Meet Me Under the Westway Read online

  ‘We hate it when our friends become successful …’

  Morrissey

  To the memory of the YPT. Those were the days … I think.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part Two

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Copyright

  Part One

  1

  We’re going nowhere.

  My girlfriend dumped me today. We’d been together a year and a half. I can’t say I’m heartbroken since I didn’t love her but the sense of rejection is like vinegar in my eye. And what were her reasons? Nothing I might have expected. It wasn’t because I snored, or farted under the duvet or poked fun at her mother’s moustache. No, she gave me the big heave-ho because and I quote, ‘We’re going nowhere.’

  It’s almost two in the morning yet I’m reluctant to go to bed. The prospect of sleeping alone is giving me palpitations. I’m just not used to it. Rachel and I spent practically every night together, usually here at my flat. Seldom would we stay at hers for, although she has the better pad, I live in the more fashionable area. The rows we had over that! She’d call me a postcode snob and with justification because, for me, there’s no comparison between E11 and W11.

  There’s nothing like a break-up to induce insomnia. If only I had a few sleeping pills or a spliff – anything to take my mind off überbitch. I toy with the idea of watching a video or dipping into a book but I know that neither will provide adequate distraction. I’d go for a walk but for the lunatics out and about at this hour. What I mustn’t do is panic and start calling up old flames. Tonight I’ve had my ego bruised – I don’t wish to degrade myself into the bargain. Besides, would a bit of time on my own be so awful? For years now I’ve gone from one relationship to another, with barely a pause in between. Evan says it’s because I need women. Maybe, maybe not. I know one thing – I won’t be getting involved with anyone for a long time to come, at least not in any serious way. What I want now is a succession of flings, the more short-lived and superficial the better. I’m not yet too old to play the field.

  I hear voices outside, angry voices. It sounds like a couple having an argument. I resist my usual urge to go to the window. Tonight I’m in no mood to witness other people’s unhappiness. Not that I’d be able to see much. A sad reality of basement dwelling is the lack of light and a decent view. Daily, all I see are disembodied legs. OK, so I get to look under women’s skirts and, at first, I found that a real thrill but, after five years, the thrill has gone – replaced by self-loathing.

  There’s no way around it – things are not going well for me at the moment. I mean I’m thirty-two years old yet I have no money in the bank and very few possessions. I don’t have a regular job and lack both the skills and the desire to get one. But I’m not without ambition. My aim is to become a famous playwright. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. Some day I hope to be up there with the Tom Stoppards and the David Hares, with sell-out runs at the National and transfers to the West End and Broadway. Failing that, I’ll settle for being a darling of the fringe, scourge of the establishment. That’s my dream but the older I get, the more elusive it becomes.

  The truth is I fear what the future holds. I keep trying to predict what my life will be like in ten, fifteen years’ time. Am I destined to become like Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya, bitter and unfulfilled? I suppose I’ll find out in the fullness of time. Until then, I’ll continue to follow my dream – just as long as I don’t become a slave to it for I know that the obstinate pursuit of unrealistic goals can be a perilous business. I’m reminded of a story a friend once told me about his father. He, the father, desperately wanted to be a novelist. He wrote book after book, none of which found their way into print. Undeterred, he kept churning them out right up until he died. After hearing this story, I told my friend how much I admired his father’s determination. ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘but was it determination or masochism?’

  I decide it’s high time I went to bed. I stand up too quickly and experience a prolonged dizziness. I wait for my head to clear then set off for the bathroom to brush my teeth. On the way, I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror. I appear to have aged in the last few hours. I amble off to bed, depressed, and lie awake all night and sleep all day. When I eventually surface at five the following afternoon, I feel alone, out of sync and tearful. Desperate to get out of the house, I have a quick bite to eat then call Evan and arrange to meet him for a drink at the Bed Bar on Portobello Road.

  * * *

  I’ve known Evan for four years. We met at a local play-writing workshop, which we still attend. At first I didn’t like him. I found him condescending and opinionated – and lazy. For the first few terms, he didn’t write a thing. He’d slaughter our work but had nothing of his own to show. In the end, Richard had to speak to him and only then did he promise to bring in an extract from something he’d been working on. For the next fortnight, we saw neither hide nor hair of him. We thought he’d left the group. But, on the third week, he showed up, armed with what he pretentiously referred to as his ‘work in progress’.

  The play turned to be about a young couple who, while holidaying in the Lake District, find a lost diary. The entries – the musings of a middle-aged woman picking over the scabs of her failed marriage – begin to haunt the couple and ultimately come between them. Evan read out a couple of monologues and, when he had finished, the very air seemed charged. For a few seconds, no one spoke. It was the only time I’d ever seen the group lost for words. Richard was the first to give his opinion. He said he found the writing ‘eerily reminiscent of Lorca’. What, to less perceptive ears, might have sounded like praise was, to us, a clear accusation of mimicry. To his credit, Evan took it on the chin but later, at the old men’s pub, he called Richard ‘a jealous, talentless tosser’. There’s been tension between them ever since.

