Obstacles to Young Love

by David Nobbs

  This time Naomi goes on top of him and looks down at him with a smile such as he has only dreamt about, and it’s as though he’s holding her aloft in triumph on his prick. The frail old house seems to shake.

  The sun rises, the weather wouldn’t dare to be cloudy today. Its rays creep slowly across the slightly lumpy wallpaper, which is threatening to come off the bulging, tired walls of their bedroom. It continues its slow progress, until it shines directly onto the lovers’ bed.

  It would be nice to say that they make love again, ecstatically, their bodies golden in the sun’s rays, their emotions soaring as they realise that this golden sunrise is but a metaphor for the golden dawn of their love and life together. But it is not so. They are in a deep, exhausted sleep. The sunrise passes them by entirely.

  In the morning the table is laid for breakfast, the domed dishes are on silver trays on the antique sideboard; the bacon and the sausages and the kidneys are not of the highest standard, the eggs are not free range or organic, lack of money may affect the substance of things, but it cannot be allowed to affect the appearance of things.

  Hamish is wearing very bold check trousers, a bright red shirt, and a cravat. His knobbly gouty feet may be in slippers, but he wants to look dashing for Timothy.

  Peregrine enters the room at twenty to eleven. He looks pale.

  ‘I thought you were working,’ says Hamish.

  ‘I told them I wouldn’t be in. I’m not indispensable, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps unwise of you to demonstrate it,’ says his father.

  ‘They aren’t going to sack me, Father. I’m popular there.’

  ‘Oh, good. Nice night?’

  ‘Very. Er…Father…?’

  Lavinia enters with fresh coffee.

  ‘Ah. Mother too. I can tell you both at once. Um…Timothy has…um…a lady friend. He loves her and…she loves him.’

  ‘What a rare and satisfactory state of affairs.’

  ‘Um…she had nowhere to stay last night. So…um…I invited her back.’

  Lavinia is shocked.

  ‘But where on earth did you put her?’ she exclaims. ‘None of the other beds are aired.’

  ‘I put her with Timothy, of course.’

  Hamish and Lavinia look at their son in shock, but not, it turns out, in horror.

  Lavinia says, ‘Oh, thank heavens for that. I’d never have forgiven you if she’d got pneumonia from damp sheets.’

  Timothy creeps in, shamefacedly, at a quarter past eleven.

  ‘Naomi’s still asleep,’ he says.

  He tucks into the – it must be admitted – lukewarm bacon, eggs, sausages, kidneys and mushrooms, on this the hungriest, most beautiful morning of his life. Hamish and Lavinia are leaving him to it, but Peregrine sits at the far side of the table, spreading marmalade onto toast and smiling. Timothy has no idea what to say to him. Besides, he is too hungry for words.

  Naomi arrives at ten to twelve. The day is warm, even hot, the breakfast is not. But Lavinia brings fresh coffee and a beaming smile.

  ‘How are our young lovers this morning?’ she enquires.

  Timothy blushes and finds that he cannot speak.

  ‘He’s so cruel, Mrs Arkwright,’ says Naomi.

  ‘Lavinia, please.’

  ‘So cruel, Lavinia. I woke up and he’d gone. Can you imagine that? For a moment, maybe less than half a minute, but it was terrible…I thought that it had all been a dream.’

  ‘Men have a lot to learn,’ says Lavinia.

  When his mother has gone, Peregrine looks very embarrassed, turns to Naomi, and says, ‘I went to bed without washing my cheek where you had kissed me. And I haven’t washed it this morning either.’

  ‘I’m not sure I wish to know that,’ says Naomi gently.

  None of them have the energy or the desire to leave the breakfast table, but it’s half past twelve and Timothy and Naomi must go.

  Timothy finds Hamish, holds out his hand to him, and says, ‘I must apologise to you, sir. I think we have abused your hospitality.’

