The Brodsky Touch

by Lana Citron

  ‘Excuse me, sir, just thought I should inform you that I used your sperm to create a living human being.’ All it would take was for me to approach him and, surprise, surprise!

  Blast from the past.

  Well, well, who’d have thought it?

  What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

  No, that came out wrong.

  How would I live with myself if I didn’t at least ask/tell?

  God, why didn’t I apply to that book club when I had the chance. I was always throwing away those unsolicited letters begging me to join ‘at no extra cost’ and avail myself of this month’s fabulous offer on self-help manuals, such as The Long-Lost Daddy Book: ‘an exhaustive guide on how to deal with finding the person you believe could possibly be the father of your child’, or Fleecing the Bastard the Legal Way and its sequel, Fleecing the Bastard Any Old Way.

  How do these book-club organisations get your details in the first place? This I’d ponder and then scrunch up the paper into a ball and think of all those millions and millions of trees sawn down for nothing. I mean, is there an established etiquette?

  ‘Hi there stranger, long time no see.

  ‘I got some news for you, buddy. Yep, you’re looking at the bearer of good tidings.

  ‘My name is Issy, does that ring any bells?

  ‘Ting-a-ling-a-ling.

  ‘Glastonbury?

  ‘Tepee. Yours?

  ‘Do you speak English?

  ‘Well, I’m the mother of the son you never knew about.

  ‘I tried to find you, but as we were only ever on first-name terms …

  ‘I did put an ad in Time Out.

  ‘Hey, Jan, don’t run away.

  ‘Hey, Jan, I swear, I’m not a crazy person.’

  Seriously though, what would I say? What if he didn’t remember me? What if he did? What if he had and that was why he’d come to the show and, having seen me die on my arse, would just pretend he didn’t know me at all? What if he looked through me, beyond me, above me?

  The agony of my death lingered and my future predicament filled me with intense dread. Mustering as much courage as I could, I snuck in again, hiding at the back by the lighting desk.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I think we can safely say, bar an initial hitch (the first act), this evening …’ Adrian was rounding off the show and from the far corner Lisa gave me the thumbs-up and mouthed the words, ‘Stormed it – I was brilliant.’

  The Mingers sidled over to me. I could smell yesterday’s alcohol off them. ‘Jesus, Issy, that was one of the best deaths we’ve seen. It was so bad, it almost turned back on itself. It was almost funny.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I squeaked in reply, trying not to inhale too deeply.

  ‘And congratulations, like.’

  Oh, here we go. I braced myself for another bout of Brodsky bitchery.

  ‘Thanks,’ then graced them with my most sardonic smile.

  ‘No girlie, we mean it. You’re not a real comedian till you’ve died, so welcome to the club.’

  Show over, the audience clapped and the lights came up. The venue had benches along the left and right sides and a gangway in the middle leading directly to the exits on either side. I stood at the back, close to the exit that wasn’t going to be used and waited, half-hidden by the black curtain, hoping to catch sight of Jan.

  TRAPPED

  ‘Issy! Issy!’ I could see Adrian waving to me from the other side of the gangway, beckoning me over. Positioning myself so close to the wrong exit suggested to the audience that it was the real exit, except of course it wasn’t. There occurred a blockage, and much murmuring in the vein of, ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Of course, having hoped to do my utmost not to draw attention to myself, inadvertently I had. So there I was in the throng of people, ushering them away from my vantage point and in the confusion, I tripped.

  AND FELL STRAIGHT INTO THE ARMS OF JAN

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I slipped.’

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Looking for someone.’

  ‘Aren’t we all.’

  I, the original lady from the Glasto swamp. With my waterproof poncho, bare feet and rolled-up combats, I literally fell into his arms in the quagmire that was the Festival that year. Carefree and open to anything that should cross my path and spark interest, he’d turned up.

  ‘I’m going to try and catch …’ and before he could finish his sentence I added, ‘Me too.’

