by Rupert Smith
For a moment I was dumbstruck. The guard shut the gate between us. I could so easily have walked away, left the past behind. But I couldn’t.
‘Marc, it’s me, Nutter! It’s good to see you, mate!’
I smiled weakly.
‘It’s been too long, Marc. Can we talk?’
I signalled to the guard to issue him with a pass and let him through. As soon as he was past the gate, Nutter bounded up to me and grasped me in a bear hug. It took my breath away.
‘God I’ve missed you, man. It’s been so long.’
I broke away, held him at arm’s length. Was this really Nutter? This affectionate friend, so pleased to see me? Could this really be the man who had walked out of my life and made no attempt to contact me for ten years? I was shocked, almost angry. But I could never be angry with Nutter for long. The years rolled away and we were best friends, brothers again. We walked into the studio arm in arm.
But there was a problem. Of course I wanted to see Nutter, to talk, to catch up. There was so much I wanted to know: he was older now, with less hair (no more Elvis quiffs for him) and a little thick round the middle. Had he settled down? Why had he come to see me? But first I had to do a day’s work. And on a more practical level, I had to keep him out of Ginger’s way. If she saw me with a strange man, she’d immediately report back to Anna, and if Anna discovered that Nutter was back on the scene there would be hell to pay. So I hid him in the studio audience, where he could watch me at work, learn a bit about my life and be ready to take me out for dinner (his suggestion) at the end of the day. I heard him laughing uproariously at every scene, wolf-whistling the actress who played my daughter when she came on wrapped in a towel, applauding whenever I finished a scene. The day sped by. When the studio was clear, I smuggled Nutter into the dressing room.
It was a strange evening. We dined in Soho, at a small restaurant not far from the theatre where we had made history in Meat. Nutter, to my astonishment, was full of nostalgia. ‘Remember the birds, Marc? And the drugs? God, they were good days. Remember that time I almost got it together with that drag queen? God she was gorgeous. What a laugh!’ But that wasn’t the only surprise. I also discovered that Nutter was married, had been for five years, and had a young son. ‘His name’s Mark, mate. You see, I haven’t forgotten.’
But beneath all this jollity, there was a sadness that he couldn’t hide. He loved his wife, he said, but since the kid had come along they never had any fun. They used to go out to clubs, for long drives along the coast, on mad drinking sprees, but that was all over now.
‘She’s a great girl, my Sarah,’ he said, after a few drinks. ‘I want you to meet her, man. She’s gorgeous. And when I met her, she was like my salvation. I mean that. She was so together, so strong, and I was such a mess after all that shit . . . You know what I mean, Marc. They were crazy times, they nearly did my head in. So we got it together, we got married, I sorted myself out and got a proper job . . . Yeah, I work with computers now Marc, it’s the future, man, the real revolution, not like all that hippy shit in the sixties, this is the real thing . . . So she’s good for me, you know, really good . . .’
I waited for the ‘but’.
‘But the excitement’s gone . . . You know, the buzz. Since the kid came along, and he’s a fantastic kid, my son and everything, he means the world to me, but since he was born Sarah just doesn’t want to . . . You know . . . I mean we just don’t seem to have the time . . . God, I miss the old days. Hey! We were the team, weren’t we, Marc . . . The things we did together, you and me!’
I had the impression that Nutter was trying to tell me something. During the course of his monologue, he’d grab my arm, cuff me on the shoulder, ruffle my hair; now his leg was pressed firmly against mine under the table. I sat up, straightened myself and ordered coffee.
‘I mean, I’m not old. I’m still attractive, aren’t I? I can still get the birds if I want to. And the guys, for that matter. They all used to fancy me, didn’t they? God, those were the days . . .’ And he was off on the now familiar refrain.