  As I say, I didn’t like Evan but, for some reason, he started hanging on my every word. I was embarrassed by his attempts to cultivate a friendship but he was relentless and eventually broke down my reserve. We began seeing each other outside the group and, over the years, have become, if not close, then very near to it. I admire him a great deal. He’s been through the wringer somewhat (what with his troubled upbringing and everything) but, for the most part, retains a positive outlook on life. What he sees in me I’m not sure. I kid myself that he finds me deep but the reality is probably far more prosaic.

  I arrive at the Bed Bar at the appointed time but Evan is nowhere to be seen. It’s a Wednesday evening so the place is quiet. I order a bottle of Beck’s, perch myself on a stool and proceed to flirt with the barmaid. She’s new – from Macedonia – and, upon discovering this, I immediately begin to fancy my chances. In my experience, eastern Europeans are always up for it. No sooner are we talking than I’m having visions of my face buried between her breasts. From where I’m sitting, I can see they’re nice and big. On the down side, she has quite a large forehead, droopy eyes and practically no neck. Still, I’ve got the scent now and I dismiss her deformities as minor flaws. I’m about to ask for her number when Evan walks in.

  ‘Hey, Jem.’

  ‘And what time d’you call this?’

  ‘All righ
t, all right. Stay in your pram. I would have called to say I was running late but, unlike the rest of the world, you don’t have a mobile.’

  ‘And I never will. A pox on the things. As an artist, I’m obliged to show contempt for modern technology. I’m a Luddite and proud of it.’

  ‘Whatever. Same again?’

  He orders me another Beck’s and himself a pint of Hoegaarden, which is served in an enormous chunky glass with the word Hoegaarden emblazoned across it. He can barely raise the thing to his lips. His skinny arm strains under the pressure and I can’t help wondering whether it’s worth all the effort. It’s not as if the beer’s any good. To me it tastes like washing-up liquid.

  As soon as we’re seated, I say, ‘Why do you always suggest this place?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you find it depressing? I mean look at it.’

  We glance around. Wrought-iron candelabras encrusted with wax, ultra-low tables, L-shaped benches covered in cushions, leather patchwork pouffes dotted about an uneven concrete floor. The effect is risible.

  ‘I believe the term for it is “Gothic-chic”.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, call it what you like but a poncey pub by any other name…’

  ‘Let’s not argue, Jem.’

  ‘OK.’

  I clink my fragile bottle against his hefty glass.

  ‘Cheers, Evan.’

  ‘Cheers, Jem.’

  After we’ve wetted our palates, I come straight out with it.

  ‘I’ve split up with Rachel.’

  ‘You’re kidding. When?’

  ‘Yesterday. She chucked me.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Another bloke?’

  ‘Bound to be.’

  ‘Cow.’

  I’m about to say something when a trio of beauties walks in – young, confident, hip. They look around, think better of it, then waltz back out. I’m so disappointed I get a knot in the pit of my stomach. Evan looks bereft. Our eyes meet and, though we remain silent, we each know what the other’s thinking.

  At length, Evan says, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, mate.’

  ‘Shit happens.’

  I look towards the barmaid, give her my most lechy grin. Evan notices and starts shaking his head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘If you’ve got something to say, Evan…’

  ‘Actually I have but it’s got nothing to do with you.’

  He takes a long draught of his Fairy Liquid then goes on to recount a story so implausible that at first I think he’s pulling my leg.

  About six months ago, he went to the National to see the new play by Carol Llewellyn. She gave a talk afterwards then agreed to sign copies of her play. Evan bought one and queued up for half an hour to have it signed. He also got to exchange a few words with the great woman. He told her about his writing and she encouraged him to believe in himself. They spoke for all of a minute yet he went away feeling as though he’d been discovered. That much I already knew. What I didn’t know – what Evan had omitted to tell me – was that he’d gone along that night armed with a copy of his most recent play. I’ve read it. It’s very good, possibly the best thing he’s done, but that’s neither here nor there – the point is he asked Carol Llewellyn to read it, expecting to be given short shrift. Amazingly, she said she would. However, after a month without a word, he began to lose heart. After three months he was tempted to ring her up and be abusive. Only a fortnight ago, he was loitering outside her Hampstead home with a knife concealed under his jacket.

  ‘Fancy another?’ he asks.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘It’s your round.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  I go off to the bar. The barmaid seems very keen to continue our flirting but not even the sight of her impressive baps can distract me from my thoughts. I cannot overstate my relief that Evan’s story ended in disappointment. The last thing I need right now is for him to become successful. My only regret is that Carol Llewellyn didn’t take the trouble to contact him and actually slag off his play, thus adding insult to injury.

  The barmaid serves up the drinks.

  ‘Got a pen?’ I ask. She hands me a plastic biro. I scribble my name and number on a napkin and push it towards to her, looking about to see whether I’ve been spotted. She then writes her name and number on a separate napkin and hands it to me. Hana.

  I smile at her and leave.

  When I return with the beers Evan hits me with it.