  Hamish gives his strangely crooked smile and says, ‘Don’t bother your head about it in the slightest, old boy. I’m thrilled, to be honest. Thrilled to see you both so happy. Thrilled to see my boy so happy. And thrilled above all, my dear chap, because…’ He lowers his voice, in case Peregrine is within earshot, ‘…perhaps for the first time in his life, my beloved younger son has done something spirited and really rather brave.’

  PART NINE

  Wide Skies 2008

  A narrow street off Leicester Square. A narrow red doorway. A narrow staircase. She climbs the staircase slowly, round the corner with the sad flowers, up more narrow stairs, onto a narrow landing. A glass door leads from the communal stairway to the agency. She rings the bell.

  Naomi was very surprised, a few days ago, when her old friend Glenda rang and said, ‘I spoke to Daphne the other day about you. She’s prepared to meet you.’ A few weeks before that, Glenda had rung her, depressed after the breakup of a lesbian relationship and after being cast as a midwife for the fourth time in her career, and had suggested they meet. Glenda had tried to get Naomi to start a relationship with her. Naomi had explained that she was very happy with Timothy. Glenda had asked her if she’d be interested in returning to acting. Naomi had said, ‘I might be.’ Glenda had said that she would try to get Naomi a meeting with her agent, the formidable Daphne Hayloft, portrayed under various names including Deirdre Barnstorm, Denise Hayrick, Dandy Glassroof and Davina Lofthouse by actors who had turned novelist and hadn’t quite enough imagination for the job.

  It was easy to say, ‘I might be,’ but now that she is actually here, she wonders if she should be. Does she really want to return to acting? She has told Timothy that she’s seeing her friend Rosie for lunch. It’s true. She is. She hasn’t lied. But she hasn’t told him that she’s also seeing Daphne. She has committed the sin of omission, and she feels very bad about it.

  The bleakness of the staircase has left her utterly unprepared for the opulence of Daphne’s warm, florid office. It overflows with paintings and posters and objets d’art sent by grateful clients. There are fresh flowers in abundance, and there are books everywhere.

  Daphne has a reputation. She eats critics for breakfast. She has supposedly had affairs with four top theatrical and television producers. She is a large lady, as large as her stairs are narrow, and she is wearing a great flowing dress which emphasises her size.

  ‘I have a lot of time for Glenda,’ she says in her booming voice, when the polite preliminaries are over. ‘And she speaks highly of you as a friend and an actress.’

  ‘We were in Nappy Ever After together.’

  ‘Don’t boast about it, darling. That show on its own sunk five careers to my knowledge. I’m a busy woman, Naomi. I don’t waste time. So, one or two questions. Are you serious about this?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You think so? You can’t think you want to act. It’s a disease.’

  ‘I’m trying to be honest, Miss Hayloft.’

  ‘Oh, Daphne, please. I read that I’m formidable, but you must never believe the papers. I’m a pussycat. An absolute pussycat. I’m an absolute darling, darling. Aren’t I, Clare?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Daphne,’ says her pale assistant hurriedly, in an irritatingly low voice.

  ‘You’re trying to be honest?’ says Daphne. ‘How unusual. How refreshing. Come on then. Sock it to me.’

  There are theatre bills, posters and signed photographs of stars everywhere. Copies of Spotlight litter Daphne’s great desk like breeze blocks carelessly unloaded. The room is seriously overheated. Naomi finds it difficult to summon up the energy to sock it to Daphne.

  ‘I really think I want to try again,’ she says, choosing her words with precision. ‘I’ve always wanted to be an actress. I’m extremely happy with the new man in my life, but he has his work and in a way it’s his identity and I think I would like to have an identity again too. He goes off to work in the
morning and I just live for his return in the evening. I think he’ll be very supportive.’

  ‘Are there any more where he comes from?’

  She doesn’t tell Daphne that she has tried to become a painter, gone to classes in Norwich, found that she has no talent for it.

  ‘What does he do, your supportive wonder man?’

  ‘He’s the warden of a bird reserve in East Anglia.’

  This is a conversation stopper even to a woman as loquacious as Daphne.

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Not by him and grown up.’