  He took my hand and we spent the next few days entwined. His tent 100 per cent waterproof (heaven), our mood calm, mellifluous and honey-dripping with desire. We were oblivious to all: every performer crooned for us, providing the perfect soundtrack to our show, we were the stars, we were the world, we were so off our faces it was ‘beautiful’, then one more kiss, just one more kiss, and there I was back amongst the common people.

  SIX YEARS ON

  ‘Tough call, Lizzy.’ The ACTOR Crispin slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Titanic, matey.’ He pinched his nostrils closed and made like he was drowning. Lisa came up behind him.

  ‘Don’t be so cruel, Crispin.’

  He lifted her up, swung her round, and said ‘And as for you, my beauty …’

  ‘Let me down,’ she squealed flirtatiously.

  He refused. ‘Only if you promise to do what you did to me the other night.’

  Oh, Christ. What had she done to him?

  ‘Now, you brute,’ she laughed. They were blocking the passage.

  ‘Come on, Crispin, put her down,’ I blurted, irate with the situation, and from the corner of my eye glimpsed Jan on the outward trundle.

  RUN, BRODSKY, RUN

  I charged down the stairs, through the stone corridor and out on to the cobbled lane. At the corner a small crowd of audience members were slowly dispersing. A quick scan told me Jan wasn’t amongst them. I looked left, looked right.9 Damn, damn, he couldn’t have got very far, if anywhere at all, probably he was at the Cave bar. Most people went there after the shows. I sprinted back inside. No mistake, it definitely was Jan, the eyes were the giveaway. Max has exquisite blue eyes. I’d forgotten how good-looking Jan was, pretty gorgeous actually. I don’t mean to boast, but we’re talking Jude Law territory. I know what you’re thinking.

  Me: Yeah, you, reader.

  Undermining conscience/reader: So why would he be with you, then?

  Me: Ever heard of the word personality?

  Undermining conscience/reader: Yes.

  Me: Well, if you’re going to take that attitude.

  Nah, you’re right. See, pre-motherhood, I was a lot cuter and in much better shape, ie, I had one.

  The Caves bar was rammed to capacity. Lisa caught hold of my elbow. ‘The Casting Agent’s here,’ she whispered. ‘He’s buying me a drink.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘No need to sound so jealous, Issy.’

  ‘Arghh, I wasn’t, I’m looking for someone. That’s great, Lisa.’

  Betwixt, between each room I rushed. Searching among the crowd, I was a crow nesting atop the stairwell, glanced over my shoulder and there he was at the bottom, a disappearing white rabbit.

  ‘Brodsky, your round. Come on, cough up.’ The Mingers launched themselves upon me.

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘We’re thirsty now.’

  I pushed past them, back down the stairs, and outside after him. He was at the corner. A black cab pulled over and in he stepped and away it drove.

  ‘Jan! Hey, Jan,’ I shouted.

  Fuming?

  Enraged?

  Infuriated?

  I believe I had a paranormal experience of such intensity that when one of the Mingers stuck her Minger face out the window and hollered, ‘Brodsky, it’s time to get wasted,’ I dutifully complied.

  FALLOUT

  The next morning I woke with a rumbling in my belly. Didn’t feel good at all, my eyes sleep-stuck, closed for fear that if they opened, the room would spin at the speed of light. The horrific memory of my death lo
omed like the latent terror of having Social Services take your child away by some bizarre twist of fate, where something is misconstrued and false accusations fly, taking root in a cowpat of conspiracy theories (does every mother suffer from this?).

  On the way to oblivion, I’d stood right in the centre of the bar feeling desperate when a random bloke came by and said, ‘Saw your act tonight. Bit of advice …’

  ‘Ha!’ I shrugged my shoulders. Punters were always bursting with good advice. ‘Go on then, stranger, do your worst.’ By that stage I was ready for anything.

  ‘Don’t give up the day job.’

  A witty riposte lay somewhere buried in the debris of my mind. Unfortunately I couldn’t find it offhand, distracted by his foul, fishy breath and the fact that I had spotted a remnant of his dinner in his heavy beard.

  ‘Thanks, fabulous suggestion.’

  Weird thing was, I meant it.

