Each night, in the quiet of his attic dressing room high above Shaftesbury Avenue, he turned the loudspeaker down, ran his lines and practiced his moves. The role of Lord Byron was physically and emotionally demanding and, more pressingly, also involved taking his top off for quite long periods. In order to rid his body of the slightly beanbag quality it had recently taken on, he performed endless sets of press-ups and sit-ups, chin-ups and crunches, until life started to resemble the montage training sequence from Rocky. Two weeks was probably not quite long enough to turn himself into a gay icon, but if he couldn’t develop abs of steel, he could at least aspire to a soft metal alloy.
He also resolved to work on his charisma and animal magnetism. As an actor, Stephen C. McQueen possessed any number of qualities. He was certainly one of Britain’s most punctual young actors. He was a deft mime and a competent sight-reader. He could, if a human life depended on it, jazz-dance, and at Elizabethan folk dance, few men could touch him. If, as he was frequently told, acting is really reacting, then he reacted like no other. Yet he was not entirely confident of his charismatic qualities, his ability to hold an audience through sheer personal magnetism, and to this end, he rather sheepishly agreed to take up Josh’s offer of coaching. Instead of spending afternoons at the movies with Nora, he now came early into the theater, strapped a sword to his belt, stood onstage and ran through scenes for Josh. If this felt like switching sides, he tried not to dwell on it.
“Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know [smile wryly]. That is what they call me in England now. Or so I am—”
“STOP,” shouted Josh, slumped in his seat in Row K, his legs draped over the chair in front. “Go back to the beginning.”
“Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know [smile wryly]. That is—”
“No, go back again.”
“Mad, Bad—”
“Again!”
Stephen squinted out into the auditorium. “Can I ask why?”
“Sorry, Steve, but I just don’t believe it.”
“What don’t you believe?”
“Any of it. I don’t believe a word.” Josh took a swig from the obligatory small bottle of water, leaned forward, and put his head on the seat in front. “You’re meant to be Lord Byron, Steve. You’re meant to be a great lover, a rebel, a fighter. People thought Byron was the devil incarnate; convention, marriage, fidelity, all that crap meant nothing to him. He was motivated by love and passion and desire, not common sense. This is a guy that slept with his sister, for crying out loud…”
“His half-sister, technically.”
“Doesn’t make it any easier, Steve.”
“So what exactly is it you’re not getting?”
“I’m just not getting ‘mad, bad and dangerous,’ mate. I’m getting sensible, kind and careful, and who the fuck wants to see a play called Sensible, Kind and Careful?” Settling into his role as director, Josh stood now, and carried his bottle of water to the front of the auditorium, looking round fruitlessly for something to sit astride. “Problem is, you’re acting from here, Steve”—he tapped his forehead with his finger—“from your mind, from your brain. You’re thinking way too much. Even in Row K, I can see you thinking.” He placed his bottle of water on the edge of the stage. “You know what you should really use instead?”
He wondered if Josh was going to suggest he use The Force.
“You know where you really should start acting from?”
Usually, the generic answer to this question was “the diaphragm,” but Stephen had an awful idea what might be coming next…
“You should be acting from here.”
…and sure enough Josh suddenly grabbed between his own legs, taking care to use both hands. He directed the precious bundle of material at Stephen, cradling it as if it were an animal he was about to release back into the wild.
“Here, yeah?”
“Right, right, okay,” said Stephen, to a fixed point in the upper circle.
“Here, yeah, Steve? Here. Here, yeah? Yeah?” insisted Josh, shaking it again, for emphasis.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Josh.”
“And here too,” and he took one hand away from his trousers, and thumped his own chest hard with his fist. “Here, and here too.”
“Right. The heart, yeah?”
“Exactly. The heart. The cock and the heart. Make it your motto.”
“Right, okay. The cock and the heart?”
“The cock and the heart.” With some apparent reluctance, Josh let go of his cock and his heart, and vaulted onto the edge of the stage. “Look, close your eyes for me, will you?”
“Close my eyes?”
“Yeah, do it.” He squeezed the top of Stephen’s arms tight. “Close your eyes.”
Unsure as to whether he trusted Josh enough for a trust exercise, Stephen closed his eyes, and immediately opened them again.
Josh tutted. “Look, I’ll do it too,” he said.
They both closed their eyes.
“Now, think of someone you really want. I don’t want to know who it is, but I want you to conjure up an image of this woman, her face, her body or whatever, someone you really fancy—no, more than just fancy, someone you desire, someone you want, the person you want and desire most in the whole world.”
Stephen did so.
“You got it?”
“Got it.”
“She’s there?”
“She’s there.”
They both stood for a moment, eyes closed, thinking hard about someone.
“Okay, picture that face, think about it, then when you’re ready, open your eyes and go from the top.”
Stephen did so.
“Better,” said Josh, after a while. “Much, much better.”
My Dinner with Sophie
The following Sunday was yet another seize-the-day day, the ninth in a row since Josh had made Stephen his offer. At this rate, there was a very real possibility that Stephen would seize-the-fortnight.
