Meet Me Under the Westway

by Stephen Thompson

  Sarah calls me a week after our return from Edinburgh, which is exactly the length of time I had set aside to wait. She offers no reasons for the break in communications and neither do I. We pick up where we left off with the minimum of fuss. That same day, she and I meet for lunch in the square and, in the evening, we go to the Electric to watch Cinema Paradiso. Afterwards, I walk her home. She invites me to stay the night but I decline.

  ‘Let me guess. Now you’ve got what you wanted, you’re no longer interested, right?’

  ‘Goodnight, Sarah, I’ll call you tomorrow.’ I kiss her and leave.

  * * *

  When Ollie suggested that Evan and I go and watch him perform at Hampstead Theatre, I admit I was reluctant – not because I didn’t want to go and show my support but because I can’t stand that particular theatre. It has no character. The building might be new and swanky, but it’s still a boring theatre. And why is it called Hampstead Theatre? It’s nowhere near Hampstead. It should, by rights, be called Swiss Cottage Theatre but, no, that’s not bourgeois or genteel enough.

  I remember playing a game once at the CCTV. Richard had asked us to list five of our least favourite London theatres. It was a bit of harmless fun but it did throw up a few surprises. For instance, Rajeev had the Bush on his list while Emily had the Donmar Warehouse. I couldn’t believe it. To my mind, both produce good, important work and I argued the point most vociferously. For the record, my five, in ascending order, were as follows: the Oval House, the Old Red Lion, the Richmond, the Gate (is there a more pretentious theatre in London?) and Hampstead.

  Slowly but surely, Ollie is beginning to get regular work. It was always going to happen. Within his range, which is quite narrow, he’s the most natural of actors. The problem is trying to convince him to stay within his range. ‘I can play any part,’ he once told me, which is a bit like saying I could have written The Scottish Play. It’s delusional, in other words, but Ollie is nothing if not confident.

  Evan and I have time for a quick beer.

  ‘Know much about this play?’ I ask.

  ‘Not really – a thriller, I believe.’

  ‘Oh dear, there may be starter pistols.’

  ‘Or worse – fake blood.’

  We nudge each other and chuckle.

  Evan says, ‘It’s a new piece, anyway.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose.’

  ‘Nice of him to get us comps.’

  ‘Amazing – given that it’s such a sell-out.’

  We look around the bar. It’s practically deserted.

  ‘Look at this,’ says Evan.

  He shoves his programme into my hands. Ollie’s photograph makes us laugh out loud. Trying to look moody, he appears to be suffering from piles.

  At the end of the play, we go and wait for him in the bar.

  ‘Whad’you reckon?’ is the first thing he says on seeing us.

  Only actors can do this. They really are quite shameless. We tell Ollie that, although the play stank, he was the best thing in it, which is true.

  After the theatre, we head back to Notting Hill, to a plush flat owned by one of the cast. More people arrive later – all actors. In fact, Evan and I are the only non-actors present. There’s food and drink and low music and soft lighting but our host, Pippa, insists that it’s not a party. ‘Parties are so yesterday.com,’ she declares. ‘I prefer to call it a sit-down.’ She could call it a crouch, for all I care. So long as there’s free booze I’m happy.

  The longer the night wears on, the more inane the chat. There’s much bloated talk about art being the highest form of human expression, with a general lament at its marginalisation within society. Typically, state under-funding is blamed – as well as philistinism on the part of the lumpenproletariat. Equally typical are the comparisons made between the UK and Ireland, where, apparently, you need only affirm that you’re an artist to be lavished with money by the government. Does that include piss artists, I wonder.

  The evening livens up when, as if by magic, a glistening white mound of charlie appears on the coffee table. Straws are hurriedly made from banknotes and soon the table is covered in thin white lines. I don’t partake myself, preferring to spare my nose the punishment, but the voyeur in me likes to watch the effect cocaine produces in others. In my experience, it often makes people randy as dogs, with the power to transform even the most reserved into sexual exhibitionists. And so it proves tonight. People are soon pairing up and, after a while, only a handful of us are left unattached.

