Meet Me Under the Westway

by Stephen Thompson

  I arrive a few minutes early and report to the receptionist, a freckle-faced, middle-aged woman with the flinty demeanour of a school headmistress.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asks.

  ‘May.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘The correct term is “May I help you?”.’

  She gives me a witless smile. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here to see Miles.’

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘No, but I must see him.’

  ‘What’s it concerning?’

  I lower my voice. ‘It’s a bit delicate.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, the thing is I’ve just found out I have HIV and I’ve been told to inform all my sexual partners.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Jem.’

  ‘I’ll see if Mr Peterson’s free.’

  She makes the call. A minute later Miles pops his head round the corner, a ready smile spread across his face.

  ‘Jem, good to see you again. Please, come through.’ He glances at Miss Sour-Chops. ‘Thanks Steph.’

  Steph gives him what, unless I’m mistaken, is a very concerned look.

  Miles’s office is a cluttered cubbyhole. There’s hardly room enough for one person, let alone two. Miles has to squeeze himself behind his desk and in so doing can’t avoid bumping into this and knocking over that. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he says. ‘Have a seat.’

  I look around but the only available chair is covered with a stack of lever-arch files.

  ‘Just put those on the floor,’ says Miles.

  I do as he instructs and sit down.

  ‘Thanks for coming in, Jem.’

  ‘I almost didn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Our first meeting was hardly auspicious.’

  ‘I know – I was drunk.’

  ‘You were obnoxious.’

  The big laugh again, like a rebel leader entertaining his band of drunken guerrillas around a campfire in the mountains. The man clearly loves to laugh. ‘I like you, Jem. I liked you straight off. We’ll get on, you and me.’

  ‘Only if you make me famous.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘What writer doesn’t?’

  He nods slowly and lights a cigarette, a very un-trendy Rothman’s. You don’t see many of those nowadays.

  ‘I can’t promise you fame but …’ he emits a puff of smoke, ‘if you agree to my representing you, I’m certain I can persuade someone to stage your play.’

  ‘How certain are you?’

  He smiles, fiddles with his shirt collar. ‘I can see you’re not easily taken in. That’s good.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You want assurances, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t give you any. But I’ve got a really good feeling. Call it instinct.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Excellent. Right, then.’ He takes a long final drag on his cigarette then squashes it in a makeshift ashtray, a circular foil dish that might have previously contained a cherry Bakewell. ‘How rushed are you?’ he asks.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Do you have time to go over and sign our client agreement?’

  I hadn’t anticipated this. Suddenly the whole thing feels rushed, like I’m being railroaded. Am I doing the right thing? Perhaps I should wait, talk to someone – Evan, perhaps, or Piers – get some advice before signing anything. Miles must have been reading my mind.

  ‘I can give you the form and you can take it home and look it over. But there’s really no need – it’s a simple-enough document.’

  ‘I’m sure it is but I’d still like a bit of time to read the small print.’

  ‘That’s entirely up to you.’ He retrieves two sheets of A4-size paper from his desk drawer and hands them to me. They’re identical, printed in a miniscule font, with the S.A.S logo in the top right-hand corner. Each sheet has a dotted line at the bottom for the client’s signature.

  ‘Why two?’ I ask.

  ‘You sign both. One for me, one for you.’

  I scan the text, moving quickly between the subheadings. Much of it is gobbledegook but there are some interesting bits, in particular the section dealing with broadcast rights. They’re only words in what is obviously a bog-standard client agreement, inserted in the unlikely event of there being a radio, film or television adaptation, and yet the mere sight of them makes my heart pound with excitement.

  ‘I’ll read this properly when I get home.’ I fold the sheets and put them in the pocket of my washed-out denim jacket.

  ‘But we do have a deal, right? At least in principle?’

  ‘You’re being very pushy.’

  ‘You bet I am. I don’t want you slipping through my fingers.’

  ‘Why? Am I such a great find?’

