The Brodsky Touch

by Lana Citron

  ‘Think of it as redundancy,’ she said. ‘More importantly, how’s the comedy going?’

  IT WENT

  Within a couple of weeks of my return from Edinburgh, the experience seemed almost mythical and my comedy career to be rapidly dissolving. Geraldine stood true to her word and every club I approached for a gig turned me down. ‘ ’Fraid there’s nothing till after Christmas,’ seemed to be the mantra of every comedy promoter, including those who had open-mic spots. So much for my rave review – it was as if Geraldine had issued a blanket embargo on Issy Brodsky. In such a position, ie, with nothing left to lose, I decided to write to Geraldine, to clear my name and offer up the evidence amassed.

  Dear Geraldine,

  Please find enclosed a video tape. I am sending it without anyone else’s interference and in the hope it will clear my name. Lisa may have mentioned she was up for a part in The Parlour, which, I since heard through the grapevine, she didn’t get. This is unfortunate, as you will notice, should you choose to watch the tape. She really did give her all for it.

  Love is such a fragile state to be in and I truly wish that, with respect to yourself and Lisa, I had never become embroiled. Spending time with Lisa, I easily understood how you fell so deeply in love with her. She is a very charming, clever, funny and beautiful young woman. However, from my initial introduction to her it was evident she was not faithful to you (in the physical sense). Geraldine, I have been in the love business a long time and, rightly or wrongly, have reached the conclusion that the truth rarely matters. What happens within a relationship bears no consequence if the expectations of each partner are met, albeit expectations which are very low. Many partners choose to remain oblivious to the antics of their straying loved ones and for most the notion of saving the family precedes acts of infidelity. I realise this is a ‘what you don’t see won’t hurt you’ take on life, but on the whole it works, at least on a superficial level.

  Geraldine, thank you for the opportunity of a lifetime. I do hope in the future you’ll forgive me enough to lift the London comedy club embargo.

  Until then …

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t …’

  Yours faithfully,

  ‘… the one and only …’

  Issy Brodsky

  COO-EEEE

  Filled with dread, I watched as Fiona rounded the corner into Cecil Sharp House, unsure how the next few moments would play out. Nads’s wedding was our second encounter since I’d grappled her to the ground in Edinburgh, bar that phone conversation. As always, she looked fantastic, dressed in Alexander McQueen, and with a rather peculiar-looking man on her arm.

  ‘Fiona’s new beau,’ Trisha whispered.

  Couldn’t say he lived up to the word. I suspected that after months of enforced celibacy Fiona went dredging the bottom of the boyfriend barrel. Le Beau was incredibly ugly and not the type of ugly that can become attractive, like Gérard Depardieu or even Woody Allen. This guy was not a visual treat, eyes too close, too deep, nose broken, small. Fiona was at least a foot taller, not including her heels. Standing beside him, Bambuss looked positively gorgeous. I nudged Trisha with my elbow. ‘Love is blind.’

  She prodded me back. ‘Robin Clarke is a super-lovely guy. A total charmer. You’ll see.’

  They had met on a train. Fiona had been on her way back from the most recent detective convention (location – you got it – top secret, but a long old journey nonetheless). He’d sat opposite her, offered her one of his home-made sandwiches: tinned red salmon, low-fat mayonnaise and heritage tomatoes. She said they were her favourite, how did he know? Had he been at the convention? No, he told her, he was in the relationship business. She couldn’t believe it and she revealed she was, too. He opened a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps, her preferred flavour. They swapped business cards. He ran a matchmaking company, Love Blooms, ‘helping relationships to blossom’. The Honey Trap did the opposite, though ensuring ‘the sweetest of endings’. Mutually impressed, they chattered on and, when the train pulled into the station, well, let’s just say the train pulled into the station.

  TAKING THE BULL BY THE HORNS

  I guess weddings bring out the best in people and personal animosities can be laid to one side. Fiona marched straight up to me and offered me her hand. I met her halfway, we shook and let bygones be bygones. It all felt very mature.

  ‘You look well, Brodsky.’ She smiled, then introduced me to Robin.

  ‘Ahhh!’ said Robin. ‘You must be the comedienne Fiona was enthusing about.’

  ‘Guilty.’ I raised my hands in jest.

