We hear him call her a whore.
‘And that’s his way of showing it, I suppose.’
I walk over to the window and open it to lean out and look down on the weed-infested back garden. Moments later, the window falls heavily into the small of my back. I yelp and Sarah comes to my rescue. She lifts the window, pulls me in and starts rubbing my back. Fortunately there’s no damage done.
That night, Miguel is forced to share the living room with me. He keeps me awake practically half the night by constantly talking in his sleep. I try to follow the conversation but it’s difficult with only one side to go on. One minute, I think it’s about women’s underwear then, the next, it appears to be about Liquorice Allsorts. Either way, I find myself wanting to smother the bastard with one of Aunt Morag’s frilly cushions.
10
The following day, Sarah and I decide to take things a bit easier. We have breakfast at the flat and slob out with the papers. Having kissed and made up, Beth and Miguel spend the day out at Holyrood.
Later that day, Sarah and I go and see an outdoor production of The Tempest. A local park doubles as Prospero’s island and the audience is led from scene to scene by a female Ariel. Sarah finds the whole thing terribly enchanting and gets really caught up in the action. So, when Caliban emerges from under a mound of dead leaves and charges at the audience emitting a bloodcurdling scream, she, along with quite a few others, flees in genuine fear for her safety. It’s a classic example of theatre at its most powerful and a timely reminder to me of why I adore it so. As for the play itself, well, what can I say? Of the bard’s many masterworks, it’s easily my favourite. I’ve seen it several times, done in several different ways, at several different venues but never outdoors. The production is a revelation to me – and to think that the company is made up largely of amateurs. I come away from it with my imagination ablaze. Sarah is simply speechless.
Next morning, Sarah asks me if I’d have any objections to Beth hanging out with us for the day.
‘Why? Where’s Miguel?’
‘Gone off somewhere.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that.’
I shake my head. ‘Then we’ve got no choice but to babysit her.’
For the remainder of the day, we traipse from show to show, with barely a pause for breath. As a thank-you for putting us up, we allow Beth to choose what we go and see. I have to sit through a one-woman show with a depressingly familiar anti-male theme, as well as a pretentious piece of physical theatre that purports to be ‘original and ground-breaking’ but is in fact wholly derivative of the Argentine ensemble, De La Guardia. In between all of this activity, Sarah and Beth talk to each other a lot, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
For the first time in days, I start thinking about my play – about how I might improve it. This sets me to thinking about the showcase, about how tantalisingly close it is and about what it may ultimately lead to. It then occurs to me how homesick I am and I begin to wonder what Evan and Ollie are doing back in London. I didn’t think it was possible to miss them so much.
Later that evening, Sarah, Beth and I are in a pub in Stockbridge. On a whim, I go out to a payphone and call Emily on her mobile. An hour later, she shows up at the pub with April. They join us at our table and I do the introductions. There’s immediate tension between Emily and Sarah. Emily, April and I then spend the rest of the night talking shop. We really put the Festival to rights, criticising everything from the mounting expense of the shows to the dominance of stand-up comedy at the Fringe to the increasing involvement of big business. And the more we carp and complain, the more alcohol we consume. Soon I’m only vaguely aware of the presence of the other two women. It greatly eases my conscience to know that they’d been ignoring me all day. However, when they get up to leave, I’m all in a fluster.
‘You’re going?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ says Sarah, ‘but you don’t have to come. Stay and enjoy yourself.’
I glance at Emily and April. They look away, making it clear they want no involvement.
‘I’ll come back with you guys,’ I say.
‘Don’t be silly,’ says Sarah. ‘Stay.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Why should I? I’ll see you later.’ She leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Bye, you two. It was nice meeting you. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ says Emily.
‘We’re here for another five days,’ says April.
Sarah nods. Beth, the grumpy chops, starts ushering her out. When they’re gone, I feel mightily relieved.
