by Lana Citron
‘When did this all happen?’ I asked.
‘Centuries back. Don’t worry, the worst you’ll suffer these days is a bout of bronchitis.’
Our cave lived up to its name, a dark, dank, dripping venue, where at the eleventh hour of every evening for the forthcoming month we would strike up the Late Night Titter Club.
‘THE TIT-WHAT?’
‘An hour-long, rip-roaring, hilarious, late-night comedy show,’ I explained to the ACTOR standing beside me. My Festival initiation in full flow, I was out pasting up posters. The entire city was wallpapered with them, space at a premium. We would have come to blows if he hadn’t been gorgeous, dripping with charm and had a terribly commanding ACTOR’S voice.
‘Are you an ACTOR?’ I asked. (Hey, with that tosser Scarface out of the picture, it was time to move on, I was a single mo … I mean single again.)
‘I am. And you?’
‘A stand-up comedienne,’ I modestly replied. ‘What show are you in?’
‘An avant-garde improvisational show. Every night a unique performance.’
I was impressed, as I hadn’t a clue what he meant.
‘Who’s she?’ He indicated the eye-catching vision of Lisa licking a lolly, with a star-shaped picture of a Minger tastefully placed, one on each breast.
‘She’s our star attraction.’
‘Great cleavage. Any good?’
‘Not for you.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I meant, she’s a lesbian.’
‘Ah. I meant is she a good performer?’
Three hours later I was back at the flat, last in line for the trickle of water that had the audacity to label itself a shower. We were getting ready for the grand opening party of the festival. Fiona called again and this time berated me for not having recorded the flirtatious conversation earlier in the café.
‘Remember, whatever it takes, Issy.’
‘Fiona,’ I mumbled, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes, but I won’t do that.’
‘Listen clearly, dipstick,’ Fiona continued, ‘I want enough evidence so Geraldine realises she’s being made a complete ass of.’
‘How is Geraldine?’ I asked.
‘Under the knife as we speak …’
I was thinking along the lines of some type of -ectomy, hyster-, mast-. ‘Ouch. Poor thing. I hope she pulls through.’
‘There’s no reason why she shouldn’t. It’s pretty routine these days.’
Then, from the corner of my eye and left nostril, I saw and smelt a noxiously perfumed Minger emerge from the steamy bathroom. I cut the conversation short, promising Fiona I’d keep an extra-vigilant eye on Lisa at the party.
‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, SHE’S DISAPPEARED?’
One minute she was there and the next …
I suppose I should have stayed sober but we ‘Titters’ had some serious bonding to do, and how better to do it than over a bottle of tequila?
Kitted out with our requisite passes proclaiming us ‘artistes’, high heels donned and cheeks rouged, we girls meandered toward the Gilded Balloon up at Bristo Square to the official opening party. Then, swanking past security and into the dining room, we found the place was already a-throng with performers, press, producers, basically anyone and everyone involved in the Festival. It was clearly time to …
P.A.R.T.Y.
Drink one: my throat opened.
Drink two: my tongue started wagging.
Drink three: we Tits got high-speed verbal.
Drink four: we shared childhood stories.
Drink five: then sexual escapades.
Drink six: intimate secrets. ‘And,’ I proclaimed self-righteously and probably a little too loudly, ‘I could hear her in Scarface’s flat giggling. Jesus, what a bastard. I declare him history! On to bigger (I mean that in every possible way) and better.’
Lisa yawned forcefully, having heard it all before. ‘Oops. No disrespect, Issy, but it’s really not that interesting …’
Drink seven: we toasted ourselves. ‘Great Tits, friends for ever, friends for life,’ then immediately disbanded, agreeing to set forth and mingle. Our first undertaking was to go on a recce and draw up wish-lists of heavenly male or female comedians that we Tits would most like to do or be done to.
