“To Raymond!”
“It’s terrible news,” said Judy.
Bunny sat down next to Charles with a sorrowful, yet giddy smile. “So, Clay, tell me, how have you been? Where have you been? I’m bursting with excitement at all the tales I’m bound to hear from you.”
Clay looked at Belinda, who clutched tightly onto his leg. “I’m afraid I don’t really have that many interesting stories.”
“No stories? Please Clay, you’ve been away – what must it be? – nearly two years now. You must have something of interest to share with the group.”
“No, not really.”
“That’s amazing!” Bunny threw his arms back. “Truly astounding! You don’t need wild tales, I guess, when you can awe with facts like that. My breath is quite taken away.”
“Well, I thought that,” said Toby. “Then it occurred to me, what tales do you have for the last two years? What dramatic news from your life? Or mine? I have to say I’m pretty much in the same place as when Clay left.”
Bunny pointed at Toby in acknowledgement. “As usual my sour-faced Yorkshire friend has made a correct and astute observation. Yes, I’m afraid, dear Clay, I have inched rather than galloped towards my theatrical destiny, and so – to a casual observer – am little better placed than when you departed.”
“Do you have anything on the boil at the moment?” asked Belinda.
“I do!” he said. “I was only two nights ago in a little theatre in Glasgow watching a fantastic interpretation of the Bard’s As You Like It. Quite incredible. They’d updated it so the picturesque forest of Arden was now the concrete jungle of today’s society. It really did give new meaning and poignancy to those beautiful words. So I met with them afterwards and discussed the possibility of bringing it to London.”
Judy clapped her hands in excited delight.
Bunny nodded thanks, charmed and grateful. “I don’t think it will be a great box office success, but I feel it’s just the sort of work to get the chattering classes chattering, to get the column writers churning out those five-hundred crucial words. I‘m most excited! And Abigail, darling Abigail, the young lady who played Rosalind – not that she was anything less than magnificent – but I think you could do even better. She has a call-back for some daytime drama programme – some depressing thing concerning doctors in Kilmarnock or some such place – and if she gets that, you, my sweet, are more than hired.”
He was granted that rarest of treats, a full and free smile from Abigail.
“Is there perchance a role for me?” asked Charles.
“Oh, Charles – always thinking of number one.” Bunny patted him on the leg. “If I bring it to London then I’ll keep as many of the original cast as possible. After all, they put in the hard hours, gave the effort, and so it would seem rude to sack them. However, should they get – what they perceive to be – a better offer, then of course my friends will fill out the roles. You’ll all be taken care of, Bunny will see to that.” He took a drink and toasted himself. “And do you want to hear the most exciting part?”
“What?” Judy was excited.
“If it proves to be a success, we’re going to turn it into an independent film. We’re going to shoot it on the streets of London and sell it at the Cannes film festival and wait for the garlands to arrive. There you go, my beautiful, beautiful Abigail; you’ll not only have the West End stage fawning over you, but Hollywood on bended knee as well.”
For the second time in as many minutes she smiled. She shot a satisfied grin at Toby and then Charles – to Toby for mocking the world of the Independent, and to Charles because she now had two films to his one.
Nick Turnkey was next to arrive, shuffling in wearing a battered old suit and seeming already pissed off to be there. But then he was always pissed off to be anywhere – he generally wore a face like a Chihuahua that’s been force-fed sour milk.
He was a sad song troubadour who never stood out as being particularly good or bad. The conclusion of the group was that ‘mediocre’ was probably the best word the dictionary provided to describe him. But in the sensitive singer-songwriter world, where everyone has an acoustic guitar and can hold a tune and writes songs which are somewhat meaningful – then mediocre is really the base standard and in most cases the highest peak.
When they’d first met him they were all young and wide-eyed; it was possible that any one of them – every one of them – could make it. But behind his back, Nick Turnkey’s particular problem had been discussed a number of times. The unfortunate fact was that he was working to a short timer – as there’s an age-limit in the music business you don’t have elsewhere.
You can still become an actor in your thirties, a writer certainly, and age is a boon to your budding impresario – but for the would-be rock ’n’ roll star, it’s the death cry to ambition. You may be able to play well, you might write a couple of good tunes, but wherever your entrance into the music business was – you missed it.
He got a pint and sat down, his shoulders hunched, his gaze to the centre of the table. He sat like that for thirty seconds, not uttering a word – it’s what he did to make himself appear deep.
“Hello,” he said finally, through a closed mouth.
“Hello,” they murmured back.
“Here we are,” he sighed. “Clay, surprised to see you again – how was your time away?”
“It was fine.”
“Oh,” said Nick without looking up. He gave the impression that if Clay had been the first man to swim the Pacific he’d have got much the same reaction.
“Clay, I must remember to hire you for your raconteur skills,” said Toby. “You really do have us on the edge of our seats every time you tell that story.”
Belinda squeezed his leg. “It’s just wonderful to have him back.”
They kissed.
“Did you hear about Raymond?” asked Charles.
“Yeah, I did,” said Nick. “It was terrible news.”
