Meet Me Under the Westway

by Stephen Thompson

  When I call Sarah at home, Beth answers the phone. She informs me that Sarah’s in the shower. I ask her to ask Sarah to call me back and she hangs up before I’ve even finished the sentence. Her attitude is that of the ugly sister who’s fed up fielding calls for her more desirable sibling. Twenty minutes later, Sarah calls me back.

  ‘Hey.’ She sounds breathless, as though she’d run to the phone.

  ‘We’ve got to talk, Sarah.’

  ‘Oh dear, sounds serious.’

  ‘Meet me under the Westway on Portobello in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Is everything all right, Jem?’

  ‘All will be revealed when I see you.’

  ‘OK,’ she says, nervously, ‘see you shortly.’

  I arrive a few minutes early, just in case Sarah had decided to do the same. She’s nowhere to be seen so I sit on the edge of the pavement to wait for her, not far from a sleeping tramp who’s covered in bits of cardboard. While I’m rehearsing what to say to Sarah, I notice a group of street-tough boys bouncing along the pavement towards me, each one with a spliff in his hand. Now I can’t remember when I smoked my first spliff but it must have been at university, which means I would have been about eighteen or nineteen. Young, I think most people would agree. But I’ve got nothing whatsoever on these kids, the eldest of whom can’t be older than thirteen. They stare me out as they walk by. When they reach the tramp they stop and circle him, like a pack of hyenas. One of them kicks him in the backside.

  I’m so outraged, I leap up and shout, ‘Oi, you lot! Scram! Go on, sling it!’

  They run off giggling. The tramp hasn’t so much as stirred. It occurs to me that he may well be dead. If he is, then it could be days before anyone notices. And to think that, only a few yards down the road, there are people drinking champagne for lunch. I quickly put the thought from my mind for fear that I might scream. Just then, I notice Ollie walking towards me, pushing his mountain bike, the one he uses for couriering. Up close I can see that he’s in a bad way. His forehead is bruised, his knuckles grazed and the front wheel of his bike is buckled out of shape.

  ‘What the hell happened to you?’

  ‘Some yout’s just run into me. Sent me flying, they did.’ He dusts himself down. ‘I tell you what, if I ever see ’em again, they’re dead, trus’ me.’ He holds his head and grimaces from the pain.

  I think he’s about to faint. ‘You don’t look so good,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll live. What you doing right now?’

  ‘Waiting for Godot.’

  He looks heavenwards, shakes his head. ‘Up for a coffee?’

  ‘Love to but I’m meeting Sarah.’

  He gets a cheeky glint in his eye. ‘Bone that yet?’

  I decide to change the subject. ‘Where’s Mo?’

  He scowls. ‘Don’t mention that brer’s name to me.’

  ‘Had another row, have we?’

  This is how it is with them. They’ll have an argument, avoid each other for a while, then kiss and make up.

  ‘Listen, Jem, I’ll catch you on the rebound.’ He makes a fist. I stare at it, forgetting, yet again, that I’m supposed to punch it. He giggles at my lack of street-cred, then shuffles away unsteadily, pushing his damaged bike.

  ‘I’ll ring you later!’ I shout. He raises his arm but doesn’t turn round. I don’t know whether it’s a gesture of acknowledgement or just him stretching his injured muscles.

  When I turn round, Sarah’s standing in front of me. She startles me quite a bit but I do my best not to show it.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey.’

  We embrace awkwardly after which I take a few seconds to savour her appearance. She’s wearing a pair of blue Adidas trainers, tight washed-out jeans and an outsize red shirt whose sleeves are so long I can barely see her hands. She looks so cool and sexy I almost burst out laughing.

  ‘You look great.’

  ‘Cheers, big ears.’ She starts looking about. ‘So why are we meeting here?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  I take her hand and we cross the road and enter the green. A group of winos cheer as we go by, blasting us with their alcohol breath. One of them comments on Sarah’s beauty, another starts to serenade her and a third advises me to treat her right lest he nip in and steal her off me. To this one I reply, ‘Not before you’d had a wash.’ He takes umbrage and starts rolling up his sleeves but Sarah placates him with a smile and he quickly settles down.

