Can't Let Go (13 page)

'I'm sorry, Danny, but I can't do this.'

'Do what?'

'This. This whole thing.'

He was quiet for a while. I guess he was trying to work
out what I meant. After a while he said, 'Sorry. You're ill.
Your head hurts. I should just shut up.'

He did for a while. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
But Danny couldn't let it go. 'What did you mean, "this
whole thing"? Did you mean talking to me? Is that what
you can't do, right now?'

'I mean this. You and me.'

'You mean our . . . relationship?' His voice cracked
slightly. I looked at him, driving. His chin was set in a
determined manner. He was looking resolutely straight
ahead. 'What do you mean, you can't do it?'

'I just can't. I just can't do it. Relationships.'

'Sure you can.' Danny sounded relieved. Maybe he was
relieved because I was generalising. If it was 'relationships'
that I couldn't do, then it wasn't him in particular.

And if it wasn't him in particular then perhaps I didn't
mean what I was saying. I didn't know. I didn't know
what he thought. I was trying to end our relationship and
he wouldn't let me, that was all I knew. He reached over
and took my hand. 'Of course you can do it. I'm not
letting you get out of it that easily.'

The next time I saw Rivers Carillo, I was standing
in front of a black curtain and behind a microphone
in a tiny, hot, smoky room in the basement
of a pub just off Tottenham Court Road. I was about to
take the microphone out of the stand. I was about to open
my mouth, to try to make people laugh for five minutes. I
was about to do my first – and maybe my last – performance
as a stand-up comedian. I hadn't seen Rivers for
quite a while, except in the bad dreams that were a routine
part of my life. But suddenly there he was again, grinning
at me. 'Go on, then,' his grin seemed to say. 'Show me
how funny you are.'

It was Zoey's idea. It was all her doing. She'd nagged
me. The first time that she'd told me I should turn my
'black cloud' into comedy I'd snapped at her. Of course I
couldn't do it, although I couldn't tell her why. But then
she mentioned it again, several times. I guessed she'd
noticed how much I enjoyed spending time at comedy
clubs. Maybe she'd noticed the way it made me feel, the
way I enjoyed our conversations about jokes and material.
Maybe she was one of the few people observant enough to
notice Lizzie lurking behind Beth.

Most people would run a mile rather than stand on any
sort of stage. Most people get nervous – more than
nervous – at doing any kind of public speaking. Their
palms sweat, their throats constrict. I think most people
would sooner undergo root-canal work without
anaesthetic than do anything in front of an audience. But
there are a few of us, a small handful of show-offs, who
thrive on audience attention – who love it, crave it, need
it. At the age of five I'd demanded ballet lessons. I spent
most of my teens planning to be an actress. I had acted in
every school play and every youth-group drama production
that I could. I had always loved that moment
when the lights went down and the curtain rose, and there
was an audience sitting there, hanging on my every word.
I had always loved that kind of attention. Perhaps it was
because I was the middle child, the one who got overlooked
at home, the one who had to shout to be heard? It
was probably why I was a pretty good teacher – I had no
fear about standing in front of a class and talking to a
bunch of teenagers, making them laugh with stupid jokes.
I was, by nature, a show-off and an attention-grabber.
And for the last seventeen years I had forced myself to
keep a low profile. I had forced myself to be something
that I wasn't. Maybe that was why I agreed to do it.

I'd told myself I didn't have much choice. Zoey had
organised it. She'd presented it as a
fait accompli.
She'd
rung up and told me she'd organised me a five-minute
open spot at a little comedy club, and she gave me two
days' notice to prepare my material. I could have told her
that I wasn't going to do it. I did make a few protestations
– I didn't have enough time to prepare; I'd be rubbish –
but she told me that it didn't matter; that it was a fun, no pressure
club with a low quality threshold. 'It's called
Pear Shaped,' she said. 'It describes itself as the second worst
comedy club in London. It's a fun place, usually.

It's a great place to try out new material. Some of the acts
will be really shitty. But you, on the other hand, will be
good. You're genuinely funny. You have a really crisp,
dry manner. You have no fear about standing in front of
people and talking. Teachers generally make great standups.
Trust me, you'll be good. And wear that green jacket.
That way, if the worst happens and you die, then at least
you'll look good dying.'

Die. Weird, the way comedians used that verb to
describe the act – the non-act – of not making people
laugh. As if not making people laugh was the worst thing
that could happen to anyone.

