Brenda Monk Is Funny (17 page)

It had got a nice laugh, and though it had come out a little clumsy, there was something in it. With a bit of tweaking it could work much better. She made a note of it. She had talked about her lesbian friends’ disgust for straight people, and the line she shot back at Laura at dinner about how straight people don’t talk in bed had been said somewhere and might lead to something. A bit about her Catholic school and hating carpentry taken from her first proper date with Pete had come from nowhere, but she liked it. And then the blurt that had taken her by complete surprise.

‘I don’t want to give you anything new…’

It had left her vulnerable because it was so clearly real and recent, and yet it had felt satisfying, purging. Did it need that raw energy behind it in order to make it funny? Or could she recreate it? Brenda would have to experiment to find out so she wrote it down too, and then suddenly tiredness came down on her like a twenty foot black drape and she fell asleep on the sofa with the TV on and her pen still in her hand.

Fenella had explained that the Women in Comedy drinks happened with haphazard regularity – maybe three times a year, and was often prompted by an occasion, such as Christmas in this case. So Brenda found herself in an upstairs room in a central London pub at the Women in Comedy Christmas Drinks. Three tables in one corner had been noisily shoved together and the new mega-table was surrounded by fifteen or so women of varying ages, sizes and abilities. In the opposite corner of the room were three middle-aged men, clutching pints and trying to work out what was going on. Fenella saw Brenda hovering in the doorway by the upstairs bar and shouted her over.

‘This is the famous Brenda Monk I was telling you about. She’s just started doing stand-up about three months ago – got her first paid gig next this week.’

‘Congratulations,’ said one of the three women Fenella was standing with at that precise moment.

‘This is Josephine Pascal,’ said Fenella.

Brenda recognised her from a gig she had been to years ago, before Jonathan was on the scene. She was a distinctive looking woman, not easily forgotten: very small, like a twelve-year-old boy, but with defined muscles in her arms that she showed off to great effect in a loose pale pink sleeveless vest. With dark gleaming skin, black, black eyes and very short hair, shaved up the sides and back with the just the beginnings of a tight afro on top, the beauty was arresting and slightly intimidating.

‘Hi,’ said Josephine, sticking out her hand to be shaken. Her manner seemed a bit chilly, though Brenda didn’t know why.

‘And Nellie Dibbot and Katherine, who works as Miss Linger the Librarian.’

‘Ah yes. I didn’t recognise you without your… clothes, uh, make-up, I mean, sorry,’ said Brenda, frantically trying to remember which acts she had seen on stage over the past few years. Miss Linger was, as far as she could recall, a woman who performed an aggressive feminist burlesque routine and then painted her naked body red whilst shouting a reasonably funny monologue about her observations of animal behaviour.

‘I prefer it that way. I’m not as scary off-stage…’

‘So, you’re working as a stand-up,’ said Josephine.

Brenda was in no doubt now, her tone had a frost to it.

‘Yes, I’ve only just started. I’m not very good at the moment.’

‘No-one’s very good when they first start,’ Nellie said smiling, clearly eager to be liked, playing with her nicely highlighted shoulder length blonde hair.

Fenella, who had disappeared to the bar, returned with a drink for Brenda which she swigged gratefully, wishing she’d had a drink before she arrived. This suddenly felt intimidating.

‘I’ve known stand-ups socially for ages though and I used to review comedy a lot so I’ve seen loads of it. But of course, it’s very different when you’re actually up there.’

Nellie laughed for no particular reason and Katherine nodded in agreement.

‘How’s it been going?’

‘Not bad. I’ve done about thirty gigs now…’

‘And you’ve got a paid one already? You must be good. Or you must know someone good…’

This seemed unnecessarily barbed from Josephine, and Fenella nudged her.

‘I got a her a couple,’ Fenella said, ‘and the rest she got by herself.’

‘I only got the paid one because they had a gap because a woman dropped out and they need another one.’

This elicited a great peal of laughter from all four of the women in front of her.

‘Need another one. Brilliant. Where’s this?’

‘At the Craic House in Croydon.’

‘Who dropped out?’

‘I don’t know, he didn’t say.’

‘At least he’s trying to book one woman per show. More than you can say for some of them.’

‘Most gigs have at least one woman on the bill now though?’ asked Brenda, tentatively.

‘Not most, but definitely more. It’s getting better. But it’s still only one per show usually, even when they have a policy to get more women in,’ said Nellie.

