Starter For Ten (37 page)

'Mum?'

'Oh, yes, Brian, I was just going to ask . . .'

'I heard you Mum. Of course you can bring Des.'

'Oh. Okay.'

Till sort out the ticket tomorrow.' 'Oh. Okay then, Brian. If you're sure . . .'

'I'm sure.'

'Bye then.'

'Bye then.'

And I hang up.

I stay in the phone-box for a while after that, standing, thinking, well, it's early days but the Wisdom, Kindness, Courage policy seems to be working out pretty well, so far. I think I might even have done something good for once. And even though I should go home to work out what to wear for the filming tomorrow and get a good night's sleep and everything, I decide to go and see Alice, because it is Valentine's Day after all, and she'll have read my poem by now.

QUESTION: Adam Heyer, Frank Gusenberg, Pete Gusen berg, John May, Al Weinshank and James Clark were amongst the victims of which bloody event on North Clark Street, Chicago in February 1929?

ANSWER: The St Valentine's Day Massacre.

'Listen Alice, I've been doing some thinking, about us, and, well, there's this great poem by the Metaphysical poet John Donne, The Triple Foole, which goes "7 am two fools I know/For loving, and for saying so/In whining poetry" and I think, well, 7've been a bit like that. What I mean to say is I've been coming on a bit strong, what with dragging you kicking-and-screaming into the photo-booth and that crazy, bad poetry in the Valentine's card and everything, and I know how important your independence is, and that's fine by me, it really, really is. I'm in love with you of course, massively so, but that's not important, that needn't get in the way, because at the end of the day I think we get along really well, that we're good friends, soul-mates even. I'd certainly rather spend time with you than anyone in the world, really I would, even though I know I can be a complete prick sometimes. Most of the time in fact, and, alright, look, I'm not completely stupid, I know you don't love me now, but you might do, mightn't you, one day? I mean you might grow to? It is possible, it does happen, and I've got patience, loads and loads of patience, and I don't mind waiting. So what I'm trying to say is - let's wait and see. Just wait and see what happens. Let's not push things, let's just keep spending time together and have some fun. And wait. And see. Okay?'

That's what I'm going to say to Alice when I see her, more or less. I'm not sure if I can get away with the John Donne quote, because I'm worried it might come across as a tiny bit pretentious, but I'm going to see how it plays in the moment. I'm going to say all of the above, nothing more, and see how she takes it, but not get into a big, heavy discussion, and then I'm going to pull on my coat, go home and get a good eight hours' sleep. And I'm definitely not going to try and kiss her. Even if she asks me to stay and make love to her or whatever, I'm going to say no, because it's The Challenge in the morning. We've both got to be fresh for The Challenge. Like boxers no sex before a fight.

I'm standing outside her door. I knock.

There's no reply.

I knock again. Wisdom, Kindness, Courage, Wisdom, Kindness, Courage ...

'Who is it?'

'It's Brian.'

'Brian! It's nearly midnight!'

The know, sorry, I just wanted to say hi!'

I hear her get out of bed, the rustle of her pulling on some clothes, and then she peers round the edge of the door, in the Snoopy T-shirt and a black pair of knickers.

'I'm actually asleep, Bri . . .' she says, rubbing her eyes.

'Are you? God, sorry. It's just I've had a bit of an eventful day, and I wanted to talk to someone about it.'

'Can't it wait 'til ...?'

'Not someone. You.'

She bites her lip, and tugs the front of her T-shirt down with her spare hand.

'Oh, come on then.' And she opens up the door. I go and sit on the edge of the unmade bed, which is warm to the touch from where she was sleeping.

'So - how was Valentine's Day?'

'Oh fine, fine . . .'

'Get anything special?' I ask meaningfully. 'In the post this morning? Get anything nice? . . .' I wish she'd come and sit next to me.

'Ye-eees, I did, thank you Brian, and it was a lovely, lovely poem.'

Why won't she come and sit next to me?

'You really think so? Phew! Because I was a bit embarrassed about it. It's the first time anyone's actually read anything I've written so . . .'

'No, I thought it was lovely, really. Very ...frank. And ...raw. Emotionally. Quite derivative of e.e.cummings I thought, well not derivative, inspired by, it reminded me of him, I mean. In fact I think there were some lines that I actually recognised . . .' Hang on, is she accusing me of plagiarism! '...but anyway, it was lovely, really. Thank you. I was very ...touched . . .'

