Feeling hungry, I think briefly about going to the City Lounge (aka the Shitty Lounge) for a cheap Chinese meal but I can’t be bothered so I go to the kitchen and rustle up some pasta-pesto instead. After I’ve eaten, I put on Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life then call my dealer. He arrives half an hour later with my order. I roll a quick one-paper spliff and kick back with it on the settee – nothing to do now except wait.
4
I get to the Napoleon a few minutes earlier than planned. It’s fairly busy but I manage to find a small table with a couple of chairs. I sit on one and throw my jacket over the other but that doesn’t prevent person after person enquiring after its availability. I get so fed up I put my feet up on it and receive a lot of dirty looks for my troubles. I tell myself it’ll be worth it for the look of gratitude on Sarah’s face and, sure enough, when she arrives, she beams widely and says, ‘You got us seats – what an absolute star! What’re you having?’
‘Bottla Beck’s, please. No glass.’
She goes off to get the drinks, fighting her way through the crowd. Earlier I’d noticed some fine women dotted about the bar but now I have eyes for Sarah alone. I watch her ordering the drinks and it occurs to me that practically every other bloke in the place is doing the same. I swell up with pride though I know my feelings would be very different were we actually seeing each other: then I would be fearful and insecure.
She returns with a double-vodka-and-cranberry-juice for herself and two bottles of Beck’s for me.
‘Now we don’t have to move for a while,’ she says. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
She gives me her customary wink, which I find so erotic I want to reach my hand under the table and part her thighs. We sip our drinks and stare meaningfully at each other. I’m the first to look away. I glance about the pub but, finding little of interest, I turn and face her once more.
‘You look as beautiful as ever.’
‘Why, thank you, han’some.’ Her attempt at a southern drawl is somewhat wide of the mark but no less charming for that.
‘I’ll have to start calling you Blanche.’
‘Who?’
‘Blanche DuBois? From A Streetcar Named Desire?’
She smiles. ‘You’re quite cultured, aren’t you?’
‘Well …’ I wave my arm expansively, lean back in my chair and almost topple over.
‘Steady,’ she says and leaves it at that. It’s a measure of her sensitivity that she doesn’t seek to deepen my embarrassment, as so many in her position would have done – Ollie, for instance.
We settle into a light-hearted conversation, discussing, among other things, the preponderance of Hollywood blockbusters in the capital’s cineplexes. Then, out of the blue, she asks me if I’d always wanted to be a playwright.
‘I guess so.’
‘And why playwriting?’
‘When I was fifteen, my mother took me to see Entertaining Mr Sloane. That pretty much decided me.’
Her reaction tells me she’s never heard of the play.
‘I’d love to go to the theatre more,’ she says.
‘Why don’t you, then?’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start. I’d need a guide. There’s so much out there.’
‘You can say that again – the majority of it God-awful. I think it’s time we had a moratorium on bad theatre.’
She mulls it over. ‘You make me jealous, you know that?’
‘I do?’
‘Yes. You have a passion for something. That’s rare these days.’
First I’m cultured, now I’m passionate. If she calls me clever, my happiness will be complete.
‘Are you unhappy?’ I ask.
‘What a funny question.’
‘Well?’
‘I’m unfulfilled. There’s a difference. Half the time I don’t know what I want.’
‘And the other half?’
‘Same as any woman, I suppose – love and security.’
I pause before asking my next question for, while I must know the answer, I fear it might not be a favourable one. I steady my nerves and dive in. ‘Is there a significant other in your life at the moment?’
‘You mean do I have a boyfriend?’
‘Actually the question applies equally to pets.’
She runs her fingers through her hair. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’
I almost sigh with relief. It had taken her no more than a few seconds to answer yet, in that time, I’d become convinced she was seeing someone. I’d imagined this beau of hers to be sickeningly handsome – an artist of some kind, with a trendy, one-syllable name like Ben or Matt or Josh. Why, I don’t know.
‘I was seeing this one guy,’ she says. ‘We split up over a year ago. Not long before I met you in fact.’
I roll the beer bottle between my palms, pondering. ‘He wasn’t right for you.’ She smiles, and I go tingly all over. ‘What was his name, by the way?’
She looks at me askance. ‘His name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Brett.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m curious. It’s the writer in me.’
‘He was a sculptor.’
‘Aha!’
She regards me suspiciously. ‘You feeling all right, Jem?’
I grin knowingly but don’t answer.
‘I’d rather we didn’t talk about my exes,’ she says solemnly.
I can live with that. It does me no favours to carry out autopsies on her dead relationships. ‘Your wish is my command.’
We leave the pub after a couple of hours and decide to take a stroll up to Holland Park. The park itself is closed so we end up wandering around the side streets, which are just beautiful at night. As we walk I find myself wanting to put my arm around her. It feels like the natural thing to do but I can tell she’s wary of me so I stuff my hands into my pockets to keep from making an ass of myself.
Then, out of the blue, she says, ‘Would you say you had a happy childhood?’
‘Er, yeah – I guess so. Why?’
‘I didn’t, particularly.’