  He smiles. ‘Now you’re fishing for compliments. But, yes, I happen to think you are. This …’ he holds up a copy of the play, ‘is a very strong and original piece of work – the best thing I’ve read in I don’t know how long. You clearly have a lot of talent and could really go places if, and I stress if, you’re handled properly. Which is where I come in.’

  I lean back in my chair, putting my left foot on my right knee – the cocky pose of one who’s just had the value of his stock put at an all-time high. ‘I reckon that’s thirty per cent what you really believe, to seventy per cent hard sell.’

  The big laugh, two or three volcanic eruptions which seem to shake the room to its very foundations. ‘You’re being rather unfair. I’d say about fifty-fifty.’

  That makes me smile. ‘We’ll get on, you and me.’

  Later that afternoon, I’m sitting outside the Italian cafe in the square sipping a latte and looking over the S.A.S client agreement when, one by one, Evan, Ollie and Mo show up. Ollie, as usual, does all he can to hog the limelight. He doesn’t shut up about his film, the one in which he plays the burns victim. Apparently it’s now in post-production and will be privately screened sometime in the near future.

  ‘I’ll invite you all when I get a date.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re still in the film,’ says Mo, and he, Evan and I have a little laugh at that.

  Ollie doesn’t rise to it, though. He moves swiftly on to talk about some of the auditions he’s up for, including one for a new sit-com about three male friends who are visited by a genie and granted one wish apiece. One asks for unlimited wealth, another to be a professional footballer, while the third, Ollie’s character, wants to be irresistible to women.

  ‘I’m perfect for the part,’ says Ollie. ‘Wouldn’t need to act, would I?’

  Laughter all round.

  My news is greeted with surprise, even from Evan, who might have reacted differently given that he had a part to play in it. It’s the first real indication I’ve had so far as to my standing within the group – i.e. I’m seen as the one least likely to do anything with his life. I put a brave face on it but privately I’m seething, and all at once my hunger, so diminished in recent months, returns with a new and potentially fatal intensity. I’ll teach you bastards to underestimate me.

  Mo has finally finished writing his new set of songs and has already begun recording them for his not-so-eagerly-anticipated comeback album. He expects to complete the album in a couple of months and has given it a working title of Subterranean Lovesick Shoes. He’s not sure how he’ll finance the release but is thinking of either taking out a loan or, if needs be, investing in a bit of weed. ‘I’d sooner do that than hand over control of my work to some fucking record company, man.’

  Evan, of course, has the most to say for himself. Roswell continues to play to sell-out audiences and the reviews, so far, have been little short of ecstatic. He’s currently in negotiations with the BBC about writing a couple of episodes for a new hard-hitting drama series and, only this morning, has done an interview for the Independent on Sunday as par
t of a special feature on the new generation of ‘theatre practitioners’. And that’s not all. After much deliberation, he’s decided to accept the commission to write a second play for the Upper Street Theatre.

  There’s no doubt about it, among the four of us, he has definitely emerged as the one. It pains me to say it but I feel intimidated by him, by the seemingly unstoppable ascent of his star. It’s as if he’s marked for success, in possession of the Midas touch. I fear he’s beginning to cast a shadow over the rest of us. I don’t know about the other two but I for one will never allow myself to get caught under it. When he’s king, he’d better not look for me among his retinue – I’ll be off somewhere plotting to overthrow him.

  That evening, feeling the need for a bit of female company, I invite Emily over for dinner. She claims to have a prior engagement but I persuade her to break it. Before she arrives I get my dealer to deliver a sixteenth of Thai.

  After dinner (my usual pasta-pesto), Emily and I stretch out on the settee and get stoned and talk long into the night. I tell her about my meeting with Miles, about all the complimentary things he had to say and about how I left his office punching the air like a schoolboy. I then describe how that feeling became dissipated after seeing the guys in the square, to which she says, ‘You must try not to put yourself in competition with people, Jem. It’s the only way to avoid feelings of inadequacy.’ She’s right, of course, but avoiding competition is easier said than done. It’s a jungle out there and only the strongest survive.

