‘Jem Braithwaite?’
The sound of my name jolts me out of my reverie. Relieved, I quickly toss aside my copy of House and Gardens and head off with the nurse.
The embarrassment of the wait is nothing compared to the actual examination. After a lengthy inquisition into my sexual history and practices, during which I am forced to give candid answers to questions about ‘anal intercourse’ and ‘fellatio’, I have a swab taken from the tip of my cock and am then asked to provide a urine sample. Then, just when I think the whole humiliating ordeal is at an end, the clinician says, ‘Would you like to be tested for HIV?’
As I begin to stutter, she (It would be a she, wouldn’t it?) reassures me that on the basis of my earlier answers, it was unlikely that I’d test positive as I was not in the ‘high risk’ category. It was, she said, merely a formality, a way for me to put my mind at rest. A simple blood sample would do it and I’d have all my results within a maximum of two weeks. Her voice is soft, gently encouraging, it works on me like a charm. ‘I suppose it would be good to know one way or the other.’
The next two weeks turn out to be the longest of my life. Like a prisoner scrawling on his cell wall, I tick the days off in my mind. One down, thirteen to go. Two down, twelve to go. By the middle of the second week I’m almost at my wits’ end. When eventually the results come through, I sit staring at the brown NHS envelope, too afraid to open it, my heart pounding fit to explode. Finally I pluck up the courage and tear the thing open.
I’d almost forgotten the number of things I’d been screened for. I get a queasy feeling just looking at the names. GONORRHOEA. SYPHILIS. HEPATITIS. HERPES. CHLAMYDIA. NSU. HIV. This is how they appear, in capital letters, like warnings. PLAGUE, they seem to be shouting, BEWARE THE PLAGUE! Anyway, that’s all by the by. The letter has confirmed that I have chlamydia. I am to see my GP straight away, to receive the appropriate treatment. This, no doubt, will be a course of antibiotics, which I’m not looking forward to one bit as it’ll mean no alcohol for a while. What a pain. How am I suppose to keep my dirty secret? When, for example, I’m next in the pub with Evan and Ollie, how will I explain my sudden liking for orange juice?
13
A few days after receiving my depressing news, I meet Sarah off the train at Paddington.
‘Well, hello there, young man.’
‘Hey.’
‘Miss me?’
I groan inwardly. Only women ever ask this question.
‘What do you think?’ I reply testily.
After dropping off her bags, we go and have lunch at the S&M cafe under the Westway on Portobello Road. A plateful of sausage and mash hits the spot perfectly. Afterwards, we go for a walk and before we know it and without really meaning to, we end up in Kensington Gardens. We go and sit near the pond, not quite where we were last time but close enough as it makes no difference at all. After a while Sarah says, ‘I love this spot.’
‘It’s nice.’
‘Would you say it was ours?’
I smile but don’t reply.
We look out across the pond. It’s not so busy this time around, summer being almost at an end, but there is still a handful of model boats on the water and the ducks and swans are there in their usual numbers.
‘Is everything all right, Jem?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You seem distant.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. And you’ve been that way ever since we got back from Edinburgh.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s not conscious, believe me.’ I can see that doesn’t satisfy her and so I decide to change the subject. ‘How was your stay?’
As usual she takes her time, weighing her thoughts carefully. ‘Actually, I had quite a profound experience.’
‘You did?’
‘My parents and I talked. I mean we really talked for the first time in years. And, incredibly, I think we’re finally beginning to understand one another.’
‘That’s fantastic.’
‘It is. But I have to say I found the whole thing extremely difficult and painful. There’s been a lot of bad feeling between us and it had to be got out into the open. But I think we’re on the other side now, thank God, and, for me at least, it feels like a cleansing.’
This is only the second time we’ve talked about her parents and both times I’ve thought, ‘I should consider myself extremely lucky that my folks and I get on so well. Sure, there are issues between us, as there are in all families, but bad feeling? It’s almost laughable.’
