His question triggers a memory I’d still rather not think about.
“Not really. The last time didn’t work out too well.”
He takes a bigger drink and addresses the elephant in the garden. “I saw her on the telly, yesterday. Your lass.”
“She’s not my—”
Scott cuts me off. “I know, I know. So, you’ve not been in touch?”
“You’re the second person to ask that today.”
“And?”
I shake my head and look at my friend, needing to change the subject. “Scott.”
He play-acts being frightened. “Oh dear, he’s using my name, it must be serious.”
“I want to say thanks. For being my friend. I just want to say thanks for that.”
Having averted my eyes from his face as I spoke, I only now look back at him and see the tears in his eyes.
“Sleep deprivation, man,” he sniffles. “It’ll mess you up.” He takes a bigger sip of his beer and composes himself. “Life’s a big bowl of gash, mate. Or at least it can be. People can be dicks far too much of the time. Yourself and myself included. But people are also the ones that’ll help you through it. You’ve helped me through more than you realize too. That’s what mates are for.”
We share a laugh at the state of ourselves. Both of us pushing back tears into our ducts as if that’ll erase them.
“And as your friend, I’d like to point out, that was an absolute world-class bit of steering the topic of conversation away from Jess, there.”
I laugh loudly. “I thought I’d got away with it.” Nothing much gets past my friend and so I relent. “I don’t know. I want to see her. Of course I do. But she couldn’t have been more right.”
“When?”
“At the gig, in London. She said I wasn’t ready for a relationship and I wasn’t. If it was up to me, we’d be together and probably unhappy as we’d still be working through our own shite.”
“And now?”
My shrug isn’t enough of an answer, but it prompts a perfect one from Scott.
“Rewind about five years ago and can you really imagine me and Holly here? After all that on-again-off-again drama? We were like cats and dogs who supported different football teams and liked opposing politicians. But today, we’re here. We talked our problems out. Found common ground.”
Together we take a glance back at the house, the life he’s led to get him where he is. Mortgage. Kids. Wife. I ask him if he thinks he’ll miss the road. If he’ll miss the life.
“The stuff we got to do—travel the world, meet our heroes, hang out with my friends every day, and get paid enough to buy this freaking place—I wouldn’t change a bit of it. I’d live it a million times over. I mean, I’ve no idea what the future might hold, but now? All I want is to be right here.”
He looks at me with a smile.
“D’yae ken, Ken?”
“I ken, Ken.”
45
Happiness
Jess
Hill Street, Edinburgh
August 27, 2018
The me in charge of organizing two sellout Edinburgh shows tells me I don’t have time for the complication of last-minute changes. But as the me who wants this, I get to decide. At the end of the day, I’m my own boss, what I say goes, and if I want a specific guest for the second of my final shows, I get to ask for it. Considering he’s invited me to two of his in the past, it’s the least I could do.
If Tom ends up saying no, as he has every right to, Julia has reluctantly agreed to be a stand-in. The audience never know who the guest will be, so there’s no disappointment. For them, anyway.
The first invite I send to Tom is one I hope he’ll take me up on. After all, he only has to sit and watch the show. Two tickets are attached. There’s a plus-one if he wants it. The second invitation, however—the one that asks him to share a stage with me—I’m less convinced he might say yes to that. After all, the last time we tried this, there was shrieking and shouting and bitterness and resentment. But that was, as I remind myself a lot these days, a long time ago.
I end the note saying, if he can’t make it to either, I completely understand. I add in an apology about the way I’ve acted in the past. Not for three months ago. That, I say, was the right thing to do. Minus the shouting, of course. But I needed that time. For what it’s worth, I write, I feel that time has been used wisely.
Once the email is sent, all I can do is wait.
Hill Street, Edinburgh
August 29, 2018
I walk over to the curb and sit my arse down. Tears streaming. Makeup running down my face. Courtesy of Liza. She’s done a good job. Everything is as I wanted. The bus stop behind me, the double yellow lines under my feet. You can’t see them from the front couple of rows but they help me picture it all. I wanted the stage to have puddles and faux-rain, but it became a health-and-safety issue for the venue. They gave me such a good rate I wasn’t going to argue.
I can’t see the audience—the spotlight is too bright. I don’t know if Tom’s here or not. It’s probably for the best that I don’t know. Part of the act speaks directly to him, whether he’s here or not.
This image I’m giving them. A drunk girl sitting on a curb with tears in her eyes and her shoes in her hands. I leave it long enough where I’m just sobbing so that they start to ask themselves uncomfortable questions. The men I’ve asked for reactions almost immediately envision something horrific befalling this sad figure. The women, as the seconds pass, simply start to see themselves. I make them wait a little longer before my first words. I suppress a tiny burp.
“I just reeeeaaaaallly need a kebab.”