  THE DAY JOB

  It was so damn obvious. After all, I was a detective. Okay, so maybe not the best, but surely not the worst? I could find Jan. I would find Jan. Jan and I would be reunited and it would feel so good.

  ‘Hey, and I’m not known in this business as Double D Agent Brodsky for nothing.’

  ‘What you mumbling, Issy?’ Adrian had found me slumped on the doorstep of the Caves (doorsteps were an early childhood comfort zone). Kindly he dragged me to a standing position and tumbled me into a cab along with Lisa and the Casting Agent, Lisa having blown Crispin out in favour of someone with real power.

  ‘Issy, Crispin’s a boy, this guy could get me a part.’

  ‘But what about Geraldine? She’s dying for you!’ I appealed to her more human side.

  ‘The only one dying tonight was you, Issy.’

  Oh yeah, it was all coming back. On the way home the cab dropped Lisa and the agent off at his hotel. I drunkenly beseeched Lisa not to go in with him. She misinterpreted me, replying to the effect that I was finally facing up to my true sexual orientation and the agent whispered that if I wanted to, he wouldn’t mind me joining in either. They retracted their offer when I mentioned I felt sick and asked the cabby to stop and the cabby replied he already had.

  Last night had been too much for one delicate Brodsky to handle. In times such as these, there was only ever one thing to do. Lie very still and pull the covers over my head.

  LYING IN A STATE OF NUMBNESS AND DENIAL

  It was no use, my bladder dictated motion, forcing me up. I rose, showered, gorged myself on melted cheese sandwiches, chocolate digestives and a half-litre of coffee, then went straight back to bed. It was from there that I put a call through to my life-saver.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Darling, we were all thinking about you last night. How did the show go? How are you?’ My mother’s voice was reassuring, calming, familiar.

  ‘Mmm.’ The edges of my lips quivered. I was on the precipice of an outpouring, the words sardines in my mouth, awaiting the tin opener. Words like: I died, Mother, I died. My very being seeped out of my pores. Heal me Mother, cast some of your new-world magic my way.

  ‘Are you still there, Issy?’

  My voice small and squeaky. ‘Mum, it didn’t go as expected.’

  ‘These things never do, honey.’

  ‘No, Mum, it was awful, surpassing every humiliation ever encountered. And I mean ever …’

  ISSY BRODSKY’S TOP FIVE ALL-TIME CLASSICS

  Coming in at Number Five.

  Nursery, a mere three years old. Nearly new, but old enough to remember. Standing in the corner with my back to the class. I had been banished to what was for me the far end of the universe for having scribbled all over Tanya Dawson’s drawing, an act instigated by her spitting on my picture. Regrettably for me, Tanya had a shrill, high-pitched shriek that went off like a rich man’s house alarm, alerting the teacher to her distress and my culpability. In retrospect, my punishment of excommunication seemed to underline the differences between us. Tanya was a natural-born group leader10 and I wasn’t, so I got in trouble and was forevermore consigned to the social slag heap. Okay, so the slag bit didn’t kick in till secondary school, but from that moment on I was spurned by the ‘bitch group’ and ended up hanging out with the only boy in class, actually the only boy in school, and his name was little Colin Greaves. We all pitied Colin, even his best friend, ie me, and ribbed him incessantly. To be honest, it was low-level bullying of the later-life-destroying type. His mum, a teacher, had joined the school mid-term, fresh from the Outer Hebrides and had been unable to find a more suitable school for Colin.

  Number Four.

  Quite literally a first-class moment. First class in infants’ school, five years old, the harvest assembly, in front of all the parents, crucifying the hymn ‘Morning has broken’. Otherwise known as the projectile-vomit episode. All over Tanya (hee hee).

  Number Three.

  Experimenting with hair. I was going through one of those teenage stages. Thought I’d get mine cut short and dye it. Orange. Bad, bad decision, made worse by then, in my frustration, opting for the shaved Sinéad O’Connor look. With her huge eyes and pixie face, she could get away with it. Alas, moon-face here … ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ was the tune sung at me when I walked along the school corridor. Then just to add to the shame of it I was, until my hair grew to a reasonable length, continually mistaken for a boy.