  The atmosphere in the room is now a strange combination of lewdness and rectitude – heavy petting and polite chat existing cheek-by-jowl. The amorous couples eventually leave the room in search of more privacy. Coked up and drunk, Ollie departs with Pippa, which comes as a bit of a blow to Evan who’d had his eye on our host all night and was just about to make his move when Ollie stepped in. And his hopes completely evaporate when, an hour later, Ollie re-enters the room stark naked, carrying an equally naked Pippa on his back. They dash about in a state of euphoria, slamming into people and crashing into the furniture. Pippa, bug-eyed and flat-chested, cracks an imaginary whip whenever Ollie shows signs of flagging. Evan and I get the occasional close up of Ollie’s arse. Sagging and dotted with spots, it’s a deeply unpleasant sight. Each time he comes near me, I’m forced to cover my eyes. There’s relief all round when he and Pippa leave the room again, whooping and giggling. Evan and I, like a boring old couple, confer disdainfully.

  ‘Actors, eh, Evan?’

  ‘And to think we’ll have to spend our working lives with these people.’

  The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

  * * *

  Only when I’m back there do I realise how much I’d missed the CCTV. The dank, smelly basement has all the familiarity of home. And, just as you do when you get home from a trip, I start inspecting the place to make sure nothing’s changed. It’s a bit tidier than usual, the cleaners having been in, but apart from that everything is as it should be. The flaky walls, the giant posters, the discarded props, the mini fridge, the kettle, the microwave, the stained mugs, the contributions tin – I appraise them all like old friends.

  I’m as surprised as anyone to see Evan show up. He claims to have acted on a whim but I suspect otherwise. The CCTV is in his blood and we’re like his family so he can’t just walk away from us – yet, at the same time, he’s no longer one of us. His visit tonight is an exercise in nostalgia, pure and simple. With all the problems he’s been having, it’s hardly surprising. He’s a man in search of lost innocence. I remember the night he made his big announcement to the group. He was so smug I could have slapped his face. Tonight I want to give him a hug.

  We have two new members. Richard introduces them as Laurence and Siobhan. Laurence is skinny and pale and timid. Siobhan is possessed of more confidence and is also very pleasing on the eye. She has a mane of ginger hair and a smile as radiant as a sunflower. The other women can barely disguise their hostility towards her whereas we men find her captivating.

  After the introductions, Richard begins to talk about the showcase. For the benefit of the newcomers, he spends a bit of time recapping what’s happened so far and what’s going to happen from here on. He’s definitely changed since I last saw him. He looks and sounds like a man much more at ease with himself. Something’s happened in his life – he’s reached some kind of turning point and the effects are visible. I wonder whether he’s had good news from the main house – whether they’ve decided to stage his play. If only I could ask him but of course I’m not supposed to know.

  My thoughts turn to Emily. She hasn’t said a word to me this evening. I hope she and I can start over. I like Emily a lot, always have done. I wouldn’t go as far as to say we’re kindred spirits but I do think we have a lot in common. What happened between us in Edinburgh was a major mistake and it opened my eyes to the fact that I was confusing friendship with sexual attraction. It was a harsh lesson, as these lessons tend to be, but what we h
ave to do is learn from it and get back to where we were. I’m sure we can.

  ‘Right,’ says Richard. ‘A quick show of hands, please. How many of you managed to complete a whole play?’

  He looks at me and smiles. For a second, I think he’s going to expose me but then I remember that he couldn’t do so without exposing himself, thus compromising his impartiality.

  ‘All of you. Well, well, that’s excellent. And how did you find the process?’

  There’s a lot of murmuring but no intelligible reply. We can’t own up to the effort we put in for fear of investing the showcase with too much importance. Anything but that.

