The Brodsky Touch

by Lana Citron

  She nearly gagged. ‘Shit, Issy, cancer? So … so that’s why you’re always asking me about Geraldine! You think I’m a total bitch.’

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  She was laughing, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘You twit. Geraldine is much more than a fuck to me, she’s … she’s …’ (A meal-ticket? A career move? A deep physiological response to her relationship with her mother?)

  I interrupted Lisa with, ‘Is your mum still alive?’

  ‘My mum? What’s she got to do with Geraldine? The thing is, society wastes too much time equating being emotionally faithful to someone with sexual fidelity, don’t you think, Isabel?’

  ‘Who knows, different strokes for …’

  I enjoyed our girlie moments – it felt slightly reminiscent of boarding school, or what it would have been like to have gone to one. Secretly, I’d always wanted to go, but my mother abhorred the English tiered education system and sent me to a comprehensive for political reasons.

  Massaging Lisa’s feet, I listened as she passionately argued her case. Being an amoral bisexual, she’d probably make a great agent provocateur, I surmised, so it was a pity Fiona loathed her so much. Lisa purred at my massaging efforts. She was being over-gracious, lying back on the bed. The meditative rhythm was calming, head-clearing for me. All of my experiences of late could, I figured, be piled up, salvaged and put to good use. On the plus side I was amassing mounds of material and the mere thought filled me with a surge of positivism, triggering the realisation that I’d enough for an hour-long solo stand-up show.

  ‘Magical hands,’ sighed Lisa. ‘You got the touch, Brodsky.’

  ‘You said it,’ I agreed. ‘So, Lisa, are you seeing that Casting Agent again?’

  ‘Don’t know. The guy’s a plonker,’ she sighed. ‘Yesterday he said he wanted me to audition for a part in a sitcom.’ She announced this like it was the end of the world.

  ‘That’s so cool,’ I shrieked.

  ‘What? A measly audition, I was like, dickhead? Audition? Are you for real?’

  ‘What did he say?’ You had to admire her chutzpah and okay, it had to be said, flawless body.

  ‘He assured me it was purely protocol, swore the part was definitely mine. He wants me to read against the auditionees. Isabel darl … would you do me a massive favour and do it?’

  ‘How come you don’t want to?’

  ‘Get with the programme, it’s like being an extra in a movie. Though for you it would definitely be a good experience.’

  LOWEST OF THE LOW

  Hierarchies everywhere. Everywhere. There I was, strictly bottom-rung. The show was a comedy pilot script for BBC3 entitled The Parlour and set in the reception room of a brothel. The characters were all puppets with Pinocchio complexes, wanting to be real girls and in one case, a boy. It reminded me in essence of the Honey Trap, though a lot sleazier.

  In the lobby of the swish Caledonian Hotel, I spotted the Casting Agent. Caught him mid-bollocking, being chewed up and spat out by London’s top comedy agent, Nell Tony. She was giving him a right mouthful.

  ‘Nell, it’s all under control. These are just preliminary auditions.’ The guy was visibly quaking and she, unimpressed with his gravity-defying shape-shifting, turned to storm off and banged straight into yours truly. When I say banged, she tripped over me, landed on her posterior.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ she barked as I fussed and flustered about her, then took advantage of the situation.

  ‘I’m a stand-up, Issy Brodsky. I’m …’

  ‘I know. I remember you from the competition. You play the bunny boiler.’

  ‘Irish nurse,’ I corrected her.

  ‘The bungling idiot.’

  ‘That’s me,’ I laughed. ‘Well not really me, the real me, look here,’ and before I could do any further damage I handed her a flyer. ‘Come to the show. I can get you comps,’ I pleaded, which was like giving Harvey Weinstein two free tickets to the cinema.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ The Casting Agent spoke ‘expletive’ from the moment Nell was out of earshot all the way to the hotel room. ‘She has me by the nuts.’ From all accounts, she wasn’t the only one.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, clearly unable to recall me from the cab incident.

  ‘Lisa sent me.’

  ‘Lisa sent you?’