It broke my heart to see Nutter, my oldest friend, in this maudlin frame of mind. Whatever had passed between us, I still loved him, I wanted to reach out and touch him, help him. His life and mine: what a study in contrasts! Nutter, so sure of himself, so wasteful of his talents, had settled for a life of embittered mediocrity. And I – how many times had I been told that I wasn’t good enough, that I’d never make the grade? Fate had dealt us strange hands. I wanted to see Nutter again, to help him reach the kind of contentment that I’d found. But there was little I could do with him in his current state. I paid the bill, took him outside and started looking for a taxi.
‘Hey man, we’re not going home yet! The night is young! Let’s go to a club. Come on, take me somewhere really naughty.’ His arm was round my shoulders again; I could feel his liquory breath warm on my cheek.
‘No, Nutter, I think it’s time I got home to bed. Got an early call in the morning, you know!’ But he was having none of it. As we passed the entrance to a quiet alleyway, one of those dark lovers’ lanes that run down to the Strand, he wheeled round the corner and took me with him.
‘Come on, Marc,’ he said, leaning against the wall where the dim rays of a streetlight lit his face, his dishevelled suit, his loosened tie. ‘Kiss me goodnight, man.’ I gave him a peck on the cheek, but it wasn’t enough. He grabbed me, stuck his tongue down my throat and pinned me against the wall. As soon as I could catch my breath I slipped from his arms and ran back up to the street where the late-night revellers were pouring out of the pubs. We shook hands. Nutter was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
‘I’m not going to say sorry.’
‘Just call me.’
‘Give me your number.’
I handed him a card.
‘Come on, Marc, let’s go to a hotel.’
‘Call me! Goodnight!’ I jumped into a taxi and sped away, leaving him standing on the pavement with his arms raised in despair. I was shaking like a leaf. It was too much, too soon. But I knew that he would call.
I should have known that my happiness was too good to last. Since returning to England with nothing but the clothes I stood up in, I’d rebuilt my life. I’d had the courage to make a fresh start and had been richly rewarded. But fate hadn’t finished with me yet. We had to go one final round before I reached the safe haven where now – at last! – I enjoy a lasting peace.
I don’t blame anyone for what happened; I’ve always as a person had a strong belief that what’s meant to be, will be. When I lay in that incubator, a tiny spark of life, the powers marked me down for a very special life. I’ve studied philosophy at the only school that counts, the school of life. And I studied hard.
The cracks started to appear the night I met Nutter again. So many old feelings coming back to haunt me, so many memories and dreams. For days, I couldn’t concentrate. My work suffered; Ginger thought I needed a rest, and cancelled a string of lucrative personal appearances. But it wasn’t work that was the trouble (I’m never happier than when I’m working hard). There was something else. What was it that made me jump every time the phone rang? Why wasn’t I sleeping? It came to me in a flash as I woke one night from a vivid, feverish dream about that summer holiday so many years ago, Nutter and me in a tent in the countryside, all our lives before us, so close, closer than friends . . . I was lonely.
That was it. I, who had given and received so much love in my time, was lonely. The life I’d chosen had its rewards, but it always ended the same way – with me, the star, the one who brought home the bacon, alone at night with nobody to comfort me. There were millions of people out there who worshipped and desired me, I knew from fan letters, but what good is a letter when you need to be held?
I lay there, staring at the patterns that the orange street lamps made on my wall, the curtains stirring slightly in a warm night breeze, a distant siren the only sound to break the dull city hum. I, Marc Lejeune, was lonely. It was a terrible
confession. I felt betrayed by all the friends who had left me – by Phyllis, Janice, my parents, Noel, John. The list went round and round in my mind. And now Nutter. Since that first, strange night, nothing. Was he ashamed? Did he regret his moment of frankness, now he was safely returned to the bosom of his family? How easy for him to open his heart, to win my affections again, and to forget it all when it suited him. But I was left with nothing. Sleep wouldn’t come. It was three o’clock in the morning, the very dead of night. I turned on my bedside light (how dark that made the rest of the world!) and reached into my cupboard for a bottle of whisky and a glass – my only solace in the nights when sleep was denied.