“Awful news,” said Judy.
“I’ve been writing a song about it this afternoon.” There was a flashed glance of dread across the table, in case he played it for them. Fortunately, he then said: “I haven’t finished it yet, but it’s been a cathartic experience.”
“How’s it all going, anyway?” asked Clay.
“There needs to be a revolution in the record industry,” he said. “There have to be serious changes. It’s not designed for the likes of me any more – y’know, your talent. It’s just for warbling teenagers who can dance well and mime well and are prepared to do anything The Man says. They wonder why record sales are in trouble, and it’s not because of downloads and entertainment found elsewhere – it’s because they’re keeping the likes of me down.” He jerked forward in his seat, his eyes wide and passionate and undoubtedly crazed. “In this business the cream doesn’t rise to the top any more, it stays stuck and ignored at the bottom. What actually gets poured out is thin watery milk which isn’t going to please anybody except those who never knew what cream tasted like. I know I’ve wasted some time but it fucks me off that genuinely talented people are fucked over because some sixteen year old who can barely sing will look good in a fucking bikini. The fucking bastards! They don’t know what they’re missing.”
He stopped and just stared at that interesting spot he’d found in the dead centre of the table.
It was then that Jake Monroe and Flower Honeysuckle entered. They held hands tightly, their pallor pale and shaken. They lingered in the doorway and stared at the table – they stared at Clay – then moved forward slowly.
Jake Monroe had come to London as a post-graduate and fallen in love with an English girl then stayed to fall in love with lots of other English girls. He was handsome in that capped-teeth American way, so he often had that love reciprocated. He had a job on the edge of successful; writing soap operas and episodes of drama series – so his name appeared regularly on television – but he never managed to interest anyone in his own work, such as his fou
r part drama or his sitcom. So he had the same frustrated determination as the others, and of course used to make the right promises that they’d all be hired the moment he was given the green light.
Jake had a relationship with Abigail when he first joined the group, a fiery six month affair according to eye-witnesses. They broke up and considered themselves adult enough still to be friends. In truth, neither wanted the other to be successful without them. In those days it seemed – with her looks and attitude – inconceivable that Abigail’s eyes wouldn’t peer out from a Hollywood billboard, while Jake was already whistling several rungs up the ladder. There was an unspoken understanding that if one of them truly made it, the other would be in a position to apply feelings of guilt so some help would be forthcoming. Apparently, he also had a week-long fling with Judy, and – Clay felt – something had possibly happened with Belinda. But there was no animosity, no recrimination, none of the heart’s injuries were displayed in public. They all stayed together in the hope that one day, one would drag the others up. And now he walked in holding the hand of the fourth actress of the group, Flower Honeysuckle.
Flower was an “Artist” (capital A, roll the r, finish with a flourish). She saw herself not only as an actress, but a poet, a dancer, a painter, a writer of prose, a musician and a director – a creative force. She once used that term to describe herself, which even in a group of wannabes earned curious stares. She was a beautiful woman – tall, blonde and curved, with blue eyes which seemed impossibly soulful.
She had been moderately successful in a lot that she’d done – she’d danced behind rock bands on tours, she’d actually appeared on the West End Stage (albeit boasting ten lines) and she was a published poet. This all fuelled her self-image as a Renaissance woman, who would succeed no matter what she tried. She was unflinchingly earnest about her own work and equally convinced about everyone else’s. There was no cynicism, no disbelief – she accepted everything they did as true art to match her own. This heightened artistic consciousness meant she was sometimes a little distant to Toby and Clay. She appreciated them as people, liked their personalities, but seemed to believe that since they weren’t artists she had little in common with them.
Jake and Flower stood at the table, ashen, continuing to stare at Clay.
“Clay,” said Jake. “Fuck! I can’t honestly believe you’re here.”
Clay smiled at them, a little embarrassed by their intense scrutiny.
“We didn’t know we’d ever see you again.” Flower used her most querulous dramatic tones. “We didn’t know what had happened to you.”
“I’ve just been out of London.”
“But where?” asked Flower.
“Nowhere, really. I’ve not been doing anything exciting or glamorous, I haven’t taken many photos.”
“But why didn’t you let us know where you were?”
“He let us know where he was,” said Belinda.
Flower glared at her. She was leaning on Jake, but that glare was mean enough to hold itself.
While Jake went to the bar, Flower sat next to Toby.
Jake ordered doubles for both.
Nobody said anything. Normally, when there was an awkward silence, Bunny would interject with some fuzzy pointless anecdote. Tonight, he’d either become more observant, or even he didn’t have a story which was going to bridge this gap.
Jake sat down and handed his girlfriend a large G&T. His eyes shot from face to face like a guilty man who’s found himself at a dinner party with his jury.
They were all together now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Clay spoke first: “Somebody should say some words about Raymond.”
“Yes,” said Flower. “We really, really should.”
“To Raymond,” said Jake. “This life is not going to be the same without him.”
The glasses clinked together in a quiet salute.