  ‘She said sorry she couldn’t make it and hoped you’d take me in her place.’ I gave him a cutesy look, albeit one that had outlived its potency by about fifteen years. He shuddered.

  ‘Hey mister, not in that way, but to read in at today’s auditions.’

  ‘Right,’ then under his breath I heard him mutter, ‘Fucking Lisa, bitch nearly cost me my job.’

  ‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?’

  The Casting Agent peered at me menacingly.

  ‘Just getting a video tape. You did ask me to get a tape didn’t you?’ Oopsa daisy, I must have veered off course into his bedroom and was innocently burrowing through his tapes marked personal. ‘Sorry,’ I apologised.

  ‘Right, so we’re all set. Ready to roll.’

  I spent the entire afternoon reading against every sodding actress/comedienne at the Edinburgh Festival. In they traipsed, baring their souls to the video camera on the slim promise of stardom. Some would giggle, flash rave reviews, one brought in doughnuts as a treat (I liked her). There were nerves, neuroses, egos, no-showers, no-hopers and no way José’s – even the Mingers came. Then last, but by no means least, Lisa arrived, fizzing confidence and giving it her all. She twirled her fingers through Shirley Temple ringlets, faced the camera, winked and, flashing her dazzling smile, cooed, ‘Whenever you’re ready, Mr Casting Agent.’

  And …

  ACTION EXT: RANDOM OFF-LICENCE, DAY

  Issy Brodsky takes refuge beneath the awning of an off-licence when the measly, though consistent, drizzle turns into a heavy, battering downpour, a metaphor for her state of aching loneliness. In an unknown place, with unknown people, without any support, she treads unknown waters.

  We chase the metaphor to its natural conclusion as our heroine experiences an example of Scottish dour humour. The manager of the off-licence, smiling and waving at her from inside, presses his finger on the switch to activate the automatic awning upwards. A sheet of water cascades down upon her. Skin drenched, she tries to hail a cab.

  ISSY: Taxi!

  As she hollers, a taxi draws up, only to splash her.

  (Working title: Issy Brodsky Versus Life).

  TAKE TWO

  INT: FLEA-PIT FLAT LATE AFTERNOON

  The fleapit apartment reflects the downbeat mood of our heroine and her helplessness in the circumstances she finds herself in. Issy Brodsky sits comfort-eating in the kitchen on the phone to her boss.

  ISSY: Fiona, I have the evidence required.

  FIONA: Good work, Brodsky, knew you’d deliver in the end.

  ISSY: Well, they don’t call me Double D Brodsky for nothing.

  FIONA: They sure don’t. Hope you’re ready for our arrival.

  ISSY: What do you mean?

  FIONA: Our descent en masse.

  ISSY: In inglese per favore.

  FIONA: Nadia’s hen party!

  Damn, I knew there was something I’d forgotten. Fiona had come to the rescue magnificently. When Nadia revealed her pregnancy, having secured full maternity benefits, she also let slip that she’d put me in charge of the hen party. Fiona assured her it was under control and the Honey Trap were taking a jaunt up north to celebrate.

  ‘Can’t tell you how much we are all looking forward to hanging out with you showbiz types, experience some of that razzmatazz, indulge in some debauchery, soak up the glamour of the rich and famous.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I yelped, hoping they wouldn’t be too disappointed with the reality.

  REALITY

  The Titter Club had hit a midway Festival lull with still no reviews, which made for dwindling audience numbers. It was ge
tting progressively harder to pull punters in off the street. Lisa’s performances were slipping and she blamed it on us. She suggested in the chummy tones of a Famous Five member that we all pull together and redouble our efforts on the flyering front, an observation that wouldn’t have been so explosive if she had ever done any. Of late, the Mingers had been teasing Lisa, claiming she was a born-again Madonnaist or a fundamental diva.

  ‘At least I’m not a couple of fat slags,’ she sneered and then abruptly ceased all communications with them.

