I met Lauren’s mother’s side the next day at a barbecue. They were a lot quieter than her dad’s lot, but very friendly. I was invited to a stag do (Lauren didn’t let me go in the end) and her cousin’s wedding ceremony (I did go to that). It was nice to feel so welcomed. Lauren met my aunties shortly afterwards.
When we got married, everything seemed solid in our relationship. Both our families embraced us as a couple. Lauren’s parents became my parents - they really did. I could talk for hours with them, have a great laugh at the pub with her dad. My biggest regret is not asking Rich for Lauren’s hand in marriage, but the circumstances made that difficult. The one thing that caused me a lot of stress was Lauren’s desire to go traveling. She’d loved the idea of it since visiting Cuba a couple of years before we met. She’d been saving for it since graduating. I couldn’t afford to go, and I was working my arse off to get a career at home. Plus she didn’t want me to join her, wanted to go with her friend from home, Natalie. She felt I’d be overprotective and hamper the experience. I had a tendency to be paranoid and the thought of her being gone for four to five months, meeting new people, possibly other men, drove me insane. A bit of Google research didn’t help with provocative wankers assuring me on discussion forums that she’d be ‘clunge plunged’ by some other bloke, or that the distance would tear us apart, she’d become someone else due to her experiences. I’d witnessed the difficulties of long distance through a few of my mates, but their relationships had survived. I wouldn’t dream of stopping Lauren from doing what she wanted. Resentment becomes poison for a couple. But it hurt that she wanted to get away, to leave me at home under the pissy grey clouds of Wales as she ventured off to Vietnam, South America and New Zealand. Fortunately we lived in a world of email, text messaging and Skype. I had to trust her, get on with my own life in her absence.
The months grew closer and her inevitable departure, the undiscovered country for our relationship - long distance - loomed. She left me Stitch, her fat brown teddy bear, to look after. He stayed on the bed, next to my bear, but the souvenir didn’t make up for her. I wasn’t okay with her going, but I had to get over myself and deal with it. Reminds me of Ed Sheeran’s lyrics, ‘I said that’s fine, but you’re the only one that knows I lied’.
The first couple of weeks were the hardest, knowing she was so many miles away, that we were separated by so much sky and sea. I became very emotional, seeking her scent as I nursed Stitch, a great hole in my life, not being able to contact her as often as I’d like. Missed her smile, her smell, gazing into her eyes, the softness of her lips, silly faces she’d pull, her laugh, her annoying knuckle-cracking, her playfully poking me in the ribs, her hair in my face, her warmth, her voice and intonations. My main fear was that things would go the same way as they did with Lisa: the texts would stop, we’d grow apart through the distance. At times, alone with my thoughts, panic would take over, contemplation of the ridiculous: a desire to phone her up and tell her to come back immediately. That’s the difficult thing about married life - you become so dependent on somebody else and it’s difficult to regain your independence.
She came back after just three months. I thought she’d find it easier having such a great time away. But with every new experience she wondered how I would have enjoyed it, wished she had me at her side. Missed me just as much. During those months I wrote a novel, even a play, had some poetry published in magazines. It felt good to get back to poetry. A lot easier, channeling my emotions, missing Lauren. Most of the stuff I churned out during that time concerned absence and distance. The experience made us even stronger when she came back. She got the desire for traveling out of her system. I regained a sense of independence that can only be healthy for a relationship. My career would force distance between us on many occasions, so this felt like a good trial.
And the sex when she came back was bloody fantastic!
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Elliott’s Recommendation
Lauren and I stayed at our modest flat during the following couple of years. But we both knew it would soon be time to move on to bigger things. I’d been fortunate enough to have a second book published at that time, a romance novel called Love and Lithium, which had been written during Lauren’s traveling exploits. My mother called it ‘soppy, women’s fiction.’ But I’m sure she was vaguely impressed by it. The novel charts the descent of a man named Lee, who goes from being a university graduate with promising prospects to a tramp, raging in the streets of Cardiff on a tempestuous night. It was regular rise and fall kind of stuff. But this ‘soppy, women’s fiction’ wasn’t like other romance novels. His lover is a fellow tramp, and the book concerns their relationship and the hardships they suffer as society tears them apart. I wouldn’t say it was my best work but I’m still proud of it as my first venture into adult fiction. Hate the title though. That was the publisher’s choice. I wanted to call it A Dog in Office, or simply Lee!
I moved from the stage to screen. I received a phone call from a girl who’d seen me in a Shakespeare comedy and liked the look (she thought I was hot - not sure if she was impressed by the acting) of me and asked if I could play a policeman in a movie she was Second Assistant Director on. I was reluctant. Even though I hadn’t done a proper movie before, it sounded like unpaid work as an extra to me, and it meant filming from 10pm until 10am in Swansea. So I cheekily asked if she could use her powers of seduction to get me some dialogue. The result was that I had my first speaking part in a British independent movie shown at cinemas and everything, with some real well known talent involved. I made friends with the Location Manager, who happened to be on set, and he promised to get me more work. The shoot was difficult given the crazy shift, and the famous actors could often be obnoxious. But I impressed the crew and even improvised a comedy line that stayed in the final cut. After arresting a robber disguised as a tiger (odd, I know) my character states, ‘Have fun at prison, Tony. You’ll have a Grrrrreat time!’ Dreadful, of course. But it had the crew in fits of sleep-deprived laughter.