“I was thinking earlier.” Toby’s brow creased. “And this is a dark thought so I do apologise, but today is a day for dark thoughts. I was thinking there is a strange date in life – which you never know about – but from that day on you only have a year left to live. You’re completely unaware of it and it seems utterly inconsequential – but at that date you only have the one year left. And it’s odd, as when you die – and particularly if you die suddenly – people will say things like ‘Oh in that last year he was more distant” or ‘In that last year he was warmer and kinder.’ People will talk about those last three hundred and sixty five days as if it was the final act – how you made peace, how you stayed angry to the end. It will all be shone through the prism of your death to make sense of your sudden passing. But the thing is, you didn’t know you only had a year left, you’d have been quite shocked if you’d been told – but there you are, that was your final twelve months. What you did with it people are going to remember more than anything else, but because you hadn’t a clue it was your last year, you just went on as normal with no thoughts of posterity or what your legacy would be. Where was Raymond a year ago today? Who the fuck knows. He certainly wasn’t thinking he only had the length of a calendar then – bang! – game over, my friend. But now, whatever he did is what we’ll remember him for, it’s what his testament will be. And we’ll look back at that last year as if he knew that all along, as if he was aware he was playing an endgame, as if he was preparing for it – when the truth is, he was probably more shocked than the rest of us.”
“I’m sorry, Raymond,” said Clay.
“What for?” asked Jake.
“I don’t remember.”
“It’s terrible news,” said Belinda
“So then.” Charles eyed Jake and Flower. “What have you two been up to?”
Jake coughed. “The usual. I got some work.”
“Yes, it’s been a busy period,” said Flower.
“Really?” said Bunny. “Pray tell – what kind of things?”
“I got a project on,” Jake shrugged.
“I understand,” said Abigail, staring casually to her fingernails and then over to Jake. “That you’re doing the television adaptation of Raymond’s book.”
He looked like a small animal which had been skewered – startled, his mouth lop-sided.
“Really?” said Belinda. “That’s great. That’ll be such a fitting tribute to him, his work on TV.”
“Yes!” Judy clapped her hands. “I can’t believe he’s gone, I really can’t – but this will be something we can do for him. We can all remember him in this, can’t we? We should all help out – even if it’s only union scale – we should do it as a tribute to Raymond.”
“What precisely is this book about?” asked Toby. “As whenever I enquired he’d swiftly take monastic oaths.”
“It’s about some witches,” said Jake.
“Maybe,” said Bunny, “I could get the theatrical rights to the book and stage a play based on it. Have the rights been sold yet?”
“We could all do something,” said Charles. “We could all play roles in Jake’s script – there is surely a part for me, isn’t there? Bunny could do the theatrical version and I’m sure Nick would love to do the theme music.”
“I’m not going to do the fucking theme music!” Nick had been staring like a hypnotised rabbit at one spot on the table, and so the venom of his tone surprised them. Besides, he never usually did venom, his attitude was normally one of impotent annoyance. “Is that all you think I’m good for? Knocking out a blowsy theme tune to some TV show about witches? Do you think there’s a single song I’d want to write for that?” His words hit them with the same force as his spittle hit the table. “Please. I’m better than that, I’m capable of more than that. I don’t do anything with no witches, I do not prostitute my being on worthless projects like that any more.”
He stopped and went back to staring at the table.
Toby put down his pint, a sourness twisted into his features. The shock and distress of his friend’s death made worse by everyone still focusing on th
eir old self-interests.
“So Jake,” said Abigail, “when will they be casting this series? I’d like to go along and audition. In fact, I think we’d all like to go along and audition.”
Jake coughed. “It’s kinda already been cast.”
“What?” she said. “Already?”
“Yeah, about three weeks ago.”
“What? I’ve been reading The Stage and there’s been no mention of this, I would have known.”
“Yes, me too,” said Charles.
“Well, the producers pretty much knew who they wanted to hire,” said Jake. “So they just hired those people.”
“Who?” demanded Abigail. “Who’s in it?”
Flower’s gaze was sinking closer to the polish of the table.
It was Belinda who noticed. “You!” she said. “You’ve got a part in this? I don’t believe it. Have you got one of the leads?”
Flower nodded once.
“Congratulations.” Judy spoke as if she’d been given that line but had no idea how to play it.
“Well, there you go,” said Abigail. “It’s clear even in the twenty-first century that the Casting Couch is still the way forward. The writer still has the power to cast any floozy on his arm.”
“Come on,” said Jake. “When we were going out, you played a role I wrote.”
“That was theatre!” she said. “That was an out-in-the-sticks shit-hole theatre in Edinburgh. Do you remember my dressing room? Do you? It was a toilet, Jake, wasn’t it? It was an actual toilet and I had to share it. This is television, the big time, and you didn’t even put my name – our names – forward.”
“The big time?” asked Nick. “Some of us are real artists. Some of us care about the kind of work we do and not just about seeing our names in bright lights. We don’t do stuff – shit, terrible stuff – just to get famous. All of you are sell outs, y’know that? Complete fucking sell outs.”
The Wannabes Page 6