You can feel the room decompress in time with the laughter. The tension of my tears, even though they know it’s a performance, had everyone on edge. I’ve been able to convince them that they needn’t worry, that they’re safe here. Once they start to feel that, I can take it all away again.
Over the past three months I’ve written and rewritten and edited and fixed and binned every inch of this show, so that every moment is timed just so. The night I told Tom we weren’t ready yet, I phoned Julia as soon as I got home. For the first time in the history of our friendship, I asked for help. She met me the next day. The greatest friend the world has ever known.
As is typical for Julia, she wanted to get straight down to work. “What you put out into the world, who you are as a performer,” she told me, “is what makes you YOU.” She wanted me to start there. She asked me what it was I wanted to say. What the truth of my show was.
We talked about everything. My career over the past half a decade. My childhood. My mum. Chris. My dad. Tom. A lot of it came back to Tom. My first instinct was that the show should be an apology. But Julia was quick to quash that: “It’s good to say sorry. Important too. But you don’t need a show to do it.” She asked again, “What is it you want to say?”
After weeks and weeks shut inside, pen to paper, it was time to present what I had. Julia was first. Just me and her in my mum’s front room in Sheffield. Like we were nineteen again. When it was over, she cried. Then I cried. Then we both cried and hugged for about an hour with her trying to get out the same sentence over and over again through the delightfully massive snot and tears.
“I knew it,” she told me. “I knew you’d be amazing one day.”
She had notes. Of course she had notes. But they were great notes. Without her help it wouldn’t be the show it is and these people wouldn’t be sitting here waiting for the next words out of my mouth.
“I really don’t want it to, but it all started when my dad left.”
I stand for the first time, my butt off the curb, and hitch my dress back down. I leave my shoes where I was sitting and start to ramble around the stage. Every night, this opening feels like I’m marking my territory.
“My da
d met my mum in a Kentucky Fried Chicken. For those youthful enough to belong to Generation Z, that’s what KFC actually means.” As I deliver it, I know that the Dad material isn’t my favorite part of the show. But it fulfills two crucial ingredients for getting the audience onside. First, and quite unashamedly, it elicits sympathy. Who doesn’t want to root for the girl with half a family? Secondly, the “Colonel’s secret recipe” punchline, while crude, works very well for getting the first big, full communal chuckle. When every single person laughs in a room it brings them together. It lets them be a part of something. Get one early and it buys you goodwill.
And goodwill is something this show needs. It’s not your traditional stand-up show. It’s not a one-woman performance piece either. It straddles a fine line because it has to. I need it to be personal. A great big picture of me. My heart on my sleeve and on my chest and tattooed on my inner thigh for good measure.
Because ultimately, mine is a show about loneliness. And people fear that word. They worry it’s about them. They fear that even if they’re not lonely now, they might be one day. Fear of loneliness is why people stay with the wrong person. It’s the reason dating is a multibillion-dollar industry. It’s why films and music and books are almost exclusively about relationships. Little blueprints of how we should interact with each other. What we should say, how we should say it. Too many of them peddle the lie that you just need to meet the right someone. Things might get in the way, they tell you, but true love will out. Maybe we need more that tell you it’s harder than that.
I tell the audience that for a long time I’ve considered myself a broken thing. Not worthy of love. By doing so, I hope the other broken things out there feel less broken. The reviews so far have understood my intent and been more than kind about it. Critics who have hated my work previously are now offering me praise. I’d like to say it doesn’t matter what they say, but it does. I need affirmation as much, if not more, than the next woman. Sticks and stones may break my body. But words still hurt the most.
Nearing the closing section of the show, I repeat the line from the TV interview I gave a little over a week ago. Tom’s line. The only part of the show that addresses him directly. The only part that singles out one of the most devastating things anyone has ever said to me. Every night, I’m torn between wanting him to hear it and wanting it to remain unsaid.
“Someone once told me, ‘You won’t accept happiness into your life.’ I’ve only met this person a few times in my life. But every time I do, he leaves an impact. You can guess the impact he had when he said that particular doozy.”
It’s more of my soul laid bare. More of my truth. And because of this, the audience respond with a sympathetic reaction. They know. They understand. They get it. They laugh.
“Here’s the thing. He might have been wrong. He might have been right. That’s it, though. Those are the only two possibilities. Right or wrong. No middle ground. Considering it turned out to be the last thing he said to me, you’d have to go with wrong, right?”
I shake my head and walk around the stage. The pretense that I’m considering all this, right here in front of them. That it isn’t something I’ve struggled with and written down and decided on as the final portion of this performance.
“It helps us all if we can see things from both sides. That person who disagrees with your politics? They do it for a reason that makes sense to them. That colleague who looks down on you? She probably had that same thing happen to her all her life. That thankfully now-ex-boyfriend who loved pointing out when you were wrong? He was never taught that was wrong. It doesn’t stop him being a dick; I just think with a little more compassion we can see the reasons for things that upset us.”
I pick up my coat from the stool and put it around my shoulders.
