Break-Up Club

by Lorelei Mathias

  ‘What’s up?’ she said as she turned the key in the lock.

  ‘Actually, Hol,’ he said as they all began walking up the stairs, ‘I was having a chat with Harrie the other day, and we said we – um, might move in together at some point.’

  Holly’s face fell. ‘The Harrie you’ve known for a matter of weeks?’ she wanted to say. ‘After what you just said to Bella?’ Instead, she said ‘Wow, that’s great.’

  ‘Yeah. Her housemate is moving out in a few months, so there’ll be a spare room, so it makes sense. Gather ye rosebuds and all that! Plus it also means Bella can have her old room back - and you won’t have to put up with me smoking in the shower anymore!’

  ‘Oh, you’re right, it’s win-win,’ she said, hoping it sounded convincing.

  *

  Later, the feeling she was failing in class again was keeping her awake. By five in the morning, Holly gave up on the dream of sleep, and went to the kitchen for a drink. Her long-suffering housemate, Daniel, was sat in the lounge, watching late-night poker.

  ‘Why are you up?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve just been on lates all week, so I’m too wired to sleep. There’s some chamomile tea if you want some.’

  ‘Rock’n’roll, Daniel.’

  ‘Piss off, it helps me sleep.’

  ‘Well in that case, I might get involved! Thanks.’

  ‘You OK?’ he said as she perched next to him.

  ‘Well let’s see. Liv’s been on a life-support machine for almost three months now. Why am I telling you, you work in the same sodding building! Anyway, as you know, she’s showing no sign of improvement… which is pretty much the worst thing that’s ever happened. And aside from that – there’s no way to say this without sounding entirely pathetic – but everyone I’ve ever met seems to be settling down. So I’m on track for being a sad old spatchelor ’til the end of my days, scraping at the date-tritus at the bottom of the barrel. And that there is my lot in life.’

  Daniel laughed and poured out some tea for Holly.

  ‘I’m glad my life is providing you with entertainment.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. And hey, I can’t promise to be an expert on swine flu – it’s not my area. But I do know that Liv’s young enough to fight this thing. I’m sure she’ll pull through.’

  ‘Thank you. That helps to hear.’

  ‘As for you and your Break-up Crew…’

  ‘Club.’

  ‘Sorry, Club. I know I’ve always taken the piss out of it, but in all seriousness, I think you need to try and move on now. Not just from Lawrence, but from “the BUC” itself,’ he said, acting out speech marks with his fingers.

  Out of nowhere, a re-run started playing in her mind, of that first day on the Heath, all four of them lying back in the long grass, drinking and making daisy chains. Strangely, what was originally such a sad day, replete with grief and emotion, now seemed so carefree and happy. It was just like Bella had said – a happy memory seen through a prism can so easily become a sad one; and vice versa.

  ‘I see your point. I have come to depend on it a worrying amount, whereas I can feel the others starting to need it a lot less. It’s like they’ve all taken off their stabilisers and are merrily riding around on their bikes, while I’m still clinging on to mine for dear life, afraid of falling off,’ she said, laughing. ‘How is it possible I could miss being in a club that you need to be a massive loser to even be part of?’

  ‘Blimey. Your Groucho Marx complex just went into overdrive!’ Daniel looked pensive for a moment. ‘You know, in my ward, we deal with a lot of crack and heroin addicts. They come in from the streets mostly, looking half-dead. We give them a bed and a course of methadone. At first it’s brilliant, it gets them off the heroin. But then some have an even harder time coming off the methadone.’

  ‘That must be rough,’ she said, not quite getting the relevance.

  ‘I feel like, to some extent, that’s where you are. I think it’s time to wean yourself off the methadone. It’s time you broke up with the Break-up Club. They can still be your mates, but just try and tone down your dependence on them. Learn to stand on your own two feet a bit.’

  ‘Holy shit, Doctor Daniel. I’ve never looked at it that way but yes. I am in fact a massive addict. I’m no better than Lawrence was at drinking!’