  ‘Good. That’s a relief, anyway. Now, darling, let’s put this honesty of yours to the test. Is there anything you won’t do?’

  ‘Filth.’

  ‘Good gracious. It’s the only thing some of my clients will do. And how do you define “filth”?’

  Naomi has no problem with that one. She’s thought a lot about it.

  ‘Indecency without artistic purpose.’

  ‘Nudity?’

  ‘I should be so lucky.’

  Daphne’s pale, lanky assistant – unspoken job description, must be in the shadow of the great woman at all times – stands up unobtrusively, slinks over to Naomi and asks her, in an irritatingly soft voice, little more than a whisper, if she’d like anything to drink.

  Suddenly Naomi sees traps everywhere. She can’t decide between builders’ tea – subtext, I’m commercial – or chamomile – subtext, I’d like to do more drama. She eliminates water – subtext, I’m cheap. She goes for black coffee – subtext, I have no trouble with my nerves. It suddenly seems that she really does want to be taken on.

  ‘Are you prepared to do commercials?’

  ‘Yes, in general, though there might be a few products I’d refuse to endorse.’

  ‘One can’t be too choosy, darling. Now, darling, are you prepared to give your all? Would you mind, for instance, being called back off your honeymoon? What would the Bird Man of East Anglia say?’

  ‘It’s a bit hypothetical. We aren’t even engaged yet. But, well, I suppose I would. I’m a professional.’

  The pale assistant slides in apologetically, and puts a mug of black coffee in front of Naomi.

  Daphne leans forward and, in a much lower voice, asks, ‘Now, darling, is there anything you’d like to tell me?’

  Naomi hesitates, but only for a moment. She developed secretive trends once. Never again. And she doesn’t know how much this woman knows.

  ‘Well, yes. I’m a passionate atheist. I still want to convert everyone I meet. But I don’t do it. I became a real pain on Get Stuffed. I know now it can’t be done that way.’

  ‘How can it be done?’

  ‘I’m still searching.’

  ‘Right, darling,’ says Daphne decisively. ‘I can’t promise you anything. It’s tough out there. It’s especially tough for actresses. It’s even tougher for older actresses. Male bloody writers. On paper you’ve very little chance. But I’m prepared to give it a try. There’s something about you.’

  Naomi is dismayed.

  ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ she says. Her voice comes out all weak and wispy. She’s hating this.

  She had thought a lot about it on the train, decided on the train that she would see how he reacted, and, if he was really upset, she would phone Daphne and call it all off. It would have been so easy if Daphne had turned her down, but to turn down the opportunity herself, that was difficult.

  He sits at the wooden kitchen table which, like Naomi at this moment, is distressed.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I didn’t just see Rosie.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I saw…a woman called Daphne Hayloft.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘She’s a theatrical agent.’

  He closes his eyes for a few seconds. She knows that dismay is surging through him. She knows that he must have been wondering if this moment would come one day.

  ‘And?’ he asks quietly.

  ‘She’s prepared to take me on.’

  His elbows are plonked on the table, and he rests his cheeks against his clenched hands for a moment. She aches to see him suffering so, but she knows now, in a flash of uneasy self-knowledge, that she has not lost all ambition.

  ‘I thought I’d like to give it one last try,’ she says. She is aware that her voice sounds feeble. She is aware that he is seeing the possibility of his whole happy ordered life being destroyed, her away for long periods, him eating his lonely suppers and coming back from the pub to an empty house every night, just like he used to do.

  She’s on the verge of saying that she won’t do it, when at last he speaks.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry. I should be enthusing. I do, deep down.’

  Does he mean it?

  ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say this,’ he says, ‘but I will. Every time I’ve seen you perform, on television, in the theatre, as Cleopatra—’

  ‘You saw that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come round afterwards?’

  ‘I was with Maggie. It was difficult.’

  ‘You didn’t like it.’

