‘Natalie, hello…’
We turned to see Jamie standing with Tuppence Halfpenny under a giant black umbrella. She had his coat draped around her shoulders and was shivering as she held his arm.
‘Jamie,’ I said. There was an awkward moment and then he leant in and pecked me on the cheek. His slightly stubbly cheek brushed mine and for a moment I could smell his hair, rich and clean…
‘Umbrella!’ shrilled Tuppence as it shifted and the rain caught her.
Jamie stood back and we stared at each other.
‘Sorry Nicky, this is Jamie Dawson,’ I said. Nicky smiled and shook his hand.
‘And I know who you are,’ said Nicky to Tuppence. ‘We were so pleased you could attend, didn’t I say that Natalie?’
‘Um yeah, you did… ‘
Nicky gave me a puzzled look as to why I was suddenly not enthusiastic about Tuppence Halfpenny.
Tuppence pulled her face into what she must have thought was an appropriate smile. The wind whipped round, rattling rain on their umbrella. A couple of stray photographers emerged from an awning over the road and took a few shots, and she turned to face the flashes, her pale skin shimmering.
‘Jamie, I can’t get this dress wet. It’s vintage,’ she said moving closer to him.
‘And it’s a beautiful dress honey,’ said Nicky. ‘How do you two know each other?’ I looked at Tuppence, then realised Nicky was talking about me and Jamie. There was a pause and we both laughed.
‘Believe it or not Natalie and I were once engaged to be married,’ said Jamie. Tuppence’s nostrils flared and she looked me up and down, I self-consciously smoothed down my hair. Nicky burst out laughing.
‘She went as far as leaving me at the altar…’
There was a silence.
‘What? Seriously? You’re not joking?’ said Nicky looking between me and Jamie. I gulped trying to gain my composure.
‘It was all a very long time ago, and I’m happy to see that you’ve found someone else Jamie… Are you two...?’
‘We are lovers, yes,’ said Tuppence icily. ‘And Jamie is producing my new show.’
‘I loved your Burlesque Kicks show at the Garrick Theatre,’ said Nicky. ‘Where’s your new one going to be?’
‘There,’ said Tuppence, pointing with a thin lace glove. We both stupidly followed her finger.
‘The Palladium?’ asked Nicky.
‘No. There,’ repeated Tuppence rolling her eyes. She was pointing at the building over the road, which sat dark and swathed in tarpaulin.
‘But that’s the Old Library, it’s been closed for years,’ I said.
‘Jamie’s company has just leased it as a pop-up burlesque venue. I’m his first show,’ said Tuppence putting her hand to his chest. A taxi came roaring up to the pavement. Jamie opened the door. Tuppence murmured goodbye over a slender shoulder and slid in. Jamie closed the door.
‘Wow. You’re opening a theatre opposite?’ I said.
‘Yeah. Well, a pop-up venue, you know it’s more temporary,’ clarified Jamie.
‘I know what a pop-up venue is,’ I snapped.
‘What’s it going to be called?’ asked Nicky.
‘The Big O,’ grinned Jamie. My mouth was still open when he got in the other side and the taxi drove off. We watched the tail lights as they moved off into the rain.
‘The Big O,’ said Nicky. She turned to me. ‘Nat, I have like a million questions…’
She was interrupted by a journalist from the Guardian who came out of the entrance to ask if he could do some fact checking.
‘Nat, stay where you are, I’ll be back, with drinks…’
She went inside. I stared across the road at the Old Library, dark and shrouded in faded plastic. Without thinking about the rain pouring down, I went off into the dark street.
A lonely salmon
The rain continued to pour as I made my way home. Most of Soho had retreated to shelter under the shop and restaurant awnings dotted along the street, and the pavements were crowded with smokers and drinkers. I was close to crying and didn’t want anyone to see me, so I put my head down and walked in the road. The volume of rain had swamped the drains, and they were overflowing, grey water frothing up to join the flow, zooming along almost as high as the kerb. I walked against the current, the force of the water spilling up and over my shoes, spraying against my legs and soaking the bottom of my skirt. In my orange blouse I was a very wet air hostess, or for a better metaphor, a lonely salmon, swimming against the tide.