PADDY ENGLISHMAN, PADDY IRISHMAN AND PADDY SCOTSMAN
The bar was overflowing with comedians of all sorts. The English ones were most easily typified by class, the upper being twattish/surreal. Then came the aficionados of smart-arse comedy, otherwise known as the middle class – ‘I’m so very clever with my Oxbridge education and TV/radio contact’ (BBC, natch, including the ethnic minorities, who were all the rage). Next come the neurotic apologists with degrees from more provincial universities or ex-polytechnics, then the working class, speaking directly to the people in an all-inclusive ITV way. Women comedians had a tendency to be classified in, surprise, surprise, more physical terms: fat-funny, ugly-funny, or, and this was the option I preferred, character actress. Where was I in the scheme of things? I was with Lisa, sitting in the gallery peering down to the bar below.
‘Women are so much more beautiful then men, don’t you think, Issy?’
‘Maybe, but men have dicks.’ I had been hoping she was going to drop the lesbo stuff, as it was beginning to make me feel uncomfortable.
‘I can’t believe you’ve never kissed another woman.’
‘Vice versa.’
‘You’re so naïve. I’m bisexual.’
‘Oh my God,’ I declared, mouth gaping in shock, ‘I don’t believe it …’
‘Most people are, they just don’t acknowledge that side of their sexuality.’
‘Whatever …’ My tongue was lolling, for I’d just glimpsed Jake Vincent. Yes, the Jake Vincent, the gorgeous US actor, last seen in that brilliant independent movie he wrote and directed.
‘See that guy, Lisa?’ I pointed to him.
‘Who? Jake Vincent?’
‘Yeah,’ I smiled. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘I think he’s involved in one of the theatre productions.’ I couldn’t believe she was so blasé about this star descending to the low level of our pleb presence.
‘Oh my God, I have to meet him. He is so sexy. He’s my number-one choice,’ I jubilantly declared.
Lisa laughed, ‘Issy, he’s way out of your league.’
MY NUMBER-ONE CHOICE
A description of Jake Vincent to merit his visual magnificence: he was touching six foot, broad shouldered and with a wide chest you could drum your tiny little clenched fists against in bouts of Vivien Leigh versus Clark Gable. He had a wide smile and lush lips, green eyes, tanned skin, a mixture of intense manliness and utter vulnerability, a huge amount of talent and (I looked and looked) no obvious signs of a girlfriend.
I leaned against the gallery, emitting sonar love signals to no avail. Lisa elbowed me in the ribs. ‘Forget it.’
‘There’s no harm in looking, Lisa. Now as for this guy…’ I clocked the ACTOR I’d met earlier in the day while out pasting posters, and he was making his way straight toward us.
‘ISSY BRODSKY! AND WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU DOING HERE?’
At the bar, I was squashed in between Jake V and another sycophantic fan eager to rub shoulders. My round just happened to coincide with his. How convenient. I mad-dashed it to the bar, leaving the ACTOR with Lisa. Playing it cool, I made out like it was no big deal to be standing right up next to Jake Vincent and, my confidence bolstered by far too much alcohol, I felt obliged to introduce myself. Then I made a joke. He laughed. Unbelievably, I made another humorous remark and he laughed again. I was going to go for a third, but caught sight of Lisa and the ACTOR.
‘And where did you say your show was on?’
Damn, damn, Jake Vincent was interested in having a conversation with me and Lisa was whispering something to the ACTOR.
‘Caves II.’
‘What time?’
‘Huh? 11pm.’ The ACTOR had draped his arm around Lisa’s waist.
‘Too bad, we clash. My show’s on the same time. Maybe we could …’
‘Oh … shit.’ The ACTOR and Lisa were making their way toward the exit. ‘Sorry, Jake, I’ve got to go.’ I ran back up to the gallery, only to be ambushed by the Mingers. They threw their arms around me and claimed me for themselves. ‘Issy, you slag … how’s about you?’
Me?
Well, I was drunk. So very pissed … off. The first night and I’d managed to lose Lisa. I cursed myself, cursed Lisa, the Mingers, the ACTOR, Fiona, even Geraldine. I was on a roll, so added Scarface, threw in Arthur, whoever the hell he turned out to be, but mostly I damned my lifelong capacity for losing things like the finger (see previous opus), my jobs, men, Arthur … and now Lisa.
THE MORNING AFTER
I woke with my short-term memory slightly pickled. Events of the previous night flashed through my mind like Gareth Gates’s stammer. I…I…I… had:
a) a good time?
b) a very good time?
c) messed up?
d) an ominous feeling the answer was going to be c.
