I arrive at the Manchester studio just in time for a quick meet-and-greet with the two presenters, Subha and Jeremy, in the green room. She’s incredibly pretty. Not beautiful. But pretty. She has dark skin and funny ears and a little crop of jet-black hair. Her presenting partner looks like an English Patrick Bateman. A British Psycho capable of live-reporting on his own murders without the authorities touching him. In years to come we’ll all say, “Do you remember that Breakfast TV host? How did we not see it?!” There’s literally nothing behind his eyes.
“New Old Jess” would have five minutes of material on this. She’d go out swinging with witty putdowns, jokes about his appearance, wanting a fight—and she’d get one. It would help sell tickets to the new show and nobody would challenge her on it. Nobody except herself. In the quiet of the night, “New Old Jess” would hate herself. “Just Jess” sleeps better.
They’re finishing up a segment on farming—specifically, how the tradition of handing down the farm to the next generation is becoming a thing of the past—and I’ll be on straight after that. I try to think of a joke about my mum bequeathing me her comic timing on my sixteenth birthday but abandon it just as the camera swings into position for a close-up.
Subha smiles into the camera and reads her autocue flawlessly. “Our next guest is a comedian you may think you know, but her new Edinburgh shows suggest otherwise. Jess Henson Version One was a controversial, opinionated, often crude comic. But with her new one-woman play, Happy/Sad, and her interview show, Jess Henson Asks, she’s redefining our expectations. As she says, ‘Out goes the snark and in comes openness, honesty, and sincerity.’ Here’s a clip of Jess in action.”
They show the safest, most family-friendly part of my act. I cringe at it out of context, but then remember a couple of the reviews my new agent sent me last night. I’m allowed to have faith in myself, and a timid twenty-second clip isn’t going to hinder that.
“Welcome to the program,” Jeremy says, “Jess, Jessica? What do you prefer?”
“Either’s fine,” I reply, holding back a thought that pops into my mind about him murdering me in my sleep.
“So, Jessica. Our audience will probably know you best from your TV appearances, shows like News Unfit to Print and The Final Word. It’s fair to say you never really pulled any punches on those.”
I shift a little in my seat, aware of what the viewing public might be thinking right now. Oh, it’s her. The bitch who says what she likes. Relax, I tell myself. You can’t change the past. You can’t predict the future. You can only do your best in the present.
“I didn’t pull my punches, no.”
“And—“
“Quite a lot of people got bloody noses.”
Subha leans forward. “You say that with quite a bit of sadness. Do you regret the jokes you’ve made? The things you’ve said?”
I take a sip of water, my mouth dry under the studio lights. I’ve tried not to overprepare what I want to say, for fear I might stumble or leave out a vital piece of information. But I know the bullet points.
“As a comic, there’s a value in shock,” I reply. “It takes people by surprise. Shifts their comfort zone. It’s a tried-and-tested way to get people laughing. But was it the right thing to do? It’s hard to make a case for it anymore.”
We all know I haven’t fully answered her question, so she tries again.
“But do you regret what you’ve said?”
“Regret’s a little like quicksand. If you’re not careful you can get swallowed by it. But am I sorry for the things I’ve said? Yes. One hundred percent.”
Jeremy scans his notes and says, “The new show is quite different. Should fans of your previous material skip this, then?”
“If anything, I think they’re exactly who it’s for. It’s just a different kind of funny. I hope.”
“But it is funny,” Jeremy says, picking up a newspaper and reading. “The Scotsman is just one of the papers to give you five stars. Yet almost every review comes with an opening clarifier that ‘this isn’t the Jess Henson you know and love to hate.’ ” Jeremy puts down the paper and looks at me skeptically. “How are we to know that this Jess Henson is the real Jess Henson?”
I’ve thought long and hard about this narrative being formed, that I am a different person. I’d like it to be true, but it isn’t. That was still me. I have to own that, if I’m to move on. “It’s a fair question,” I say. “One I’m not sure I have a definitive answer to yet. It’s sort of what the show is about. Amongst other things.”
“But you have changed?” Subha asks. I’m glad it’s her that asked and not him. From her mouth it feels less combative. My mind searches for an answer. Stopping at highlights and lowlights. Edinburgh. Interviewing Tom. The Clive Charles debacle.
“Everybody changes over time,” I try.
Their faces show my answer is a little too vague and mystical for ten past nine on a Thursday morning. I accept their expressions and expand my answer.
“Not too long ago, I was talking with my brother…” I wave to the camera. “Hi, brother. He told me, ‘You’ll be amazed how much easier it is to be nice.’ He’s right. Being mean is hard work. Finding someone’s weakness to attack. Wondering how far is too far. There’s only one question you ever have to ask yourself when you’re trying to be a good person.”
“Which is?” Subha asks.
“Will this make someone happy?”
Jeremy sits forward, still playing his part as the more aggressive of the two. “And what about you? Are you happy?”
The pause I make them sit through is uncomfortable for all involved.
“Someone I care about once said that I wouldn’t accept happiness into my life.”