‘That’s why we have these drinks things,’ said Fenella. ‘We’d never see each other otherwise. Only one of us ever gets booked for anything. If we left it to professional work to catch up personally we’d never see anyone else with a vagina…’

‘It’s better once you get beyond the circuit, though?’ Brenda asked.

Stony faces.

‘Not really,’ said Nellie.

‘I’d say it’s worse,’ said Katherine.

‘They fuck me off… especially the ones that come to my gigs, see me smash it and then don’t book me for any fucking panel show at all.’

‘My agent tried to get me on
Gagging Order
and the producer told her that they’d had a woman on last series and she hadn’t talked enough, so they weren’t really doing women that much now as they made them nervous.’

Derisive cackling.

‘I did a pilot for a TV panel show once, got a beautiful thank you letter from the producer. They got a series and told me I couldn’t do it because they were going for a more “blokey vibe”. Can you believe it? I’ve blanked him ever since and you know what the real fucker is? I don’t think he really understands why I’m pissed off. He says it’s the channel and there’s nothing he can do about it. ’ Josephine rolled her eyes at the memory of it all.

‘I thought stand-ups hated doing panel shows,’ Brenda said.

‘Don’t hate the money, though. Couple of grand for a couple of hours work? Extra income keeps me gigging when it’s costing me more to get to a gig than I’m being paid to do it.’

‘And it helps pay for Edinburgh. They wonder why there aren’t more women comics doing full hour-long Edinburgh shows. Well, I’ll tell you fucking why. It’s because that costs MONEY and if you give five out of six places on any well-paid TV show to men and leave one chair for women and even then we have to fight for that chair with a load of non-comedians, news readers and…’

‘Ex-popstars…’

‘Yeah, or whoever, how do you think we’re going to get enough cash to PAY to go to Edinburgh. And they complain there aren’t enough of us to fill the spots even if they did get more women, I mean, can’t they fucking see the economics of it and how they dictate the outcomes? IT DRIVES ME FUCKING NUTS.’

There was an awkward pause. Josephine took a deep breath. Brenda looked into her drink.

‘We’re usually funnier than this,’ Fenella said and broke the tension.

Josephine smiled slightly for the first time and went to the toilet.

‘Don’t be put off,’ Nellie said, laying a hand on Brenda’s arm. ‘When it’s good, it’s the best job in the world.’

Brenda now recalled seeing her in action: Nellie was a pretty woman with a filthy mouth. Brenda had been impressed that her faux-naive stage persona let her get away with anything, and through a ditzy, tongue-tied act she actually addressed a variety of taboo issues with sharp observation.

‘No, I’m not put off. It’s all very interesting. Excuse me a minute.’

Brenda needed to urinate and also wanted a moment to herself. She always found groups of comedians to be intense company and though she loved it, she also required brief time-outs every now and again. Crossing the room, she found a steep, narrow staircase that led two floors up to the Ladies. These old pubs always seemed to put the female toilets in strange, out of the way places, an echo of a time when women were not welcome here and there was no need to provide them with conveniences. Brenda climbed the stairs and pushed open the dark mahogany door at the top of the building. As she entered the one cubicle locked snapped open and Josephine walked out, brushing a light dusting of cocaine from the end of her nose. She paused, then knowing she’d been caught, smiled grudgingly. Brenda smiled back. They both hesitated.

‘Want some?’ Josephine said.

Brenda considered for about a second.

‘Yeah.’ Josephine palmed Brenda a tiny paper wrap and a rolled up five pound note and stood aside as Brenda slipped behind the door and locked it. The top of the cistern was flat, which was good. A lot of pubs and clubs in London had installed sloping cisterns now in order to stop this kind of thing. Brenda tapped out a small hillock of white powder and took out a credit card. She chopped it quickly into two small, neat lines and bent to suck it through the fiver, one into each nostril. She sniffed once, then again, pinched her nose together, let go, sniffed one more time, and opened the door.

Josephine was leaning against the sink.

‘Thanks.’

‘So, you’re going out with Jonathan?’

‘Oh god, I don’t know. Not really. We were, I mean, it’s a bit up in the air at the moment with him being away.’

‘I was with him for nearly five years.’

Brenda hadn’t seen that coming.

‘Has he never mentioned me?’

‘Well, he might have done and I just don’t remember… I mean, of course, I know he’s had girlfriends in the past and stuff…’

‘We were engaged.’

This was news. Brenda, momentarily winded, did not know what to say.

‘When did you break up?’

‘Two years ago. I got pregnant by accident and I knew I couldn’t cope with it and we talked about it and he kept changing his mind about whether or not he wanted me to have an abortion.’ Brenda felt that like a kick to the gut.

