The Brodsky Touch

by Lana Citron

  ‘See, I told you.’

  ‘What I mean is, I’m flattered, but I can’t kiss you.’

  ‘Prick-tease.’ She leapt up like a young bunny. She was messing with my head, she was definitely messing with my head. ‘You coming?’

  WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘YOU’RE COMING’?

  My mother had just informed me of her and my father’s intentions to come to Edinburgh for the last week.

  ‘What about Max?’

  ‘Oh, he’s coming too.’

  ‘But, but …’

  ‘Don’t worry, we aren’t going to drop you in it, but it would be lovely if your father and I could have a weekend away together. Actually, sweetie, I have important news for you.’

  ‘Don’t tell me something is wrong with Max?’

  ‘No, he’s a total joy. It’s your father. He’s fallen in love.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, not again.’

  ‘Yes. I …’

  ‘Don’t tell me, she’s younger than him.’

  ‘Yes, and she has kids.’

  ‘A single mother! Hey, Mum, there’s hope for us all.’

  ‘And, well, we can’t wait to see you, Issy. Max is being very brave but he misses you a lot.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch!’

  ‘It’s fine, darling.’

  ‘I mean for heaping on the guilt.’ Ah, but parents do know just how to rile you, how to press those buttons. Lisa had caught the tail-end of our conversation and was winding me up, lolling about the kitchen in a pair of high heels and lace pants while – and this was the part that got me – eating a banana.

  ‘Can you not do that?’ I requested politely.

  ‘Do what? Eat a banana?’

  Yours truly was playing mum, cooking up a frittata and doing my utmost to ignore Lisa’s blatant provocation.

  ‘It’s the way you’re doing it,’ I further observed.

  She was undeniably doing it on purpose. Ever since our little incident she’d been teasing me, dangling herself in front of me. I mean if I’d had a wick, she would, as it were, have been getting on it.

  ‘Chill, Issy, it’s not like you’ve never seen a pair of tits before. Wanna feel?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ll give it a miss this time.’

  ‘Certain?’ Both hands cupped her breasts, she was offering them to me, practically rubbing herself up against me and that’s when Minger One burst into the kitchen.

  ‘I WASN’T FONDLING HER NIPPLES!’

  ‘Course not,’ Minger One winked.

  Lisa had excused herself, then slunk off into town to get her roots done, leaving me all alone with the Minger.

  ‘Lovely omelette Issy, ta,’ she said punctuating the end of the sentence with a very loud and resonating belch.

  ‘It was a frittata.’

  ‘So where did Her Royal Highness say she was going?’

  I pointed to my head.

  ‘Personality transplant?’ Minger One smiled. ‘We can but hope.’ Her smile stuck as she picked a piece of courgette out from her teeth.

  ‘She’s not that bad,’ I argued.

  ‘I forgot. You and Lisa have a “special relationship”. You do know Geraldine’s on her way up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Geraldine is coming.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. It was the bit about us having a special relationship.’

  She put two fingers up to her mouth and made a crude gesture from which one could only draw but one conclusion. And then it came to light that the Mingers, Adrian and all the Cave staff were under the impression Lisa and I were having a ding-diddly, you know what, a wadjamicallit, toot-toot. Stunned, I near choked on my tea and spent the next five minutes having a coughing fit.

  ‘Issy, no point denying it. Look it, you’ve been hanging out with her for weeks. Everyone calls you her shadow, you’re like a besotted teen.’

  Spluttering, gasping, I did my best to set the record straight, categorically denying my involvement. I vehemently protested my innocence, to the point of sounding like an old record, ‘No nay never no more.’

  ‘Yeah – but like, if you’re not doing her, who are you doing?’

  ‘No one!’

  ‘Expect me to believe that? Get real, Issy, I wasn’t born in the last century.’

  Ever felt like hitting your head off the wall repeatedly?

  Well don’t.

  It hurts.

  ‘Ow,’ I appealed to the Minger beseechingly, ‘honestly, there is nothing going on between us.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit. But I’m warning you, if Geraldine finds out, she’ll go ballistic. She’s got quite a jealous streak in her.’