  Before the night’s out, Emily lets me in on a little secret. ‘I’m done with writing. I’m gonna become a film director.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  * * *

  I arrive around 8.15 in the evening, having called to say I’d be arriving at six. I let myself in and am greeted first by Dougal, who comes shuffling towards me with his tail wagging, then by two disembodied voices.

  Mum, ‘Yoohoo!’

  Dad, ‘We’re in here, son.’

  ‘Here’, of course, meaning the front room, which is where I find them snuggled up together on the settee watching EastEnders. I kiss them both and say, ‘Should I make a brew?’ but so engrossed are they in the shenanigans of Albert Square that neither of them replies. I roll my eyes and leave the room, closely followed by Dougal.

  I walk into the kitchen and switch the kettle on. Waiting for it to boil, I sit at the breakfast table and start flicking absently through the pages of Mum’s Daily Mail. It contains the usual guff – royal stories, society columns, right-wing editorials – and, after a few minutes, I toss it aside. Then Dougal begins to whine. I try to ignore him but, in the end, I’m forced to go and fill his bowl with a few doggie-biscuits. He laps them up as though he hasn’t eaten in days and within seconds is licking the bowl clean with his coarse tongue. The kettle boils and I make my cuppa and head back to the front room.

  ‘You might have made a pot,’ says Mum as soon as I enter the room.

  ‘I could murder a cuppa,’ says Dad.

  I stare at them, speechless. Slowly their injured expressions give way to Cheshire cat grins.

  ‘If you could see your face,’ says Dad.

  ‘It’s a picture,’ says Mum.

  ‘Oh, very funny, guys – very funny.’

  They laugh. Still licking his chops, Dougal slopes by and goes and settles into his basket.

  ‘You’ve been feeding him,’ says Mum accusingly.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Liar,’ says Dad.

  We watch Dougal for a few seconds. He does a couple of 360-degree turns then lowers himself on to his cushions, his body curled into a semicircle, his head, flecked with grey, lying across his two forepaws. Seeing him like that, all warm and cosy and in the bosom of people who dote on him, almost brings a lump to my throat.

  Later that evening I deliver my news.

  ‘An agent,’ says Mum. ‘That’s encouraging.’

  ‘Let’s hope it leads to something,’ says Dad.

  ‘Fingers crossed,’ I say.

  To take the focus off myself, I ask them if anything new has happened in their lives since I last saw them. Mum says that, while out shopping in the local Safeway last week, she ran into an old friend whom she hadn’t seen for a few years. Dad’s news is even more shocking. Last Saturday, while Mum was out walking Dougal, he had a visit from our next-door neighbour, Mr Singh, who wanted to borrow some sugar. Not long after this revelation I retire to bed.

  I come downstairs the following morning, dressed in my checked bathrobe, to find that Mum and Dad have already left the house. There’s a note for me in the kitchen, signed by both of them, saying how nice it would be if I was there when they got back. It has instructions on where to find which food in which cupboard and a reminder, underlined thrice, not to feed Dougal. I have a cup of coffee, empty a few biscuits into Dougal’s bowl, then step out into the garden for a bit of fresh air. There’s a strong gust in the air and dark brooding clouds in the sky, a sure sign of rain. The pear tree has already shed most of its leaves, the wind swirling them about the lawn like mischievous sprites.

  One of my earliest memories is of me and Dad in the garden picking up dead leaves. Usually we’d clear the lawn using only our hands but, on windy days when leaves blew in from far and wide, Dad would be forced to get the wheelbarrow out. We used to play this game where he’d chase me with it. If he managed to corner me, which he usually did, I had to fall, backwards, into the bed of collected leaves. Dad would then wheel me round the garden at dizzying speed until Mum, alerted by my shrill laughter, would come and ask us to show some respect for the neighbours. A la recherche du temps perdu.

  I return indoors. It briefly crosses my mind to hang around till Mum and Dad get back but the thought of having to kill all those hours dissuades me. I write a note giving several reasons why I had to leave and, an hour later, around midday, I’m back in Ladbroke Grove.