  ‘Not to mention, you’re putting away a lot yourself these days.’

  ‘I didn’t know you cared! So OK, you’ve got me. How the hell do I wean myself off it then?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do we tell our patients? Start taking walks in the park, drinking in fresh air, smelling the flowers. Go and stand in the rain, listen to music – sad and happy music. But most of all, you need to find a way to be happy within yourself! Maybe that’s by doing something creative. I don’t know, is there a way that you can use everything you’ve been going through lately as material for something; channel it somehow?’

  ‘Mmmm. These are all good suggestions. Right. I shall start trying to wean myself off tomorrow. Thank you.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, before drinking the last of his tea and leaving the mug in the sink.

  ‘I might just have one last glass of red wine first though. Help me sleep.’

  Later that night, as Holly sat up on the balcony, eating a whole bag of microwave popcorn and watching the pink and orange hues of the sun rising over the rooftops, she hoped this was finally a new dawn over more than just N19.

  Back in bed, the red wine was failing to combat her insomnia. Whenever she closed her eyes she saw Olivia in her regulation blue and yellow gown, all those tubes strapped to her face. Then she’d open her eyes again for a minute, before closing them and finding a different piece of footage playing out: this time a funeral, with the three of them sat together in the second row. She imagined what music would be playing, what eulogies would be read. There were Olivia’s sun-tanned parents in the front row, and there was Bella, clearly finding it the hardest to keep it together out of all them, slowly breaking into the worst tantrum-ette any of them had ever witnessed, about the injustice of it all.

  As she lay there staring at the cracked ceiling, she tried not to think about what they’d all do if Liv didn’t wake up. Never mind how it would affect the Club, how would they all cope without one of their best friends? She sat up in bed, and began to think about earlier that week, when she’d been sat by Olivia’s bed. She’d been chattering away to her, rambling on about the week’s news, no idea whether she could be heard or not. But she’d liked to think that in some small way her voice had provided comfort. Which reminded her of something.

  She grovelled around for the newspaper article from the job centre. She re-read the story of Oswald Laurence, and thought about his widow being comforted by his audible leftovers. She opened up Bakerloo Bob’s forum, pressed play on some of the YouTube recordings, and made some notes. Then she read about all the different voices of the Underground and National Rail. She tried to imagine them all as real people, each of them with lives, hopes and families who loved them, who couldn’t live without them.

  She picked up her laptop from the floor, turned it on and opened up the document named ‘Mind the Gap’. Rubbing her eyes, she began to type.

  Five hours later, she woke to find Harry holding out a cup of tea for her, while the laptop lay snoozing next to her on the pillow.

  ‘Well hello there!’ she said, pretending to be a perky morning person.

  ‘You look like shit. Are you still not sleeping?’

  ‘Yes. But it’s OK. I’ve been up writing!’

  ‘How did that happen? Writing what?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t sleep, and I kept on thinking about Liv, and what if she never wakes up, and how ironic that was – I can’t get to sleep, and she can’t bloody well wake up! And then I got to remembering being in the hospital, trying to talk to her, and not knowing whether she could hear me or not. I started thinking about the importance of voice, and of being heard�
�� And then it was like it unlocked something, somewhere. For the first time ever, I finally found a way to script that idea I had forever ago. Then I just started writing a whole torrent of rubbish, kind of a stream of consciousness at first, and then it twisted and turned its way into what might actually be a script.’

  ‘Well fucking done!’ Harry smiled and sat on the floor next to the bed. ‘What did I tell you? So what’s the synopsis?’