When I reached my building I rummaged in my bag for my security card and scanned it on the gate. It opened with a buzz and a click, and I hurried through the communal garden to my front door. Wind whipped the rain against my face as I found my key, slipped it into the lock, and went inside.
The temperature had dropped, and my flat was cold. Shivering, I flicked on the light, went to the tiny airing cupboard and turned on the central heating. There were clicks and clanks and a whoomph as it went into action. The dust from the unused boiler burnt off, filling the hall with a dry stale smell. I dropped my handbag on the floor and leant down to pull off my shoe, shrieking when I saw I had picked up a used condom from the road river. It was milky white and had been nestling inside under the arch of my foot. I recoiled and dropped the shoe. The condom fell out, and sat lying bent over on itself on the bristles of the mat. I started to cry; tears poured down my face and I felt alone, and ugly. All I could bring home from my day was a disgusting used condom.
I wiped my tears away angrily, went to the bathroom and grabbed a wodge of toilet paper. I went back into the hall, scooped up the condom, and then did what you should never do – I flushed it down the loo. I then took a long hot shower, washing all the filth and sweat away. Afterwards I pulled on my huge squashy robe and went into the kitchen. I opened the freezer, took out a bottle of vodka crusted with ice and poured half a tumbler. I was about to take a sip when the door buzzer went. My heart lifted when I thought it might be Benjamin, but I could see on the little screen of the intercom phone by the fridge that Nicky was outside, huddled under an umbrella. I reached out to let her in, then pulled my hand back. I wasn’t in the mood for Nicky’s positive attitude. I didn’t want to be told to look forward, and stay in the present because it’s a gift, nor did I want to take my lemons and make lemonade. I wanted to be British and wallow in my misery.
I saw on the screen Nicky press the buzzer again. She hung about for another minute and then walked away. I stared at the space where she’d been, the rain even showing up on the tiny black and white screen, then it flicked off.
Seeing Jamie tonight had put my life in a different context, or, dare I admit it, had made my life seem hollow. For the first time I felt genuinely old, I felt my mortality.
Fifteen years ago we were engaged. If I’d gone through with it, we would have a house, and memories. We could have a fourteen-year-old child – or more! And I’d have pictures on the fridge made by the kids at school. I got up and looked at my fridge. It was bare save for a magnet. The only thing Benjamin had ever given me. On it was a silhouette of a lady sitting cross-legged. Superimposed on top was a quote from a famous Yogi called Ram Dass.
‘The quieter you become, the more you can hear…’
‘Isn’t that just fancy talk, Benjamin, for shut the fuck up and listen?’ I said out loud. I took the magnet off, but the fridge door was now completely bare, which seemed even worse. I rummaged in a drawer wondering if I had something to replace it with. A magnet from a trip to a cathedral gift shop maybe, but all I could find was an old prescription for thrush cream and a takeaway leaflet. I fixed the Planet Poppadom menu to the fridge, so it concealed the magnet in its folds. I gave up and poured myself more vodka.
I realised that in another fifteen years I’d be fifty. Which I know is by no means old, but where had my life gone? The past fifteen years had felt like two. And time seems to speed up as you grow older. And I was growing older. I looked such a state tonight. Jamie s
eemed hardly to have aged, he’d just got sexier. And now he was dating that Tuppence Halfpenny, a younger woman projecting an almost ethereal femininity.
Over the years I had filed Jamie at the back of my mind. Life in London was fab, my career was my focus and I had no regrets. After this weird night with Ryan Harrison, and Jamie popping up, the regrets washed over me one after another. It terrified me.
I went back out to the hall, retrieved my bag and went back to the kitchen. My phone was still dead and I put it on charge. I pulled my laptop from my bag, and switched it on. I typed ‘Jamie Dawson’ into Facebook. Thirty-six names came up.
‘You see, you’re not that unique mister,’ I said gulping more vodka. I scrolled down the names and found him. His profile picture was black and white and quite arty with him smiling, his eyes against the sun, but his profile was limited if you weren’t his friend. I’m not a frequent Facebooker; I remembered he had friended me a couple of years back, and I had never accepted. Why didn’t I?
