‘How’ve you been?’ I ask.
‘As if you care.’
‘I care.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Prove it.’
I lean in closer. There are others sitting nearby and I’m suddenly conscious of being overheard.
‘What was that?’ I whisper.
‘Prove how much you care.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I’ll leave that to your imagination, shall I?’ She finishes her lunch, crushes the foil container and dumps it in a nearby bin. ‘Gotta get back, Jem. See you around, then.’
‘When?’
‘You know where I am. You have my number.’
Something about the way she says this makes me suddenly assertive.
‘You might like to give me a ring for a change.’
That brings her to a standstill. She turns, shakes her head and says, ‘Jem, Jem, Jem. You are a one, aren’t you?’ She then blows me a kiss and strides away.
I remain seated for a further few minutes, unable to decipher her cryptic statement. I soon get fed up trying and leave.
I head back home with the intention of doing some writing but, the moment I get in, I remember there are a couple of things requiring my urgent attention. I must call up a few of my temping agencies to see what’s cooking and I need to go and see Piers about some reading work. Distractions, distractions.
* * *
On my way into the Crucible, I bump into Fatima on her way out. We chat briefly in the foyer then go our separate ways. Afterwards, I begin to wonder about the purpose of her visit and why she was looking so shifty.
I go up to Piers’s office via the back stairs, passing numerous familiar faces on the way. They’re mostly Crucible minions and we acknowledge each other with a nod and a smile. At one point, I run into Liam. He takes a few minutes out of his hectic schedule to chew the fat with me. He says how excited he is about the upcoming showcase and that he’s eagerly anticipating what we’ll come up with. I thank him for giving us the opportunity. Modestly, he claims to have had but a small part to play in it. ‘It’s mostly Tom’s doing,’ he says.
Cheekily, I ask if there was any chance of a commission. After a Pinteresque pause and much to my surprise, he says my request isn’t beyond the realms of possibility. Richard, he says, has been talking me up so a lot will depend on the impression I make at the showcase. ‘So get writing, Jem,’ and he’s off down the stairs before I can ask him exactly what Richard’s been saying.
Piers isn’t in his office when I get there so I let myself in and go and sit over by his desk. After a few minutes, I lean across it and start nosing around. There’s nothing in the way of confidential material – just a lot of letters to and from patrons and funding bodies and overseas theatres with links to the Crucible. Dull, dull, dull. I was hoping to find something far more scintillating – letters of complaint from famous playwrights, for example. I saw something of the kind once. I was in the same situation as now, alone in Piers’s office, when I began to snoop around. There, on his paper-strewn desk, was a letter from a Crucible favourite who, for libel reasons, shall remain nameless. It seemed he was still waiting for a reaction to a play he’d submitted over six months previously. It wasn’t so much a letter as one long rant. I don’t recall all the insults, but I do remember the words ‘You all deserve to be shot’.
I slouch in my chair and begin to ponder Liam’s remarks. So Richard has been championing my cause, has he? That’s hardly anything to get excited about. His influence at the Crucible is the equivalent of the derelicts who sleep on its steps every night. What possible motivation could he have for singling me out? Perhaps he’s after my arse.
Piers bustles in, clutching a handful of papers in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He freezes on seeing me.
‘Jem. What a pleasant surprise. Long time no see.’ He walks past me and goes behind his desk.
‘How you doing, Piers?’
‘Up to my neck in it as usual.’ He dumps the papers on to his desk and mashes the cigarette into an overflowing ashtray. ‘Give me a moment, will you? I’ve just got to find something.’ He starts to rummage.
I study him closely. He’s wearing a cream flannel suit and a black shirt with a granddad collar. The lapels of his jacket are flecked with dandruff and his nails are long and dirty. It’s typical of him that he should want to finish what he’s doing before speaking to me. He doesn’t get half the credit he deserves for all the hard work he puts in. There’s nobody at the Crucible as diligent as him and, unlike the rest of them, he’s no glory seeker. His ambitions extend to unearthing good plays and nothing more. He might just be my hero.
‘Aha!’ he says, holding up a small business card. He files it away and looks at me. ‘So, Jem, tell me, to what do I owe this pleasure?’
I want to say I just happened to be in the area but Piers isn’t someone I can lie to. ‘Got any masterpieces for me?’
He smiles. ‘Skint, are we?’
‘You know how it is.’
Pushing his chair away from his desk, he stands up, walks over to his sagging wall shelves and, tiptoeing, pulls down four manila envelopes bulging with scripts. ‘These arrived yesterday.’ He throws them on to his desk. ‘How many can you manage?’
‘I’ll take twenty – the thinnest ones you’ve got.’
We spend the next half hour catching up. I hear all about what’s in the pipeline for definite production and which plays are on the ‘grid’. The grid is the system whereby everyone who’s anyone at the Crucible gets to read and assess those plays considered to be on the borderline. Piers tells me that one of these belongs to Richard.
I can scarcely credit it. ‘Richard? On the grid?’
‘It’s about time. He’s been knocking around long enough.’
‘And this is his reward?’
‘Scant, I know.’
‘What are his chances?’