  ‘Why must you always make trouble?’ she asks.

  ‘They started it,’ is my reply.

  She shakes her head and we continue on our way.

  A few minutes later, we arrive at a remote section of the green, which is screened on one side by a tall hedge and on another by the crumbling wall of an adjacent house. Next to the wall is a small plant, no more than two feet high, with the most lustrous cherry-red flowers.

  Sarah sees it and gasps. ‘What is that?’ she asks.

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘It looks like a miniature rose tree.’

  ‘Full marks. It’s a Louis XIV, to be precise, and it’s extremely rare.’

  She crouches to examine it more closely. ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

  ‘That’s because we used to have one at home. My dad’s a bit of a gardener.’

  She fingers the petals, sniffs them. ‘I wonder how it got here.’

  ‘Somebody must have planted it and has been tending it regularly by the looks of it.’

  ‘I’m surprised it hasn’t been stolen.’

  ‘Me too. I was even tempted but I couldn’t bring myself to take it away from here. I thought long and hard about it but realised it belonged in this little corner.’

  She straightens up. ‘Well, I’m glad you came to your senses. A thing like that should be enjoyed by as many people as possible.’ She gives it a final lingering look. ‘It’s very beautiful.’

  ‘I know – which is why I’ve named it after you.’

  She smiles, first with her eyes then with her entire face. ‘Has anyone ever told you you’re a hopeless romantic?’

  ‘Oh, please.’

  A short while later we’re in a Moroccan cafe on Golborne Road drinking fresh peppermint tea out of glasses. There’s a TV playing in the corner, tuned to an Arab satellite station. At first the noise is very distracting but, after a while, it just becomes part of the background, no more noticeable than the cars driving by outside.

  For several minutes Sarah and I pass the time in small talk. Then, unexpectedly, she says, ‘I’m not going to like it, am I?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The thing you want to discuss.’

  She raises her glass to her nostrils and inhales the minty aroma. She tries to hold my gaze but I look down, focusing my attention on the items on the table – the half-full sugar bowl, the clogged salt and pepper shakers, the napkins in the metal rack, the wilting flowers in the blue vase. I lift my head again.

  ‘Look, Sarah …’ I trail off, my nerve suddenly deserting me.

  Sarah reaches across the table and rests her hands on mine. ‘Just say it – I’m a big girl.’

  I begin tentatively at first but, once I get going, the words take on a momentum of their own and I end up making quite a heavy speech.

  Sarah hears me to an end, takes a minute or two to formulate her response, then says, ‘Basically, you want us to be friends.’

  ‘Basically, yes.’

  She stares into her glass as though reading the mint leaves. ‘It’s funny.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘It’s usually me delivering the ‘let’s be friends’ speech.’ She looks up suddenly, fixes me the most penetrating stare. ‘I should never have slept with you, you bastard.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. Women are powerless against my charms.’

  She smiles then quickly straightens her face. ‘I should never have slept with you.’

  15

  Roswell’s Babies finally ope
ns at the Upper Street Theatre. Far from being jealous, I’m as happy and excited as if it were my own play opening. Ollie and I get invites, as does Sarah, and the three of us travel together on the tube to Islington. To preserve the momentous occasion, Ollie brings along a disposable camera.

  We arrive to find the theatre packed, with people spilling out on to the pavement and even on to the street. I’m surprised, and not a little bit impressed, for I had expected something far more low-key – but, on reflection, I can see that Carol Llewellyn’s involvement was always going to attract a lot of attention.

  We fight our way through the crush in an effort to locate the man of the moment. As luck would have it, he’s standing just inside the doorway, surrounded by all sorts of brown-nosers. Ollie immediately pulls him aside, insisting that he pose for a photo with us. An usher (a bemused teenaged girl) is seconded to take the snapshot. Ollie thrusts the camera into her hands and says, ‘It’s idiot-proof. Just point and press.’

