Meet Me Under the Westway

by Stephen Thompson

  A short burst of applause and Evan totters sideways to occupy the space vacated by his patron, a flute of champagne balanced precariously between his fingers. I can tell immediately he’s about to make a prat of himself. At moments like these (i.e. acutely embarrassing), I usually get some kind of nervous reaction and, right on cue, my left eyelid starts twitching. From the way she’s gripping my arm, I can tell that Sarah’s nerves are ajangling also.

  Evan doesn’t disappoint us. He makes a long, rambling, idiotic speech in which he cites the influence on his work of many a celebrated playwright, alive and dead, in whose company he presumes to place himself. Sobriety would have prevented him from doing so arrogant a thing but, under the influence of too much bubbly, his ego gets the better of him. He ends his inebriated soliloquy with an extremely mawkish tribute to Carol Llewellyn and a gushing thank you to Milo the Genius and everyone at the Upper Street Theatre. Not a single mention is made of yours truly, despite my unstinting support over the years. Some kind of public acknowledgement, however small, would have meant the world to me but, since I don’t figure among the great and the good, I’m ignored. The snub cuts me to the very quick and I have to say that, right now, the only thing I feel for Evan is utter hatred. A dishonourable sentiment maybe but it’s one I have no trouble owning.

  I do all I can to avoid Evan for the remainder of the evening in case I forget myself and punch him in the jaw. Sarah can tell I’m unhappy and she suggests we leave. I jump at the chance and immediately start looking about for Ollie, spotting him on the other side of the room deep in conversation with a very intense-looking brunette whose broad behind he’s periodically patting. Sarah and I slip away without saying goodbye to him. In the cab on the way back to Notting Hill, Sarah is desperate to know what’s happened to put me in such a foul mood but I don’t want to discuss it and so we complete the journey in silence.

  * * *

  Two days later Evan calls and suggests we meet in the square for coffee.

  I’m still upset with him. ‘I’m busy, Evan.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Stuff.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘What’s this? Twenty questions?’

  He groans heavily. ‘Look, Jem, I need to talk to you. It’s quite important. Surely you can spare me half an hour?’

  My interest is aroused. ‘Talk about what?’

  ‘I’d rather not discuss it on the phone.’

  I stall for time, lest I appear to cave in too easily. ‘Half-hour, you say?’

  ‘Not a minute more.’

  Some while later, we’re sitting outside the Italian cafe sipping coffee. It’s eleven o’clock on a grey, slightly chilly midweek morning and the square is as quiet as a theatre on Sunday. Of the half a dozen tables on the pavement, only two are occupied – one by Evan and me, the other by Mad Desmond, a local nutter who in all weathers can be found loitering about the square smoking discarded cigarette butts and cursing anyone who dares so much as glance in his direction. Maria often has to shoo him away but, if he behaves himself, if he consents not to abuse her customers, she’s happy to let him be.

  Evan looks dishevelled beyond belief, with puffy, bloodshot eyes and the sort of stubbly chin for which Desperate Dan has become renowned.

  ‘You look like shit,’ I say, with all the spite I can muster.

  ‘I know. I’m still recovering from the other night. Great bash, eh?’

  ‘Actually I found it rather so-so.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you how many glasses of champers I had.’

  ‘You were certainly chucking them down your neck.’

  He looks chastened. ‘Did I make a total fool of myself?’

  ‘Not a total one, no.’

  He leans back in his chair. I think he’s about to say something but he merely stares at me, his eyes narrowed to a slit. It’s obvious that I’m trying his patience and I find myself hoping that he loses his rag in order that we might have a row and possibly a punch-up. I reckon I could take him if push came to shove. Alas, he reads me like a book and relaxes his shoulders and smiles in a blatant attempt to disarm me.

  ‘You all right, Jem?’

  ‘Fine. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, you seem… Have I done something to upset you?’