Piers leans forward conspiratorially. ‘You didn’t hear it from me but I’d say slim.’
I cheer up a bit. ‘You’ve read it, then?’
‘Yes,’
‘And?’
‘Poor man’s Beckett.’
We chuckle.
‘We shouldn’t laugh,’ says Piers. ‘Or at least you shouldn’t. From what I hear, he’s been singing your praises.’
‘Yes, so Liam tells me. What’s he been saying exactly?’
‘He thinks you’re the best writer in the group.’
‘Get away.’
‘It’s true although he doesn’t want it known. With the showcase coming up he doesn’t want to be accused of trying to influence the judging but he told me personally that the play you’re working on has the potential to be very good.’
‘But he’s only heard a handful of scenes.’
‘I’m only telling you what he said.’
I’m stunned. I keep shaking my head and muttering, ‘I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.’ Suddenly I feel immensely guilty for the way I’ve treated Richard over the years. The fact is I’ve always been dismissive towards him, always viewed him as a sad, tragic figure, as someone who would forever be on the verge of ‘making it’ but never quite managing to do so. He’s been in the game for years with nothing to show for it but a few minor productions here and there, at pub theatres and community halls and such. He’s now in his early forties, a time when even he must be thinking that success has passed him by. Often I’ve wanted to say to him, ‘Give up. Do something else. It’s never going to happen for you.’ But I can see now how insulting that would have been. And wrong. The older I get, the more I realise you can’t put an age limit on ambition.
I leave Piers’s office in a pensive frame of mind. I’m so occupied by my thoughts I hardly notice when Martin, one of the associate directors, crosses my path in the foyer. If he hadn’t called my name, I’d have walked right by him and out the door. I wish I had in fact but, regrettably, we end up having quite a little c
hat – or at least he speaks while I listen.
While Liam had gone out of his way to talk about the showcase, Martin doesn’t so much as mention it. Instead, he bombards me with information about all the plays he’s set to direct, including his first on the main stage. I don’t like Martin – never have, never will. He’s a show-off, a boor and he has a face like a gnu. And he’s untrustworthy. You never know where you are with him. He’d do or say anything in his quest to become the Crucible’s next AD. The sad thing is he probably will be the one to succeed Liam, unless they go outside to appoint someone. Hattie and Jeremy are his only serious in-house rivals but, of the three, it’s generally agreed that he’s the front-runner. And it’s not difficult to see why. He’s a shrewd political animal, he’s directed half a dozen critically acclaimed plays (three at the Theatre Downstairs, the Crucible’s small stage, located in the bowels of the building) and, at forty, he’s the most senior of the quartet.
Mind you, Liam shows no signs of relinquishing the hot seat so he might have a long wait. Whichever way, he certainly wouldn’t be my choice for AD. He’s capable enough as a director but does he have the flair and vision to run one of London’s top theatres? I doubt it very much. Also, I’ve discovered through Piers that he doesn’t see the need for the CCTV. He views it as a drain on resources and thinks it should be wound up. There are those who think it’s a personal vendetta against Tom, for whom the CCTV is a vocation.
He and Martin have what’s euphemistically referred to in Crucible circles as ‘history’ – I’ll say they have history. Martin’s wife left him for Tom, taking their young daughter with her. That was three years ago. The wife wants a divorce but Martin will consent only if she agrees to yield custody of the little girl. Naturally she thinks he’s being unreasonable but he’s dug his heels in. I said he was a politician.
Back indoors, I immediately get on the phone to the temping agencies. There’s nothing doing at the moment and I rue the fact that I didn’t take one of the jobs I was offered recently. Now I have to rely solely on the scripts. Which means the sooner I finish the current batch the sooner I can get my hands on more. I make myself comfortable on the settee and get out the first one. After a few pages I realise I’ll have to scan-read the thing. It’s simply too bad. As an experiment, I have a quick look at all the others. Bilge. Getting through them will take me all of two days – three at a push. However, I’ll have to wait perhaps a week before returning them to Piers – that way I’ll at least give the appearance of having read them.
I put the scripts to one side and allow my mind to drift. I keep thinking about Richard and what he’s been saying – the best writer in the group … I have a lot of confidence in my ability but even I would argue with that. It’s sweet of him to say so and, heaven knows, I’d love to believe it but that title must surely go to Emily. She’s the most effortless, the most inventive, the most playful writer among us. She does everything with a lightness of touch, a grace, she never strains. On her day, she can make the rest of us look cumbersome and leaden-footed. And then there’s Evan. I might not like everything he’s done and, Christ knows, he can be over indulgent but there’s no getting away from the fact that he has natural talent.
I couldn’t, in all conscience, make a similar claim for myself. The truth is I have to work bloody hard at my writing, to the point where sometimes I wonder whether it’s worth all the effort, whether anyone cares about my laborious attempts to say something new, original or simply interesting about why we are the way we are. Why do I do it? Above my desk, pinned to a corkboard, is the phrase ‘What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure’. Pleasure – I write because I want to give others pleasure. If only it didn’t come at the expense of my own. But I don’t want to sound like a martyr. I get a lot of enjoyment from my writing – but not pleasure. There’s a subtle difference. But I’m pretty sure Rajeev gets a good deal of pleasure from his writing. It’s easy to visualise him at his desk, not with a furrowed brow like me, not with a worried expression, but wearing a look of sheer ecstasy. The man’s an out-and-out narcissist. For example, he loves to read his own work, like a common novelist, and often Richard has to persuade him that it’s sometimes better to listen. I would go a step further and say it’s always better to listen for you never know when you might hear something improving.