Tiny parts like this, supporting artist kinda work but with some dialogue, gradually mounted as I did my best to be charming and network with as many important people as possible. Eventually the roles got bigger and I moved into television. I had cameos in various soap operas, and even played the main villain in a gothic horror series. The series had been great fun, but it was eventually cancelled due to budget constraints. I was given the opportunity to audition for that show because I’d gotten along with the director of a short film I’d played a soldier (they always had me wearing uniform of some kind) in. People started to recognize me in the streets, and I knew I’d made inroads in the acting business. But I wasn’t making big money from either acting or writing, and I worked hard just to keep my head above water. I told Lauren not to accept any more money from her parents, because we had to make our own way. Times could be difficult, but we’d always pull through and pay our bills. I’d chosen the right career path and would be successful if I stuck at it.
My lucky break came in the form of a phone call. Success results from a mixture of hard work and luck. I was incredibly fortunate to make a success of my acting career. The caller was my old friend Elliott. Since I’d last seen him, he’d been working in television as a screenwriter. He’d been involved in successful television projects, including a series called The Upstart, about a scandal involving a plagiarizing university student and a professor specializing in Shakespeare. It was a project I could have, hell, should have, come up with.
‘Hi, Daniel. It’s Elliott,’ he said.
‘Elliott, how did you get hold of my number?’
‘With much difficulty. You never did call me so we could meet up. Do you even remember me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, perfunctorily.
‘Would you like to go out for a meal? I know a fancy restaurant you may like.’
‘What for?’ I asked.
‘Well, to catch up obviously. And I have a proposition that you may find int
eresting.’
‘Sure.’
Elliott told me to meet him at a restaurant in Cardiff Bay. It wasn’t as fancy as he made out. The place had an air of superficiality about it, confirmed by pretentious silk curtains and oblong, marble-topped tables. But the food there was delicious. I ordered a mixed grill and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, although I wasn’t a great wine lover at the time. Only asked for a glass because Elliott did, and I thought it would be improper to order a pint of lager. Elliott considered himself a wine connoisseur. Amid the constant murmur of people chatting around us, he praised the ‘herbaceous wine’ and explained the processes that went into winemaking. After he’d bored me with the definitions of such whimsical terms as ‘maceration’ and ‘élevage,’ I snapped.
‘Have you invited me here just to bore me with talk of wine?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He bowed his head.
‘No. I shouldn’t have snapped, mate. But I really don’t take an interest.’
‘You should have said.’ He smiled tamely. ‘I’ve read your book by the way.’
‘Which one?’
‘The romance novel.’
‘Really… What did you think?’
‘I liked it very much. It wasn’t very conventional…’
‘It wasn’t meant to be,’ I said.
‘I liked the basic premise. It was a very good psychological analysis of the protagonist.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I just didn’t expect the sad ending.’
‘Well, I find happy endings dull.’ I plunged my fork into my steak.
‘Hmm, the narrative was very complex as well.’
‘I deliberately distorted the linear time sequence.’
‘So, it was a postmodern take on the romance genre.’
‘Yeah, I suppose it was.’
‘I can’t say postmodernism appeals to me. I find it all too nihilistic. I guess I’m a staunch believer in logic.’ He sipped his wine.
‘I find there’s very little logic in the world these days. If we believe in every explanation given to us, we become sheep.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or lambs to the slaughter.’
‘Ended quite abruptly too, didn’t it…’
‘That was intentional.’
‘How is your meal?’
‘Bloody good.’ I gave a false grin that would cause most actors to consider retirement.
‘You know, I like sitting here and talking about literature with you.’
‘I’m sure you did it all the time with your Oxford pals.’
‘Not as often as you might think.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘You’ve always wanted to do everything, haven’t you, Dan?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not content with being just a writer.’
‘I have many passions.’
‘And one of them is acting.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Have you ever heard of a writer named Jonathon Boyle?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And have you ever read the Dean Mathis books?’
‘I’ve read one or two. They’re very good.’
Jonathon Boyle was an established and admired writer. He gave birth to the character of Dean Mathis, a vengeful, cold-hearted hero with a penchant for cigars and expensive wine. Far from being an upstart, Boyle had grown up in an upper class environment and was the very picture of English elegance and sophistication, typically clad in tailored suits and hand-made shirts. But his novels lampooned English nobility. Dean Mathis disliked overt displays of his heritage, which was similar to Boyle’s. But he could never get away from it. I saw the character as a cross between James Bond and Sherlock Holmes - a detective, fighting against terrorism after losing his parents during an attack. A rogue hero, who didn’t work for any particular organization.
‘A movie producer named Derek Noland wants to put the books to screen.’ Elliott placed his knife and fork on his plate.
‘Really…’
‘Yeah, he thinks Dean Mathis could go down very well with cinematic audiences.’
‘I agree with him.’