  ‘I did. I just…I just think, Naomi, I’ve never seen you be as good as you were as Juliet.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No, don’t go all hurt and silly. I know you can be that good again. That’s why I don’t mind the lonely suppers, coming back from the pub to an empty house. It’ll be worth it, I mean it.’

  But does he? Or is he being clever, playing a subtle game?

  No. He’s direct and straightforward and simple. In the best sense. He is.

  She must believe it.

  She loves him more than anything in the world. Her love is far more important than her career, her ambition, her self-satisfaction. She’s on the verge of saying that she won’t do it. But she doesn’t.

  ‘Let’s get married,’ he says.

  She’s often hoped he would say this. She’d often thought of suggesting it herself. But there had seemed to be no hurry, perhaps not any need. They were happy. What difference would a piece of paper make?

  Why is he saying it now? Is it part of a plan to change her mind about her return to acting?

  No. He isn’t like that.

  Ask him.

  ‘Why are you saying that now, Timothy?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Don’t you want to?’

  ‘Oh, Timothy, yes.’

  They kiss. The kiss is very enjoyable, but it solves nothing.

  ‘No, but…and I do, of course I do, it’s about time, but…why are you saying it now?’

  ‘I don’t know why I said it really,’ he says. ‘Oh, don’t think I don’t trust you.’ Only Timothy can fall back on a double negative to express such a positive thought. ‘I suppose…I suppose I just think, if things are going to change, if we’re going to have the strength to survive the change, ‘cause I don’t think it’s going to be easy, though it’s great, marriage might give us…I don’t know…strength…confidence. Anyway, I think a marriage would be fun.’

  So they open a bottle of wine, and sit at the kitchen table – it’s still distressed, but they aren’t – and, in a mood of quiet excitement, plan their wedding. Naomi assumes that Timothy will want a quiet wedding after his two fairly massive ones, but he says no, it’s the biggest day of his life, and he wants it to be as big as they can make it, which in any case will not be very big. Registry office, of course, and then a marquee in the grounds of the Fishermen’s Arms.

  ‘Quite a lot of people will be very happy to see us married,’ he says. ‘And you will look so lovely, can’t waste that.’

  ‘But a marquee?’ she says. ‘Do we know enough people to fill a marquee?’

  ‘They have small marquees,’ he says.

  They begin to make a list of all the people they’d like to invite. It’s not a very long list – thirty-three people in all – but the amazing thing about it is that they actually want every one of the thirty-three to come.
<
br />   How many people can say that about their wedding list?

  The phone is ringing. Timothy has come back for his lunch – couscous with herbs and vegetables – and Naomi is down the garden hanging clothes on the rotary clothesline.

  Timothy calls out the words that Naomi has never expected to hear again.

  ‘It’s your agent.’

  Her heart flutters. She walks towards the house, slowly, trying to feel calm, but she is ridiculously excited.

  It has been five weeks since that interview in the upstairs room off Leicester Square.

  She picks up the phone.

  ‘Hello.’

  She tries to sound confident.

  ‘I have Daphne for you,’ says the girl with the soft voice.

  ‘Naomi?’ booms Daphne.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How are you, darling?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good. Well, I’ve got you an audition, Peter Glint. He couldn’t direct traffic, but he casts well. Forty-three-year-old lesbian masseuse. Right up your street, darling.’

  What does she mean by that?

  ‘Well, it’s a bit higher up than chiropody.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I played a chiropodist in Cobblers in Koblenz.’

  ‘So you did. You weren’t bad in that.’

  Naomi doesn’t like the tone of voice, which suggests that, had she gone on, Daphne would have said, ‘unlike in everything else’.

  ‘What is it – a sitcom?’

  ‘Drama, darling. New series.’

  ‘Is the masseuse to be a regular character?’

  ‘Not regular, but she may figure from time to time. Probably depends how she goes down. And on whom.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Only joking. I’ll email you the details of time and place.’

  ‘Thanks. And thank you, Daphne.’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’

  She turns to Timothy.

  ‘I’ve got an audition.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you,’ he says. ‘Not delighted. I like having you here. But pleased.’