“That guy who said I couldn’t accept happiness, I know why he said it. I know him well. Or at least I think I do. And I think he said it because he was finding it hard to accept his own. A lot of us are. I hope, wherever he is, he’s closer to being happy now. And I hope you are too. I know I am. Thank you and good night.”
46
Trust
Tom
Hill Street, Edinburgh
After the show
To say I have mixed emotions about seeing Jess on stage is an understatement. Her finale has my stomach and lungs contracting in on themselves. If she’d said any more, I’d have imploded right there in my seat at the back of the venue.
But taking over from these considerations about myself is the overwhelming thought of how Julia was right, all those years ago, that one day Jess was going to be something else. Someone great. Someone who speaks to people. Looking at her now, encircled by fans wanting to know more, wanting to be near her, to give her little pieces of fan art they’ve made from seeing her new show multiple times, this journey she’s been on becomes clear.
She looks up, sees me, and smiles. She raises a single finger to ask me to wait. She doesn’t need to. I’m not going anywhere. She signs a few more programs and hugs a few more teary audience members. Then she’s walking toward me. She stops an arm’s length away.
“You came.”
“I did.”
“You sure you want to do this?” she asks. “I’d completely understand if you didn’t. After last time.”
I scrunch my face up. “Sure is a strong word. But yeah. I’m sure.”
Taking me at my word, Jess explains that the Q&A show is in a different venue, but close.
“It’s about five minutes away. But we’ll have about fifteen minutes when we get there to get you mic’d up.”
“And makeup?” I joke.
“You don’t need makeup. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you with such color.”
Her line isn’t flirtatious, but it makes me feel good. Walking alongside her makes me feel good. Knowing she’s where she should be makes me feel good.
In the short walk to the venue we chat a little about her two shows, about my music. It’s small talk. But far from awkward. I ask about Julia. She tells me Julia’s forever grateful I’ve showed up for this, because Julia hates talking on stage. Especially about herself. Jess asks about the band and what I’m doing now. Before long we’re talking about daily life. I like her telling me about what she did today.
The five-minute walk is over too quickly and in a blink we’re on the side of the stage, microphones on and ready to chat in front of a roomful of strangers.
“Before we go on…” Jess asks. “Are there any topics you don’t want to talk about?”
“No,” I say, assuredly. “I trust you.”
She glances out at the crowd from the side of the stage. Friends and family members sit talking to each other, anticipating an evening’s entertainment. There’s the buzz that we’ve both felt many times before. But every now and then, the buzz is extra special. That’s the case tonight.
“You ready?” she asks.
I meet her eye.
“For the record,” I tell her. “The last thing I said to you, after the gig, the thing about happiness…I was wrong.”
“And you were right,” she says.
“And I was right,” I repeat.
“And you were wrong.”
She smiles.
“Shall we do this, then?”
47
And. That’s. OK.
Jess and Tom
Transcribed highlights of the Jess Henson Asks stage show from the Edinburgh Festival 2018. Closing night show. For wider circulation.
Applause
JESS: Hello! Hello! Thank you all for coming. Has everyone had a wonderful Festival?
Cheers and applause.
JESS: I legitimately love this place. I’m not sure if there’s anywhere I’d rather be. Anyway. Before I get too emotional too soon, I should tell you a little something about this evening’s guest. He’s
not hugely media-friendly so this is something of a coup. Please be nice to him. I know I will be. His band, The Friedmann Equation, were one of Scotland’s finest exports. Critically acclaimed the world over and loved by fans who got it. And boy, did we get it. Please welcome Tom Delaney.
More cheers and applause.
TOM: Hello.
JESS: Thank you for coming on the show. I think I’ve mentioned it a few times, but I’m a big fan of the band.
TOM: Well, I’m a big fan of yours. I just saw the new show and it was—
An audience member whoops and yells, “I love you, Jess!”
TOM: OK, I did love it. But maybe I didn’t love it as much as that guy.
JESS: That’s fine. I pay him. He’s a professional whooper.
TOM: What’s the going rate for that?
JESS: Minimum wage?
TOM: Plus tips?
JESS: Performance-based tips. So, are you looking for work? After you pulled the plug on one of the greatest bands of all time.
TOM: Now that’s some hyperbole. (pause) I’m lucky. I’ve had some time off. Not everyone gets that luxury.
JESS: And what have you been doing with that time off? Binging on The Bachelor? Lounging about with Love Island?
TOM: I wish! No, mostly taking time to…God, this sounds wanky.
JESS: Go on.
TOM: Taking a bit of time to get to know myself better. Yeah, that really does sound wanky. That and writing songs.
JESS: And wanking, I would imagine?
TOM: Definitely. Isn’t that why we in the entertainment profession picked our jobs?
JESS: Lots of downtime.
TOM: Lots of alone time, yeah.
JESS: Ha. That took a turn, didn’t it?
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