‘But they’re having a nightmare with casting. They just can’t find someone right for the part of Mathis.’
‘Well, they need a real bastard. The character is a misanthropic wanker.’
‘They’re looking for someone to convey that.’
‘Good luck to them.’
‘I happen to be good friends with Boyle’s publisher. I’ve given the publisher a name to give to Noland.’
‘What sort of name?’ I asked.
‘The name of someone I think could pull it off as Dean Mathis.’
‘Oh, who did you have in mind?’
‘You.’
‘What?’
‘I saw you in that horror series. You were very good at playing a serial killer. You really know how to display that sinister edge.’
‘Sure. Thanks. But Mathis is a hero.’
‘An unconventional hero. You don’t like conventionality, Daniel. I’m sure you could pull it off.’
‘I’m too young!’ I laughed self-deprecatingly.
‘They’re looking for someone a little bit younger than the character in the novels.’
‘They’re not gonna go for a television actor like me.’
‘Noland is leaning towards the idea of casting a relative unknown. There’s nobody in Hollywood right for the role.’
‘And you really think I’d be right for the part?’
‘Yeah, I really do. In fact, I think you’d be great for it.’
‘But he’s a crusty Englishman.’
‘Just get rid of the Cardiff accent and it’ll be a breeze for you. You can audition next week.’ Elliott finished the last dregs of his wine.
‘I honestly can’t see me getting the part. But this is a massive favor, Elliott.’
‘We’ve always been mates. It was a shame we grew apart. I think we could be good friends again.’
‘I think so too,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much!’
‘No problem. Apparently, Noland has looked at videos of you doing television work and he likes what he sees. If you land this part, you’ve made your big break in cinema. These are big budget movies they intend to make.’
‘It would be massive.’
‘All you have to do is further impress in the audition. They like the look of you. You’re big and brash. They like that a lot. It’s precisely what they’re looking for.’
‘I’ll let you know how it goes,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’ll probably know before you do.’ He grinned.
I’d been wrong about Elliott. Although we had continuously competed against each other, he understood that our friendship was constant and not tainted by jealous rivalry. He’d taught me a lesson about true friendship. Even though we’d grown apart and didn’t always see eye to eye, he had still been there for me.
Many actors analyze the roles they’re playing to the extent that they know what toothpaste they should use during performance time. I was never one of those actors. I got to know the basic traits of my character and conveyed my personal interpretation. If an actor thinks he’s become the character he’s playing then he’s a lunatic. I was always aware that I was just acting, either on stage or television. But I did a lot of research on Dean Mathis during the week running up to my audition. Knowing the character’s background turned out to be very useful. Mathis was driven by his past, by the tragic loss of his family. But additional forces were at work, which made him very complex. He resented upper class attitudes, despite being rich. But he couldn’t deny his propensity for wine and expensive cigars. He was strong and ruthless, and he avoided relationships - including sexual ones - like the plague. He didn’t want to become emotionally involved with a friend or lover in any way whatsoever, because it could compromise his vengeful intentions. But Jonathon Boyle had a wonderful way of alluding to the character’s emotions without making
them overt in his novels.
Dean Mathis was an actor himself, not in a literal sense, but in the way he pretended to be a cold-hearted, ruthless automaton. But he revealed his emotions in the rare moments that made Boyle’s novels so special. The prospect of playing that character really excited me, because he was a sophisticated detective, a heap of contradictions. Not just an action hero. A good actor likes to play that sort of character. It’s too easy to play a regular villain, or hero. Mathis acted villainous in order to beat the villains.
Lauren helped me get to grips with the character. She told me my gait would be crucial: I had to walk into that audition room like I was capable of killing men with my bare hands. She said it would be necessary to put on a performance as soon as I met the producer, Derek Noland. So I worked on my authoritative grace and practiced an English accent. Mathis couldn’t help being a snob, so I couldn’t act like a lad from Cardiff anymore. I had to be a commanding hero, eloquent and graceful. But rough and ready at the same time.
I decided I’d wear a brown leather jacket and jeans to the audition. And I wouldn’t shave that morning, so I could appear polished not through my clothing but through my manner.
Some actors get lucky, but I didn’t really believe I’d land the part. I’d never auditioned for anything as big as that. But as I made my way through London’s hustling crowds, while the sirens sang in the landmark squares, I hoped my time had come to hit the film industry’s jackpot.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Becoming an Icon
It’s hard to act cool when you’re auditioning for the Hollywood role of an imperturbable hero. I waited in the foyer until the casting directors called me. I wiped my brow with a damp handkerchief and strolled into the audition room.
Here goes nothing, I thought to myself.
The two casting directors were sitting at the other end of the room. The first I gazed at was a spindly woman with a distinct, hawk-like face. A cigarette dangled between her lips, concluding in a precariously long nose of ash. The other casting director, a fat, greying man in his early fifties, didn’t even look at me. The producer Derek Noland sat between them. I relaxed at the sight of his kind face and warm brown eyes, and guessed his age to be around forty. The spindly woman fixed her hawk-like eyes on me as I moved towards the desk, treading across the expensive Anatolia rug and taking in the subdued lighting and pine wall panels.
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