?

  Through his rear-view mirror, the driver looks at me and says, ‘Would sir like me to drive around a bit? It’s such a nice night.’

  I give him a withering stare and he drives back to my flat as arranged.

  As Hana and I leave his car he slips his card into my palm. ‘In case you need me to take madam back home tonight. Ted’s the name.’

  He grins and I feel like smashing his teeth in. I snatch his card and hurry down the stairs without so much as a thought for whether Hana’s behind me.

  A few hours later I’m on the phone. ‘Is Ted there?’

  He’s outside within minutes. Through the basement window I watch Hana get into his car. I can only see her stocky legs, pale under the street lamp, and, as the car pulls away, I decide not to bother calling her again.

  I surface later that day, resolved to do a full day’s work. I have a quick shower, eat a light breakfast and head into my pokey little backroom-cum-office. It’s no use. I can’t concentrate. Don’t call her. Tell me not to do a thing and, nine times out of ten…

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Rachel, it’s me.’

  ‘Oh, Jem, I didn’t recognise your voice.’

  I still have her eyelash curler in my bathroom and already she’s forgotten my voice.

  ‘Got your messages,’ I say.

  ‘Why
didn’t you call me back, then?’

  ‘I only got them today.’

  ‘Why? Have you been away?’

  I want to say it’s none of her business, that she no longer has the right to question me, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she can rile me.

  ‘Do you still want to meet up?’ I ask.

  ‘What, today?’

  ‘If you can still be bothered,’ I say, sotto voce.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing. So do you want to meet up or don’t you?’

  ‘All right, you’re on.’

  * * *

  We meet at a cafe in Stoke Newington, a compromise choice. Rachel didn’t want to come west and I didn’t want to go east. The place is like every other modern eatery in town – fussy, stuffy and full of chinless wonders. I order risotto and Rachel goes for the dish of the day – creamy pasta. We have Leffe beer, in Leffe glasses, while we wait for the food to arrive.

  Rachel’s nervous. I can tell by the way she’s drumming on the table. Any minute now, I expect her to launch into a heavy discussion. You’d think she’d want to break the ice with a bit of chit-chat but she’s never been any good at that. She might devote a few minutes to it but, after that, she’ll want to have a ‘proper’ conversation – which might last hours. Rachel is the type to talk a topic out of existence. And, though you may grow weary from the effort to keep up with her, she won’t stand for any obfuscation. She expects you to be lucid even when you can no longer keep your eyes open. And to argue with her is to experience the terror of being in the dock under cross-examination. Don’t prevaricate, don’t hesitate, beware of evasions and, whatever you do, do not contradict yourself. I nicknamed her Youwin because it was the only thing I could ever say to shut her up.

  ‘You look nice,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you and you look your usual presentable self.’

  The key word in that sentence is ‘presentable’. It tells you all you need to know about her. She’d rather be scalped than leave the house without make-up.