by Simon Booker
At the time it sounded not only stupid but also pathetic. Still, her words have stayed with me – the way things do when a nerve is touched – and I wonder if she had a point. Maybe I try to be a halfway decent son because I’m hoping he’ll finally take notice. Maybe that’s why I’m trying to write a musical. It’s logical, when you think about it. I grew up around a man who loves music but seldom showed affection. If I can write songs he likes, maybe he’ll like me, too. Could it be that simple?
I kept my head down all morning and drafted articles on prospects for self-cleaning glass and the boom in aluminium composites and foiled PVCU caused by householders deciding to improve rather than move, and please kill me now. The Double Glazing Monthly office is open-plan – five women, Colin and me. Mostly, we rub along okay, except when the pressure is on and he turns into the boss from hell. Then we all start googling job ads and I fantasize about quitting and working for Deliveroo while working on the musical full time. I’m no Stephen Sondheim or Lin-Manuel Miranda but I am doing my best to be a one-man-band – writing the music, lyrics and book myself. Sometimes I wish I had a collaborator – I’d be more productive with someone spurring me on – but for now I’m trying to be Andrew Lloyd-Webber, Tim Minchin and Richard Stilgoe, all rolled into one.
If you’re thinking, ‘Who is Richard Stilgoe?’ you’ve nailed the fate of the unsung heroes of musical theatre. He wrote the librettos for Starlight Express and The Phantom of the Opera but all the kudos went to Andrew Lloyds-Bank. Nevertheless, Stilgoe made a fortune, donating huge earnings from Starlight Express to a village in India. So far, my own feeble attempts at philanthropy extend no further than the teetering pile of Big Issues in my manky bathroom, but I’m only twenty-five, so there’s time to save the world – if only I didn’t have to spend my life churning out copy on double-sodding-glazing.
At midday I snuck into the toilet and listened to the opening of the old man’s show. He seemed to be alive and kicking. One less thing to worry about. For some reason, my mind wandered to all the things Mum had taught me – the everyday life-lessons a father might teach his son. Tying shoelaces. Crossing the road. Riding a bike. How to swim. How to use a knife and fork. Chopsticks. Tying a tie. A bow-tie. How to shave. There’s a movie cliché that always makes me wince: a boy watches his dad shaving then copies him, covering his face with foam and pretending to shave his ‘bristles’. Not in our house. I learned by watching Mum shave her legs.
After lunch, I proofread a double-page spread on product certification in the PVCU window and doorframe market, resisting the urge to stab my eyeballs with a fork. Finally, I pinged my ‘road map’ into Colin’s inbox before clearing off on the dot of 5.30 while he was in a meeting with the organizers of the Glass Industry Awards Dinner, to be held at the Basildon Marriott.
I hadn’t planned on going to the New Dalston Café but the prospect of solitary spag bol followed by a fruitless evening working on They F**k You Up filled me with gloom so I took a chance on Harriet being at work – and she was.
The café was empty, the muffins all gone. She seemed pleased to see me, gave me a latte on the house then carried on cleaning up. I offered to mop the floor but she laughed, said it was specialist work and I’d only mess it up. (God, I love how she laughs.) While she mopped, she told me there might be good news on the work front but that she’d been sworn to secrecy. Something to do with some kind of voice-over about London but it sounded like more than just an ad. I asked her to keep me posted. She said she would, which I took as a good omen.
She also said yes to a drink so I waited while she closed up then helped to pull down the shutters. It began to drizzle. I fished an umbrella from my backpack.
‘What are you, ninety?’ she said. ‘It’s only rain.’
But she didn’t object when I sheltered her under the brolly. We made our way along the traffic-choked high street to a basement bar where they serve the finest cocktails Dalston has to offer and play jazz from the forties and fifties.
Settling at a corner table, she asked if I was a jazz fan. I told her I’d had a bellyful growing up but the classics were hard to beat. She asked about my childhood but the waiter arrived to take our order (mojito for her, negroni for me) and the moment passed.