  ‘Read my lips, Minger, Lisa and I …’

  ‘… Were seen kissing up at Arthur’s Seat.’

  CHRIST, WHY ME?

  Stumped for an answer, I slumped, defeated, down in a chair

  ‘And if you want my opinion, you’re too good for her,’ Minger One continued.

  Oh, what was the point any more.

  ‘Thanks, that’s nice to know.’

  The bathroom door swung open and a waft of cheap aftershave hit me full on.

  ‘Aye, aye, beautiful.’ Adrian stood blocking the doorway, then added, ‘Not you Issy.’

  I looked at him in disbelief. If it wasn’t me, that left only one other person and that person was a Minger. Taking a glance to my left I found that person blushing. Adrian winked at her, then plodded on. Astonished, I demanded the details, whys and wherefores.

  ‘We heard he was extraordinarily well endowed.’

  ‘We!’

  ‘We’re twins, we share everything.’

  ‘And?’ I asked.

  Up she stood and staggered over to the kettle.

  JUST SHUT UP ABOUT IT – OK?

  Lisa said she couldn’t care less about what the Mingers thought or who they did. As long as I kept a comfortable distance, Geraldine wouldn’t cotton on. ‘She’s a complete muffin,’ Lisa declared.

  The Muffin’s arrival was imminent, with the Honeys in hot pursuit. I’d had a quick debriefing with Fiona with regards to Lisa. ‘Any more conquests?’ she’d enquired.

  I refuted any knowledge of wrongdoings. Christ, the thought of the office hearing about my latest Lisa antics would have been like a repeat of the Dirty Bob fiasco and the last thing I needed.

  ‘Good to hear. Actually I’ve had a change of mind, Issy. I want to drop the case.’

  ‘Yeah right,’ I laughed.

  ‘Honestly, I’m serious.’

  If I knew Fiona, and believe me I knew Fiona, there was no way in a million years she’d ditch a case just like that. There had to be a reason. Most probably she was testing my mettle, my dedication.

  ‘After all my hard work?’

  ‘I’ve made my mind up, Brodsky.’

  I was amazed. ‘What about the evidence I have?’

  ‘Bin it. I’ll explain when we’re back in London.’

  Stunned that all I’d done was for nought, all the hours spent schmoozing Lisa rendered futile, the compromising kiss, the numerous afternoons spent buddying up in her bedroom, massaging her, brushing her hair, shaving her legs: I felt justifiably goosed.

  ‘Fiona, I can’t accept that, I deserve at least a reason.’

  ‘Geraldine and I, we go back a long way and … It’s personal. Okay, Issy? It’s personal,’ her tone turned prickly.

  Ohh, pardon me for touching a raw nerve.

  ‘It’s Nadia’s hen party. I want us to enjoy the next few days without incident. Is that okay with you, Issy?’

  ‘Sure, you’re the boss, whatever you say goes,’ I sighed, so clearly but a minion. Having invested a lot of my ‘self’ into the case, I took its abandonment personally. However, the up side meant there was one less thing for me to worry about.

  I couldn’t wait to see the Trap girls and had long forgiven them their daily irritations. My heart even warmed to the thought of a gossip with Trisha. The Honey hen itinerary began with a quick welcome drink fo
llowed by one of the more successful Festival shows before coming to view our late-night offering.

  AVANTI

  ‘I’m through to the next round of auditions for The Parlour,’ Lisa casually mentioned on our way to the hotel to meet them all.

  ‘Fantastic,’ I gasped. ‘Guess it was worth the shag, then.’

  ‘No thanks to the Casting Agent. He’s been sacked. Seems he was Nell Tony’s toyboy until she got wind of his casting methods,’ Lisa informed me. ‘And I wasn’t the only one. What a dog. Oh, Isabel, I need another favour.’

  ‘You’re going to be on TV,’ I said, awe-inspired. ‘You’re going to be a star, Lisa.’

  ‘I know. About tonight, would you mind cutting your set back?’

  I balked. ‘What?’

  ‘Not so much cutting it as sticking to your best three minutes.’

  ‘That is cutting it. Why?’