Subha frowns and says, “That sounds like quite a mean thing to tell someone.”
There’s another pause, as I scan the room for other faces. The camera people and floor staff are all looking on, all wearing the same faces. You could call it pity. You could call it concern. It depends on your point of view.
“It was said during a fight so…I think it was supposed to be a little mean. But, in hindsight, I believe the reason it was said, was out of love. There’s certainly an argument to be made that they were hoping it would help me.”
“Did it?” Subha asks.
“I think it did.” I smile. “So, to answer your question, am I happy?”
I leave a big enough gap before I answer them and myself.
“I’m trying.”
The two presenters nod, thank me for my time, and then quick as a flash they’re ready for their next segment. I’m whisked off set and into the dressing room. When I’m alone, I look at my reflection in the mirror and say the last two words back to myself again.
44
A Miniature Drum Kit
Tom
Kingsknowe Road North, Edinburgh
August 17, 2018
“A tattoo?” I ask, more than a little shocked at the suggestion.
She clarifies in no uncertain terms, “I am not advising you to get a tattoo. I’m just telling you that I have a client who has one.”
I don’t hate the idea. I’m just surprised it’s coming from my counselor. We got onto the subject after I told her about the brakes I use to get me through periods of anxiety. The calming techniques. The words. Alice told me she counsels an anxiety sufferer who inked herself with a famous quote that brought her stillness. I know exactly the words I would choose.
Alice sits cross-legged in wicker furniture in the conservatory of her Edinburgh house. Her two dogs wander in and out intermittently. It’s not quite the Hollywood image of a psychiatrist’s couch on the forty-fourth floor of a New York high-rise, but it’s the words that count. And Alice has the best words. We’re on my seventh session and I’m already starting to see things differently. Pressure that I put on myself
is slowly being eased off. There’s still darkness sometimes. There’s still fear. But now I have the tools to step back from it.
“This will sound stupid…” I begin.
“Nothing is stupid in here. This hour is a stupidity amnesty.”
“The two versions I told you about, the version where I kept on drinking until something bad happened. I kind of wish I’d actually gone through that.”
She wrinkles her eyes as if to say, About that stupidity amnesty. Instead she asks me why I think that.
“Part of me thinks I need to actually experience rock bottom.”
“I’d caution against this sort of thinking, Tom.” The use of my name makes me sit up and pay attention. “In films and stories, we often see people ‘hitting rock bottom,’ as you say, just before everything turns out OK. But life isn’t like that. The struggles you have will—most likely—always be with you. But it was you that saw that road and made the decision not to drive down it. The idea that you need to hospitalize yourself to prove it is a very dangerous one. You’d be writing yourself a narrative that says you deserve unhappiness.”
She leans forward and delivers her next words with composure. “You don’t, Tom.”
We take a moment of silence, as we often do when something important has been said. I think about her words and find the truth in them. As my mind often does in the silence, it wanders and finds Jess. Or, at least, words by Jess.
“Yesterday morning I heard someone on the TV say that ‘regret is like quicksand.’ ”
She raises her eyebrows, which is something of a trademark for Alice. This elevation of facial muscles always means the same thing. You think you can get away with that? Be honest. Be truthful. I relent. “Yes, that someone was Jess Henson.”
“I saw it. It was a good interview,” Alice replies. “Have you thought any more about reaching out to her? Contacting her?”
I shake my head. “I’ve thought about it, of course. But…”
She fills the void. “But what?”
“This might be a cop-out but I sort of feel like the ball is in her court. Y’know?”
As she nods, it’s hard not to feel like Alice has an ulterior motive. It’s not her place to suggest I do a thing—like the tattoo, for example—but whenever the subject of Jess crops up, I feel like she’s pushing me in a certain direction. When I’ve challenged her on this in the past, she just replies by asking me why I think that. It’s either a sneaky therapist trick or it really is my mind’s way of saying it thinks I’m ready to see her.
Over the last few months, Alice and I have talked at great length about how dangerous investing too heavily into something too soon can be. The key, she says, is being someone capable of maintaining a relationship. Anyone can be with another person to stop them feeling lonely, but, she argues, it’s more important to make sure the relationship is the right one. Especially when loneliness is a such a personal trigger for anxiety and depression.
I confess to her, “I do have this worry that I’m still not right for a relationship. Of any kind.”
“These sessions aren’t meant to scare you into analyzing your potential as a partner,” Alice reminds me. “You should feel free to voice your doubts here. By voicing them, you’ll see how you’re stronger than them. You’ve made huge improvements over the last month. But, yes, you’re right. Your history does suggest you should use caution.”
The caution she’s warning of isn’t to stop me doing or saying anything. That’s never been my problem. She means caution against thinking that someone else can save me. That having someone will fix me. I’m still a fool on a lot of things, but not this. Only I can save me. Others can help.
Once the clock on the wall ticks over the allotted fifty-five minutes, Alice becomes an entirely different person. It’s like she’s in character when she’s a therapist, and as soon as she’s done for the day the wall drops down.
“Where are you off to now?” she asks.
“Aside from the tattoo parlor?”