  I shake my head and turn my gaze toward Mad Desmond, just in time to catch him lighting one of his filthy cigarette butts. He sees me watching him and gives me that all-too-familiar glare – the one where his eyes widen and his nostrils flare, a sign that he’s thinking about hurling some abuse. I look away before he decides to make me his target.

  ‘What did you want to talk about, Evan?’

  ‘I hear you had a chat with Miles.’ I feign ignorance. ‘Who?’

  ‘One of the agents from S.A.S. He said he spoke to you at the party.’

  I make a great show of trawling my memory. ‘Oh, you mean the lech?’

  ‘Lech? He didn’t come on to you did he?’

  ‘Not me – he was after Sarah. I gave him what for and sent him on his way.’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t mention any of that.’

  ‘I bet he didn’t.’ I shoot a quick glance at Desmond, who’s staring at the ground and mumbling to himself. ‘So what did he say, exactly?’

  ‘Miles? Only that you two had a chat. He seems quite taken with you.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘So much so that I took the liberty of sending him your play, with a covering note saying he’d be mad not to take you on.’

  I remain silent in an effort to convey how singularly unmoved I am.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Jem?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Thanks, would be nice.’

  ‘Thanks for what?’

  He shakes his head and sighs so wearily I think he’s about to sob, at which point, in spite of myself, I begin to feel sorry for him.

  ‘Look, Evan, don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’ve done but we both know it won’t lead to anything. How many times have I sent my stuff to agents? And how many times have I received the same lame response? “Thanks for letting us read your work. Unfortunately we’re not taking on any new clients at present. We wish you luck trying to secure representation elsewhere.” And that’s after taking six months to reply! And don’t even get me started on the ones who’ve never even bothered getting back to me.’

  He waits to make sure I’ve finished ranting then says, ‘I understand what you’re saying – remember I’ve been there too – but this is a different situation altogether. I know Miles will at least read your play and I’ll be using what influence I have to make sure he does it as quickly as possible. Also, you come highly recommended by me and, because I’m hot property right now …’ Worryingly he says this without a trace of irony. ‘He’ll be predisposed to wanting to take you on. So, when you put it all together, there’s every reason for you to be optimistic.’

  He almost convinces me but I’m too long in the tooth to allow myself to be swept along by wishful thinking – mine or anyone else’s. ‘Yes, well, that’s all very nice and pretty but you’ll excuse me if I don’t break into song.’

  He’s about to say something when, ‘Fucking wankers!’ The shock of Mad Desmond’s outburst almost knocks me out of my chair. ‘Fucking wankers! Fucking wankers! Fucking wankers!’ He keeps this up till Maria overhears him and comes bustling out on to the pavement, her droopy bosom arriving in advance of the rest of her body. One look from her is enough to quiet the nutty one. She gives him a final warning, apologises to us then goes back inside – all in a morning’s work.

  I slurp the remainder of my drink, said by Maria to be a latte but which in fact tasted more like burnt rubber. Evan finishes his cappuccino.

  ‘Same again?’ he asks.

  ‘Definitely not – I’ll have a tea.’

  He goes inside to do the honours. In my peripheral vision (I’m too scared to look at him directly), I catch sight of Mad Desmond kicking ou
t at a quintet of minging pigeons who are darting about beneath the tables, scavenging for food.

  Evan returns quicker than I’d anticipated, carrying our drinks. I can tell from his expression and from the emphatic way he sits down that he wants us to proceed along friendlier lines. Guilt washes over me like a tsunami. All at once, I become aware of how petty my grievance is, how childish and silly. Evan is no more indebted to me for his success than Joe Orton was to Kenneth Halliwell. Whatever he achieved, he did by the sweat of his own brow, by dipping into the well-spring of his God-given talent, and for me to expect to share in it is like demanding half of a lottery win simply for being present when the winning numbers were being chosen.

  ‘So what did you think of the production?’ he asks. I was wondering when he’d get round to this. The need for praise is as natural to a writer as breathing underwater is to a fish.