  Five minutes prior to meeting the Honeys at their hotel, Lisa informed me that a journalist from the Scotsman and a comedy-show judge had booked tickets for that evening’s performance. My jaw dropped; alas, no words came out.

  ‘Geraldine warned me not to tell you in case it made you nervous.’

  Nervous? My adrenalin shot into overdrive; I was on the verge of imploding. Dry-mouthed, I gulped.

  ‘You are not serious?’

  She swore she was.

  It didn’t bear thinking about. Christ, the expectations, people whose opinions could have an impact on one’s future.

  ‘Are you sure, Lisa?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  Lordy, but the pressure was on. I had a quick beer with the Trappiste girls, a slight giggle, a swift catch-up, but I was only half there. My mind had already wandered back to the Royal Mile, the aim being to pack out the house. Worst thing envisaged would be to spot the reviewers in the audience, scribbling away in their notebooks of judgment. There was no way I was going to blow it this time, nor was I going to cut my set short. The Mingers blasted me for even considering it an option. ‘That Lisa has an audacity. Issy, you’ve every right to be here, sure you’re miles funnier than she is.’

  I WAS FOCUSING, FOCUSING …

  G-Man, it’s me, Issy, just checking in. This time I’m really going for it. No holding back, here’s to whatever happens, so say a little a prayer, eh?

  ‘Issy who are you talking to?’

  ‘No one, just mumbling my lines.’ We stood at the back of the Caves, the four of us platzing, psyching ourselves up. Lisa nudged me in the ribs and winked.

  ‘Remember, keep it to your best three minutes.’

  ‘I’ll try, Lisa. Can’t promise, though.’

  Yeah, right, like I’d let down myself or my comrades-in-arms, especially considering they’d travelled all the way from London with a huge banner. An enormous banner with my name emblazoned on it, and they were sitting in the front row chanting.

  The house lights went down, the house lights came up. Adrian was on stage, warming up the audience.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, sit back and enjoy, for tonight I give to you, the one, the only, a close personal showbiz friend of mine, little Issy Brodsky!’

  I inhaled a deep, slow breath, then like a small, raucous rebellion, rushed up on to the stage and …

  STORMED IT

  This was like the word dying but it began with fl. I was flying. Hit by a rush of the positive, I swear I nearly fainted. Everything fell into place, the audience was completely behind me, albeit in front of me … you get my gist. For the first time ever, I no longer perceived the crowd as sitting in judgment, but more as a willing accomplice or, indeed, a friend’s one-year-old. (A young toddler dropped round mine whom I had to win over by making a complete tit out of myself. Tut, tut, reader, and I know what you’re thinking, I just didn’t think it had to be spelt out.)

  That’s the comedy juxtaposition. See, it takes a certain amount of confidence to act like an utter twat. No longer scared, I played with the crowd, looking straight back at them as if conducting an orchestra of laughter. My routine flowed, it breathed, each gag like an original thought spilling out of my mouth. I was totally in the moment and halfway through the set my eyes, accustomed to the dark, spotted my number-one choice and, just as I was about to break into my Meat Loaf love ballad, I stalled. Usually the reactions garnered from the random bloke or lady I serenaded were of mortal embarrassment. They would cast their eyes downward, groan or grimace and when I screeched out the line, ‘Will you love me forever?’ predominantly they’d reply in the negative.

  But on this night?

  Why was this night different from all other nights?

  On this night I took the microphone into the audience and made straight for my number-one choice. I performed the routine and Jake Vincent, to my astonishment, not only knew the words, but joined me in a duet. Together we gave a flawless, though tuneless rendition of ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light’. The audience went ballistic, we got a huge cheer and I milked it like a big fat Hereford. At the end I gave Jake a cheeky elbow nudge, told him if he played his cards right he’d be on to a promise.

  And from there on in it just got better.

  Sure, I’d experienced good gigs before, but this was different. I’d made a room full of people laugh as a cohesive group, not merely smatterings of chuckles here and there. Then, all too soon, it was over. High-five hand-slapping when I ran off the stage and I felt so happy, happier than I had in a very long time.