  * * *

  I spend the next few weeks doing various forms of menial work. Leafleting, canvassing, dishwashing, labouring, lawnmowing. I get most of the work through one agency but, a couple of times, they fail me and I have to cast my net a bit wider. I also get through about forty of the most rotten plays it has ever been my misfortune to read. Piers sends them to me in the post (he still thinks it’s a bad idea for me to visit him at the theatre) with a note saying, ‘Good luck. And please try to be more gentle with your criticisms.’ In the gentlest possible way, I slaughter each and every one.

  Weeks go by and still no news from Miles. Evan thinks I should give him time, says he’s probably doing all he can, but I can’t help thinking I was a fool to get my hopes up. Miles’s flattery and big talk was clearly just that – flattery and big talk. How could I let myself be taken in by him? Me of all people? Mr I’ll-believe-it-when-I-see-it-and-not-a-moment-sooner. I decide to put him from my mind – move on. And that’s when he calls and with the best news – news I’ve waited all my adult life to hear. Not one, not two but three theatres are interested in staging my play. I almost collapse when he tells me but I compose myself enough to ask who they are.

  The Finborough, the Old Red Lion and Hampstead. ‘We won’t bother with the first two,’ he says, ‘they’ve got no real money. I just thought you should know of their interest. Hampstead, on the other hand …’ and he goes on to tell me how desperate they are to produce the play and how much they’re willing to pay. He suggests I come into the office for a fuller discussion. We arrange a day and time and he hangs up.

  For a moment I’m stunned, unable to take it all in, but eventually it hits me and I start jumping around the room and screaming at the top of my voice, ‘Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssss!’ Eventually I collapse, exhausted, on to the settee. After a few minutes desperately trying to catch my breath, I decide I need to speak to someone, share the good news. Without thinking, Emily is the first person I call.

  She says, with more than a trace of jealousy, ‘That’s it – that’s the break. Well done.’

  I thank he
r, hang up and immediately call the folks. It’s the middle of the day and I know they won’t be in, so I leave a breathless message to say that I have fantastic news and that they should call me back as soon as they can. I call Evan next. There’s no answer on his landline so I try his mobile. I catch him just as he’s about to go into a meeting with some people from the BBC’s drama department. I quickly tell him what’s happened and, to my surprise, he starts shrieking down the phone. Before he hangs up, he makes me promise that he and I will get together that same evening for a celebratory beer. I call Ollie, not expecting to get him, but he picks up the phone after one ring. There’s loud music playing in the background and I have to wait a second while he lowers the volume.

  On receiving my news he says, ‘You’re shittin’ me.’

  ‘It’s the gospel,’ I assure him and his response is, ‘Bo! Bo! Bo!’ which, if memory serves me correctly, is meant to be a three-gun salute.

  And lastly I call Sarah on her mobile. ‘How fantastic. I’m so proud of you.’

  After I’ve finished talking to her, I stretch out on the settee with the sole intention of settling my dangerously erratic heartbeat. I take several deep breaths, in through my nose, out through my mouth, and slowly the drum beat in my chest becomes less and less insistent. I lie there staring up at the ceiling for a good hour, until finally the euphoria wears off sufficiently for me to raise myself up into a sitting position.

  Only then do I feel able to look at the thing rationally, objectively. Hampstead. I would have preferred another space, somewhere a bit more fashionable, less fuddy-duddy, the Bush for example, or the Crucible, but, hey, one can’t have everything. Anyway Hampstead isn’t so bad. Yes, I know I said a lot of negative things about it and some of it I stand by but I’m no fool – I could do a lot worse. And let’s not forget, this is the very same theatre that gave the world Abigail’s Party and launched the career of one Mike Leigh.

  A few days later I go and see Miles. Before he has a chance to say anything, I shake his hand and thank him with a heartfelt sincerity that embarrasses both of us. He then thanks me for letting him handle ‘such a wonderful play’ and the meeting threatens to turn into a mutual admiration society. The backslapping continues for a good few minutes and eventually we settle down to business.