I agreed to do it. I agreed, because I wanted to do it. I
could see a little chink, the possibility of enjoying myself
for a few minutes. It had been many years since I had
stood on any kind of stage. Here was my chance: a chance
to engage with an audience, a tiny audience, in a dark
room in a basement. Comparatively safe, as far as
audiences went. Who would possibly know it was Lizzie
Stephens, teen killer, up there behind the microphone?

I thought about some of the things that Zoey had said
about stand-up, some of the advice she'd given.
Comedy is truth, exaggerated. Talk about the worst thing
that's ever happened to you, but make it funny. Turn off
your social editor. When I asked her what she meant by
that she said it was something that she'd got from the tutor
on a stand-up comedy course she'd taken. 'Your social
editor's the thing in your brain – the off switch – that stops
you being completely offensive and inappropriate in
normal conversation. It's the thing that stops you blurting
out things you're itching to say. Call it – oh, I don't know
– tact, something like that. The idea is that in stand-up
comedy, anything goes. Anything you've always wanted
to say but couldn't, wouldn't, for whatever reason – now's
the time to say it.'

Turn off your social editor. I thought about that as I
stood in front of the mirror in my flat, sweltering in my
green velvet jacket, and tried to put together a five-minute
routine. Something that I'd always wanted to say, but
couldn't. Something that I was itching to blurt out. 'When
I was eighteen I killed a man and got away with it.'

I didn't say it out loud. I couldn't; I never had, I
thought I probably never would. But I stood in front of
the mirror and I said it to myself, and I watched my face.

It looked hard and determined, and slightly aloof, with
just a ghost of a smile on my lips. I felt a shiver go down
my spine, and it was almost pleasurable. Suppose I started
my routine like that? Suppose I stood behind the
microphone and couldn't help myself? Suppose I turned
off my social editor so completely that I just blurted it out?
What would I do?

'When I was eighteen I killed a man and got away with
it.' I'd say it in my usual slightly posh deadpan voice. This
time I almost said it out loud. I mouthed the words,
articulating each syllable. I watched my face again,
watching the mirror, imagining the audience becoming
uneasy. Unease can sometimes make people laugh – I
knew that by now. I imagined that maybe there'd be a few
titters from the audience. But most of them would be
staring at me, wondering if what I'd said was true. So how
would I follow that opening line? Reassurance might
work: something to break the tension, to key the audience
in to the fact that it was okay to laugh. I could go the insult
route. 'It's all right, though, he deserved it. He was a
bastard.' Or a tosser. A wanker, maybe: that was a good
Anglo-Saxon word that I could really sink my teeth into,
a nice contrast to my crisp received pronunciation.

Zoey had told me that the K or hard-C sound worked
well in comedy because it made your lips automatically go
into a smile, and that could have an effect on the
audience's reaction. I'd heard a few comedians use the C word.
Maybe that would work. 'It's all right, though, he
deserved it. He was a c — ' No, I wouldn't say that. I didn't
want to say that word out loud, in that context. The vicar's
daughter in me was too strong. Ironic: I could kill a man
but I could not bring myself to use certain words.

Wanker,
I thought. That would be the best choice. That
would generate some laughs – some nervous laughs,
anyway. Some of those anticipatory giggles that Zoey had
mentioned. The men would be shifting uneasily in their
seats. Zoey had told me that men were always on
tenterhooks when there was a female comic on stage, in
case she suddenly did a joke about periods or tampons.
The women would have their faces tilted up towards me,
already predisposed to like me because I was a woman,
and there were so few female stand-ups. That was how I'd
felt about Zoey when I saw her first.

I knew by now that comedians didn't just make it up on
the spur of the moment. Every line you hear a stand-up
deliver has probably been analysed, consciously or
subconsciously; analysed and worked on and tested out
on a regular audience or a friend, or on a fellow comic on
the long journey to a gig, or on a bathroom mirror, like I
was doing now. But not this line: 'When I was eighteen I
killed a man and got away with it.'

No way. No way I could ever say that. Not now, not on
stage. Never. Comedy is truth, exaggerated, Zoey had
said. But that line – that plain, unvarnished, unexaggerated
truth? No. I couldn't use that line because it was
too
true.