  I notice several VIPs standing nearby, Carol Llewellyn and Milo the Genius among them. They appear none too pleased to see Evan fraternising with riff-raff. We arrange ourselves for the photo – Sarah and I at the back, Ollie and Evan at the front. With his fingers, Ollie makes a pair of rabbit ears atop Evan’s head. The photographer says, ‘Smile!’ then blinds us with the flash bulb.

  Soon afterwards, Carol Llewellyn sashays across, her tight satin dress drawing attention to the tyres of fat about her midriff. ‘Excuse me,’ she says, a supercilious smile splitting her face in two, ‘I wondered if I might just borrow him for a minute.’ She grabs Evan by the elbow and steers him through the crowd like a guide with a blind charge.

  Sarah turns to me and whispers, ‘Who was that?’ but I’m too incensed to reply.

  ‘Come,’ says Ollie, reading my temper. ‘I reckon we still got time for a swif’ one.’

  Twenty minutes later, we enter the cramped auditorium. It’s no surprise to me that our seats are among a set of cheap ones tucked away in a corner behind a pillar. In order to see the stage we’ll have to turn our heads almost at right angles. For two hours! Without an interval! I expect I’ll get a cricked neck before the night’s out. There should be a law decreeing that all plays be performed in the round. Oh, the terrors of the proscenium arch! Feeling bad-tempered, I turn to Sarah for a moan, only to discover that she and Ollie are busy looking at their stupid programmes. For something to do, I cast my eyes over the audience. The play has yet to start and already I can hear their polite applause. Nothing in their manner suggests that they have anything but the most basic expectations of the play. They haven’t come to be shocked or disturbed or to have their assumptions challenged. They don’t want to think. What they require is two hours of middling entertainment, after which they can go home and watch Newsnight Review. With these people as its custodians, it’s no wonder the theatre’s lost its balls.

  The play gets a rapturous reception. There’s an over-long standing ovation, encouraging the cast to take five curtain calls. Five! In the bar afterwards, Evan is swamped by hangers-on. It’s at least half an hour before we, his mates, get a chance to speak to him. Like everyone else, we just want to be near him as though we’re unable to breathe without the oxygen of his success. He tells us that Carol Llewellyn is throwing a party at her house, in his honour, and that we’re invited.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ says Evan. ‘It’ll be a laugh.’

  ‘I’m up for it,’ says Ollie.

  ‘You would be,’ I say. ‘What d’you think, Sarah?’

  ‘I haven’t been to a party in ages,’ she replies.

  A short while later, the three of us are on the tube on our way to Hampstead. We had asked Evan to travel with us but, for some reason, he chose to share a black taxi with Carol Llewellyn, Milo the Genius and sundry hangers-on.

  Carol Llewellyn lives in a mansion, complete with high ivy-clad walls, closed-circuit surveillance cameras and ‘grounds’. How, I wonder, did she come by it? Over the years, she must have accumulated a considerable wedge from her theatre earnings but I’d be surprised if it was anywhere near enough to afford such a place. It’s rumoured that she comes from old money so she might have inherited it. Or it might be part of her divorce settlement from the indecently wealthy theatre impresario and recently knighted Sir Alan Marrs-Jones. There’s always crime, I suppose. I certainly wouldn’t rule it out. For all I know, she could be mixed up in some kind of racket – drug smuggling, perhaps, or arms trafficking. She strikes me as the type who might lead a double life.

  The party’s being held in a vast reception room on the ground floor, overlooking a floodlit lawn dotted with concrete statues. A catering team, dressed in white shirts and black waistcoats, is soon weaving between the guests with silver salvers of finger snacks and flutes of champagne. Trestle tables line the edges of the room, draped in spotless white cloth, covered with glasses and plastic cups and cans of beer and boxed wine and all kinds of spirits. Ollie and I help ourselves to triple brandies. Sarah opts for a glass of red wine. The three of us then huddle together, feeling like intruders.

  After a few minutes, Ollie decides to ‘work the room’. He makes a beeline straight for Carol Llewellyn, who’s holding court a few feet away. She appears from her gesticulating to be in the middle of an action-filled anecdote. Ollie waits for her to finish it then moves in. After a quick handshake, they’re chatting away like old friends, much to the annoyance of those standing nearby who clearly believe themselves to have the greater claim on her attention.