And the phone rang, loud as a bomb in the stillness of the house. I leapt to my feet and on to the landing, concerned only that the rest of the house would sleep on undisturbed. I ripped the receiver off its cradle and whispered hello. There was a strange jumble of noise at the other end, the pounding beat of music, a jabber of voices. I said hello again, a little louder.
‘Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarc!’ Unmistakable: Nutter, drunk. ‘Where are you, Marc?’
‘You know where I am, Nutter, I’m at home in bed. Where the hell are you? Don’t you know what time it is?’
‘Don’t be angry with me, man.’ The voice now pleading, apologetic. ‘I’m in a club somewhere, I don’t know where, I wanted to see you.’
‘What do you mean? It’s three o’clock in the morning!’
‘I went out looking for you, Marc, and I got a little bit pissed and I ended up in this club, right, but you’re not here are you?’
‘No, Nutter, I’m not.’
There was a silence.
‘Nutter, are you all right?’
‘I just wanted to see you, man, I’m sorry, I just really wanted to see you, that’s all.’ He sounded close to tears.
‘Look . . . Oh shit, Nutter, it’s the middle of the night.’
‘Yes?’
‘Look, you’d better come round. Get a taxi. You can’t stay in a place like that.’
‘No, I’ve just got to see you Marc. Please.’
I gave him the address (several times, as he was very confused) and instructed him to leave the cab at the corner of the street and walk to the house, where I would be waiting for him. I’d smuggle him upstairs, taking care not to wake the rest of the house, and he could be out before anyone else was up in the morning. It was the least I could do for an old friend in need.
Half an hour later the taxi had still not arrived. Tired of waiting, I had fallen asleep with my head on the windowsill, the curtains blowing gently about my ears. I was awoken by an ear-splitting shout.
‘Hey, Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarc! Where are you? Maaaaaaaaaaaaaarc!’ I opened my eyes, and there was Nutter standing in the driveway, even more dishevelled than I had seen him the last time. The rest of the house was in turmoil. Lights snapped on, windows were opened and women’s heads popped out all along the top storey. Nutter was oblivious to my desperate shushing. He saw me and beamed, flinging his arms wide in a drunken welcome. mark, my old mate! Let me in! I’m a bit pissed, man!’
I looked to the left and saw a face dark with anger – Anna! With a warning flash of her furious eyes she sent the rest of the household scuttling back to bed. We raced each other downstairs; she got to Nutter first.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she asked in poisonous whispers.
‘Anna! Christ! I haven’t come to see you, have I? Where’s Marc? I want Marc!’ I was right behind her. I hurried them both inside before the whole of West Hampstead witnessed a celebrity scene.
Nutter slumped down on the settee and began asking for a drink. I thought he’d had enough, but I’d forgotten that Nutter was one of those who can drink themselves sober again. Anna pulled out a bottle of brandy from one of her secret hiding places and we all took a large swig, then another, passing the bottle between us. Anna, unused to alcohol, became drunk almost immediately. I remained sober, but the brandy took the edge off my nerves. Nutter had stretched out at full length on the sofa, his head near me, his feet towards Anna. Even with his shirt untucked, his hair thinning and his eyes red from drinking, he was still a very attractive man. I could see that Anna was thinking the same thing.
There was a long silence as we passed the brandy from mouth to mouth.
‘Well, here we all are again,’ I said.
‘Just how we always should have been,’ said Nutter. Anna bristled, unsure of herself.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You and Marc, baby, the two people in the world I really loved. We went through so much together, didn’t we? Remember the good times, Anna?’
She was woozy now. ‘Yeah . . . Good times.’
‘But there was one thing we never did, wasn’t there?’
I could see where this was going. Anna was slower.
‘What’s that, babe?’
‘We never made it.’
‘Hunh?’
‘The three of us. You, me and Marc. You into that?’ For a man who had been drinking heavily for several hours, Nutter was surprisingly in control. Anna was dumbfounded.