The worst thing about a night of alcoholic excess was that things came to you in fragmented pieces. My head was throbbing. I reached for the aspirin, then onward to the kitchen, to a clean-ish tumbler, filled it with ice-cold water, the plop of a pill, with a loud fizz to follow. My mind was so fuzzed I wanted to crawl back to bed, but already it was the afternoon. I heard Lisa in high spirits singing in the shower and the previous night’s action slowly came into focus. Then the key in the bathroom lock turned, Lisa emerged smelling like a Provençal summer meadow, wild flowers and lavender. She appeared as though last night’s excess hadn’t happened. Her as yet unlined eyes shone and her skin glowed.
‘Ouch Issy, you look like you had a rough night.’
I suddenly felt my age. ‘Where did you disappear to?’
‘That would be telling,’ she teased.
‘Ah, go on,’ I ventured.
‘Why, are you interested?’
‘No …’
She was so tricksy. I followed her towards her room, hoping to spot an unkempt bed or even the ACTOR.
‘Better grab the shower while it’s free, Issy, I’m just getting dressed,’ and she closed the door in my face.
Fiona was right, she was a total operator! There was Geraldine in hospital, probably dying, and she was already playing around. The problem for me was going to be getting the hard evidence, catching her in flagrante, as it were.
In the meantime though, we had tickets to sell.
So over the next couple of days I found myself stomping up and down the Royal Mile in the constant and unremitting drizzle, giving out leaflets advertising our show. This was the abominable process known as flyering, which I grew to loathe. Essentially you did battle with every other show at the Festival to try to coax people to come to see your show. Flyering was what Coke was to teeth: a spirit corroder. It was that hidden extra, the unread small print on the contract, which I, in my official rank, was expected to spend three to four hours of each day doing.
THE ART OF FLYERING (or how not to do it)
LOOK AT ME, I’M A PERFORMER.
(Please come to my show, please come to my show.)
I’M BRILLIANT, LOOK AT ME.
(It’s a female comedy show. The Late Night Titter Club.)
I’M THE NEXT BIG THING.
(It’s quite funny. No, we don’t get our tits out.)
(Me) standing beside the ACTOR on the Royal Mile attempting to give out flyers as hordes of people filed past us. One of us was doing better than the other.
I’VE BEEN ON TV!
(Would you like a flyer? Oh …) turning toward the ACTOR and addressing him (I knew I recognised you.)
YOU ARE TALKING TO THE BLOKE SITTING IN THE PIZZA HUT AD, LEFT OF SCREEN, NEAR TOP.
(Cool.)
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ON TV?
(No.)
DIDN’T THINK SO.
Back to the punter. (Tonight we are doing two-for-one tickets. Interested? It’s for a good cause … mine and the other performers’. Oh, okay, look I have a couple of freebies – but don’t tell anyone. You sure? It’s free. Honestly, it is a really funny show.)
I’M A FUCKING GENIUS.
Me still trying to entice punter. (What? You want me to flash you my tits now? Right now? I’m a mother!) then to ACTOR (knew that would change his mind.)
RIGHTO, THAT’S ME DONE, I’M OFF. WE MAY WELL HAVE A FULL HOUSE TONIGHT. HOW YOU DOING LISSY?
(It’s Issy … mmm … okay, I suppose. Oh CRISPIN, I meant to ask, how did it go the other night with Lisa?)
TOP GIRL! BEAUTIFUL CREATURE. THANKS FOR INTRODUCING US.
(And did you two … you know …)
DEFINITELY NOT A LESBO. SAME TIME, SAME PLACE TOMORROW, IZ?
(Sure, see you then.) Big inward breath and (Hi, I wonder if you’d be interested in an all-female comedy show?)
And so I continued, trying my damnedest to sell tickets and taking each rejection personally.
Thanks but no thanks.
And there were times when I felt quite desperate.
(Partial nudity guaranteed. Yes, guaranteed! The Mingers perform topless.)