‘I’m not friending you now,’ I said to his picture. I then logged on to Twitter, but again there were too many Jamie Dawsons. Several had no pictures and were just eggs.
‘Which egg are you?’ I said finishing my second vodka and pouring a third.
I then tried Linkedin. Again his profile was limited. I became a bit crazed then and after some more manic googling, I found an article from the Canadian version of The Stage newspaper.
Jamie had spent three years working in theatre production in Toronto, and then another three organising tours around Canada and the States. Then he was artistic director of a theatre in Vancouver, before establishing a successful production company in Toronto. The article finished with a quote:
‘I will always love Canada, and I am thankful for the amazing opportunities I have had here, but England is my home, and I’ve been given an opportunity to establish a presence in London’s West End.’
He must have known I run the Raven Street Theatre. My mother still bumps into his parents every now and again.
I sat back in my chair with just the sound of the rain hammering against the windows. So many emotions came flooding back. What got me most was the smell of Jamie’s hair when he’d leant in to kiss me…Rich and warm, it gave me a rush of happiness and desire I hadn’t felt in years. I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. I thought about ringing Sharon, but it was late. Amy and Felix would be asleep.
I realised I just wanted to sleep. Going to sleep is a full stop for the day, and there is always the possibility of being able to start afresh with the next one.
I remembered I had some sleeping pills in the bathroom cabinet. I went through and took one with a mouthful of water from the tap. By the time I had put everything on charge, washed my glass and tidied away my things I was drowsy.
I barely made it to the bedroom and slid under the covers, when I was asleep.
Sold out
I woke up with my face stuck to the pillow. I rolled over, opened my eyes and saw it was ten-thirty in the morning. I staggered out of bed and went through to the kitchen. I saw the takeaway leaflet on the fridge and remembered everything that had happened last night. I switched on the coffee machine, and then went to the fridge to get milk. The red light was blinking on the landline and I pressed play.
‘Morning Natalie,’ purred Benjamin. ‘It’s nine twenty-three am. I’m calling to see how things went last night. Will I be seeing Ryan Harrison at BenjiYoga? I do hope so. Namaste.’
There was a bleep and the message ended. It was a passive aggressive message… and a passive aggressive namaste. Benjamin seems to use that word a lot. He uses it when he wants something. He uses it sarcastically when someone does something he dislikes. He even yells it just before he ejaculates.
Oh yes! Natalie, oh yes! I’m going to! Ugh! NAMASTE!
I burst out laughing as I popped a coffee capsule in the machine. I went to my laptop and googled the word ‘namaste’ to see what it really meant. Wikipedia had it down as, ‘a respectful form of greeting or welcoming, the translation being, I bow to the divine you.’
‘He lectures me on being more spiritual and he doesn’t even use it properly!’ I said out loud. My mind went back to Jamie. He really used to make me laugh. I can’t think of a day when we were together that we didn’t laugh…
That’s the problem with Benjamin, he’s never made me laugh. In fact he doesn’t seem to have a sense of humour. I never realised how important a sense of humour is in a relationship. I once made the mistake of putting on an episode of Absolutely Fabulous. Benjamin regarded it in horror, as if it were a gritty documentary on two women in the fashion industry.
‘These are awful people,’ he said, staring at the screen. ‘Why is everyone laughing?’
I was laughing along too with the studio audience, as Patsy staggered out of a taxi, dishevelled and wearing her knickers outside her clothes.
‘It’s a sitcom,’ I explained.
‘But Natalie, these women have terrible substance abuse problems… The tall one…’
‘Patsy…’
‘Yes, she’s the enabler for the dark-haired one…’
‘Edina,’ I added helpfully. On the screen Patsy opened the taxi door, and Edina fell out backwards onto the road.
‘Don’t they need help? Not our laughter!’ said Benjamin seriously, which made me laugh even more. I realised you can’t explain why something is funny. You either have a sense of humour or you don’t.
I debated calling him back, but thought I needed a coffee first. Then the landline rang, and thinking I should get it over with, I picked up.
‘Oh. Hello? Is that you, Natalie?’ said my mother.