‘Come on. For old times sake, let’s do it.’ He jumped up and massaged Anna’s feet. ‘Relax . . . Relax . . .’ Anna slumped in her chair. I rose stealthily to my feet and sidled towards the door, but Nutter saw me.
‘Not so fast, Marc. You don’t get away this time. Come on Mister Superstar. Kiss me.’ Anna watched, stunned, as Nutter held me in a deep, passionate kiss. She rose, stumbled across the room and locked the door.
And so I became trapped in a three-cornered relationship that lasted for the best part of four years. If I hadn’t believed in karma before (and my interest in Eastern beliefs had begun long ago) I would now. Hadn’t I been the great exponent of bisexuality, the guru of free love and open marriage? And here I was living out the logical conclusion of all the publicity, the hype and hysteria that had surrounded me in the seventies. I had so little control over the affair; it had its own momentum. We were forced into secrecy, Nutter because of his marriage, Anna and me because of our vows of celibacy and our commitment to the ideal of shared living space with the other women. Anna was distraught to discover that she was still attracted to men as much as ever – or even more so! She wanted Nutter all the time, and with each encounter she felt more guilty. As the weeks turned into months, and our occasional drunken flings became a regular arrangement, I heard her use the word ‘betrayal’ again and again.
And it was hard for me, too. I had prayed for love, for companionship, but this was not what I had in mind. I’ve always believed in one-to-one relationships – call me old-fashioned! – and sharing Nutter with Anna was not my idea of heaven. Many times I tried to convince him that we should pursue the path of our own relationship, which, after all, was the stronger bond. But he was adamant: he had both of us, or neither.
Of course Nutter was getting exactly what he wanted. He occasionally allowed himself the luxury of worrying about his wife (he kept these guilt attacks for me, never mentioning them to Anna) but that aside he was just as happy as he could be. He had his family life at home, his job in computers, and more sex than he could handle. ‘I’m the luckiest man in the world,’ he sighed one eveningafter a particularly extended session. I caught Anna’seye, and recognized the same weary bitterness that I felt reflected in my own.
We even met his wife and child. They had a barbecue one late summer evening at their house in Stevenage. Anna and I took the train out of town, barely speaking for the entire journey, and were met at the station by Nutter – the happiest I ever saw him. His home was comfortable, his wife Sarah (pregnant again) was charming and so happy to meet Nutter’s oldest, dearest friends. ‘He’s told me so many outrageous stories about the old days, I sometimes feel quite jealous!’ she squealed. Anna and I went off in search of drink. Two days later, Nutter was back at West Hampstead as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
I was unhappy but resilient. It was Ann
a who really felt the strain. The women in the house had turned against her, excluding her from their meetings and outings, muttering darkly about ‘harbouring the enemy’. They’d tolerated me while I was celibate as a sort of eunuch in this bizarre, sexless harem. But now there was a greater threat: Nutter was everything that they most hated and feared. Virile, amoral, sexually active, he’d even flirted with one of the women over breakfast. She complained, at length, to Anna; I heard their conversation droning on for hours. But, I noticed, she didn’t offer to leave.
The crunch came when the rest of the house was planning an outing to Greenham Common, where a brave band of women were standing in the way of America’s nuclear forces with peaceful protest. Anna had worked so hard for this weekend, had spoken of little else, but now she was unsure. Nutter was coming to town; Sarah and the kids (one of them a very young baby) had gone to stay with her mum for a few days of rest and relaxation. Anna couldn’t leave me and Nutter alone for the weekend, but she knew also that failure to travel to Greenham would mark a final break from the others. She decided, and the three of us spent a dismal weekend ‘reliving our youth’ (as Nutter put it) in a series of crowded, overpriced London night clubs. On the Saturday night Anna and I watched, horrified, as Nutter chatted up one young girl after another, hoping, he explained, ‘to even up the numbers’ for a weekend of complete debauchery. He failed, thank God, and was morose for the whole of Sunday. Anna spent much of the time in tears, furiously washing up in the kitchen.