Besides, I was more interested in talking about Harriet. Her father owns two greengrocers in Bow; her mum is a social worker and midwife. Both worked long hours while she was growing up so she’s close to her widowed grandmother. Now in her seventies, it was Nancy, aka Nan, who gave young Harriet tea after school, supervised homework and encouraged her to apply to drama school. She still works part-time as a dinner lady. They live near each other in Walthamstow and Harriet’s staying at her house while her parents are on a cruise.
‘What does your family think of you being an actress?’
She looped a strand of hair behind her ear. I love the way she does that.
‘Nan’s cool about it,’ she said, ‘but Mum and Dad think I’m nuts. They take the mickey out of the way I speak.’
‘Why?’
‘They say I’m posh. Compared to them I suppose I am.’ She sipped her drink and grinned. ‘Not as posh as you, though.’
‘I’m not remotely posh.’
‘Says Mr Belsize Park. And “remotely” is a posh word.’
‘You’re confusing me with my father. Belsize Park is his manor, not mine.’
The grin widened. ‘Nice use of “manor”, posh boy. What meal do you eat in the middle of the day?’
‘Lunch.’
‘Nan eats dinner, which is what you eat in the evening, right?’
‘Or supper,’ I said.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Dinner is eaten with other people – friends or guests, not just family. At a dining table. Supper you eat at the kitchen table.’
‘With guests or family?’
‘Either. Then it’s “kitchen supper”.’
‘What’s it called if you eat on your own?’
‘Pot Noodle.’
She laughed.
‘Why do we make everything so complicated?’ I drew breath to respond but she answered her own question. ‘Because we’re English and messed-up.’ She took another sip of her drink. ‘I ironed out my accent before I went to drama school. It wasn’t a posh one. They took ordinary kids, like me.’
There’s nothing ordinary about you…
Another drink and I might have said it but I held back. You’d have been proud of me.
‘I started lessons when I was nine,’ she said. ‘After school and Saturdays. Bloody loved it.’
She reeled off names of famous alumni of the theatre school, including Amy Whitehouse, a Spice Girl and an actress who appears in the sort of Sunday evening dramas Mum loved before she became obsessed with yoga and started going out every night.
‘When I’m famous I’ll go back to the school and teach kids like me,’ she said, swirling ice around her glass. ‘I’ll give them an endowment. “The Harriet Brown Award for Most Promising Newcomer”.’
I gave an encouraging nod. A half-forgotten line of poetry floated into my mind, one of Dad’s favourites. ‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a heaven for?’ Don’t worry, I know better than to spout Browning on a date. But there was no denying it – she was definitely giving me all the feels.
We started talking about how weird it was that neither of us was checking our phones every five seconds or posting pictures of our drinks. Turned out she hates social media as much as I do – well, almost.
‘It’s for old people,’ I said.
She raised an eyebrow, amused rather than offended.
‘Like me?’
I felt my cheeks burn.
‘That’s not what I meant. I was just…’
She reached out and put a hand on my arm.
‘I’m kidding. Relax.’
I sipped my drink, playing for time.
‘What’s your number one ambition?’ I said.
Sh
e shrugged.
‘Do good work, stay solvent. That’s all any actress wants.’
The waiter was hovering, on the verge of trying to blag us into ordering another round but at a tenner a pop the answer was ‘no’.
‘Feel like something to eat?’ I said. ‘My spag bol could teach Jamie Oliver a thing or two.’
‘I’m vegetarian,’ said Harriet.
‘I’ll do veggie lasagne. Ricotta, courgette, mozzarella, mushrooms.’
She downed the last of her cocktail and let me down with a smile.
‘I don’t think so.’
I tried not to feel crushed.
‘Okay, no problem.’
‘Ask me another time?’
Result!
Feeling the adrenaline surge, I remembered the opening scene in my musical: a young couple on a riverside picnic, still at the starry-eyed phase of romance. A sideways glance, a quickening of the pulse.
This is how it begins…
I left a decent tip and we walked up the rickety staircase, back to the real world. I stood aside, letting her go first.
‘Thank you, kind sir.’
Outside, the drizzle was heavier but there was now a glamour to the rain-slicked streets. The neon lights were brighter, the colours sharper. Harriet turned up her collar.
‘Thanks for the drink.’
I handed her the umbrella.
‘Pretend you’re ninety.’