I get in a round of drinks and snuggle up next to Emily, making it plain to April that I have no desire to talk to her. She soon has the hump but, by this point, I’m beyond caring. So, too, is Emily. She and I are quickly absorbed in one another and eventually we abandon all propriety and start snogging. That’s the signal for April. She stands up and angrily proclaims that she’s leaving. We pay her no attention – too busy slobbering over one another. We break only after we’ve run out of breath.
‘Come on, Em, or we’ll miss the last bus.’
This talk of buses has me puzzled – then I remember they’re staying somewhere out in the sticks.
‘Why don’t you just get a taxi?’ I ask.
‘If you pay for it,’ says April.
‘It’s all right,’ says Emily. ‘I’ll come.’ She stands up.
‘Bye, Jem,’ says April, spitefully.
‘Come with us,’ says Emily. ‘Or will your girlfriend be waiting up for you?’
I watch her doing up her blue double-breasted coat, which has huge shiny buttons. I’d underestimated her. Her elfin charm is but a mask for her predatory instincts.
‘Sarah’s not my girlfriend.’ I feel like Peter denying Christ. ‘Anyway, I thought it was a man-free zone where you are.’
‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’ She smiles wickedly.
I need no further encouragement.
I don’t get back to the flat till noon the following day. The others are out but, instead of getting to a phone box and calling Sarah on her mobile, I use the opportunity to spend a bit of time by myself. On my way to Inverleith Park, who should I bump into but Evan?
‘What the hell are you doing here? Didn’t know you were coming up.’
‘Spur of the moment decision. You really must get yourself a mobile, Jem.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Read your play.’
‘Already?’
‘It’s good.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I do. It made me envious. Well done.’
‘Praise to your face is open disgrace’ is a much-used term amongst writers. Be that as it may, I’m mightily relieved to hear Evan’s verdict on the play. He doesn’t know it, and I don’t want him to, but his endorsement of my work matters to me more than anyone else’s.
‘So where are you staying?’ I ask.
‘At a flat in Morningside. Belongs to a friend of Carol’s.’
‘Of course.’
‘Will you ever grow up?’
We get jostled by a group of Japanese, each one carrying a camcorder.
‘You hungry?’ asks Evan.
‘Starving?’
We decide to go and have lunch at a rough-and-ready cafe near the Meadows, one of our regular haunts. It’s busy, extremely so, and we’re told that we might have to wait as long as an hour for a table. As there’s no guarantee of getting a quicker table elsewhere, we choose to hang around. Besides, it’s now raining – as it always seems to be in Edinburgh.
Over lunch, Evan discourses at length on all the changes occurring in his life and how they’re beginning to affect him. He feels insecure, alone, lacking in confidence. Increasingly he finds himself in the company of people he doesn’t know or trust and cannot read – people who expect things from him, demand things from him, usually his time. Try as he might, he can’t seem to get away from the
m. Everywhere he turns, they’re there. To make matters worse, revising his play has become gruelling and energy sapping.
‘It’s like working on a chain gang. I’m just so exhausted the whole time.’
He wonders whether he isn’t now writing the director’s play, whether his original story hasn’t become lost. Indeed, he’s beginning to re-examine the whole idea behind wanting to be a playwright.
When I ran into him, the first thing I’d noticed was the haunted look in his eyes. Now I realise it’s the physical manifestation of so much introspection. And hearing him speak, his voice thick with emotion, I begin to understand that his real motive for coming to Edinburgh is not to take a break, as he’d claimed, but to cry on my shoulder. I had no idea things were so bad with him. He seems to be in the middle of a full-blown crisis. What was supposed to be a time of great excitement for him has, it seems, turned into one of uncertainty and apprehension. Is that what awaits me? It’s not inconceivable that I might find myself in the same situation one day. In which case there’s a lot I can learn from Evan.
