PRETTY BOY TIGH
RICHARD BLANDFORD
Ebook version published in 2014 by
Galley Beggar Press Ltd
Norwich
Typeset by Galley Beggar Press Ltd
All rights reserved
©Richard Blandford, 2014
The right of Richard Blandford to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
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PRETTY BOY TIGH
‘So you’re the new pretty boy, then?’
Tigh smiled at the fat man who was standing in the rain, clad in a long black coat and trilby, smoking a wet cigarette. The fat man did not smile back.
‘I… don’t think so,’ said Tigh, waiting for a sign, a smile, indicating it was a joke. The fat man smiled a lot whenever Tigh had seen on him on telly, on the odd morning when he babysat his nieces. Even though he was always falling over or getting a pie in the face, the fat man never stopped smiling for long.
‘Oh, you are. There’s always one. It’s part of the formula. Sporty girl. Sparkly girl. Nancy boy. Pretty boy. Fat clown. Been that way since the channel started. I’ve seen them come and go. But they’re always the same. Though I’ve been the only clown, of course.’
Tigh waited still for some giveaway of emotion on the clown’s face. His eyes were slightly bulbous, somewhat dead. The jowls that hung from the corners of a broad grin on the screen sunk down into limp folds. He looked old. On telly he didn’t look old at all.
Tigh couldn’t think of anything else to say. He shuffled awkwardly.
‘What’s your name?’ said the clown, breaking the silence.
‘Tigh,’ he said.
‘Why is your name “Tie”? That’s a stupid name.’
‘It’s spelt T-I-G-H.’ Tigh rolled his eyes. ‘My mum was a fan of some science fiction programme when she was growing up. Not Star Trek, another one. Anyway, one of the characters was called Captain Tigh or something, so that’s what she called me. So I guess it’s not such a surprise I ended up in television.’
‘Better hope you stay in it. Your name would be ridiculous in any other profession.’
‘I… guess so. I know who you are.’
‘Yes,’ said the clown. ‘Everyone does. Anyway, you’d better go in. You’re getting wet out here and you’re dressed for a school sports day.’
‘Yeah,’ said Tigh. His tracksuit top was damp, and his hair was starting to flatten. He could taste gel running down his face and onto his lip. It hadn’t been raining when he’d left for the train and now he felt stupid for not checking. He also felt stupid for standing in the rain now. But then it wasn’t every day you got to talk to Toby Pegg. Except now he would, many days, he thought. They were going to work together.
Tigh opened the glass door. Toby didn’t move.
‘You coming or-’
Toby shook his head. ‘I’ll be in later. They can start without me. Can’t stand those meetings. Having to pretend to like those fuckers. Not that I bother.’
‘Oh, ok. I’ll see you in there, then.’
Tigh climbed the steps, went to the reception desk and gave his name to a young woman who, after a quick glance, Tigh thought he might want to sleep with. In return he was given a pass to be worn around the neck and a set of directions to a numbered room. A security guard nodded him along the way, and after one wrong turn and a retracing of his footsteps, plus a visit to a bathroom to fix his hair and get the damp off his clothes the best he could with the hand dryer, he came to a door. He pushed it softly, and stepped inside. There was a round of applause. People were standing. Someone shouted his name.
He recognised Angela, the Station Controller, and the producer, Martin. They had interviewed him, several months ago, after he had impressed at the audition. ‘The camera loves you,’ Angela had said. There were others he recognised too, he thought, from the telly. But nearly everyone in the room looked young, fit and happy - in bright colours, like kids’ TV presenters - so it was difficult to be sure who was someone he might have seen, and who wasn’t.
Martin shook his hand. Angela leaned in for a double-kiss on the cheek.
‘Glad to have you,’ she said.
He was handed an orange juice in a wine glass. Martin put his hand on his shoulder and guided him to a central point.
‘Tigh, I’d like you to meet your teammates. Wait a minute, where’s Toby?’