  ‘What do you think he’s saying to her?’ asks Sarah.

  “‘Hi, my name’s Ollie. I’m an actor. Put me in your next play or else…”’

  Sarah laughs and, for the next couple of minutes, she and I watch amused as Ollie tries to work his magic on our esteemed host. At the first available opportunity, she makes her excuses and saunters off. Ollie’s not the least bit embarrassed, however, and, before you can say, ‘Look out, look out – there’s a desperate actor about!’, he’s managed to attach himself to some other unsuspecting person.

  Meanwhile, Evan is busy entertaining a group of his admirers. He seems to be enjoying himself and I wonder if he isn’t now having second thoughts about taking a sabbatical. Success is intoxicating (so I’m told) and it won’t be easy for him to walk away from it. He’s really turning on the charm and the women amongst the group, especially the older ones, are practically swooning. There’s one of particular repellence who keeps stroking his arm as he speaks. For a moment, I have a weird suspicion that he’s sleeping with her. I try to imagine her naked – what comes to me is a disturbing image of a pair of deflated breasts falling away from each other as if they’d had an argument.

  ‘I’m desperate for the loo,’ says Sarah. ‘Hold this for me, will you?’ She hands me her drink and starts heading rapidly for the door.

  The moment she’s gone a male voice behind me says, ‘What a sexy gal.’

  I swivel round. ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’

  ‘I said what a sexy gal.’

  I give him a cursory inspection. A smarmy face worthy of a few slaps – skin and bones housed in baggy flannel suit. He extends his hand, which I refuse to take. ‘Miles. SAS.’

  I snort contemptuously. ‘If you’re SAS, I’m Boudicca.’

  He lets out a booming laugh, revealing big tobaccostained teeth and a thick, rutted tongue rouged by wine.

  ‘Let’s start again, shall we? Miles Peterson. Stevens, Arnold and Stevens.’

  ‘Oh, I see – you’re a solicitor.’

  ‘A theatrical agent, actually.’ He looks me up and down. ‘And you’re a writer, I take it.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘It’s the clothes that give you away.’

  I grind my teeth. ‘Listen here, Giles…’

  ‘Miles.’

  ‘Whatever. I’m not trying to be rude or anything but I do wish you’d go away.’

&nb
sp; Again the big laugh. ‘I like you.’

  ‘The feeling isn’t mutual.’

  ‘Is your stuff any good?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say.’

  ‘I bet it is.’

  ‘That’s not for me to say.’

  ‘Had anything staged?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘No, in other words.’ He gives me a smug smile, says again, ‘I like you,’ then lopes away on his soft-soled shoes. Had he looked round, he’d have seen me giving him the finger.

  About an hour later, Carol Llewellyn clinks her glass and calls everyone to attention. We gather in front of her like disciples awaiting the gospel.

  ‘First off, I’d like to thank you all for coming. I trust you’ve all had a good time.’

  ‘We’re not done yet, Llewellyn!’ cries a familiar voice. ‘You’ll have to throw us out of here tonight!’ Much forced laughter.

  ‘Right you are, Miles,’ says Carol Llewellyn, blushing slightly. She collects herself before continuing. ‘Now then, as you’re all aware, this is a very special night – special because we’re here to celebrate the arrival of what I’m sure you’ll all agree is an extraordinary new talent.’

  Murmurs of agreement.

  ‘Now, if you’ll permit me, I’d like to take a few minutes to recount the circumstances that led up to my becoming acquainted with the young man you see standing next to me.’ She pats Evan on the shoulder. He has a lop-sided grin on his face and is clearly drunk. ‘A few months ago …’ and she’s off and running. Except for a few embellishments, her version of what took place is identical to Evan’s. Soon she’s winding up. Much of what she says goes in one ear and out the other but a few phrases lodge in my mind: ‘… continued support for new writers’; ‘the very lifeblood of the theatre …’; ‘the firmament has a new star …’; ‘blah, blah, blah.’ She then leads us in a toast to Evan’s continued success, after which she says, ‘And so, without further ado, I give you the man himself. Let’s hear it for Evan Waterman!’