‘So, what happened?’

‘I didn’t want to keep it. I’m younger than him for a start and I wasn’t remotely ready. I’d only just started gigging. But he kept crying and saying he didn’t know what we should do. He couldn’t even say the word pregnant for a week. He just kept on calling it the “Terrible Mess”. At one stage he wanted me to have it and he said he would look after it on his own. Then he said he couldn’t do that and be a comedian at the same time and comedy had to come first. Then he said we should get married. That’s when he proposed and I said yes even though I didn’t want to – stupid fucker I was. Then he said he’d made an awful mistake. Then we booked the abortion and we got to the clinic and he stood in the car park outside and told me he didn’t think I should go through with it. I was right on the threshold of legal termination by then. He left me there and I went in and had the abortion on my own. Then I went home and moved all my stuff out – he wasn’t there. I haven’t seen him since.’

Brenda was silent and sick inside. The coke was starting to sharpen her brain and highlight her senses, and she thought she might cry or punch the mirror or just start shouting. She didn’t trust herself to say anything out loud and felt relieved she had not put more of Josephine’s gift up her nose – she still had the ability to control herself, at least. And she was shocked to the marrow. She needed to let the full horror sink in a little.

Josephine went back into the cubicle with her package.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Brenda said, then clenched her jaw together to stop questions or platitudes tumbling out against her will.

‘Just thought you should know,’ replied Josephine through the door.

Two big sniffs, and Josephine reappeared. She checked her nostrils in the mirror.

‘Is this why Fenella hates him?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s pretty much over between us.’

‘I heard about his Edinburgh show.’

Brenda nodded, her mind burning now, heart racing. She had a wild urge to dance which would be highly inappropriate.

‘Did he used to talk about you, too?’

‘Yeah, until the Terrible Mess, then it was like I never happened.’

Brenda remembered seeing a short set of Jonathan’s on the TV some years before where he had referenced a girlfriend, but the material had not been especially original or memorable.

‘I’m over it. I’m glad I had the abortion. Can you imagine trying to bring up a kid with him? It wouldn’t be fair – on anyone.’

Josephine shuddered and Brenda had no intention of admitting that until relatively recently she had day-dreamed semi-constantly about having a baby with Jonathan. She looked straight into Josephine’s eyes, which was a mistake. It was like staring into an abyss. Brenda felt light-headed.

‘Do you ever talk about it on stage?’

‘No. It’s not funny. Not to me, anyway.’

‘Does everyone know about it?’

‘Not really. Only Fenella knows the real extent of it. And my family and stuff, but I kept it pretty hidden. I mean, people knew we were together, obviously, but the Terrible Mess never really got out.’

‘If people knew…’

‘Yeah.’

‘It would ruin him.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So why don’t you tell? If you hate him.’

‘I don’t want to ruin him, not comedically. He’s already ruined inside. I’m not interested in destroying his career, he’s a pretty good comic. And I’m not vindictive. I do mindfulness training and shit like that, and I’ve just let it go. I never wanted kids anyway, so you know, I’m not all cut up about it… if you pardon the expression.’

This suddenly struck Brenda as impossibly hilarious and she started laughing. And once she started, it was like a stopper exploding out of a bottle of cheap cava and heaving hysteria was sprayed all over the tiny toilet room. Josephine caught the bug and also started laughing from somewhere deep within, great sobs and snorts, until both women were helpless and bent over.

‘It wasn’t that funny,’ Josephine pushed out between laughs.

‘No. It was shit.’

‘I didn’t even mean to do a joke,’ Josephine said.

‘I know.’ Brenda gasped and came to a stop.

‘Oh god… my stomach hurts, shit, that’s got to be better than an hour of yoga.’

They calmed down, taking deep breaths and letting out sighs of relief.

‘Listen, Josephine, I’m really sorry that happened, and you know, if there’s anything I can…’

But Josephine waved a hand in front of Brenda’s face.

‘Oh stop, seriously. It’s OK. I had loads of therapy, I’m OK, honestly. You should know what you’re getting into, that’s all.’

‘Trust me – it’s more a case of what I’m getting out of now.’

Back downstairs, last orders were being called at the bar. But Fenella had a better idea.

‘Let’s wrap this up and carry on at The Magpie,’ she suggested to the half dozen or so women who were still there.

Fenella led the way down Newman Street, turned onto Oxford Street and then right onto Charing Cross Road. After a few minutes she ducked down a side road, wet and shiny from rain and street lights, and pushed open a door Brenda had never noticed before, though she must have walked past it many times.