He decided that, as a special treat, he would take Sophie out for burgers in Soho. He was feeling flush from his catering mishap and the money that was coming his way for agreeing to do Sammy the Squirrel 2, so they ate at an upscale American-style bistro, surrounded by smart, complete metropolitan families attempting the authentic brunch experience, the parents reading newspapers at the table while their smart, well-dressed children pushed food around their plates, bitterly regretting ordering the eggs Benedict.
“What is eggs Benedict?” asked Sophie.
“Don’t call me Benedict!” replied Stephen, pretty wittily, he thought, though Sophie’s expression remained unchanged. “It’s this flabby poached egg in this kind of nasty, heavy yellow gloop. It’s like brains on toast.”
“Can I have that, then?”
“No! I just told you, Soph, it’s disgusting. It sounds as if it’ll be great but trust me, it’s really horrible.”
“So what can I have, then?”
“You can have absolutely anything you want from the menu, providing it doesn’t contain too many vitamins and minerals, okay?”
“But what if I just want a salad?”
“You can’t—it’s the law. And no fruit juice either. And you’re only allowed to have Coke if it’s got a scoop of ice cream in it.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“How do you know if you haven’t tried it? It’s important to try the finer things in life.”
“Why are you encouraging me to make unhealthy choices?” she asked, frowning.
“I’m not, I’m just…I’m trying to spoil you, Sophs. It’s good to be spoiled every now and then, and, I’m sorry, but a bowl of steamed spinach isn’t spoiling someone. Most kids love this stuff; they don’t worry about the health implications.”
“So what are you having, then?”
“I’m having salad.”
“You’re allowed salad!”
“Because I’m trying to lose weight. I don’t want to get all fat and pink like old Colin, do I?”
Sophie sm
iled behind her menu. “I’ll tell him you said that.”
“Go on then, tell him. I’m not scared of Colin.”
“You don’t like Colin, do you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“I can just tell. You act as if you do, for my sake, but you don’t.”
“I don’t dislike him.”
“Yes you do.”
“I don’t, Sophs, it’s just, I just…it’s complicated.” Stephen went back to looking at the menu.
“Well, I don’t like him either,” said Sophie emphatically.
Stephen put his menu down again. “Why don’t you? Hey, he’s nice to you, isn’t he?”
“I suppose so.”
“So why don’t you like him?”
“Because you don’t.”
He leaned across the table toward her. “That’s not a reason, Soph. You should like him, or try, anyway. It doesn’t matter what happened in the past—he’s a good man, and he loves your mum, and, well, you should try and get on with him, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You promise?”
“S’pose so.”
“Look, Sophs”—he frowned severely, and jutted out his lower lip as far as possible—“I’m doing my stern face here.”
“All right, I promise.”
“Good.” He squeezed her hand, and went back to the menu. “Actually, that thing I said, about him being fat and pink, better not tell him. Just to be on the safe side. Promise?”
“Maaaaaybe.”
“What’s French for ‘maybe’?”
“Peut-être.”
“Exactly. Peut-être. God, you’re clever. And you can go crazy and have your spinach and rocket if you want, as long as you have dessert too. Pecan pie or something. Hey, you’re not one of those wimpy kids who’s allergic to nuts, are you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.”
“Suki Hodges in our class is allergic to nuts, and she ate one by accident and her head swelled up like a basketball.”
“Trust me. She’s just pulling focus.”
“What’s ‘pulling focus’?”
“You’ll find out.”
“Why are you being like this?” Sophie asked, out of the blue.
“Like what?”
“Funny.”
“Funny-weird or funny-nice?”
“Funny-weird.”
“You see, I thought I was being funny-nice.”
“You are. Sort of.”
“Well, maybe it’s because I’m pleased to be out with my very brilliant daughter. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“S’pose so.”
The waitress arrived, and Stephen found himself flirting with her as he gave the order. The flirtation was quite subtle, he thought—just a soft, lopsided little smile, and a certain misty gaze, as if going ever-so-slightly cross-eyed—but it was still enough for Sophie to roll her eyes and kick him under the table.
“Don’t say anything, Sophs, but I can’t help thinking our waitress is a little bit in love with me.”
“Sooo embarrassing,” said Sophie, in a sitcom intonation.
Then, having first extracted a solemn vow of secrecy from Sophie, he let her sip his beer, and smiled indulgently as she performed the obligatory pretending-to-be-drunk act. They talked about school, specifically recent developments in the gerbil situation. Their food arrived, the flirtation with the waitress continued, then Stephen listened patiently as Sophie told him, earnestly, and in great detail, all that she’d recently discovered about the Golden Age of the Tudors.
“And what about acting?” he asked.
“It’s okay. I’ve joined the ASDS.”
“Who are the ASDS?”
Sophie shook her head at his ignorance. “After School Drama Society.”
“I think I’ve heard of them. In fact, my agent put me up for that.”
“Stupid,” mumbled Sophie.
“Don’t say ‘stupid,’ say ‘silly.’ ”
“Silly, then.”
“And what are you working on?”
“Oh, devised work, mainly,” said Sophie, very somberly.