‘Hi Mum,’ I said.
‘Natalie hello! I didn’t expect to speak to you. I was going to leave a message.’
‘I’m not working today,’ I said. There was a silence.
‘Right, well, the reason I’m ringing is that your sister Micky is organising to have Dexter christened for his first birthday.’
I realised it had been a long time since I’d last spoken to Mum. Was Dexter really already one year old? She went on,
‘It’s going to be on a Sunday, in two weeks’ time.’
‘Look, Mum, I’m really busy here…’ I said.
‘Surely you can’t be working Sundays, Natalie? And we’d love to meet this Benjamin chappie who you’ve been going out with. And we’d love to see you,’ she pleaded.
‘I don’t know…’
‘Your sister wants to get an invitation in the post to you asap. The printers are holding the presses.’
‘Doesn’t Micky print her own invitations at home?’
‘It’s a figure of speech Natalie. We would love it if you could come to the christening. I’ve forgotten what you look like. And Dad misses you like mad. A visit from you would perk him up.’
‘If, and I mean if I come, it would only be for a few hours. I’d have to do it there and back in a day,’ I said.
‘And you’ll bring this Benjamin?’ asked Mum brightly.
‘I’d have to ask him…’
‘Does he like trifle?’
‘Mum, I said I’ll ask him, I don’t know if he’s free…’
‘But you’ll also ask him if he likes trifle? I’m planning a big one; proper custard, real sponge. No bought boudoir biscuits!’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘How is it going with the theatre?’ she asked. I suddenly remembered that tickets for Macbeth had been on sale since nine am. How could I have forgotten? I managed to get off the phone, promising Mum I’d let her know about the christening.
I switched my mobile on, and grabbing my laptop, went onto the theatre website. A few weeks back, we’d sent a photographer over to LA to do a photo shoot with Ryan for our poster. It appeared on the screen, a full-length image of Ryan, wearing just a kilt and black boots. His bare torso was sweaty and artfully smeared in mud – we’d figured, Macbeth does do battle after all – and he stared back at me with sli
cked-back hair and piercing green eyes. Above his head was written:
THE RAVEN STREET THEATRE PRESENTS
RYAN HARRISON
AS
MACBETH
LIMITED SEASON! BOOK NOW!
AUG 1st - SEP 7th
I was just navigating my way through to the ticket portal when my mobile rang. It was Nicky.
‘Nat! You’re alive! I was gonna call the cops, but then I figured Benjamin might have given you a booty call…’
‘No, that’s not really his style,’ I said. ‘I was so tired, I came home…’ I didn’t add that the only time Benjamin had given me a booty call, he’d reversed the charges.
‘Okay, let’s put getting stuck in the rain and seeing the ex-fiancé to one side. Have you seen the ticket sales? Fuck-a-doodle-doo!’ she cried. ‘The first four weeks of shows have sold out in two hours!’
On my screen, I got into the ticketing portal and saw that there were only tickets left for the last few performances.
‘Fuck-a-doodle-doo indeed!’ I said.
‘I’ve emailed you links to Heat World, the Sun, the Guardian, the Mail Online… The press all came good, honey. Sure there’s a bit of trash talk about putting movie stars on West End stages, blah blah blah and how gimmicky it is… But the Guardian quoted my response to that. Have you got it on your screen?’
‘Hang on,’ I said. I logged into my email, and clicked on the Guardian article link. There were several pictures of Ryan arriving at the theatre last night, meeting fans, and then inside the party. He looked gorgeous, and I’m pleased to say, so did the theatre bar, so elegant and posh. I started to read out loud.
‘“Ryan Harrison, star of teen drama Manhattan Beach, arrived in London last night for…”’
‘No honey, further down,’ interrupted Nicky.
‘“Nicky Bathgate, publicity manager, countered, ‘West End theatres have been hiring celebrities for years. Chicago has seen Kelly Osborne, David Hasslehoff, and Jerry Springer. And last year Lindsay Lohan was dried out like a lump of old coconut matting and shoved on stage… Ryan Harrison may be a heart-throb, but he trained at Juilliard.’” Nice one,’ I said.