  ‘Fiona says you’re very talented.’

  ‘Really?’ I was taken aback.

  ‘Told you he’s a charmer,’ muttered Trisha.

  Robin Clarke made up for his physical shortcomings by the largesse of his character. He was obviously doing wonders for Fiona. Love Blooms, Robin informed me, was a dating agency for ladies of a certain age, thirty-recurring being the absolute minimum. ‘I’m hoping to persuade Fiona to join forces,’ he explained. ‘It could be mutually beneficial.’

  ‘What, like, the bad news is your hubby is a philandering jerk, but the good news is there’s plenty more fish in the sea.’

  ‘Exactly, Issy. What do you think?’

  ‘Definite potential, very interesting,’ I mused. ‘Oh, and if you are looking for any new staff …’

  I donned my Big Issue street-seller ‘come on, you know it makes sense’ grin, only Fiona spotted me. In response she mouthed the letters, ‘N. O.’ It was then that an usher appeared and asked us to take our seats, so we gathered up our minor responsibilities and shuffled into the grand hall.

  Cecil Sharp House was an inspired choice by Nadia, a spectacular space drenched in lovely perfectness and perfectly lovely for a marriage ceremony. The main room was arranged in an informal though intimate way, the hall decked in harvest flowers matching the colours of the huge mural on the wall. As the headquarters of the English Folk Dance and Song Society, its main use was for music, dance rehearsals and performances.

  My shoes, though crippling, offered me a fresh perspective and my eyeline met with a sea of necks. Necks beneath hats; hats with feathers, felt hats, delicate hats brought out of the wardrobe only on very special occasions, hats of a purely decorative nature, ie, those that cover neither the ears nor the whole of the crown. I’d never been particularly convinced by objects that were purely aesthetic. Function and beauty was always a far more attractive package, pretty much corresponding with what I looked for in a man.

  I was doing the flamingo stance, shifting my balance from one leg to the other, allowing each foot a couple of minutes’ respite, disappointed with myself for spending so much money on these instruments of torture binding my feet. At least the dress was a bargain, a knee-length Vivienne Westwood knock-off, although a tad too tight. Max said I looked a bit squashed upfront. ‘Squashed but nice, Mum.’ Yep, thank the Lord for tummy-tuck knickers: Marks & Spencer’s, practical, comfortable, economical, though not especially stylish. I felt safe wrapped inside them, there was a definite womb-like appeal. All those pounds I’d lost in Edinburgh had piled back on the minute I touched down in London. Yeah, all two of them.

  Max sat at my side, playing his damned Game Boy (I swear it’s a growing boys’ pacifier). ‘Mum, is it nearly over?’ he wondered, sighing, ‘I’m bored,’ his new catch-phrase, before he had even sat down. His boredom threshold was, on average, a ridiculous ten seconds.

  ‘Nearly,’ I lied, knowing the service hadn’t yet begun.

  ‘When are the band starting?’ he asked, though his eyes remained firmly fixed on the small screen in front of him and fingers pressing madly as if engaging in Morse code.

  ‘Soon, I hope,’ I empathised. By this time the hall was now comfortably full, late guests arriving at a trickle. It was a patchwork affair, kaleidoscopic in human terms. There was the mixed Caribbean crew of Nadia’s family, incorporating African, Asian and even Irish. Tim’s family were on one side
Anglo Saxon and on the other Nordic, then add in the friends and relatives for a complete pick ‘n’ mix. The crowd gathered was a perfect illustration of the ethnographical wonder that is London. Acknowledgements were flying, criss-crossing the rows of seats laid out in semicircles.

  ‘How you been, Nora?’

  ‘Look at you, Lionel!’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have recognised you …’

  A general hush descended and a double bassist began to pluck at his instrument, soon joined by the strings, then a soloist began an acoustic version of ‘Milk’ by Garbage, sending a collective shudder (in a good sense) down the spines of those gathered. Tim stood at the front of the garlanded podium, his gaze turned to the main door. Accompanied by her children, Nadia slowly and gracefully stepped into the room. Nads’s entrance was breathtaking and all of us were transfixed by her staggering beauty. Under a collective gaze, she confidently stepped toward her future husband. From the back there was no way in a million years you would have thought she was pregnant. Her page boy and bridesmaid were deliciously cute standing at her side. I was glad I wasn’t chief bridesmaid. It would have looked unbalanced at best, at worst ridiculous.