‘Oh, he’s outside,’ said Tigh. ‘I’ve talked to him already.’
Martin shook his head. ‘Yes, well, as you’ve probably gathered, Toby is a law unto himself. This is Craig.’
‘Hello,’ said Tigh, as his hand was shaken softly by a man several years older than himself, a blonde side-fringe blocking eye-contact until swished away by a shake of the head.
‘Hello there, Tigh, nice to meet you. Saw your audition tape, by the way. Great stuff. Really looking forward to working with you.’
Martin’s hand on his back requested he turn to his right.
‘And this is Natalie. We call her Nats.’
Bleary eyes looked out from dark make-up and glitter. Her lips were purple and so were parts of her hair. Mixed race, Asian. Tigh liked that. She wore a heavy metal t-shirt and a dress that was almost a tutu, ripped tights, high boots. He went in for an air kiss. She only just noticed in time.
‘Sorry, not really with it today,’ she said.
‘And this is Bronte.’
A hand was held out firmly, its grip almost too hard. French bob, running top. Her eyes twinkled, while her smile somehow felt both like a hug and a wall.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ll like it here. It’s great fun.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
Tigh found himself thinking about naked gymnasts.
‘Just don’t step on Toby’s punch-lines and you’ll be fine,’ said Martin, bringing him back to the room.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t. He’s a legend, isn’t he? I mean, I don’t watch the channel much, obviously, but I know all about him.’
‘Don’t watch the channel?’ said Craig. ‘Get out!’ He pointed to the door.
Everyone laughed. Except for Nats, who was running a necklace through her teeth and looking into a corner.
Martin gestured to one of the youths keeping a respectful distance from the talent.
‘Sam, can you go and find Toby? He should be outside somewhere. Probably having a fag in the car park.’
Angela muttered something in Martin’s ear and disappeared out the door, followed by an assistant with a clipboard.
‘Ok,’ said Martin, ‘we had better get started. Can’t wait all day for his Peggness.’
Tigh was directed to a seat at a square arrangement of tables, opposite Martin and Karen, the links director. Bronte sat to his left, Craig to his right. Nats sat nearest the corner, her fingers drumming. In between her and Craig, an empty chair waited, a black hole in the room. Tigh thought about who he would rather sleep with, Nats or Bronte. He already knew he would sleep with Angela. The idea of an older woman excited him. He did not thin
k he wanted to sleep with Karen. She was plain and dumpy. But it was only the plainness that bothered him.
A thick folder of scripts was put in front of each of them.
Karen skimmed through her folder. ‘Toby… Toby… Toby…’
The door swung open. Toby walked in, still wearing his dripping hat. He peeled off his coat, and handed it and the hat to Sam, following in his wake. He sat down in the empty seat.
‘Right, let’s get started,’ he said, flicking through the script. ‘I fall down. I pull a face. I say something in a stupid camp voice. Same old shit. Do it in my sleep. Do we even need to read through this?’
‘Toby,’ said Karen, ‘Tigh is new here. This is his first day. And it would be good if we took things slowly for his sake, so he can get a feel for things.’
Toby leaned forward and looked at Tigh, as if for the first time. He frowned.
‘Oh, all right then. But no hanging about. I’m turning on Christmas lights this evening.’
‘We won’t keep you,’ said Martin.
‘Ok,’ said Karen. ‘1A. That’s… Toby and Tigh.’
Toby read, muttering. ‘There’s a knock on the door, I go to answer it, I fall over, stand up, open the door… Why, hello!’
Toby came to televisual life. The smile. The glow.
‘Hello,’ read Tigh. ‘I’m looking for Funny Heights House.’
‘You’ve found it, sir! This is Funny Heights House! Are you the rent boy I ordered?’
‘Stick to the script, please, Toby…’
‘You’re doing shit.’