  Ranking as one of the best moments in my life, it even surpassed that fifteen-minute tantric orgasm I’d shared with a guy in Thailand many, many bare-faced moons ago. I swear I could have surfed the audience. Trisha, Fiona and Nads were freaking out, punching the air, slapping my back, promising me a raise.

  TAKING COMPLIMENTS

  Theoretically, the mere action of an audience member making direct eye contact with you, ‘the artist’, constitutes a measure of approval; add a smile and it’s a compliment of your talent; a verbal affirmation or two licks the ego nicely. Next come offers of drinks and by this stage it’s you who’s laughing, or sipping. What can I say, but the congratulations fell like autumn leaves and, as it was a blue-moon occasion, I enjoyed raking them in.

  ‘You were fantastic. Drink?’

  ‘Sure, that would be great.’

  ‘Loved your set. What you drinking?’

  ‘Anything, cheers.’

  ‘Good stuff. Fab act. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Nice one Issy, get that down you.’

  ‘Tequila!’

  ‘A swifty?’

  ‘Schure.’

  ‘You on for another?’

  A nod.

  ‘One for the road?’

  A grunt.

  A mimed hand signal that taken out of context could be interpreted as a very rude gesture but in this instance meant ‘another’, answered by an abrupt mirroring gesticulation resembling the tossing of salt over my right shoulder.

  ‘Your place or mine?’

  ‘Shorry, I’m a coeliac.’

  SOME PEOPLE LET SUCCESS GO TO THEIR HEADS

  I was one of those people. My head was at least three or four times its normal size. The Honeys revelled a while, but left before the party really got going, which wasn’t till about three in the morning. And as for Lisa?

  Poor Lisa, her act had gone okay, but fizzled out at the end. She was in a very nasty mood.

  ‘Dhon’t whorry, Lisa, everyone has shit gigs!’

  ‘Fuck off. I asked you to keep to your best three. Thanks to you and the Mingers, I had hardly any time to perform my set. You’re so selfish.’

  ‘Shhanks.’

  She didn’t stay till the bitter end and ran off back to her sugar mummy, Geraldine, who had failed to show up for the performance due to a migraine. Alcoholically diluted, I was saved by the bell-ow of the Mingers.

  ‘Issy! Here! Now!’ They slapped an arm around each of my shoulders and we ended up doing some Russian dancing in the C
ave bar. I vaguely recall it started out as the can-can but somehow our centre of gravity just kept sinking lower and lower.

  STARRY, STARRY NIGHT

  Oh, what a night, what a night it was. The Mingers, Adrian and I danced into the morning, then into a newsagent’s and bought three copies of the Scotsman. First thing to strike us was the stars awarded.

  Four glowing pointy yellow stars. Ah, how euphoria kissed us, and conga-style we danced around Bristo Square. We high-kicked it all the way to an all-night pub, came to a halting stance and then purchased a bottle of Champagne.

  ‘Four stars, what d’you reckon, like?’

  ‘F-ing brilliant, he loved it, he loved the show.’

  The cork popped and Adrian began to read out the review. ‘Titter Club, blah blah, Caves II, blah blah blah, four fresh, talented women strut their stuff, blah blah, and first up was the …

  … Excellent Issy Brodsky.’

  ‘Read it again Adrian,’ I cried.

  ‘The Excellent Issy Brodsky.’

  ‘Damn it, Ade, but I can’t hear you.’

  ‘The Excellent Issy Brodsky.’

  ‘Come on, my friend, this time with feeling.’

  ‘The Excellent Issy Brodsky.’

  ‘And again for all the doubters along the way.’

  ‘The Excellent Issy Brodsky.’

  ‘And one more time, just for the record.’

  ‘The Excellent Issy Brodsky.’

  ‘And for the sake of the near-sighted.’

  ‘The Excellent Issy Brodsky.’

  ‘And for the far-sighted.’

  ‘The Excellent Issy Brodsky.’

  And for those who wanted to buy the book, picked it up, but foolishly put it down again.

  Ha ha ha …

  We danced and drank our way back to Lemming Terrace, then collapsed to fade-out.

  ALL CHANGE

  ‘Hello?’