  ‘I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’

  I sip my tea, resisting the urge to look at Mad Desmond. ‘Mind you, it did have a few problems, I thought.’

  He raises his brows. ‘Oh? What sort?’

  ‘I thought the actors were very nervous.’

  ‘That’s only to be expected on opening night.’

  ‘That’s true, I suppose.’ He stares at me, confusion plastered across his face, not sure whether I’m being sincere or disingenuous.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asks, warily.

  ‘A few minor details here and there. Nothing worth mentioning, really.’

  ‘No, go on – I’m interested.’

  ‘Well, I did think the set design was a bit dull. In fact, you couldn’t really call it a set, could you?’

  ‘Milo wanted something minimalist. I thought it worked quite well, myself.’

  ‘It might have done if the lighting wasn’t so poor.’

  I notice the muscles ripple along his jawline as though he were breaking ice with his teeth. I brace myself for an outburst but, for the second time, that morning he demonstrates enviable self-control. Calmly, he says, ‘The majority of the action takes place in a basement, Jem – it’s meant to look dark.’

  ‘All the same… And another thing…’

  ‘Hold on a second, I thought you said you enjoyed it?’

  ‘You asked me what I thought and I’m telling you but, if you can’t handle a bit of mild criticism…’ I shrug and let the matter drop.

  I infer from his silence that he’s content for me to do so but it turns out I’m wrong. ‘Well, the audience loved it,’ he says, his mouth set in something resembling a pout. ‘I’ve never known so many curtain calls.’

  ‘Evan, I didn’t say the play wasn’t good. You know what I think of the play.’

  ‘Actually I don’t. You’ve never really said and, to be honest, it’s never really bothered me.’

  ‘Thanks very much. It’s nice to know your friends value your opinion.’

  ‘That’s not my point and you know it. What I’m saying is, I know it’s a good play and it doesn’t matter to me what other people think.’

  I laugh inwardly. Will he be as stoic if the critics plunge the knife between his shoulder blades?

  ‘Well, that’s a very commendable attitude, Evan. I’m sure it’ll stand you in good stead.’

  The finality of the remark kills the subject and ushers in a few minutes’ silence. I begin to wonder what Evan might be thinking. At a guess, I’d say it centres around the question of why he bothers to be my friend. For my part, I’m marvelling at how much he seems to be caught up with his success. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that it amounts to a complete volte-face. After all, this is the same person who, not so long ago, was seriously thinking about giving up writing altogether. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that he now intends to accept the commission to write a second play. Which would of course mean that the image he has of himself as the ‘reluctant artist’ is nothing but a pose. It comforts me greatly to think that he yearns for recognition just like the rest of us mere mortals.

  Out of nowhere he says, ‘Did Sarah enjoy herself the other night?’

  ‘I think so though it’s not really her scene.’

  ‘What is her scene?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know, do I?’

  He waits a couple of breaths then says, ‘What’s the situation with you two at the moment?’

  ‘Look, Evan, I don’t want to talk about Sarah. I’d have thought that was obvious.’

  That ushers in another period of silence. We sit there sipping our drinks and trying not attract Mad Desmond’s attention. Now and then, I steal a glance at Evan. His crest looks well and truly fallen and I feel myself softening towards him.

  ‘Listen, Evan, I’m sorry, OK? I’m not in the best of moods today.’

  ‘I’d say.’

  By the way he says this, through gritted teeth, I can tell he’s really pissed off. With Evan, this takes a lot of doing, which is how I know I’ve gone too far. As a way of making up, I try to get the conversation going again. ‘Do you ever get recurring dreams?’

  He seems nonplussed by the question. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just wondering.’

  ‘You’re wondering whether I get recurring dreams?’

  ‘I don’t want to argue, Evan.’

  ‘Who’s arguing?’

  ‘I get them all the time.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Recurring dreams.’

  He sighs. ‘My goodness, this is positively Beckettean. What are you talking about, Jem?’