I cobbled together some stuff about family life and being
the middle child. I thought up some material about
having a vicar for a father, and having to behave myself in
church when I was a kid. I wrote some lines about being a
teacher, and some of the things that the kids had said to
me, and I added a few lame jokes about things I'd seen on
television. Zoey put me through my paces beforehand.
She made me tell her my material as we ate an early meal
in a little Greek restaurant near the venue, and that was
one of the most nerve-racking things I'd ever had to do.
Why was it harder to perform for one person than for a
whole roomful? Zoey smiled a few times and frowned a
bit. She seemed a little bit disappointed in me. I waited for
her verdict with butterflies in my stomach.

'Forget the T V material,' she said. 'That's hack stuff.
Everyone's doing jokes about Gillian McKeith. It's not
really worthy of you. The vicar material is brilliant,
because it's you, you know? No one else could do that. I
think you should start with that. It's your strongest
material. You'll get them on side. They'll love it. The
teacher stuff?' She held out her hand, palm downwards,
and waggled it. 'It's okay. It's not especially new. I've
heard similar material, but it's . . . okay. Stick that in the
middle of your set. Then, link back to your childhood
with that line about bad behaviour and tantrums, and end
with the material about being the middle child. Ideally I'd
like more of that, you know? More of what makes you
you.
Don't be afraid to go for it.'

I scribbled her notes down on the piece of paper I had
in the back pocket of my jeans. I crossed out bits, and
drew arrows to remind me what went where, and when I
went into the loo to put my lipstick on I practised my new
routine, looking at my watch to check the act was long
enough.

And it was all completely academic, because I never
managed to deliver my five minutes of jokes.

The gig was at a pub in Charlotte Street, just off
Tottenham Court Road. The street was full of
restaurants, and on that hot evening everyone was
sitting at outside tables as if London had suddenly been
transported to the Med. The pub was buzzing with arty
media types. Conversations were spilling out onto the
street. There wasn't a spare inch of bar space in the pub,
and I had to elbow my way to the front to get some drinks.
Even then, it took a while for the bar staff to notice me.

Zoey led the way downstairs to a tiny dark low ceilinged
room full of wooden benches. There was a noisy
air-conditioner going full blast but it was still very hot.
The room was about half-full. As always, I scanned the
audience, even though it had been a while since I'd seen
him – it was an automatic routine; an impulse. I'd noticed
that Zoey did the same thing, always, when she first
entered a venue. She would run her gaze around the
audience, looking at each face in turn, before she could
properly relax. But obviously she did it for reasons very
different from mine. She was just trying to get the
measure of her audience. She did it that evening, peering
into every nook and cranny, and then she rubbed her
hands as if she was satisfied. 'Okay,' she said. 'It's looking
good. Now, let's find a seat. You're not on until the
second half.'

Zoey had been right about the quality control. There
were a couple of quite funny guys, then two or three who
were truly bad. One of them, a scrawny ginger guy who
only looked about twenty, told us afterwards that it was
his first-ever gig, and that he'd only written his material
that afternoon. Like me, I thought. Surely I'd be better
than him at least? Suddenly I was feeling competitive.
The ginger guy asked Zoey what she thought, and she
was as cutting as she could be on stage. 'You look like a
funny guy,' she said. 'Well, I mean, you're a funny looking
guy. So you're halfway there. People are always
gonna laugh when you get on stage. All you need to do
now is to make up some jokes, so that you can keep them
laughing until the end.'

The whole shambolic night was held together by a
couple of compères, a man and a woman, who sang ribald,
very funny songs in between each act. It was hot and
sticky down there in that dark room, and the night seemed
endlessly long. And yet it wasn't long enough. I wanted
time to stop for a while, to give me the chance to pull the
piece of paper out of my back pocket and read it through
again. People kept leaving, pushing past the stage area
and through a drooping curtain; more people kept coming
in, drinks in hand. I was talking to Zoey, and looking at
my watch, and fidgeting in the uncomfortable wooden
seat, and then all of a sudden I knew that I was on next.

I sat on the edge of my seat, shaking. I sent bad vibes
towards the comic who was on stage at the time, hoping
that he'd be so bad that the audience would laugh like
drains at my material, from the simple relief that I was
better than him. I looked at the back of my hand. On
Zoey's advice I'd scribbled a few words there, to remind
myself of the order of my jokes. The words had smudged
slightly in the heat. I stood up and shook my feet, which
had developed pins and needles. I walked around a bit at
the back of the room, and I waved my arms like I'd seen
Zoey do. The compères came back on and did another
song. Any minute now they'd be calling out my name. Or
at least, not my name, but the name that Zoey and I had
invented for the occasion.