  Number Two.

  The ‘I love you too much’ accumulative humiliation of the besotted teenager. The hanging on to shreds of hope that he’d look in my direction, answer the phone, slow dance at the disco with me (he said no). The worst part being he was the funky new headmaster. Oh yeah. I remember hanging around places in case I’d bump into him, like school. The feeling of never, ever being able to get over him, yet not even having had him.

  Number One.

  The ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, one. School concert this time, going through my creative Expressionist period.11 Let’s just leave it at that, too hideous for words.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure all comedians have off-nights.’

  ‘But that’s not all. Mother, there’s more …’

  ‘Issy, darling, there’s another call coming in. Stay on the line and I’ll get rid of it.’

  ON DIVERSION

  I suppressed the compulsion to shout out, ‘Mother, I want to regress way back, to before childhood, toddlerdom, baby id. I want to press rewind all the way to fusion. Okay, maybe not – I still hate thought of my mother and father doing it. Let’s stop at the twinkle in the eye, or the fifth vodka and tonic. Know what? If sperm had personality, I’d have been the one swimming along nice and easy, minding my own beeswax, when whoosh, a huge tremor would have catapulted me into the nether regions of creativity. And then, having taken the wrong route and nearly dead on my fin from exhaustion, I’d see this huge boulder slowly rolling toward me. Dear Christ, I’d have moaned, I’ll be swamped, swallowed, I’ll never get out of here alive …’

  Except that would be the irony, that would be exactly how I did get out of there.

  END OF THE LINE

  The phone died: either that or my mother was deserting me in my time of ultimate need, although being averse to the technological age, she’d more than likely ballsed up. Thankfully I had only to suffer a moment of self-pitying paranoia before my mobile rang. I picked it up.

  It was Fiona. She sounded concerned. She said not to worry, but the police wanted to interview me about Arthur/Darren. She said Bambuss would be touch and that I was to try to recall every detail, or as much as I could about him. She mentioned that Arthur/Darren was considered to be a highly dangerous individual and wanted in three countries on three separate charges of identity theft, murder and six charges of damage to city parks. She said the Fentons had rented out their house to him under the assumption he was a fellow academic and on a sabbatical. She mentioned he was last sighted in the Midlands in a motorway café doing The Times crossword sporting a couple of days’ worth of facial hair growth. She added if there was a
nything I wasn’t telling her or wanted to tell her or needed to tell her, to speak now before the police took over. Then she asked when exactly was the last time I had seen him?

  I said I couldn’t remember. I said my current state was not conducive to rational thought, factual accuracy and that in the given circumstances could she wait twenty-four hours. I had other things more pressing on my mind and I would get back to her.

  She asked how the case was going with regards to Lisa. I duly reported that Lisa had gone home with a casting agent the night before and as far as I knew had stayed over and I then asked if she would put me through to Trisha. She sounded surprised. ‘You want to talk to Trisha?’

  This was an unusual request; Trisha and I didn’t do banter.

  ‘Yeah, is she there?’ I needed clear advice, a straight answer from a no-nonsense person and circumstances dictated that that person was Trisha.

  On a rainy random afternoon long since gone, I’d found myself in the office with Trisha. I was doing some cold calling, which amounted to phoning people to ascertain if they were a) married and if so b) happy.

  ‘Look, Mrs Jackson, all I can say is that now, legally, you can take into account his projected earnings too. I know you say he’d be difficult to tempt, but believe me, we have some hot chicks working here. Okay … well, if you change your mind, you have our number.’

  Trisha was standing at the window looking out on to Parkway, when out of the blue she asked, ‘Issy, what happened when you found out you were pregnant?’

  ‘Got scared and burst out crying.’

  ‘Seriously though, what did your boyfriend say?’

  ‘He was heartbroken. I think I really hurt him.’

  ‘But he dumped you?’

  ‘Yeah, ’cause it wasn’t his kid I was carrying.’