  They had opted for a modern take on a traditional stance, going for the humanistic approach as opposed to religious. The ceremony was led by Fey, a very striking-looking woman in her fifties, with a kind authority in her voice. She spoke about love as an idea and as a reality, the concept of relationships and the expectations of a modern couple. She let us ponder on these conceits as the choir launched into a love compilation, which went from the whimsical to the lovelorn, Tom Waits to The Streets. The effect, I confess, started me off. I could have pretended it was because of my pinched feet or tight dress, or that watching her float into the room, petals strewn at her feet like some ’70s disco diva, all soft focus and flaky chocolate, made me realise the decade I grew up in was now retro-chic and, damn it, I was getting on. But really, I was swept up in the emotion of the moment. Okay, I’m a sentimentalist. I was moved. A sophisticated tear delicately wet the sides of my cheeks and I thought how much she deserved this happiness and how lucky I was to have her as a friend.

  Uncomfortable with tears making tracks in my make-up, I reached for a Kleenex and, aiming to hold back the flow by forcing darker thoughts to the surface, summoned up ‘Lisa’.

  EVIL LISA

  I have a confession, reader. I did like Lisa, but not in that way … well, maybe a bit. I suppose it was like when you’re a teenager and you have a girly crush on a goddess prefect. Come on, I am so not the only one this has happened to. To me, Lisa was clever, beautiful, funny, all I aspired to. I almost forgave her that she was a manipulative little shit. She had me sussed early on in the game and knew just how to turn my knobs.

  ‘MUM, I WON PASS THE PARCEL!’

  About a week ago I had gone to pick up Max from the first party of the season, Jimmy’s sixth birthday at Primrose Hill Community Centre. I tousled Max’s hair.

  ‘Have a good time?’

  ‘There was a clown.’ Christ, how was I ever going to compete on the party stakes? But as if Max could read my thoughts, he added, ‘She wasn’t very good.’

  Lisa the Clown had been booked for the little uns’ entertainment. Dumbing down didn’t suit her at all, nor did the brilliant orange and red dungarees. I felt quite embarrassed for her. Packing up her bag of tricks, Lisa clocked me. It was odd, both of us caught out of context, I as a mother and she an idiot.

  ‘Hey, Lisa, never knew you did kids’ birthdays.’

  ‘They pay well. It’s something you may like to consider. I heard you lost your job.’

  ‘Oh, Issy, can I have a word?’ The mother of the birthday boy, busy collecting the party debris, came over. The entire room was awash with half-eaten processed kiddie crap. You know the sort of stuff, a hyper-sugar drink with an additive-friendly cake, and processed cheese of the plastic-strip type plus a pumped-up air roll. It amazes me how people can feed their kids such rubbish. I’d wanted Max to bring a packed lunch. His expression, one of dumbfounded astonishment, told me that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea.

  I didn’t like little Jimmy at all. Unfortunately Max loved him, thought he was the coolest kid ever. I’d seen Jimmy knee a kid in the balls, for no other reason than he could. The kid was Max. I was convinced Jim had a malevolent streak. There’s a huge gap between mischievousness (which has a residue of innocence) and knowing maliciousness. Witnessed from my kitchen window, I’d spied the little shit deliberately raise his leg into my son’s crotch. Max had begged me to have him over on a play date and then there he was, doubled over, desperately trying to save face. Jimmy reminded me of Lisa. She was a dirty fighter, who pulled low punches when you weren’t looking. One arm out to hug you, while the other rammed your stomach lining. Jimmy’s mum ignored her son’s violent streak, putting it down to high energy.

  ‘Oh, Issy,’ she smiled, ‘I just want to tell you before Max does that there was a minor incident earlier on. Jimmy got a bit overexcited and pushed Max down the stairs. You know how boys get!’ Her head nodded excessively as she spoke. ‘Don’t worry he’s totally fine, no bruises, he was very brave.’ She winked. ‘We let him win pass the parcel.’

  ‘Why wasn’t anyone keeping an eye on them?’ I asked flatly.