But what exactly? That you have to compromise your principles in order to succeed, that you can’t afford to have too pure a vision? I already know that but I suspect that Evan is only just discovering it. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least. He is, and has always been, way too precious about his work. In the theatre, where collaboration is everything, that’s a recipe for perpetual conflict. I can just imagine the bloodletting between him and Milo. And that’s just for starters. He still has the actors to contend with. Still, there’s no doubting his anguish and I’m touched that he should turn to me in his hour of need.
‘It’ll pass. You’re just under a bit of pressure that’s all. Keep your chin up.’ So stock are these phrases that I’m almost embarrassed to utter them.
‘You’re right. It’ll all blow over.’ He chews on his bottom lip then says, ‘And what about you? How’ve you been?’ Or, in other words, how does your life compare to mine? Which of us is the more pathetic?
‘I’m OK.’
‘You must be quite happy with the play.’
‘I am though I think it could use some fine tuning.’
I can see he agrees with me but is too afraid to say so.
‘How are things with Sarah?’ he asks.
I shrug, not wanting to go there.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying so but she seems to be leading you a right merry dance.’
‘You’re right. And it’s really starting to piss me off.’
Our waitress comes over, wanting to know if we’d like to order something else. ‘I hate to ask,’ she says. ‘It’s just that, if you’re finished, we could really do with the table.’
We order dessert – profiteroles for me, tiramisu for Evan.
When the waitress leaves, Evan asks, ‘Where is Sarah, by the way?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her at all today.’
‘Oh.’
I explain. When I get to the part where Emily invites me back to hers, he butts in. ‘Tell me you didn’t, Jem.’
‘Please don’t interrupt. It’s very annoying.’
‘Sorry. Go on. I’m dying to hear this.’
So I tell him how we’d taken a bus to a tiny village called Gattonside, about thirty miles south of Edinburgh on the river Tweed. It was difficult to tell by night what sort of place it was but it seemed to have an air of gentility about it. The girls were staying a few miles outside the village, in the middle of nowhere, in a house that looked to me like a kid’s drawing – i.e. very symmetrical. It was very cluttered inside but that gave it a cosy, lived-in feel. April immediately went off to bed, leaving me and Emily alone in the front room. In no time we were shedding our clothes and groping each other and kissing and trying not make too much noise and failing.
Once we were naked, Emily led me to her room and threw herself on the bed and spread her legs and said, ‘Take me.’ It wasn’t so much a demand as a plea, a desperate plea for me to put her out of her misery.
I leaped on her but, in my enthusiasm, I forgot myself and cried out, ‘Oh, Sarah!’
Her reaction was pretty swift in coming. She slapped me round the face and shoved me aside and ordered me to leave the room. I spent the night on the sofa and didn’t get a wink of sleep, too worried about how I was going to face Emily the next morning. As it turned out, I didn’t have to. She and April slept late, which gave me the opportunity to creep away unnoticed.
When I’m finished, Evan waits a good while before speaking, like a judge choosing his words carefully before passing sentence. ‘Why didn’t you leave the pub with Sarah?’
‘I told you – it was her suggestion that I stay.’
A shake of the head, a sardonic smile. ‘She was testing you. And how miserably you failed. She told you to stay but she really wanted you to go with her. Don’t you know anything about women by now?’
‘Oh do me a favour.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t believe all that stuff about women saying one thing and meaning another.’
Our desserts arrive. As we tuck in, I begin to think that Evan may just have a point.
‘I’ve screwed up again, haven’t I?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘Shit!’
Evan and I spend the rest of the day and most of the evening together. It’s gone eleven when I get back to the flat. I ring the buzzer and Sarah comes to the door.
‘Hey, you.’
‘Where’ve you been, Jem?’
I’m surprised by her tone. It’s not accusatory, as I’d anticipated, but suffused with worry.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I say.
In the front room, sitting side-by-side on the sofa, I give her a full and frank account of my movements. When I’m finished, she throws her arms around me.
‘Oh, Jem, I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been. Anything could have happened to you. Promise you’ll never disappear on me like that again.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Promise me.’
‘I promise.’