Tigh looked over his shoulder. Second day on the job, first day of filming. The sun was going down, heavy dramatic clouds threatening to rain again, as he waited for a taxi to take him to the station. His head was buzzing from work, and he felt like smiling, although his limbs felt heavy. His smile went away as Toby sidled up to him.
‘Really? I thought it went ok.’
Toby offered him a cigarette. Tigh shook his head.
‘Nah, it was shit,’ said Toby. ‘You’re doing it all wrong.’
‘Really. Why?’
‘You’re sticking to the script. You’re meant to work around it, build on it. Make it funny.’
‘I thought I was. Angela laughed at something I did when she came down. I heard her.’
‘Nah. You’re holding it all in, looking over your shoulder. Trying not to look too stupid because there are adults in the room. But get this. No one there is really there. There’s one person who matters, and that’s a three year-old kid sat at home fucking miles away. Don’t matter what Angela thinks now. What matters is what she thinks when she gets the audience feedback and it says all the kids watching think you’re a cunt. That’s the mistake the last pretty boy made. Angela thought he was the dog’s bollocks when she hired him, and he was out on his ear in less than a year. Angela’s not your boss. Forget that, you’re fucked.’
Toby looked up at the clouds, as if willing them to rain.
‘People think the programme links aren’t that important,’ he continued, ‘but they are. They’re more important than the shows. They’re what make the kids know that this is for them. It’s their special place among the nine hundred channels out there. The programmes will reel them in but it’s up to us to keep them watching. And to be able to do that, you have to know them. Know how they think. Know what makes them laugh. Know what makes them feel safe. So fuck the script. The script is nothing. It’s all about you. It’s about how you make them feel. You have to stick a big fucking slab of yourself down for them. It has to just be there, in their face.’
The mouth inflated into a fat clown grin. His eyes moved close together then far apart. The cheeks wobbled. He didn’t look old. Tigh found himself laughing.
The grin disappeared.
‘Of course, there’s loads of stuff they won’t let me do. I want it to be more balletic, like Keaton or Chaplin. Instead I’m Benny Hill for toddlers.’
Tigh thought that Toby might be too fat for ballet.
A taxi entered through the gates of the industrial estate where the studio was located, up the driveway between rows of evenly-spaced topiary shaped like bells, and stopped in front of them.
‘Is that mine or yours?’ asked Tigh.
‘Don’t matter. I’m taking it. Got a photo-shoot for the panto. I’m fucking late already.’
Toby opened the car door. Tigh could hear the taxi driver telling him to put his cigarette out, and how his little boy loved him. The cigarette lay smoking on the ground as the taxi drove away. It had begun to rain. Tigh sighed.
‘Alright?’
There was a tug on his sleeve. Bronte winked at him as he turned.
‘Yeah,’ he laughed. ‘Toby’s just stolen my taxi.’
‘He is such a…’ She laughed too.
‘I dunno. He’s ok. He was giving me good advice, I guess.’
‘Advice?’
‘Yeah. Said I wasn’t putting enough of myself into it. I dunno, I thought it was going ok, but…’
‘Well, hope you don’t mind me saying, but I’m afraid he’s right, a bit. You reminded me of Gavin.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The guy before you. I’ve seen them come and go, but he went fast.’
‘How long have you been doing this, then?’
‘Five years now. Seems like fifty. I’m getting too old. They’ll shuffle me off soon.’
‘But you’re so good.’
She pinched his cheek.
‘Ah, you’re such a charmer. Listen, do you want to put your taxi off for half an hour, go back inside, and we’ll go over some stuff for tomorrow. Get your creative juices flowing a bit. I’ll teach you everything I know.’
‘Everything?’
‘Mmm… maybe not everything.’
Tigh aimed for a high note and missed. Bronte laughed, rocking the plastic chair she straddled backwards and forwards.
‘Ok,’ she said, ‘you need singing lessons.’
‘But it was funny,’ he said. ‘I thought funny was good.’