I might not agree with Richard’s assessment of my abilities but there’s no doubt it’s given my confidence a major fillip. I decide to use it as a spur to get on and finish the play and, for the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening, I chain myself to my desk. I get a lot done – the majority of which I’m pleased with – and I call it quits around nine. After a quick bite to eat, I plough straight into the scripts. I scan-read half a dozen, write a report for each and then hit the sack. I’m off to sleep the moment my head hits the pillow.
Early the following morning, I go out and buy the new edition of Time Out. I turn to the theatre pages to see what’s on. A couple of things take my fancy – both at the National. One’s old, one’s new. I ring the box office and book a couple of tickets for the new one, which is playing at the Cottesloe. The tickets are expensive, more than I can afford actually, but the theatre is my one real extravagance. I’ll baulk at an eight-pound cinema charge but will gladly pay fifty to see a good play. Besides, if the evening ends with me and Sarah in bed, then it would have been money well spent.
The moment I’m off the phone to the theatre, Evan calls. He tells me he’s had the meeting with the director and wants to know whether I can meet him to discuss it.
‘That depends,’ I say.
‘On what?’
‘On how it went.’
‘It went well.’
‘In that case, I can’t be arsed.’
The silence flows down the receiver and into my ear like liquid chocolate.
‘I was joking, Evan.’
‘I bet you were.’
I suggest we meet in the square but he says he’d prefer Holland Park. We arrange to meet by the tennis courts at one.
I’m the one who’s late for a change. I get to the park to find Evan lying on the grass, on his back, staring up at the blue sky. It’s a scorcher. The short walk from my place has me dripping with sweat. Evan has discarded his T-shirt, rolled his jeans up to his knees and removed his shoes. He’s the only man I know who wears jeans with shoes.
I collapse next to him. He raises himself up on to his elbows and for a moment we sit there staring at the two tennis courts. They’re busier than last time, with a doubles match on each, but there’s been no improvement in the standard of play. I begin to look around. There are couples kissing and canoodling all over the place. They seem so happy, so oblivious, that I become deeply envious. It occurs to me that I should be there doing the same thing with Sarah and I promise myself that, one day, I will. For now, though, I’ll just have to content myself with a rather hairy-backed Evan. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a hairy back.
‘So when was the meeting?’ I ask.
‘Yesterday.’
‘I want to know everything that happened.’
‘Do you really?’
‘Why do you ask me in that tone of voice?’
He fidgets, pulls up a handful of grass, tosses it aside. ‘I can’t help feeling this thing is starting to come between us.’
‘Tell me about the meeting.’
It took place at a cafe in Islington, around the corner from the theatre. The director, called Milo, took him for a slap-up continental breakfast. All around them, people were discussing book launches, film projects, art exhibitions. For the first hour, the play wasn’t mentioned once. The director seemed more interested in hearing about Evan’s background and upbringing. Evan was forced to recall his peripatetic childhood in great detail. He spoke about his father’s high-powered job for a top oil company, which required the family to be constantly on the move. He told of stints living abroad, in places as far flung as the Middle East, South-East Asia a
nd South America, and how much he resented his father because of it. He spoke of the strain it put on the family, including his younger brother and sister, and how it led to his parents getting divorced. He spoke about the uneasy relationship he now has with his father and the difficulties they have in communicating. Where the whole thing was leading he couldn’t be sure but it soon became clear that the director, something of an amateur psychologist as it turned out, was seeking to make some rather dubious connections between the events in Evan’s childhood and the themes, as the director saw them, in his play.
At this juncture, it’s perhaps worth mentioning what Evan’s play is about. It concerns a group of conspiracy theorists who meet regularly in secret to discuss, among other things, who really killed Kennedy and whether or not the first moon landing was a hoax. It’s set in small town America, it’s called Roswell’s Babies and it’s a satire.
‘Where’s the connection?’ I ask.
‘You’ll love this. Apparently I’ve never really known my father, never really understood him. Consequently I’ve had to come up with my own theories as to who he really is. By writing a play about conspiracy theories, I’m seeking to examine the lengths to which we’re prepared to go in order to fabricate a reality that we can believe in.’
‘What?’
‘I know.’
‘I thought you said the meeting went well.’
‘It did – once we got on to the play, which he definitely wants to direct, by the way.’
‘And you’d let him? He sounds like a moron. Never trust a man with the same name as a malt drink.’
He chuckles. ‘I admit I was sceptical – so much so that I rang Carol.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Oh, so it’s Carol now, is it?’
He ignores me. ‘I rang Carol and she told me to have faith in him. She said he might seem batty but that I should look beyond that. According to her, he’s a director of genius and I should consider myself lucky that he wants to direct my play.’
Meet Me Under the Westway Page 7