  ‘OK. It’s probably total horseshit, but it’s about this guy who just rides the Tube all day long, listening to the TFL voice calling out the stops. Slowly we see his appearance deteriorate. He begins to look less and less well presented, then after a while his stubble goes full-beard. Only, it’s all done in reverse, so that at the film’s beginning he just looks like one of those unhappy tramps you see on the Tube. The more we see him deteriorate, we gradually see that he’s not a tramp at all – he’s just addicted to aimlessly riding the Northern line all day for some reason, and he’s really let himself go. Eventually we see him wearing a suit, looking really attractive and like he has his shit together. Then later, we might see him step off the train and change to a different line; the Victoria line. A sign that he’s finally starting to be able to move on with his life, and to put the past behind him. Then we see a flashback to him and his wife together, of a scene where they were at their happiest. And you hear her saying sweet nothings to him. The first and only line of actual spoken dialogue, which is when the audience will hear her speak, and realise it’s the same as the Tube voice that was calling out the stops. Ultimately, it’s about the depths you sink to in grief, and the importance of voice as a comfort.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Wow, you’ve really moved it on. I love the idea that these people who did seemingly meaningless voice-over jobs are now actually immortalised in some way by Transport for London.’

  ‘Exactly! I’m wondering about that “reveal” scene taking place on the Heath, on one of those real halcyon summer days where they’re just lying back in the long grass…’

  ‘Like we all did a year ago?’

  Holly nodded, her eyes brightening. ‘And then, if it’s not too cheesy, maybe some titles appear over the top… “Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendour in the grass, we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind…” ’

  ‘Well, as I always say – there’s nothing in life that can’t be improved by with a bit of Wordsworth,’ Harry said. ‘Anyway, I like it. Can I read the script?’

  ‘I would love you to.’

  Harry took the laptop and rested it on his knees. ‘Mind the Gap, by Holly Braithwaite. Oooh, hark at thou, screenwriter!’

  ‘Piss off. Like I said, I’m confident it’s mostly cack. But you’re welcome to have a read while I’m in the shower,’ Holly said, jumping out of bed.

  When she came back from the bathroom, Harry was staring at the screen, his eyes lost in thought.

  ‘Well? Say something.’

  ‘Yeah. The idea’s good.’

  ‘Really?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s strong.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But the execution isn’t quite there yet.’

  ‘See! I told you, it’s a pile of turd!’

  ‘Stop it! It’s a solid first draft. And you definitely did not need Lawrence! I love the scene where he eats his dinner off a plate, on the actual Tube, just because he’s used to them eating all their dinners together every night, for forty years. That actually made me cry. Yeah, I just think it could be helped by adding in a few things here and there, like, I think you need to see him doing more in between the journeys. Maybe we see him shedding stuff, clearing out her clothes into bin bags, slowly editing her out of his life, smelling her bottle of shampoo one last time before he throws it away – minding the gap, if you will. Then you’re laying clues that he’s lost someone and he’s not just lost. And then you could even misdirect the audience a bit, to make them wonder at first, has she left him?’

  ‘Until we see the lilies and sympathy cards and they work it out.’

  ‘Exactly. And maybe we can also see him burning some of her things.’

  ‘If he can manage to do so without the fire brigade coming.’

  ‘Then, maybe we should try and make this.’

  ‘Make it?’

  ‘YES! That was the idea, wasn’t it? When’s the next Future Shorts competition?’

  ‘I love you Harry, but, dream the fuck on! We’d be doing this on a shoestring. Worse than that – the little bit of plastic at the end of the shoestring!’

  ‘Oi, less of the pessimism! Sometimes low budgets can actually push creativity! Remember the Pythons. Those coconuts in The Holy Grail only came about because they couldn’t afford to have actual horses on set. FACT.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Besides which, if we do it soon, you can borrow all the camera kit from work, can’t you?’

  ‘Guess I might as well screw them for all I can before I go.’

  ‘Great! And I might be able to rope in one of the TV Producers from work to help. One comment – and this is a purely logistical thing. I know from whenever my agency has shot ads on the Underground that it’s expensive, forward-slash, impossible to film there. I think we’d be better off rewriting it to be set on a London bus. The idea still holds.’

  Holly nodded slowly. ‘So then we just need a director. Shame I don’t know any of them anymore!’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Or, you could direct it. You know what you want, don’t you? Why not give it a go?’

  ‘I’m an editor, Harry, not a director!’