  Yep, there had commenced a battle of the egos at Lemming Terrace. Tensions were running high in the house, with patience in short supply. Someone kept forgetting to put the top back on the toothpaste (me), food had been plundered (not me), and all the mugs and cups had mysteriously disappeared (not me). Usual household niggles stacking up, piling high ready to collapse, and all made worse by the fact that we worked together. The Mingers were categorically not impressed. Added to this, they exposed Lisa as the mug thief. Seven were found in her room, lining the window pane. She was also deemed a biscuit thief (aka the food plunderer), exposed by the crumbs all over her sheets and, finally, a mere thief. Two of my CDs, their hairdryer and Epilady, and Adrian’s iPod were all found in her wardrobe. The Mingers accused her of being a lying, thieving, scuzzy bitch and, in her defence, Lisa claimed she had just borrowed them.

  A huge argument ensued. Minger One had to restrain Minger Two from giving Lisa a ‘good slapping’. Lisa provoked the pair further with her superior education, mocking their baseness and predictive class behaviour. Adrian ended up restraining both Mingers and I offered to put on the kettle and make some tea.

  We were entering week three of the Festival and our spirits were on the wane. To compound this, I had sat through two hours of student Strindberg, three ‘dance performances’, German stand-up, Belgian rockers, Dutch mime artists, short plays, shorter films, works in progress, cabaret, komedie. I had watched loads of young kids thinking they were presenting the world with a brand new, revolutionary, unique way of looking at things, which I’d seen done a million times before. I trawled the late-night bars with an added purpose besides inebriation, but nothing, nowt, nada, rien, zilch rendered since first I did glimpse Jan from the porch of death’s door.

  Ah, how disillusionment coloured my dreams of whirlwind success. The night before we’d had to cancel the show, as no one turned up and then came the evening of performing to just six people. One more than in the cast. We gave our audience a choice, their money back or us. Surprisingly, they chose the latter, forcing me to rethink the delivery of my act. Nurse Issy Brodsky was nothing if not over the top – halfway through I’d break into one of Meat Loaf’s classic love ballads and serenade an unsuspecting member of the audiece with my off-key vocal tones and air guitar. I hazarded a guess that the only way it would work was to drastically adjust the volume and to whisper my set.

  Oh, so quietly …

  Ironically it proved to be our best show to date. What the audience lacked in quantity they made up for in generosity, being liberal with praise and salutary aftershow drinks.

  Indeed, the evening of my whispered performance marked a turning point for me. Comedically I moved out of intensive care, the ward, the hospital and was in the taxi on the way home. From that evening onward, performance-wise I was on an upward trajectory, a little acorn ego was firmly taking root. I acquired an ‘attitude’ and it grew on me like an extra layer of skin. See, as a performer you need some amount of talent but, curiously, not that much. If you wanted to succeed as a comedian or even just succeed, you need rhino skin, a presidential determination and a fundamentalist belief in yourself. I was learning a lot from Lisa and told her as much. She seemed genuinely touched. Sometimes there really was no room for self-doubt.

  ‘COME ON ISABEL, YOU CAN DO IT’

  Sunday afternoon. Lisa and I set out to conquer Arthur’s Seat. I’d wanted to go to the Summer Fair with the Mingers, but had been put in an ‘it’s me or them’ situation and was now being dragged jogging up the mountain. Too much alcohol and not enough exercise dictated physical punishment for me, while Lisa seemed to be taking it in her stride.

  Running ahead of me, her blonde curls bobbed carefree in the rare, precious Scottish sunshine, her flat, fake-tanned midriff contrasting splendidly with her Juicy Couture tracksuit.

  For the first time in weeks the wet weather was holding off and crowds appeared, along with the Fair that had set up on the Meadows. The fun was all-inclusive, and out crept the underclass, their pasty skin instantly breaking out in rashes on impact with fresh air. There was Mummy and Daddy Fuck-Up with their two wee ones out for the day. The youngest was the same age as Max and there all similarities ceased. His eyes were old, his face prematurely aged, his manners adult and shoulders hunched. He scurried forward, doing his best to keep up. The family stopped and sat themselves on a low wall, presenting a tight, united front and the father began playing with his son. He raised his hand as if to strike the boy, then at the last minute retracted it. The parents found this hilarious, the child relaxed a little and enjoyed the attention he was getting. He started to laugh and then the father whacked him for real.