‘Yeah, it’ll be funny once. And then you’ll be ruining all the songs and it won’t be. Seriously, Gavin couldn’t sing either…’
‘Was this Gavin good at anything?’
‘He made great chai tea,’ said a voice from the corridor. ‘Just the right amount of sugar.’
Craig poked his head round the door and into the rehearsal room.
‘Surprised you’re still here,’ he said.
‘Yeah, we’re just running through a few things for tomorrow,’ said Bronte. ‘How come you’re still about?’
‘Got a meeting with Angela. Going to talk through my idea for a show. Fingers crossed!’
He crossed his fingers and flapped.
‘Best of luck, mate,’ said Bronte.
‘Thanks. Anyway, gotta run. Bit nervous!’
‘You’ll be fine, mate. Just do your best, yeah?’
‘Ok!’ he squeaked, departing with a comic jog.
‘He’s getting a show?’ asked Tigh.
‘He’s pitching one. They don’t give link presenters their own programmes very often, but it does happen. Toby gets a new series every year, but he’s Toby.’
‘You ever had one?’
‘Yeah, I did actually, a few years back. Health and fitness show. Star jumps and personal hygiene. One week I had to show how to scrub your feet and I got some very strange letters.’
‘From kids?’
‘From dads.’
‘Ah.’
‘Anyway, only lasted the one series.’
‘Miss it?’
‘Not really. There was a lot of jealousy from the other presenters at the time. Better off without it.’
There was the sound of something dragging in the corridor. Nats finally appeared in the doorway, pulling herself along the opposite wall as if it were covered in glue.
‘Hi, Nats,’ called Bronte.
Nats’ head circled as she tried to locate the source.
‘Oh, hi,’ she said.
Tigh was still unsure whether she could see them.
‘You go home now, Nats, yeah?’ said Bronte. ‘Take a taxi.’
‘Yeah, I’m going to… I’m just…’
‘Do you want me to call you one? I can take you home if you like.’
‘Nah, it’s cool. Someone’s gonna…’
She seemed to forget she was speaking, and carried on pulling herself along the wall, out of sight.
‘What is she on?’ said Tigh, as the dragging sound got fainter.
Bronte shook her head.
‘I dunno. Usually it’s coke with this lot. But coke doesn’t make you act like that. I’m worried about her. Just hope she doesn’t run into Martin or somebody. Word of advice, by the way. Whatever drugs you do now, stop. Press get a photo of you with white powder on your nose in a nightclub, you’re finished. That personal conduct form you signed is very legally binding. You break the rules, no one’s got your back. You’re thrown to the wolves. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen.’
‘What makes you think I do anything?’
‘Because you’re a good-looking, sociable young bloke without any commitments trying to break into show-business. Yeah, you do coke occasionally.’
‘Do you?’
‘God no. I’m the sporty, healthy one, remember? I’ve never done nothing, honest gov, not never not for years well not this one!’
‘And how do you know I don’t have any… commitments?’
‘Because you’ve let me stand well into your personal body space without even twitching.’
Tigh realised he could kiss her.
‘Thought you’d never get there,’ she said, as their lips parted.
Tigh lay next to Bronte, the covers pulled back. She lay face down on the bed. He marvelled at how well-toned she was. He wondered how often she must go to the gym.
The flat was not so far from the studio, in the next town along. They had gone to a bar but she said she felt silly sitting there pretending they hadn’t already kissed, so they had gone back to hers. Sex, then a power salad supper, then sex again. He ached. The first time he probably came too soon, which he put down to the previous few months of inactivity. But Bronte kept on wanting to prolong it with tricky positions it had never occurred to him to try before, not even in his drama school days. There was more sex back then. As an unemployed actor, less so. Even though he had always found picking up girls easy, there was something about being broke that had dampened his confidence, but two days at the channel had him once again sending out the right signals, it seemed. Bronte seemed happier with his performance second time round, although he wasn’t sure he was enjoying it as much as she was towards the end.
Pretty Boy Tigh Page 1