  ‘Labels, schmabels. OK, forget who does what. Between us we’ll do the role of a first assistant director and director. We’ll just be a team and we’ll pull it off somehow. Think how amazing you’ll feel – and you never know where it might lead!’

  ‘Shit, the deadline’s next week! There’s no time,’ she said, quickly Googling the competition website.

  ‘Ah, but you’ve got to have a deadline, otherwise you won’t do it. If you don’t have a deadline, how you gonna make your dream come true?’ he sang. And in spite of the fact this reminded her of Lawrence, Holly broke into laughter.

  ‘OK, you’ve got me. Let me see – I can probably borrow a boom and camera kit from work. Then I just need an actor. Someone dark, tall, in their late twenties, with a sexy smattering of stubble…’

  ‘Mmm. Who do we know that would fit a casting brief like that?’

  ‘Ha! And who just so happens to owe me a favour!’ Holly said, picking up her phone and dialling.

  The next few days unfolded in the manner of an episode of the classic eighties show Challenge Anneka. Bella had placed an ad at Guildhall School for some extras. Somehow, a friend of a friend knew someone who had access to a double-decker bus that they could film in. And Bella herself was to play the part of ‘the Voice’, which they would record using the sound booth at work. Before long, it was shoot day and Holly was smuggling camera kit out of the studio and onto the back of a van, praying Jeremy wouldn’t see her. Next thing, they were filming, guerrilla style, on London’s South Bank.

  ‘Fuck-sticks. We don’t have a dolly,’ Holly said an hour before they were due to start shooting. ‘I knew there was something! This isn’t going to work; it’ll look far too jumpy and amateur!’

  Harry looked up from his call-sheet. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find a way to improvise. How about, Holly, you can just hold the camera guy tightly, to try and stabilise him while he walks, and then we’ll pull him along slowly. That way the camera will be a bit smoother. Not perfect, but better than nothing!’

  Holly nodded slowly. ‘It’s worth a try I suppose. Thank you, Harry. Again.’

  ‘See, improvisation!’ he said, chuckling in advance of his own terrible pun. ‘We don’t need a dolly. We’ve got a Holly!’

  Holly allowed a laugh to seep through her shell of pre-shoot nerves, and glanced up to see Luke arrive, looking extra stubbly and a stone thinner.
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br />   ‘Hello!’ he said, giving her an awkward hug with his now bony frame.

  ‘Hi! Hey, you’ve gone full beard! I like it!’ she said, relieved there hadn’t been an influx of butterflies upon his arrival. ‘And you’re gaunt!’

  ‘I’ve been on a strict diet for the part. I figured my character wouldn’t have been eating much.’

  ‘You’re a true pro, thank you! Did you bring your razor for the clean-shaven scenes later?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Ace! We’re just about ready to start turning over. Thank you so much for doing this, Luke.’

  ‘Hey, it’s the least I could do,’ he said, somehow not needing to explain why. ‘And I always said it was a nice idea. So which way’s my trailer then?’ he joked.

  ‘Actually, we’re all using that Starbucks over there as our dressing room and unit base. Hope that’s to the talent’s liking?!’

  ‘Perfect,’ he said, heading off to get changed.

  When he came back, Holly took a deep breath and took up her position behind the cameraman and the director of photography, both of whom were friends she’d drafted in from Prowl. Once they were all fed, watered and in first positions, she began.

  ‘Everyone! So HI! Thank you all so much for giving up your time for this. The first thing to say is, please bear with Harry and I, as this is actually our first time playing at being “Director and First AD”. I won’t lie, there’s going to be a fair amount of making things up as we go along. So if I say something you don’t understand then please don’t be afraid to pick me up on it!’

  ‘OK, let’s go for a take. Sound speed… turning… mark it…’

  Harry opened and closed the clapperboard with a loud clunk.

  ‘Camera set.’

  ‘And, action,’ she said, feeling like a total fraud but somehow managing to convey a semblance of confidence.

  After a few hours of filming, they stopped for a food break.

  Holly bit into a sandwich while looking over the shot list, trying to figure out how they were going to get it all done in time.