Smiling, she hesitated before taking it and walking away. Then she stopped, walked back and planted a kiss on my cheek.
‘’Night, Extra Cinnamon Guy.’
She turned and hurried away, leaving behind a trace of perfume and a surge of desire. I watched her round the corner then strolled home, enjoying the feeling of the rain on my face. Earlier, the air had been cold and dank, now it felt crisp and clear, and the world was a shining, golden palace and I was winning at life. As I turned the key in the door, I realized I was humming an old Nat King Cole song, one I must have heard on Dad’s show. ‘When I Fall in Love’.
HARRIET
I was having fun till he mentioned spag bol, Cockweasel’s favourite. Silly how something like that can crash my mood, especially as I hardly think about you-know-who any more. It’s weeks since I found out about Wifey. You have to feel sorry for her. Not only is she married to a lying shit-pouch but her name is Candida and who names a kid after a yeast infection?
Damian (aka Cockweasel) always said he preferred home cooking to eating out. I thought he was just a typical Leo but now I realize he was not only a cheapskate, he didn’t want to risk being seen in public. Sometimes, usually just after we’d had sex, he’d murmur in my ear. ‘We’re in our own bubble, babe. You and me against the world.’
No, ‘babe’. Turns out it’s you and her against the world. She’s got herself a handsome maxillofacial surgeon (me neither – it’s part dentist, part plastic surgeon) and I’ve a hole where my heart used to be.
Truth is, it’s shaken my confidence, which was already pretty fragile. Not just my faith in men (that’s been rocky ever since Mum caught the Saturday girl giving Dad a blow job in the store room) but in myself. If I can be so wrong about a person maybe I’m wrong about everything. Maybe I’ll never get rid of The Thoughts or find a decent bloke. (Would it have killed him to say those three little words, just once?) As for wasting two years of prime fertility, don’t get me started or I’ll end up banging on about Annie, Dot and Freddie who, even though they have yet to be born, are my only hope of making my mark in this world.
Maybe The Thoughts are God’s way of telling me I’m wasting my time trying to be an actress. Maybe I should get a proper job. What if I’m one of those wannabes who keeps ignoring reality, plugging away till menopause then jacking it in and re-training as a yoga teacher – like the world needs more of those.
Actually, I love yoga. As well as CBT I’ve tried pretty much everything to get rid of The Thoughts – from herbal remedies like kava and chamomile to nutraceuticals (me neither) like magnesium and inositol; from beta blockers to breathing-control apps. If they do the trick for other people, whoopsie-do, but what works best for me is yoga. Mum and I go to a studio opposite the park in Stoke Newington. It’s a fair old hike but we have tea in the café afterwards and look at the deer in the enclosure. ‘A bit of girl-time,’ Mum calls it. ‘Exercise and cake. Perfect combo.’
Last time we talked about my so-called love life. She gave me the body-clock lecture – again – and I got pissed off. Especially when she trotted out that rubbish statistic – the one about women who aren’t married by thirty growing warts and being burned at the stake. FFS, how many times? Kids, yes. Husband, meh.
* * *
So I had an audition yesterday, the first for ages. I’d hardly slept and was tempted to back out but my agent would have been pissed off so I made myself go through with it, even though The Thoughts were threatening to get out of hand like I’M A WORTHLESS, TALENTLESS FRAUD AND NO ONE LIKES ME AND THE MOMENT I GET ONSTAGE I’M GOING TO WET MYSELF!
The job was in Guildford, a production of Macbeth. I wasn’t up for a big part, just one of the three witches, but by the time I got to the theatre I was sweating buckets and must have looked as if I was coming down with flu. I sat in a stuffy little room with two other actresses. (Yes, I know some people use ‘actor’ for both sexes, but it’s always sounded a bit daft to me so I stick to ‘actress’.) Anyway, they were chatting away and trying to include me but I answered in monosyllables and couldn’t stop shivering so they gave up. They went first, called by the director’s assistant, Michael. I went to the loo, twice, but couldn’t stop The Thoughts so by the time he came back for me I was a wreck. Silently repeating my mantra (‘fake it till you make it’), I forced myself to walk onstage and peer out into the auditorium. The director consulted her clipboard and smiled.