I wait for her to add more but instead she says, ‘That’s pretty. I wouldn’t mind living there.’
We stop outside a somewhat twee town house, complete with window boxes and done up in pastel pink. Sarah gazes at it while I gaze at her. I can tell there’s something troubling her, something she’d like to talk about, and I make up my mind to try to tease it out of her before long.
We walk on, dragging our feet as though we had all the time in the world and no particular place to be. After a few minutes I say, ‘Where do you see yourself in ten years’ time?’
She doesn’t reply immediately and for a moment I wonder if I’ve overstepped the mark. But in her own time she says, ‘I try not to look that far into the future. I don’t believe in mapping my life out. I’ve done enough of that already and it almost destroyed me.’
‘What happened?’
‘Let’s just say I was working towards a future I didn’t believe in.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual reasons – not knowing myself well enough, doing what was expected of me. That type of thing.’
‘Give me some details. If I’m not being too nosy.’
‘I worked in the city for a time. A very short time – two years.’
‘You – a city slicker? I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true. I got into it because I thought the secret to happiness was to make lots of money. I made lots of money all right but I’d never been more miserable.’
‘I know nothing at all about that world.’
‘Lucky you. It’s a vipers’ nest, full of greedy, treacherous people who wear the cloak of respectability while having the scruples of grave robbers. I’m just glad I got out before it was too late.’
We pause to sit on a low wall. The street is as quiet as an empty church.
After a f
ew seconds staring into the distance, Sarah says, ‘The problem is since then I haven’t known what to do with myself.’ She describes how for the past few years she’s spent most of her time trying to find her ‘niche’. She’s tried her hand at all sorts – everything from voluntary work to making pottery to nannying – but nothing ever holds her interest beyond the initial burst of enthusiasm with which she tends to throw herself at things. Her boredom threshold is very low and, whenever she feels the urge to experience something new, she’ll abandon her current occupation without so much as a backward glance. She despairs of ever making good use of her life and often wonders whether her parents aren’t right when they describe her as ‘flighty’.
‘How they must worry about you,’ I say.
A grave shake of the head. ‘Don’t even get me started on that.’ She then turns to me and says, ‘Enough about me – let’s talk about you.’
‘Do we have to?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘You seem very sure about what it is you want from life. You have certainty. That must be a good feeling.’
‘That’s not necessarily true – at least not all the time.’
‘What d’you mean?’
I explain how I’m often attacked by self-doubt and how I sometimes wonder whether I’m just a dreamer.
‘Dreams are important,’ she says.
‘Yes but they alone can’t sustain you.’
She doesn’t say anything and, warming my to my theme, I go on to describe the pressure I feel to make a success of myself and how most of it is self-imposed. ‘I’m motivated by a need for recognition but sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever achieve it. Having said that, I am by nature very optimistic. Whenever I feel the need to stiffen my resolve, I remind myself of the importance of stick-ability. Are you into mottos?’
She shakes her head quickly, her eyes betraying her incomprehension.
I continue, ‘I’m a great one for mottos. One of my favourites is “Success comes to those who persist”.’
She giggles. ‘You sound like a motivation guru.’
‘Don’t knock motivation gurus. There’s a place for them.’
‘Yeah, in the boardroom of multinational conglomerates.’
We have a little laugh at that.
‘I can learn a lot from you,’ she says after a time.
I stare into her eyes, the street lighting reflected in her pupils. ‘’Course you can. I’m deep.’
She smiles, strokes my arm. ‘Should we head back?’
‘OK.’
‘Can we go to yours?’
‘What! I mean … yeah. Sure. Let’s go.’
‘I wouldn’t ask but I’m trying to avoid my flatmate at the moment. She’s depressed. Do you mind? It’ll only be for an hour or so till I know she’s in bed.’
‘Let’s go,’ I repeat, disappointed.
On entering the flat, the first thing Sarah remarks on is the tidiness. I feel very proud of myself for the impression I wish to create with her is not that of a slob. Still, there’s a dinginess about the place that no amount of tidying up can mask. The walls are bare, cracked and in dire need of repainting; every item of furniture is second-hand; the curtains aren’t curtains at all but bits of old material; and the grey carpet is threadbare and stained. I only notice these things when I have visitors, which is why I don’t encourage any.
I head straight for the kitchen in search of a bottle of cheap red wine that I believe to be in one of the cupboards gathering dust. Meanwhile, Sarah has removed her shoes and is wandering around inspecting objects in the front room, picking up this and turning over that. I watch her from the kitchen (it’s open plan) and ask myself whether that stuff about her flatmate wasn’t just a ruse. She can tell I’m watching her but pretends otherwise. She walks over to my bulging bookshelves, pulls out a copy of The Caucasian Chalk Circle, reads the blurb aloud, then asks me what I think of the play. It’s not often I get to speak freely about Herr Brecht (such is the esteem in which he’s held) so I don’t hold back. I know he was a radical and important and innovative and was critical of the Third Reich and wore a leather jacket and smoked cigars and all that but the fact is I cannot stand any of the agitprop rubbish on which his overblown reputation rests. During the period in which he rose to fame, his proselytising was more than relevant but now I find his plays virtually unwatchable. Of course his legacy lives on – but, mercifully, only in a technical sense. To give him his due, many of the effects he introduced to the theatre have since become standard practice: revealed lighting, uncluttered sets, solid, no-nonsense props, workmanlike costumes, visible scene changes, captions, songs. I don’t mind those – it’s his subject matter I object to.