  ‘I only ask,’ says Richard, ‘because I find working to tight deadlines a great motivator.’

  He glances round the room, searching for someone to whom he can pass the baton. We’re not interested and so he’s forced to drop it.

  ‘Let’s have ’em, then,’ he says, dejectedly.

  Out come six professionally bound, immaculately printed scripts. Handing them over feels like a ceremony – there’s a solemnity to it, a sadness, as though we were offering up our babies for slaughter. In a way, I suppose we are. As Richard gathers them up, it suddenly dawns on me that he now has two copies of my play and I begin to worry that he might make a mistake and submit the earlier, rougher one. I’m about to whisper a word of warning in his ear when he starts speaking. He says The Scullery is about to re-open at the main house and asks whether we’d like to go and see it as a group, perhaps next week. There are no signs of interest and his expression becomes nothing short of pitiable. I can’t bear to see him suffering in this way.

  ‘I take it the usual concessionary rates apply.’

  ‘Yes, Jem, one pound each – same as always.’

  ‘In that case, I’m game.’

  He still has his work cut out but, one by one, he gets us to agree to the trip. It doesn’t mean we’ll turn up, at least not all of us, but he’s happy enough with our promises. With nothing left to do, he draws the session to a close. Before we leave, he reminds us that the panel’s decision will be announced the week after next. Afterwards, at the old men’s pub, we deliberately avoid speculating on the outcome.

  12

  Evan invites me to a read-through of his play at the National Theatre Studio. There are some real heavyweights in attendance and, for the first time, I become fully aware of the rarefied circles he’s now moving in. Carol Llewellyn herself is there, plus several of the biggest movers and shakers in theatre. It comes as a shock to see Evan so at ease with them all. I, on the other hand, feel completely out of place and this is compounded by the fact that nobody wants to talk to me. Evan does his best to make me feel included. He introduces me to one or two people and, in his presence, I’m treated with respect but, once his back is turned, I get snubbed left, right and centre. Angry and humiliated, I tell him that I cannot possibly stay but he insists he needs me there for moral support. I spend the rest of the afternoon giving and receiving dirty looks.

  The play is well received despite the bum notes in the script and the torpor of the actors. Carol Llewellyn, in particular, believes it’ll be a hit. She makes a long, dreary speech in which she praises Evan to the hilt, saying how proud she is to have such a talented writer as her ‘protégé’. She pronounces the word with a French accent and I start looking about for the sick bucket. Milo gets a mention too for his commitment to new work and for his ‘unique’ abilities as a director. He’s exactly how I’d imagined him – camp, dressed in black, with a fixed smile. He gets a round of applause and proceeds to blow kisses at Carol Llewellyn. The sycophancy on show is quite astonishing. I want to shout, ‘Why don’t you all go and fuck yourselves?’ but instead I say a quick goodbye to Evan and slip quietly away.

  * * *

  Richard is very happy to see that we’ve all turned up. As we assemble in the foyer, he starts clucking over us like a mother hen. He warns us to be on our best behaviour, reminds us that we’re representing the CCTV and says how privileged we are to be present on such a ‘historic’ occasion. I don’t see what’s so historic about it. The Scullery, by Albert Wester, has returned to the Crucible after an absence of almost thirty years, big deal. This is my chief bugbear with the Crucible. It has a rich heritage but I sometimes wish it wouldn’t trade on it so much.

  The Scullery hasn’t aged very well. In fact it’s cringingly dated. Could Liam’s direction be at fault? I’m sure he could have done something to make the play look and feel more contemporary but that’s not his style. He believes in the sanctity of the script, a principle on which he’s built his reputation. For many in the business, particularly writers, this makes him something of a dream director. For me, it simply makes him lazy. I’d like a director to bring something to my work, a different perspective, something that might enhance it. Directors must get their hands dirty, have an input, earn their money. Otherwise, what’s the point of them?