  ‘I have this one where I’m flying. I don’t mean up in the clouds or across continents or anything like that. Usually I’m right here in the manor and usually it’s night-time. I’m flying just above the heads of people but they never see me. Sometimes I’ll follow them, eavesdropping on their conversation, curious to see where they’re going. But mostly I just fly aimlessly for the sheer exhilaration of it. It’s the most fantastic sensation. And then I wake up and realise it’s all been a dream. I can’t begin to describe how sad that always makes me feel.’

  I might be mistaken but I’m sure I see Evan stifle a yawn.

  ‘What do you think it means?’ he asks, for form’s sake.

  ‘Not sure. Could be any number of things. But, if I had to guess, I’d say it’s to do with my wanting something I know I can never have.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘A clearer perspective, perhaps?’

  He stares at me with the cold eye of a clinical psychologist as though assessing me for signs of mental collapse before signing my committal papers. Perhaps I am mad. It’s a seductive thought. I’m convinced there’s a certain refuge in madness.

  ‘Ignore me,’ I say. ‘I’m just rambling.’

  ‘Look, Jem, as I see it, we’re spoilt, you and me. We should fall on our knees and thank our lucky stars that we have the luxury to sit around all day drinking coffee while pontificating about the meaning of life. As we speak there are people in the world suffering in the most horrific ways imaginable. If you want perspective, there it is.’

  There’s no real way for me to counter this. I’m tempted to say that it’s all relative, that my problems are, in their way, as important to me as food is to a famine victim but I couldn’t be bothered to press the point.

  An obtrusive silence was disturbed every so often by the sound of Mad Desmond making a weird clicking sound with his tongue. Aware as we are of his various schemes to attract attention, we do our best to ignore him. The clicking becomes more regular and progressively louder. In the end, I can take no more and turn to say something but Mad Desmond beats me to the punch. ‘Fucking wankers! Fucking wankers, the pair of ya!’

  Maria comes and bawls him out and orders him to leave and never come back (he’s had several life bans) and he departs, hexing the three of us like a vengeful warlock. Maria apologises to us then goes back inside.

  After a few minutes of sitting in silence, Evan says
, ‘I was just thinking, did you ever meet up with your ex in the end?’

  This takes me completely by surprise. ‘Er … yeah.’ I stall for time, unsure what to say next.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘I take it she wasn’t pregnant.’

  ‘No. She wasn’t.’

  ‘I bet that came as a relief.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘So what did she want?’

  I pause before giving my answer, determined that, whatever I say, it will end Evan’s line of questioning once and for all. ‘She wanted to get back with me. Can you believe it?’

  Evan looks dubious, a wry smile on his face. ‘No, Jem,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  16

  One evening, I come home to find a message on my answering machine that makes my heart skip several beats. It’s from Miles. He’s read my play, likes it and wants to meet up to discuss ‘where we might go from here’. And ‘can I ring him when I get a chance?’ I’m so excited I pick up the phone to call him straight away then remember, at the last moment, that it’s past seven on a Friday evening. Damn! That night I hardly get a wink of sleep. I lie awake for hours, tossing and turning, my imagination running away with me. I see rave reviews, sell-out runs, awards. Eventually I drift off but not even in sleep can I escape the image of myself as the most successful playwright ever, cocking a snook at all my doubters and exacting a terrible revenge on all those who had slighted me on the way up.

  First thing on Monday morning, I call Miles on his direct line. When his answering machine clicks on I dial the switchboard to check whether he’s actually in. He is but is currently away from his desk. Would I like to leave a message? ‘Just say Jem called. He’s got my number.’ I hang up, irritated. I loaf about the flat the entire day, spending most of that time sitting by the phone, watching daytime TV. Eventually, around five o’clock, he calls. He apologises for taking so long to get back to me (he claims to have been in meetings all day) and we arrange to meet the following afternoon at the S.A.S offices in Soho.