I'd insisted on using a pseudonym. I'd muttered
something about not wanting the school to find out.
Zoey had been checking something on her Tube map
when we discussed it, and she decided I should use the
name of a Tube station. 'Dollis Hill!' she said. 'That
would be great. Or how about Arnos Grove? That
sounds like a name. Oh no, wait. I've got it. Chancery
Lane. That sounds so cool.'

We'd compromised. I'd picked two stations close to
each other on the map, and taken something from each
name, and now I was – for one night only . . .

'Victoria Green!'

The call came. There was supportive but not ecstatic
applause from the audience of about twenty or thirty
people. I walked quickly up the narrow aisle between the
seats, willing the applause to last at least until I got to the
stage area. I turned around to face the audience and made
myself smile. I had one hand on the microphone stand. I
was getting ready to take the mike out of the stand. I was
trying to remember what Zoey had drilled into me: 'Take
the microphone out, move the stand to one side, at the
back of the stage. Take your time. Look at the audience.
Get to know them. Then, remember, when you start your
last joke, bring the mike stand back. That's the signal to
the compère that you've nearly finished.' All of that was
going through my head. I was trying to remember my
opening line. I was trying to remember my made-up
name. I was trying to remember anything at all. And that
was when I saw him.

He was there, in the far corner of that dark room. He
was there, grinning at me. He had a pint glass in front of
him, and although I couldn't see his face very well I could
make out a mop of curly hair and very white teeth. He was
looking at me; he was winking at me. He was challenging
me.

I had to run. I couldn't carry on. I pushed over the
microphone in my haste and it clattered to the floor. I
muttered something to the audience – something like
'Sorry,' or 'I have to go.' Three other comedians sitting
near the side of the stage area had to stand up to let me
past, and then I had to push through a couple of rows of
seats to get to the exit. I could feel my face burning and
bile rising in my throat. I could hear the voice of one of the
compères, making some joke about me. The audience
laughed and clapped. I tried to block out the sound. I
clawed my way through the thick black curtain that was
blocking the exit and then there was a door in front of me.
There was no handle on the door. I tried pushing it, but it
wouldn't move. There was just a tiny metal loop where
the handle should be. I put one finger in the loop and tried
to pull it towards me. It wouldn't budge. I had to get out.
I was frantic. I couldn't think straight. I could feel his
breath on the back of my neck. I clawed at the top of the
door, where it wasn't fully closed. I managed to get a
purchase on it with my fingers. I was about to pull the
door open when someone burst through in the other
direction and nearly pinned me against the wall.

Thank God. I was out. I ran up the stairs, pushed
through the busy pub and out onto the street. There was
no air. There were clusters of people sitting at the wooden
picnic tables outside the pub, and they were all looking at
me. I looked behind me. I couldn't see him. Of course
I couldn't see him. He wasn't there. I knew that, but I
couldn't make my brain believe it. I turned along an
alleyway, leaned my forehead against the brick wall and I
threw up the beer I'd drunk earlier. I turned around and
leaned my back against the wall. My knees were shaking
and there was a pain right in the bottom of my stomach.
Zoey was standing there and she was looking at me. 'Are
you okay?'

'Yeah. Sorry.'

'Stage fright?'

That would do. That was the only acceptable explanation
for my behaviour that I could give her. 'Yeah. I'm
really sorry. I feel so stupid.'

'Don't,' she said, pulling her mouth into a strange,
rueful expression. 'It's my fault. I'm the stupid one. I
made you do it.'

'No. My fault for saying that I would. I've never had
stage fright before, but I just suddenly got really
claustrophobic in there. It's so hot. Sorry for causing such
a disturbance.'

'Don't worry about it.' Zoey patted me on the
shoulder, and looked at me again, really closely, as if she
knew what was really going on. 'Seriously, it doesn't
matter. It happens to a lot of people.'

Then she pulled a tissue out of her pocket and gently
wiped my mouth with it. 'So? What do you want to do?
Do you want to get a drink? Somewhere else, I mean. I
guess you don't want to go back in there.'

I shook my head. 'No, I don't think so. I think I'd better
go home.'

'Okay. Look, I'll come with you, yeah?'

'No. Please. I need to be on my own.'

'You sure?'

'Yes.' It came out snappily. 'Sorry. Look, you go back.
I'll see you later in the week. I'll be fine. Honestly.' I
wanted to get away from Zoey and her probing green
eyes, the eyes that sometimes seemed to see right through
me. I wanted to go home, pour myself a glass of wine and
lie in the bath until I could persuade myself that
everything was okay.