When I’m finished speaking, Sarah seems stunned. ‘Say what you think, why don’t you?’ She replaces the book then says, ‘But, if you hate him so much, why have him on your shelf?’
‘For show.’
‘That’s hardly a good reason.’
‘It’s the only reason anyone’s into Brecht these days.’
She’s about to say something but gives up and goes and sits on the settee. I join her with the opened bottle of wine and two glasses.
After we’ve toasted each other, an awkward silence begins to encroach. I step in before it has a chance to engulf us. ‘Fancy a game of Scrabble?’
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Yes, I’m joking.’
I get an attack of prickly heat and hope and pray that my face hasn’t turned crimson. Sarah begins to giggle.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You’ve gone red.’
‘Have I?’
‘I do believe you’re blushing, Jem.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s the wine.’ I grab the bottle and scrutinise the label. ‘No wonder – says here it’s from Chechnya.’
She laughs, an infectious keh-keh-keh that ricochets off the walls and into my loins. I get a reckless urge to take her in my arms and mash my lips against hers, the way they do in old movies, but the fear of making a fool of myself is too strong and so I resist. Then suddenly she stops laughing and asks me if I have any ‘grass’. I snigger at her arcane description then I get out my bag of skunk. We spend the next couple of hours smoking and drinking, becoming increasingly childish and giggly. At one point, we get an attack of the munchies and raid the kitchen looking for food, only to find some rubbery tortilla chips and a half-eaten tub of guacamole. We wolf them down, smoke another spliff and finish off the bottle of wine.
A short while later, Sarah conks out on the settee. I make her as comfortable as possible, which requires me to place my hands on intimate parts of her body, then head off to bed myself. The following morning I walk into the front room to find her gone, with a note on the settee that reads, ‘Hey, you. Had a wonderful night. Must do it again soon, OK? Hope you slept well. Call me, or vice-versa. Lots of love, S. x’ As I read the note I begin shaking my head. Lots of love. How trite. I rip the note into little pieces then call Evan and arrange to meet him at the Tabernacle for a late breakfast.
* * *
As usual, Evan turns up late but, such is the warmth of his greeting, I don’t have the heart to harangue him over it.
‘Good to see you, Jem.’
‘Good to see you too, Evan, lad.’
He doesn’t like to be called that, says it makes him sound like a stable boy. I expect him to have a go at me but, for some reason, he lets me off.
‘I’m glad you called, Jem. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.’
‘And why would I do that?’
‘Exactly what I’ve been thinking.’
Still a nobody and already he’s paranoid. I dread to think what might happen were he to become a household name.
‘Don’t lose your grip on reality, Evan. We’re mates, and I hope we always will be.’
What I say affects him in an astonishing way – he leans across the table and hugs me like an Italian. I sit
there with my arms hanging at my side, embarrassed beyond description. Some of the other lunchers begin to stare and have obviously mistaken us for a gay couple. Mortified at the thought, I gently push Evan away. He gathers himself as best he can and, with remarkable alacrity, proceeds to consult the menu. Later, while we’re eating, we do our best to avoid eye contact.
We leave the Tabernacle and head off to Holland Park – one of our many summer rituals. The weather’s not brilliant but it isn’t raining and that’s incentive enough. On the way, Evan apologises for ‘losing it’ in the restaurant. I tell him there’s no need to apologise, he insists there is and we’re embarrassed all over again. Sometimes friendship, especially between men, seems like the hardest thing in the world.
The sun’s come out by the time we get to the park so we buy a couple of ice creams and go and sit on the lawn near the two concrete tennis courts. Both courts are occupied – one by two teenage girls, the other by a middle-aged couple. I’m not overstating it when I say they don’t know what they’re doing. The girls can’t serve and the couple can’t sustain a rally beyond the serve. These people have no business whatsoever on a tennis court, and the fact that they are can only mean one thing – Wimbledon’s upon us.
Soon Evan and I are talking. All afternoon, not wishing to torture myself, I’d managed to skirt round the subject of his play but I can no longer delay it without appearing infantile. So I ask him, through gritted teeth, whether he’d heard any more from the director. Not yet, he informs me, but he has fixed up a meeting with someone at Stevens, Arnold and Stevens. He says it quite casually and I know I’m supposed to be impressed but the fact is I haven’t the foggiest idea who he’s talking about. They sound like a firm of solicitors and, when I tell him this, he becomes really defensive and doesn’t shut up until he’s convinced me of their credentials as a leading literary agency.
‘Carol Llewellyn’s with them.’
‘Is that right?’
‘She fixed up the meeting.’
‘You don’t say.’
Meet Me Under the Westway Page 4