‘Harriet Brown, is it?’
‘Yes.’
I’M GOING TO WET MYSELF!
She asked a couple of banal questions, designed to settle my nerves, but I couldn’t tell you what I said in response because THE THOUGHTS THE THOUGHTS THE FUCKING THOUGHTS.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she said. ‘Ready when you are.’
I cleared my throat and took a breath. What I should have said was, ‘When shall we three meet again, in thunder lightning or in rain?’ What I actually said was:
‘Um… Er…’
I’M GOING TO PISS MY PANTS!
The director raised an eyebrow.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Um…’
She looked down at her clipboard.
‘You’re reading for the witch, right?’
‘Yes…’
BUT I’M GOING TO WET MYSELF, OR MAYBE WORSE…
‘Okay, Harriet. No pressure. In your own time.’
Which is when I said it.
‘I’m sorry… I just can’t…’
I walked offstage and ran out of the theatre and all the way to the station and waited for a train then a tube and made it back to Nan’s and told her I was fine, just tired, and shut myself in the spare room, flung myself on the bed and sobbed into my pillow for an hour.
* * *
I saw a documentary about people like me. One bloke stabbed himself in the head, trying to stop the voices. Another jumped off a motorway bridge. FFS!
* * *
Later that same day, I tried to get hold of my agent, to apologize. Didn’t go well.
‘Hi, it’s Harriet calling for Graham.’
‘Sorry, who?’
‘Harriet Brown. I’m a client?’
‘Oh, right, sorry.’
‘Who am I talking to?’ I said.
‘Sasha. Graham’s new executive assistant. Sorry, I’m still familiarizing myself with his list.’
‘No problem. Is he there?’
‘Oh. I thought he’d, like, told everyone? He went to Colombia this morning.’
‘Colombia?’
‘He’s getting married? To Pablo.’
‘Oh.’
‘Exciting, right? Love Cartagena.’
‘Did he mention anything about me before he went?’
‘In what way?’
‘An audition? For Macbeth in Guildford? Or any voice-over work?’
‘He didn’t say anything but I’ll ask him to give you a call when he’s back.’
‘How long is he away?’
‘A month. Honeymoon all over South America.’
‘Great. I’m very happy for him.’
‘Totally. And don’t worry, he checks in all the time.’
‘Good to know.’
I asked her to tell him about the Voice of London competition. She didn’t sound impressed. But it was the way she ended the conversation that made my heart sink.
‘Sorry, would you mind repeating your name?’
NO PROBLEM, RIGHT AFTER I COME TO THE OFFICE AND SET FIRE TO YOUR HAIR!
* * *
Nan’s not feeling great. She had a fall while I was working at the café. Nothing too serious but I could see she was going to be a bit wobbly for the next couple of days. Mum and Dad Skyped from the ship. They’re in Malaysia. Next stop: Hong Kong then Vietnam then God knows where. I told Mum I’m watering her plants but have started kipping in Nan’s spare room, in case she needs me in the night. She’s old-school; there’s no way she’d call an ambulance just for a fall.
‘Wouldn’t want to put them to all that bother, darlin’. Anyway, I forget the number.’
‘What number, Nan?’
‘Nine-nine-nine.’
‘That is the number.’
‘What is?’
‘The number – if you need an ambulance.’
‘Who does?’
‘Who does what?’
‘Need an ambulance.’
‘Not me, but you might.’
‘Says who?’
‘Never mind, Nan. Fancy a film?’
‘Now you’re talking. Psycho?’
* * *
As for Tom, he seems old-school in his own way. Nice manners. Opens doors. Lends you his brolly. I bet he’d drape his jacket over your shoulders if you were cold. And not only is he a good listener, he laughs at my jokes, which makes a change from the piss-wizard. Seems lots of men feel threatened by potty-mouthed, funny women. God knows why. You’d think laughs would be a priority when deciding, ‘Is this the person I want to watch staring at their phone for the rest of my life?’ Which is another tick for Tom: he never fiddles with his mobile when he’s with me, not once. On the other hand, you’d have to be seriously loved-up to marry someone with a surname like Brocklebank. I can imagine Dad’s wedding speech.