She laughs and smiles, something she never does “on the clock.”
“It works for some. And then?”
“I’m off to do a little shopping. My friend Scott had twins last week.”
“Whoa.”
“I know, right. Sometimes I think of myself with kids and…” I look at her look at her clock. “Sorry. Something for another day, maybe.”
Bruntsfield Place, Edinburgh
Despite the toy shop being divided into sections, it’s still a minefield of choice. Most of the things are branded monstrosities, all the colors of the rainbow thrown onto plastic noise-emitters. Over the speaker system the most in-your-face type of pop music plays.
I scan the shelves, taking in the names of them all, one by one. There’s a few I recognize from my own childhood—Thomas the Tank Engine and Pingu still seem to be going strong. The rest are a strange combination of words and syllables that don’t really belong together.
Paw Patrol
Octonauts
Peppa Pig
Hey Duggee!
The Twirlywoos
A young woman working in the shop reads the look of utter bewilderment on my face and graciously helps me out. She’s decked out in the company’s outfit of black-and-white T-shirt and dungarees, badges on the straps with more cartoon characters and cheery slogans.
“You look a little lost,” she says.
“A bit, yeah.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Two presents if possible. One for a two-year-old girl. And something for newborn twins.”
I pick up a couple of boxes. One holds what looks like an alphabet on some sort of wooden abacus, the aforementioned pig and her friends on each letter. In the other hand I have a toy drum kit.
“If you like the person,” she advises me, “I’d go for the abacus.”
I take her point and put the drum kit back. She leads me to the newborn section and there I find a couple of cuddly toys. One shaped like a leek, another shaped like a crab. I thank her for her help, make my way to the checkout, and pay.
Coulter Crescent, Edinburgh
One bus ride later
I enter the house expecting to hear the wailing of two infants, one toddler, and the anguished parents of all three. Instead, the house is in such relative silence I wonder if I have the right address.
“Come through.” Scott beckons me.
I do as I’m told and see the picture postcard of a family unit. Mother and father looking in over the edges of the twins’ cot, beaming with pride. Hayley makes a mad dash in front of Scott and toward the sleeping twosome. He picks her up and plops her on his knee. “And you, my wee pumpkin?” he asks his daughter. “What do you think of your two brothers?”
Her reply of “Can I watch something?” isn’t quite as endearing as either he or Holly had hoped.
“Watch something?” he asks her. “It’s a sunny day. Uncle Tom is here…”
“I feel very uncomfortable with that phrase,” I tell him.
“Please?” she begs, bottom lip wobbling.
The two parents exchange a look, both of them hoping the other will back down so they can have some peace while the babies sleep, but neither wanting to be seen as the type of parent who lets their kids sit inside watching TV on a glorious summer’s day.
“OK,” Holly acquiesces. “Just one episode.”
I suddenly remember my gifts and take them out of my bag. Both Scott and Holly seem amazed at my offerings. Hayley tears into the paper and bounces with delight.
“Peppa! Peppa! Peppa!”
“I’d say that’s a hit,” Holly adds.
“It was either that or a miniature drum kit.” I hand the bag over. “There’s a couple of things for the twins, too.”
Holly gives me a hug and looks genuinely to
uched. Scott still looks baffled as he ushers me outside through the patio doors, not before grabbing a beer for himself and a sugar-free Irn-Bru for me. As we flop ourselves into two garden chairs, he looks at my drink with overly dramatic disbelief.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” he says, fake tutting. “But I’m glad it’s here.”
I raise my can of fizz in a strange toast and tell my friend, “I’ve tried gunning one of these in under ten seconds but it just gives me really bad gas.”
He laughs and tells me I look good, for probably the first time in our over-a-decade friendship. Off my look he doubles down on it. “I mean it,” he says, “you look healthy. Those ever-present frown lines are fading. It’s like you’re living in color a little more these days.”
As odd as it is to take a compliment about my appearance from him, he’s not wrong. It’s not just therapy and being off the sauce. I get out of the house more these days. “Exercise” might be an extreme word for it, but I’m walking about more. Getting sunshine and air. I see my parents more these days too. Bridging a divide we all held for too long, for no good reason.
“Thanks again for the presents,” Scott adds.
I want to ask him why he’s so shocked by a few little gifts. But I don’t have to. It just isn’t something I would have done, even a few months ago and certainly not at the time Baby Number One came along. Not for any reason other than it wouldn’t have crossed my mind. It’s nice to have the time to think of others.
He sips his beer and I get a little pang of jealousy at the missed taste of amber. On a hot day like today, I miss it more. We chat for a little while longer. He explains to me the logistics of feeding two babies at once and I tell him how my first-ever film score is premiering at the Sundance Film Festival. I also mention a new young band Alan is managing. I tell Scott I’m thinking of writing a few songs for them.
“They’re so young!” I pause before adding, “We were once, weren’t we?”
“Aye,” he says. “I suppose we were. Who knew you had all those words in you? Nice words too. Soppy words but…” He grins and nudges my arm. “You don’t fancy singing them yourself, though?”
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