  At the end of the play, we go and have drinks in the bar. Liam receives a lot of congratulations, as do the actors, a couple of whom are real theatre grandees. Within that crowd, I notice Evan and Martin deep in conversation. Martin is being very attentive – he keeps nodding his head and smiling. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he’ll direct Evan’s next play. The man’s a lesson in how to manoeuvre, the very embodiment of the social climber. I hate him. I often wonder how he got to be in his position. It can’t have been on ability. Then again, perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps he does have some talent. After all, they say cream always rises to the top. Mind you, so does scum.

  After a while, I get talking to Piers, as I tend to do at these things. We both agree that the production left a lot to be desired. Piers calls it ‘a cure for insomnia’ and I describe it as ‘a load of old bollocks’. There are lots of important people within earshot so we have to keep our voices down but we still manage a good old snigger.

  After an hour or so, people begin to drift away. Evan and I leave together to catch the Circle Line from Sloane Square back to Notting Hill. Waiting for the train, we notice Fatima and Hattie being extremely chummy on the opposite platform. It’s not the first time I’ve seen them together in this way. I remember them being very tactile with each other at the end-of-term show, very flirtatious, and I’d convinced myself there was something sexual between them. Seeing them again tonight makes me doubly certain.

  I’ll admit it. I’m nervous and, judging from their expressions, so are all my competitors. Even Siobhan and Laurence seem a bit tense. Richard waits till we’re all settled then begins. Before making the announcement, he wants to say a few words on behalf of the judges. First and foremost, they wanted us to know how difficult they found the decision-making process. They thought each piece was of a very high standard and could find very little to choose between them. For that, we should all give ourselves a pat on the back. We’d done the CCTV proud and, as a consequence, plans have already been set in motion to make the showcase an annual event. He may as well have been talking Mandarin for all we cared.

  ‘And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for.’

  He opens an envelope and takes out a sheet of paper, as though he were presenting an Oscar. Skilfully, he reads what’s on the paper without giving anything away. The tension is almost unbearable.

  ‘Oh, one more thing.’

  A collective sigh.

  ‘Sorry, but I just wanted you to know that directors have yet to be attached to the pieces. But don’t worry – that’ll all be finalised by next week at the latest.’ He clears his throat. ‘OK, here goes.’ He looks again at the piece of paper. ‘The full-length productions go to Emily …’ he looks at her and smiles ‘and Fatima.’

  I pass out. When I come round, the others are standing over me, in a circle, looking concerned. They help me to my feet then begin to ply me with water. I mumble something about a recent spell of dizziness before getting the hell out of there.

  I spend the next three days indoors, my confidence in pieces. I don’t
eat, I barely sleep, I become deaf to the music of life. I’ve had setbacks before but this feels like one too many – one from which I’ll never recover. To my lengthy list of shortcomings, I can now add miserable failure. I’m not sure whether I have any fight left in me, whether I want to carry on. Perhaps it’s time I threw in the towel. It’s certainly the end as far as the CCTV is concerned. I could never show my face there again. The shame would kill me. If only I had the courage to burn the place down. I feel nothing but contempt for it and everyone connected to it. Tom, Julia, Richard, they can all go to hell. And as for those bastards at the main house, they can take their ‘extended extract’ and shove it up their arses.

  I get two phone calls the next day, which I let the answering machine take. There’s one from Sarah, saying that she’s quit her job and gone to Cornwall to spend some time with her parents and a frantic one from Piers, saying that he has to talk to me about something ‘very important’. I wait a couple of days then call Piers, not at the theatre, but at his flat. That same evening he and I meet for a drink at a pub in Shepherd’s Bush. The moment we’re settled at our table, I come straight to the point. ‘So what’s this important thing?’ Nothing could have prepared me for what he tells me.

  I march into the CCTV a few days later with my chest out and my head held high, livid with rage. I’m the last person to arrive (I was determined to make an entrance) and, when I enter the room, not a single person meets my eye. I don’t even bother taking a seat.