Then, from out of the rolling mist Adrian emerged and in response to my, ‘Damp, cold and freezing,’ he put his arms around me, lifted me off the ground and shook me like a salt cellar.
‘How many tickets you sold?’
‘About ten.’ Interest had risen dramatically with the ‘topless comedienne’ outright lie.
‘Enough for a preview,’ surmised Adrian. ‘Come on, time for a break,’ and he took me by the hand and introduced me to the most sinfully luscious Chocolate Soup Café.
CAUGHT OUT THERE
‘So, this is what you get up to when you’re meant to be flyering.’ Lisa bounced up to us, looking very chirpy, her tone accusatory.
‘Merely indulging in a moment of respite, though I’ve sold ten tickets, not bad for a preview, right?’
‘That’s bullshit,’ she scoffed. ‘Issy, this show is my future. Five years from now when I hit thirty the last thing I want to be is some loser, doing a crappy job and living on past dreams.’
‘Lisa, believe me, neither do I.’
‘You’re already way over thirty.’
Jesus, but her tongue was sharp. Adrian made an effort to come to my defence. ‘So how many tickets have you sold, Lisa?’
‘One, but he’s a casting agent.’
‘And what, that counts as ten?’
‘Precisely.’
I was thrown back out into the damp to spend another couple of hours with a goody bag full of two-for-one offers and freebie tickets, and even invested in a packet of Jaffa Cakes to sweet-talk prospective customers.
The turnout was an impressive twenty and the preview show went well enough, though Lisa’s casting agent never appeared.
‘YOU OK, ISSY? YOU SEEM A BIT DEFLATED’
The second preview night was over and all had gone satisfactorily enough. The audience this time had numbered fifteen. ‘I’m fine, Adrian,’ I fibbed. We had left the Caves and were on our way over to the Library Bar. I’d just received a very disconcerting call from Nadia regarding the Arthur Penn case. Further discoveries revealed Arthur Penn had fallen foul of a psychotic named Darren Deacon. A long-term psychiatric patient, Darren had been released into the community for sane behaviour seven years ago. Arthur Penn had employed him as his gardener and for three years all seemingly went well, or at least until Arthur discovered Darren was trying to steal his identity. Apparently Arthur had made complaints to the police, but was informed that until actual violence occurred, there was nothing they or he could do. Darren played on the edges of the law, took to stalking Arthur, taunting him from a safe distance and such like. Then his mental state got the better of him and he began dressing as Arthur, turning up at Arthur’s place of work, at his club, at his doctor’s and, finally, one night in Arthur’s bed. Nadia didn’t go into
details, but it would seem that it was a fairly gruesome murder. Darren was arrested and was to be put in Broadmoor Hospital, only on his way there the high-security van was involved in a pile-up and Darren managed to escape. Since then he’d been on the run.
‘Issy, we’re going to have to go to the police about this.’
My heart sank, shocked by the gravity of the situation. It was safe to surmise that the Arthur Penn I’d been following was the psychotic Darren playing Arthur.
‘Jesus, Nadia, I’d been following him for months.’
‘I know, Issy, I’ve already talked to Trisha and Fiona.’
‘What do they think?’
‘They’re worried. We have a meeting with Bambuss tomorrow.’
I’d never really considered my job as dangerous. Flirting with other people’s partners was hardly daredevil stuff. Worst-case scenario was a Black Betty, otherwise known as an emotionally skewered partner viciously lungeing at you. I’d experienced that once and come out the other end with a bruised ego and black eye, but that was it. In the main you got thwarted partners labelling you a prick-tease. The reality of having followed a psychotic murderer at his request and then him vanishing sat as uncomfortably in my mind as a fishbone would in my throat. A dangerous guy who knew me and most probably all about me was on the loose. This notion brought me back to Fiona’s recent words when she mentioned she’d seen him near the office.
‘You coming in, Issy?’ Adrian asked, interrupting my pensive state, the pair of us having reached Bristo Square.
‘Sure,’ I replied, ‘I’ll be there in a while.’
I needed some time on my own, some space to ponder. My thoughts had turned to Max and suddenly I felt desperately vulnerable, emotionally adrift and overwhelmingly lost within a situation not of my own making, for once.