“I see—devised work,” said Stephen, nodding sagely. “And do you like it? Acting, I mean.”
“I like it, but I wouldn’t choose to do it professionally. Colin says it’s all right when you’re young, but it’s not a proper job for a grown-up. He says it’s undignified.”
“Quite right too.”
“So why d’you do it, then?”
Stephen thought for a moment. “D’you remember that Christmas, a couple of years ago, where you let me and Mum stick that realistic fake mustache and those big muttonchop sideburns on you? There are photos of it, remember?”
“Ye-es,” she said, a worldly seven-year-old mortified by the childish antics of her four-year-old self.
“And you wore them all day, and made everyone laugh, even Nanny McQueen, who usually only ever laughs when people hurt themselves, and you wouldn’t take them off, even when you went to bed?”
“That was just showing off.”
“Yes, but it was good showing off, Sophs. That is the most I have ever laughed in my whole life. Ever. I mean seriously, I thought I was going to die from laughing. And that was fun, wasn’t it? Pretending, mucking about, making people happy—it felt good, didn’t it?”
Sophie thought for a moment, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “I suppose so.”
“Well, that’s what acting should be like. Good showing off. Now can I swap some of your chips for my salad?”
“Okay, then.”
At the end of lunch, Sophie belched and Stephen felt a little swell of pride.
Afterward, feeling pleasantly nauseous and woozy, they strolled toward the National Gallery. This felt like a suitably educational-but-fun, father-daughter activity on a beautiful winter Sunday afternoon, and Stephen improvised a route through the Soho shops that didn’t involve passing too much pornography. There was, however, no way of avoiding Shaftesbury Avenue, the Hyperion Theatre, and the giant billboard of Josh Harper.
Stephen felt a little wary of this at first, then remembered that, thanks to contractual stipulations, his own name would actually be in print on the posters outside the theater. Perhaps it might be fun to show his daughter her father’s name in print on a West End theater: actual, irrefutable documentary evidence that his professional career wasn’t just something he had made up. Perhaps she might actually start to feel proud of him, rather than anxious or confused, a little taste of things to come before his big break on the eighteenth. They paused for a moment in front of the huge black-and-white photographs of Josh that wallpapered the outside of the building.
The poster suddenly seemed to Stephen like a vindictive optician’s chart.
“Hm. And what’s the play about?” asked Sophie, in her best classroom voice.
“It’s about this man called Byron, who was a famous poet, and a lord, and who had lots of adventures, and was very popular with the ladies, just like me with that waitress back there. Look—there’s my name…” he said, crouching down and pointing at the floor. “If anything bad happens to this guy”—he straightened, pointed at a photo of Josh, his finger in the center of his forehead—“if he’s sick or a piano falls on him or anything, then I get to take his place.”
“Why are you called Stephen C. McQueen?”
“It’s so people don’t confuse me with the legendary American movie star.”
“Does that happen?”
“No. No, it doesn’t, Sophie.”
“So why aren’t you in any of these photos?”
“I am—that’s me, there.”
“Where?”
“At the back…”
“Where?”
“There!”
“Why’s it so smoky?”
“It’s dry ice. It’s to make me seem mysterious.”
“Is that why you can’t see your face?”
“Exactly. It’s to make me look gho
stly, give me an air of intrigue and mystery. You know—spooky, like the Grim Reaper, leading Byron on to his death…”
“So he is your friend, then?” she asked, pointing at a large black-and-white photo of Josh, perspiring prettily in high-contrast close-up.
“Uh-huh. I mean, not a really good friend, not a best friend or anything, but we go out for a drink and stuff.” Oh, and I’m in love with his wife, he thought, but said, “And I know his wife quite well—she’s really nice. And he invited me to his birthday party, so—”
“He’s quite attractive, isn’t he?”
“Attractive?”
Sophie looked thoughtful. “You know—handsome.”
“Oh God. Et tu, Sophie.”
“Is that French?”
“Sort of.”
“So can I come and see him? And meet him afterward?”
“Well, it’s a bit old for you, and a bit boring, to be honest. But if, in a couple of weeks or so, December the eighteenth or thereabouts, if something happens to Josh, if he gets, I don’t know, gastric flu or food poisoning or something, then you might get a phone call out of the blue, and you and your mum might have to rush to the theater, and watch me play the main part instead. Wouldn’t that be exciting?”
Sophie seemed a little unsure about the prospect. “I suppose so. But could I get his autograph, d’you think?”
For the first time, Stephen felt the day lurch out of his control.
“What d’you want his autograph for?”
“I told the girls at school you were his best friend, and they said I was a liar, so I need proof.”
Don’t argue. Just keep moving, thought Stephen.
“I’m sure an autograph can be arranged.”
They crossed Shaftesbury Avenue, through Chinatown, where they gawped at strange, red alien meats hanging in the steamy windows, and Stephen pointed out the clatter of the mah-jongg tiles in upstairs rooms. Then they hurried across Leicester Square, before the sound of panpipes and the sight of silver-painted living statues could make Stephen feel too depressed, to the National Gallery.