She lets go of me and, for a few moments, neither of us speaks. She regards me searchingly, the way a detective might a murder suspect. Are you genuine? Are you the person you claim to be? What am I to make of you? As a silence-breaker, I enquire after Beth and Miguel and discover that they’re already in bed. Sarah had spent the morning with them looking for me. After lunch they’d given up and gone sightseeing but Sarah had continued the search. She’d spent all day trying to find me, in fact.
‘I looked everywhere for you,’ she says. ‘Everywhere. You really must…’
‘Get a phone. I know.’
‘And you might have called me.’
‘I told you I was about to when I ran into Evan.’
She thinks a while then says, ‘This might sound silly but …’ she hesitates.
‘Go on.’
‘I honestly thought I’d never see you again. I got into a real state about it.’
‘You did?’
I focus on her eyes but the intensity of my gaze causes her to look down at her hands. She starts fiddling with her fingers, carefully examining each one as though looking for unsightly hangnails. Seeing her like this, all vulnerable-like, is not only a surprise but a massive boost to my ego – Jem Braithwaite, lady-killer.
‘You confuse me, Sarah. I’m not sure what…’
Before I can complete the sentence she takes me by the hand and leads me upstairs.
* * *
The following morning, I meet Evan for breakfast at a greasy spoon in Bruntsfield. The first words out of my mouth are, ‘It’s happened.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Me and Sarah.’
‘You serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘I want all the sordid details and I want them this instant.’
‘There’s not much to tell really. In fact, I can sum it up in one word … disappointing.’
‘No.’
/>
‘Yes.’
‘But she’s so … so …’ He shakes his head. ‘Well, well – who’d have thought it?’
Later that night Evan and I meet up again (this time with Sarah, Beth and Miguel) for a farewell drink. Aunt Morag is expected back the following day and wants us gone from the flat by noon at the latest. Evan invites Sarah and me to stay with him in Morningside for an extra day or two. We’re tempted but can’t find a way to justify it. We both have to be back in London. Sarah’s on unpaid leave from work and has already stayed a day longer than she’d planned and I’m very anxious to start rewriting my play.
I feel guilty leaving Evan alone in the city, as though I were responsible for him, and, for this reason, I urge him to call Emily. He promises he will ring her but says that he isn’t relishing the prospect of seeing April. We laugh at that and about a good deal of other things that night. As the hours pass, I notice he becomes more and more relaxed. At such times, with a few beers in him, he can be quite the raconteur with a nice line in impersonations. At one point, he has us in stitches taking off Julian Clary. I regret our not spending much time together in recent months and make up my mind to rectify the situation as soon as we’re back in London.
11
I’ve had five messages in my absence – one for each day I’ve been away. It’s a mixed bag and a somewhat sad reflection of my unexciting life. There are three from temping agencies, one from the folks and one from the landlord asking about the week’s rent I owe him.
I get straight down to business, throwing myself into the revision with real vim. I always come back from Edinburgh full of creative energy, which is one of the main reasons for going. After five days’ solid work, I decide to take a break and re-establish contact with the outside world. I make all my calls in one sitting and arrange to see Piers, Ollie and Evan (together) and the folks. I avoid calling Sarah, believing that we could probably use a break from each other – at least that’s partly the reason. I also want to see how long she’ll leave it before calling me. The games we play.
Piers had called to discuss my play. I go and see him and we spend the afternoon in his office critiquing it. Except in one or two areas, his understanding of it is pretty much spot on. This is always a good sign. Clarity above all is what I say. He praises what he calls my ‘flair for construction’, as though I were a builder, but does so without referring to the actual writing. I come away from our meeting uncertain as to what he really thinks of the play but somehow this doesn’t bother me the way it might have done previously. My guess is that he’s hedging his bets, waiting to see how the play bears up under the more vigorous scrutiny of the judging panel. If he is, then who can blame him? A man in his position can hardly afford to back losers.
Meet Me Under the Westway Page 11