‘I thought you seemed less pent-up.’
‘That’s because I’ve done some growing up this past week or so – faced up to a few things about myself.’
‘Such as?’
‘You remember that conversation we had way back when we talked about my wanting to find a niche for myself?’
I nod.
‘Well, deep down, I’ve always suspected that there’s no such thing for me. I’ve tried to convince myself that there must be but now I’m sure there isn’t. Unlike you, Jem, I don’t have a calling or a vocation and I just think it’s about time I stopped giving myself such a hard time over it. The fact is, I’m into different things at different times and that’s absolutely fine. That’s me. That’s who I am.’ She’s no longer talking to me but to herself. ‘I just want to live my life simply and without the pressure of having to make some kind of mark on the world. And, from now on, that’s exactly what I intend to do.’
I want to say something, a few words to convey my support, but I realise that now isn’t the time to speak. There are occasions in life when it’s best just to shut up.
We continue to stare at the pond. For a few moments, I blot everything from my mind and focus on the model boats zipping across the surface of the water. I find them fascinating to watch in the same way as I used to be fascinated by clockwork toys when I was a child. I guess it’s something to do with the inanimate animated. It makes me think that anything’s possible.
My daydream is suddenly interrupted. Sarah wants to know what’s been happening since she’s been away. I tell her about the goings on at the CCTV and she says, ‘That place is no good for you, Jem. I don’t think you should go back there.’
‘Trust me, I wasn’t planning to. But I’m interested to know why you think I shouldn’t.’
‘From what you’ve told me, it sounds like there’s a lot of bad karma there. It can’t be doing you any good.’
It’s a valid point and a perceptive one but what’s all this about ‘bad karma’? Has she been to see her parents or spent time at a hippie retreat?
‘You’re right. That place has been my crutch for too long.’ Astonishingly, I feel a lump rising in my throat. ‘I’ll miss it, though.’
* * *
For the next few days, I try not to think about the fact that my career, such as it was, now lies in ruins. I spend most of the time with Evan and Ollie. Ollie’s stint at Hampstead recently came to an end and now that he’s ‘between roles’ he has more time for us. He takes us to a couple of parties (he always knows about parties) and we get drunk and smoke weed and philosophise. It feels good hanging out with the two of them again. It reminds me of the early days when we first got to know one another, when the pursuit of pleasure and excitement was as much a part of our daily routine as sleeping. Those were indeed vintage years whereas recent ones have been a bit corked. Not wanting this time to end and more as a joke than anything, I suggest we go travelling together. To my surprise, they’re both very keen on the idea and we spend an afternoon in the square discussing possible destinations. America. Africa. South-East Asia. Nothing comes of it of course but, for a brief moment in time, we were there, on the road, having all sorts of adventures. We dreamed and it was a beautiful dream.
My troubles catch up with me again when, one evening, I get a phone call from Emily. She tells me she’s withdrawn her play from the showcase and that it’s caused a lot of ripples. She’d like to meet me to discuss it. I’m reluctant to d
o so – I need to get away from the place – but I’m also very curious to find out what’s been going on.
I arrange to meet Emily in Battersea. It was her suggestion and, without really thinking, I agreed to it. If only I hadn’t. I hate going to Battersea. It’s not so much the place I object to (though parts of it are objectionable) – it’s more the fact that getting there from Ladbroke Grove is a real rigmarole. Indeed, come to think of it, getting to Battersea from anywhere is a rigmarole. It may have gone upmarket in recent years but, until it gets a tube station, it’ll always be a backwater in my mind. In the end, I decide to get a 295 bus. This involves a hellishly long journey, almost an hour and half, but at least it’s door-to-door.