  ‘Issy, our boys are so raucous, what can I say? Oh there’s Saffie’s mum. I’ve got to have word with her. Excuse me …’

  I turned my attention back to Lisa and in the circumstances couldn’t resist a little dig. ‘So how’s Geraldine?’

  ‘You’re so smug, aren’t you, Issy?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Nice touch with the video.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  There had been no response to my letter. Confirmation then, that it had been received and watched.

  ‘You did me a favour.’ She smiled with glee, and with her red nose and white, thickly outlined lips appeared somewhat sinister. ‘At least my career isn’t over, Issy.’

  ‘Oh,’ I retaliated. ‘Did you not hear … ?’

  LEGALLY WED AND THERE’S NO GOING BACK

  After the ceremony everyone milled about ‘ohhing’ and ‘ahhing’ on Nadia’s choice of gown, vows and groom, while the official family photos were taken. Then before long a gong clanged, announcing the buffet open and the next stage of the celebrations. I got stuck with cousin Velma who empathised with my blistered feet and revealed her own bunion, looking somewhat like an extra nail-less toe, thus destroying any appetite I’d previously had, which wasn’t such a bad thing, considering my dress was cutting into me. Velma recounted her life story, got me to refill her plate twice and then, soon enough, we heard the chiming of a glass, signalling the beginning of the speeches. I grabbed the moment to make my escape and slip away. Hemmed in by her generous figure, I’d gone for an obtuse angled getaway, which meant I was crawling beneath a trestle table, following in Max’s footsteps, as it happened. He’d scuttled off ages ago and there I found him with Trisha’s youngest, scoffing a large plate of profiteroles, talking Game Boy tactics.

  ‘What are you doing here, Mum?’ Max challenged, regarding me with suspicion and embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ I whisper-snapped back and crawled on. It was in this position, while looking for a sizeable exit not blocked by legs, that I heard my name called out. It was Nads making her speech. ‘Where is Issy …?’

  Mole-like, my head poked from beneath the tablecloth and up I rose. ‘Dropped an earring,’ I feebly explained, brushing my dress down, having suddenly found myself in an unexpected spotlight.

  ‘There you are,’ Nads continued. ‘Issy is one of my best friends, and I wanted to thank her for being there for me during some tough times over the last few years but also to congratulate her on not only having survived the Edinburgh Festival, but recently landed a part in a TV series!’

  ‘Nadia, please, please don’t embarrass me.’ I was blushing – no, really
, I went quite puce.

  STAND-UP, ISSY?

  At the beginning of the week, I’d received a message on my mobile to call Nell Tony, the comedy agent, which I promptly did.

  ‘Hi, Issy, Nell Tony here, just wondering what your current availability is like?’

  ‘I’m available. Why?’ My mind raced. For Nell Tony to call me meant only one thing: opportunity.

  ‘I saw the show in Edinburgh. Thanks for the ticket.’

  ‘Pleasure.’

  ‘Are you going to continue with the stand-up then?’ she enquired.

  ‘I’d like to,’ I replied. ‘I’m just finding it a bit difficult to get a gig at the minute.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard. Issy, I am right in thinking you’re a single mother?’

  ‘Yeah …’ I answered cautiously.

  ‘There’s a production company doing a spin-off reality TV show, a mix of Big Brother, Hell’s Kitchen, Wife Swap, Celebrity Love Island, you get the gist.’

  ‘Yeah?’ My intonation was laced with a small degree of wariness, though interested nonetheless.

  ‘They are looking for a group of people from disparate backgrounds, not quite run-of-the-mill folk, they’re holding auditions this week.’

  ‘But what exactly is it about?’

  ‘As far as I can make out it’s going to be a six-month-long project, documentary-style reality TV. “Contestants” keep video diaries detailing aspects of their lives and at the end of each week viewers vote the most boring off. It could be interesting and would be good exposure. What do you think?’

  ‘Hmm, I’m not sure.’

  THE BIG BREAK

  Look, it wasn’t like I had a job to go back to. The auditions were held in a basement office in Soho. It was a cattle-market scenario, wall-to-wall stars in the making. A form was thrust into my hand and an instant camera in my face. I grinned like a Cheshire, then filled out the questionnaire. Squeezing myself on to the end of a pew, I sat beside an actress in deep conversation with a friend. They were in full scandal flow.