'That is assuming it was from me!' I say lightheartedly. 'What poem! I didn't send any poetry!' I'm jabbering, I know I am, but she smiles, and scratches her elbow and makes a tent of her T-shirt by stretching it down and hooking it over her bare knees. And I'm struggling to keep things lighthearted now, because I can't help noticing that on the desk behind her, looming over her shoulder, is a massive bouquet of perfect red roses slumping sideways in a huge, battered aluminium saucepan of water that she's nicked from the communal kitchen. Of course there's no reason why she shouldn't receive Valentine's gifts from other men, I'd be a fool not to realise that she would, I'm not naive, she's bound to, what with being beautiful and popular and conventionally sexually attractive and everything, but this bouquet is just ...vulgar. So vulgar that I'm trying not to draw attention to it, and to focus instead on my small, sincere, little heartfelt hand-crafted homemade poem. But there they are, looming over her shoulder, stinking up the place like cheap air-freshener, that big fuck-off bunch of perfect fucking red fucking roses ...

'Lovely roses!' I say.

'Oh, those!' she says, doing a little double-take over her shoulder, as if they'd somehow crept up behind her, like Birnam bloody Wood ...

'Any idea ...who might have sent them?' I say, lightly.

'No idea at all!' she says. It's some posh bastard obviously. That's a whole term's grant there, slumped in that saucepan of water. And of course she knows who they're from; because what's the point of being that generous if you're going to remain anonymous?

'Well - was there a card attached or ...?'

'Is this any of your business, Brian?' she snaps.

'No. No, I suppose not.'

'Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry . . .' she says, and gets out of her chair, and puts her arms round me, and gives me a stooped hug. I look down along the length of her back, where the T-shirt has ridden up, and put one hand on the warm bare skin just above her underwear, which incidentally seems to be made of some sort of translucent black mesh or lace or something, and we stay like that for a time, while I stare at the roses lolling in the saucepan.

'Sorry . . .' she whispers in my ear. 'I'm such a bitch for snapping at you, it's just we had a really long, difficult rehearsal tonight, and I think I might still be in character . . .' then she sits next to me and laughing, says, 'God, did I really just say that? That is without a doubt the most pretentious thing I've ever said in my life . . .' and we're both smiling again, and I wonder if I might try for a kiss, but then remember my new mantra. Wisdom, Kindness, Courage.

'Look, I really ought to be getting back to bed now, Brian. Big day tomorrow and all that . . .'

'Of course, I'll go . . .' and I half-stand, then sit down again. 'But can I just say something first ...?'

'O-kay,' she says warily, sitting down beside me.

'Don't worry - it's nothing scary. I just wanted to say . . .' and I take her hand, take a deep breath and say, 'Alice ...Okay, listen, Alice I've been doing some thinking, about us, and, well, there's this great poem by the Metaphysical poet John Donne, The Triple Foole, which goes "/ am two fools I know/For loving, and for saying so/In whining poetry" and I think, well, I've been a bit like that. What I mean to say is I've been coming on a bit strong, what with dragging you kicking and screaming into the photo-booth and that crazy, bad poetry in the Valentine's card and everything, and I know how much you value your independence, and that's fine by me, it really, really is. I'm in love with you of course, massively so . . .'

'Brian . . .' she says.

'...but that's not important, that needn't get in the way, because at the end of the day . . .'

'Brian . . .' she says. '...hang on, Alice, just let me finish . . .'

'...no, Brian, you have to stop . . .' she says, standing up and crossing to the far side of the room. 'This isn't right . . .'

'But, it's not what you think it is, Alice . . .'

'No, I'm sorry, Brian, I can't take it any more. Let's get this over with . . .'

And the strange thing is, she doesn't say this to me, she says it to her wardrobe.

'Come on, Neil, this isn't funny any more . . .'

'That's strange,' I think, 'why is she calling her wardrobe Neil? What does she call her chest of drawers!' I wonder, as she knocks on Neil the Wardrobe's door with the flat of her hand, and the door opens slowly by itself, as if in a conjuring trick.

There's a man in the wardrobe.

He's holding his trousers in his hand.

I don't understand.

'Brian, this is Neil,' says Alice.