We meet at a pub called the Crossword, chosen by Emily because of its proximity to her flat. I can’t imagine any other reason for going there. The place is hideous, the very antithesis of the traditional English pub. The windows are too high, too wide and too clear, there are more wooden benches than you’d find in a church, and the staff are wearing uniforms. And, as if all that wasn’t bad enough, it’s also a theme pub – the theme being … wait for it … crossword puzzles. They’re everywhere – printed on the walls, on the tables, on the baseball caps worn by the predominantly Antipodean staff, even on the floor. Just what sort of world are we living in?
We buy our drinks and go and sit as far away from the window as possible. There isn’t that many people inside and the music it isn’t very loud so at least we can talk. We drink a toast to friendship and afterwards I say, ‘You’re looking very well.’
‘That’s what I love about you, Jem – you’re always complimentary but not in a smarmy way, like a lot of blokes.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Want to know what I love about you?’
‘Quick. Tell me.’
‘It’s two things, actually. Your talent, naturally, and your integrity.’
She laughs. ‘Not my looks, then?’
She’s joking, of course, but only partly. It’s a modern myth that women want men to appreciate their minds. Yes, they want that but later, much later, after we’ve fallen at their feet and worshipped their bodies.
‘So come on then, what’s been happening?’
‘So much I don’t know where to begin.’
‘Begin at the beginning.’
She tells me there’d been an investigation into the judging procedure and that the findings had been inconclusive. There’d been no evidence to suggest that any of the judges had been got at, nor could it be proved that they hadn’t. However, what’s certain is that the showcase itself had been ill conceived and susceptible to abuse. Mistakes had been made, particularly over the choice of the judges and the directors, every one of whom should have been brought in from outside. There’d been a lack of transparency, too much had happened behind closed doors and, rightly or wrongly, it had led to a suspicion of corruption. Therefore, to avoid besmirching the good name of the Crucible, the decision has been taken to cancel the showcase until further notice.
‘That’s the official line,’ says Emily.
‘It’s a blatant cover-up.’
‘Exactly. And it doesn’t end there.’
She says that, when she next showed up at the CCTV, the others gave her an extremely hot reception. They called her naive and accused her of acting out of a misguided sense of loyalty to me and my unsubstantiated claims. All their hard work over the summer had been for nothing and they hoped she could live with herself. She defended what she’d done and questioned the moral fibre of anyone who couldn’t see why it was necessary for her to do it. She accused them of myopia, of not being able to see the bigger picture. She told them that their egos were getting in the way of their judgement and that the walls had come crashing down around them not because of anything she and I had done but because of their own naked ambition and rampant competitiveness, which had gone unchecked for so long it had spread amongst them like dry rot. For that, she blamed Richard as much as anyone. As the tutor it was up to him to set an example yet, over the years, he had continually exposed the group to his own petty prejudices and jealousies, which, by and large, had set the tone of our get-togethers.
After she’d said her piece, everyone, including Richard, attacked her. She was accused of being a stuck-up, pretentious, superior, condescending, passive-aggressive, holier-than-thou miss-goody-two-shoes.
‘They said all that?’
‘As well as a lot of other things.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Really?’
‘Honest. I walked out. And I don’t think I’ll ever be going back.’ Distractedly, she makes a few rings on the table with the bottom of her glass, overlapping ones. They look a bit like the Olympics logo or a honeycomb. ‘The most disappointing thing was the way April acted. I didn’t expect that from her. I thought she was my friend. It just goes to show, eh?’
She’s paid a heavy price for her actions, much heavier than I’ve done, and I was the one who started the whole sorry business. It doesn’t seem right somehow. The showcase might have opened doors for her, might have put her on the path to success, yet she willingly sabotaged it on a point of principle. In her place, would I have done the same thing? Hypothetically, yes but then we can all do the right thing hypothetically. The fact is Emily did what she did because she is who she is. She weighed up the consequences of her actions and decided she could live with them. Fine, except for one small problem – others have been affected by what she did, by what we did.