  WHAT YOU LOOKING AT?

  The whole of Edinburgh lay before me. I’d made it to the top of Arthur’s lap, and peered out across the landscape. I felt invincible, even though the steep ascent had given me a cardiac workout and, from my panting, one I was obviously in much need of. Gaining perspective, chest heaving, hands on what once was a waist, I collapsed at Lisa’s feet, lay back in the long grass and let the weakest of rays shine directly on to me. Lisa sat beside me with her arms clasped round her knees.

  ‘I spoke to Geraldine today,’ she announced.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She sounded a little distant.’

  ‘That’s dying for you, the body slowly begins to shut down and you start disconnecting with the outside world. I’m sure she’s really missing you.’

  ‘Isabel, you’re crazy! She’s coming up this week.’

  ‘Really?’ I spluttered, surprised at her speedy recovery. Medicine just keeps getting better.13 ‘You looking forward to seeing her?’

  ‘Mmm.’ I resented Lisa’s capacity to be so noncommittal. Having initially labelled her an easy read, I found she was far more complex than envisioned. Over the past few nights she had calmed down on the predatory-female front and forgone any extra-curricular relationship activities. ‘I saw your number-one choice, Jake Vincent, last night.’ So wrapped up in my troubles I’d forgotten about my number-one choice. ‘Apparently, he’s a total womaniser.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I queried, eyebrows raised.

  ‘I don’t for sure, just what I’ve heard. I’m meant to be seeing him tonight,’ she smiled coyly.

  ‘Jesus, Lisa,’ I exclaimed, totally miffed with that information, ‘I am so jealous; first it was Crispin, then the Casting Agent, now Jake!’

  She stretched out, turning on her side to face towards me. ‘Hark at Miss Virtuous. Exactly how many guys have you had since the beginning of the Festival?’

  ‘A big fat zero.’

  Lisa gasped. ‘Really?’

  Loathed to admit it, but there you go.

  A FESTIVAL VIRGIN

  Well, I’ll be damned. A rare thing indeed in days like these. In animal terms I was a dodo. Shagging around was part of the contract. It was more than obligatory. It was compulsory. Performers were responsible for all show losses accrued, producers’ fees, printing costs, etc, etc, and also for the casual spread of STDs. Remaining a Festival virgin was like a fat kid sitting in a candy store refusing to indulge.

  ‘Not possible, Issy, unless of course you are …’ What occurred next took me unawares. I was ambushed, straddled, Lisa’s face looming over mine, her arms pinning mine down. ‘I bet you’re an undercover …’

  ‘What?’ Shit. ‘What?’ Don’t say it. My first thought was she knew, had probably known for ages that I’d been tailing her, and
the game was up.

  ‘An undercover Sapphic.’

  ‘Phew, what a relief,’ I splurged, ‘I mean …’

  And then the sun eclipsed the moon and she, well, she kissed me.

  Her lips on mine, the softness, the velvety softness.

  Her tongue slowly easing my lips open, flickety flick …

  Aye karumba … then straying into my mouth …

  Holy moly … flirting with my tongue …

  I tell you it was … it was …

  It wasn’t on.

  Internal alarm bells rang out, Oh yea, oh yea, oh shit, my sexuality was in crisis, exchanging fluids with another woman, was I that desperate? This was all Scarface’s fault. Could I be? Could I possibly be?

  ‘Get off,’ I yelled, coming up for air.

  ‘Why, afraid you’re enjoying it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really?’ She leaned over and kissed me again, inducing an all-over body tingle. Cruelly she laughed at my obvious arousal, flushed cheeks and pointy nipples.

  ‘Yes, okay.’ Christ, what was I doing? ‘No,’ I spluttered.

  ‘You’re so indecisive Issy, you should stop thinking, let go and …’

  ‘Sorry Lisa, I can’t do this.’

  ‘Why? It’s so apparent you fancy me.’

  ‘I what? Really? Me fancy you? Look, I do think you’re beautiful and you have a super body and you’re clever …’