Neil unfolds out of the wardrobe, gets to his feet.

'Neil is playing Eilert Lovborg. In Hedda Gabler.'

'Hello, Neil,' I say.

'Hello, Brian,' says Neil.

'We were ...rehearsing,' says Alice.

'Oh,' I say, as if this explained everything.

And then, I think, I shake his hand.

'What do you think of her?'

'I don't like to say,' I stammered.

'Tell me in my ear,' said Miss Havisham, bending down.

'I think she is very proud,' I replied, in a whisper.

'Anything else?'

'I think she is very pretty . . .'

'...Anything else?'

'I think I should like to go home now . . .'

'...You shall go soon,' said Miss Havisham, aloud. 'Play the game out . . .'

Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

QUESTION: 'Once there were four children named Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy ' So begins the most famous work of a scholar, novelist and Christian apologist But what is the name of the book?

ANSWER: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

The cliche about meeting famous people in the flesh, of course, is that they're often disappointingly a lot smaller than they appear on the screen. But in real life Bamber Gascoigne is actually a lot bigger than I'd imagined; very slim, and smiley, and surprisingly good-looking, like a benevolent character from C.S. Lewis who's about to take you on an amazing adventure, but with sex appeal. The four of us are stood in a line in the TV studios, waiting nervously, and he's working his way down the line, a little like a Royal Variety Performance.

Alice is avoiding me, and is first in the line, so I can't hear what she's saying to him but presume that she's attempting to seduce him. Then Patrick, who's practically doubled over with humility, and is making a big show of having met him before, this time last year, and is acting as if they're big, big pals, like they've been on holiday together or whatever. Bamber's very charming, smiling a lot, and saying, 'Yes, yes of course I remember you!' when he's probably thinking 'who the hell is this idiot?'

Then Lucy, who is incredibly quiet and nice as usual, and then it's my turn. The question is do I call him Bamber, or Mr Gascoigne? He approaches, shakes my hand, and 1 say: 'Pleased to meet you, Mr Gascoigne.'

'Oh, please, call me Bamber,' he says, grinning broadly, taking my hand in his two hands. 'And your name is?'

'Brian, Brian Jackson,' I mumble.

'...reading?'

'Eng. Lit.' I say.

'Beg your pardon?' he says, and leans in.

'Eng-lish Lit-erature,' I say loudly, over-enunciating this time, and I notice Bamber recoiling, almost imperceptibly, and guess that it's because he can smell the alcohol on my breath, and has realised that I'm pretty much pissed out of my head.

Despite the best efforts of the licensing authorities, the fact remains that no matter how late it is, you can always get a drink if you need it badly enough.

After I run from Alice's room at Kenwood Manor, I walk the streets for a while, trying to calm down, trying to stop shaking, until I find myself outside The Taste of The Raj, a curry house that doubles as a sort of Indian speak-easy; you can drink pretty much all night, as long as you're always within ten feet of an onion bhaji.

Tonight, at just gone midnight, the place is empty. 'Table for one?' asks the solitary waiter.

'Yes, please,' and he shows me to a booth at the very back of the restaurant, near the kitchen. I open the menu, and notice that The Taste of The Raj is offering an extra-special, bitterly ironic Valentine's Day Menu for couples out on a romantic date, but decide that even though the menu represents good value for money, I doubt if I'd be able to swallow anything. Besides, I'm not here for the food. I order a pint of lager, two poppadoms, an onion bhaji, and a gin and tonic.

'No main course, sir?'

'Maybe later,' I say. And the waiter nods mournfully, as if lie unclei stands the sometimes brutal workings of the human heart, and goes to get my booze. I've finished both the pint of lager and the gin and tonic before I even hear the ping of the microwave from the kitchen behind me. The waiter slides the warmed-through onion bhaji in between my elbows on the table, and I offer up the empty glasses.

'Another pint of lager, and a gin please. No tonic this time,' and the sad-eyed waiter nods wisely, and sighs, and heads off to get my order.

'And, excuse me?' - I shout after him - 'could you make the gin a double?' Half-heartedly, I pick the crust off the onion bhaji and dip it into the sweet, watery mint yoghurt, and when the waiter returns with my drinks, I sip the top inch off the pint and pour in the gin, stir it with the handle of my fork, and think about all the things that I know.