There are innocent parties in all of this, namely April, Jess and Rajeev. I suppose the question needs to be asked: has the cancellation of the showcase arrested the development of their careers? I hardly think so. April and Jess will never make it as playwrights. Frankly, it would be a service to mankind if their work never saw the light of day. That’s not me being cruel – it’s a simple statement of fact. As for Rajeev, apart from his amusing obsession with smut, there’s nothing there. The truth is, if all three gave up writing tomorrow, it would be a good thing for them and for everybody.
After the pub, Emily invites me back to hers for coffee. I’m instantly nervous, fearing a repeat of what happened in Edinburgh.
‘Do you think that’s wise?’
‘I’m inviting you back for coffee, Jem, not to get your leg over.’
I feel a sharp pang of disappointment. ‘In that case, let’s go.’
The following day I call Piers, curious to get his version of events. To my utter surprise, he doesn’t want to speak to me. He says I’ve got him into a lot of trouble and that it would be wise if we steered clear of each other for a while. I can barely hear him, he’s whispering so much. Panic-stricken, I insist that we get together to clear up what is obviously some sort of misunderstanding and, after a good deal of toing and froing, he reluctantly agrees. That same evening, I go round to his flat in Shepherd’s Bush. He opens the front door and practically drags me inside as though he fears I might have been followed.
He wastes no time putting me in the picture. It seems Fatima named him as my mole, which led to him being hauled before his superiors. Naturally he denied everything but, although his word was accepted, the allegations have damaged him. Some believe his position has become untenable but he thinks he may have enough support among the right people to be able to cling on. Regarding the showcase, there’d been no investigation as such. Hattie and the corrupt judge were questioned, both pleaded their innocence and that was the end of the matter.
Martin, meanwhile, has been making great capital out of the whole thing, using the aborted showcase as an example of how the CCTV is more trouble than it’s worth. He’s mounted yet another campaign to have it wound up and to have Tom put out to pasture. One day, Tom overheard him remarking thus and the two had to be separated. Such has been the atmosphere at the main house in recent weeks. Piers, at the very epicentre of the storm, has decided to keep his head down, praying that the whole thing will blow over an
d that he can emerge from it with both his job and his reputation intact. Until then, he thinks he and I should maintain minimum contact. All things considered, I suppose it’s only fair.
‘I’m sorry, Piers. I really am. I never thought any of this would happen.’
‘I warned you to keep your mouth shut but, no, you had to go broadcasting.’
‘I don’t mean this as a consolation but I never mentioned your name. Not once.’
‘You’re right – that’s no consolation.’
He’s never been this way with me before – cold, distant – and I guess it’s a measure of how betrayed he feels. Still, he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t recognise my profound remorse.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘this’ll all be behind us soon but, till then, you and I must keep a low profile. I’m not saying we can’t talk on the phone occasionally but I’d advise you to keep well away from the theatre. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
I leave Piers’s flat that evening with a much lighter heart. The loss of his friendship would have been extremely hard to take and I’m relieved it never came to that. But he’s right – it would be stupid of me to show my face at the main house right now. If I’m going to get on in this business, it’s important not to make too many enemies. Nobody likes a troublemaker and, with my recent behaviour, that’s possibly how I’m now being viewed in certain quarters. No, the sensible thing is for me to remove myself from the spotlight. For what length of time I’m not sure. Long enough for people to forget about me, I suppose. But I hope we’re not talking months and months because, apart from anything else, it would mean a severe dent in my income.
14
It’s a mystery and that’s good enough for me.
Wouldn’t you know it? After weeks of fretting and worrying, I wake up one morning in an extremely bullish mood, determined to face my problems head-on. It can happen that way sometimes, so thin is the line between despair and hope. One day, you feel weak, slight, as though you’re about to be blown over, and, the next, you feel able to move mountains. Why this should be, I don’t know and I’m certainly not going to try to analyse it for that way madness lies. Let’s just say it’s a mystery and that’s good enough for me.
Meet Me Under the Westway Page 14