  ‘She called yesterday.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Carol Llewellyn.’

  My knees go weak and I’m forced to sit down.

  ‘Let me get this straight. Carol Llewellyn called you?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘And said what?’

  It turns out his play had been doing the rounds. After reading and loving it, Carol Llewellyn passed it on to her agent for a second opinion. She deliberately didn’t say what she thought of it for fear of influencing him. A month later, her agent got back to her, raving. His reaction was the clincher and it spurred Carol Llewellyn into action. She sent the play to a friend, the artistic director of the Upper Street Theatre in Islington. Although he felt it needed a lot of revision, the director was sufficiently impressed to consider the possibility of staging it. He wanted to meet Evan to discuss things further.

  The conclusion of this story sees me at sixes and sevens. I try to appear pleased but it’s all I can do not to leap across the table and throw my hands around Evan’s throat. I want to be happy for him, I really do, but my envy is such that I respond negatively. ‘Well, sounds good but I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You can’t trust these people. They’ll lead you on, get your hopes up, then bang!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jem, but what exactly are you getting at?’

  I shake my head pityingly. ‘OK. Let me spell it out for you. They want to put your play on, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But notice the little provisos. They’ll consider the possibility but only if you do rewrites. Catch my drift?’

  He sips his beer and says, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be on my toes. And thanks. You’re a good mate. I won’t forget you …’ and here he pauses for emphasis, ‘come opening night.’ He starts guffawing and my anger, which had begun to subside, bubbles back to the surface.

  2

  I hate having to conform and fear routine. As a result, I’ve rarely worked a nine-to-five or kept any job for more than a couple of months. I’m on the books of more than half a dozen temping agencies, which suits me just fine. It means I get to work when I want and that’s not very often. I do enough to get by – enough to keep my creditors at bay and no more. I work to live, not the other way around. Still, it’s a precarious existence, of which my father strongly disapproves. I know I’m a big disappointment to him but he’s too middle class and polite to actually say so. He runs his own firm of chartered surveyors and would love to get me involved but the fact is I’d sooner lie in a bath of acid. Mum’s far more understanding of my lifestyle. She has literary leanings herself and is a long-standing member of her local book club. It was her idea to name me Jem, after the character in To Kill a Mockingbird. We tease Dad about his art-free life (he wouldn’t know his Fugard from his Right Guard) and he treats us like naive children. We’re a normal family.

  I rarely venture outside London. The furthest I ever get is Pinner, where I go every so often to visit the folks. As soon as I arrive, I want to get away again. The place depresses me and has done since I was a child growing up there. I used to daydream about escaping to London, which I saw as the centre of the universe, and I finally got my chance when I scraped into the University of London to read English. Even after all these years, I still hate to leave it. I worry that I might return to find it gone. It’s the irrational fea
r of a suburban boy.

  I’ve lived in Notting Hill for ten years – long enough to see it undergo an extraordinary transformation. It once enjoyed a reputation as the most bohemian area in London, with a high concentration of celebrity inhabitants to give it that extra bit of glamour. But soon people began to speak about it in Utopian terms and inevitably it became a victim of its own success. Once the media cottoned on, the game was up. Yuppies started arriving in their droves, pushing up house prices and the cost of living generally. The very people who once gave the place its character – the immigrants – were forced out to backwaters like Hammersmith and Shepherd’s Bush. The area is now so gentrified as to be anodyne.

  Even the greasy spoons have gone upmarket. I’ll never forget the morning I went round to Mike’s Café for my usual coronary-inducing breakfast. There was a sign saying closed for refurbishment. I groaned, knowing exactly what this meant. Sure enough, a month later, it re-opened as M’s, serving cappuccino and caffè lattes. The clientele had also changed. Instead of builders and market traders, the place was now full of models and TV presenters. Out of curiosity, I went in there one afternoon for lunch. When I saw the prices, I ran from the place, screaming at the top of my lungs. Nowadays, whenever I’m passing by, I make a point of spitting at the door.

  These days, fame is all that matters. We’ll maim each other to acquire it and donate our organs to retain it. Once upon a time, a pop star was the thing to be but writing has become the new pop and the whole world seems to be at it. Nowhere is this more in evidence than in Notting Hill. Every other person I meet is writing a novel or a screenplay or ‘putting together a volume of verse’ and sometimes they’re doing all three at once. Curiously, I come across very few playwrights, which indicates that the theatre is no longer fashionable. I don’t have a problem with that. I write plays not to be in vogue but because I don’t have a choice.

  When I’m not working or indoors scribbling away, I like to roam the area doing absolutely nothing. Loafing is part and parcel of what it means to be a writer and I take it very seriously. That it irritates the hell out of other people makes it all the more pleasurable. My favourite hang-out is the Italian cafe in the square on Portobello Road. I go there almost every day. Often I’m joined by Evan and Ollie. We usually meet there around lunchtime – sometimes prearranged, more often by accident – and stay there all day drinking copious amounts of coffee. Over the years, it’s turned us into proper caffeine junkies.