On Chasing Brad Through Purgatory (12 page)

No! I did not
want
to feel protective! In no way did I want to feel protective! Rather, if already I was beginning to look for someone new (which to be frank yes I suppose I was), I'd be looking for somebody who was himself protective. That had been the trouble with Jonathan; or anyway part of it. He was only twenty-nine. He'd been immature. Obviously. Had too many unresolved hang-ups. Which meant of course he hadn't had the time to devote himself to mine! That thought made me laugh a little while I stood there waiting at the bar.

I threw a glance across my shoulder at this new guy, Brad Overton; and discovered him staring at me. If it didn't sound too crazy I'd have said his expression was … imploring? The eye-to-eye contact lasted for perhaps five seconds; totally unsmiling. Then at last we did smile—briefly—before I turned again to face the bar.

This time we had doubles; I thought he could most likely do with one. Also I decided to switch from Grant's to Bell's. Bell's was only slightly more expensive and I didn't know if either of us would even notice the difference but at least it represented some sort of nod towards the good life. I was always making such futile little gestures. Living in a bedsit in Cricklewood—and working at Price-As-You-Like-It—you needed to keep on reminding yourself that it really did exist. The good life.

He commented on the quantity yet not the quality; commented gratefully. “Now tell me about this elusive career of yours. Although I bet I can tell you what it is. And if I'm right then we're both tarred with the same brush. Heaven help us.”

“Yes—indeed. Heaven help us. But tell me what you think it is.”

“You're an actor who's waiting for his big break.”

“Warm. Are
you
an actor?”

“No I've been vaguely toying with the idea, that's all. But this isn't about me. The spotlight's full on you.”

“Well. I hope to be a playwright. So far I've written eight plays. Producers have often made some nice noises but it's never got beyond that. Up till now.”

Because he'd put stress on that last phrase I was able to pretend optimism. Even eagerness. “Things show signs of changing?”

“Yes but you'd have to ask Hélène about that. According to me things always did show signs of changing.”

It struck me as very sad that even mock eagerness and mock optimism were so totally out of place. “Then how do you manage to live?”

“Right now? I pop along every fortnight to those nice people at the Job Centre who very sweetly pay me for my autograph. Perhaps they think that one day I'll be famous.”

“Oh right,” I said. And studied to keep my tone neutral. Myself, I had never once signed on. I hadn't got much patience with anyone who did.

“But—who knows?—that could be coming to an end. Just this afternoon I sent off three copies of the new play which I'm convinced is going to be my masterpiece. In fact that's why I'm here tonight—to celebrate.”

Despite everything I suddenly felt glad I'd bought us doubles.

“Three copies?”

“Three different managements,” he smiled.

“No but I mean—there must be many more than that?”

“Oh indeed there are. In another couple of weeks I'll maybe send off several others. It's just that … well photocopying gets expensive.”

“Oh. Yes. Right.” I nodded noncommittally. “What's this new one called?”

“
A Hundred Years Hence
,”

“Why? Is it set in the future?”

“No quite the reverse: it's set in the nineteen-twenties. A comedy; practically a farce. But when I was young I grew fond of this old man who used to lodge with my grandmother. ‘A hundred years hence!' he'd always say if life was getting him down in any fashion. Say it with a little chuckle. ‘A hundred years hence Mr Bradley sir … and what will any of this matter?' I used to find it quite comforting.”

“But couldn't it be quite depressing too?”

He laughed. “Well just so long as my play still matters! And maybe one or two other equally worthwhile things.”

“I like a man with confidence.”

Brad picked up his glass and without drinking simply cradled its coolness for a moment. “Yes I do have confidence!”

He said this as though it were something he'd only just discovered about himself. But apparently it wasn't.

“In fact I always was confident,” he added. “That little cry was merely in the nature of a reaffirmation of faith.”

“Good.”

“Expressing both my certainty and my defiance,” he continued.

“Still good,” I smiled.

“But one gets weak. I mean when one finds oneself wanting any particular thing too much it's amazing how the very silliest of doubts can sometimes start to filter through … Like weevils getting into cornflakes.”

His simile almost reminded me of something. Though I couldn't remember what.

“Isn't it the Buddhists,” I asked, “who claim that's the one true path to happiness? Learning never to want anything too much?”

He looked at me. “I don't know,” he replied, “I don't know.” His answer was ambiguous and either way slightly surprised me.

“Anyhow,” I said—and raised my glass. “Good luck to
A Hundred Years Hence!
Let's hope there are certainly a few things that'll really go on mattering.” Like the way we're all conducting our lives at this very moment I thought—and at every other moment too. But I didn't give voice to that one; I hadn't the slightest inclination to bring in anything about religion.

We drank. “Thank you,” he said. “That was kind. You're a kind person.”

This made me feel impatient. “Not true. Unfortunately. You don't know the first thing about me.”

“Is that so? Then you're not kind? But in that case what's your own definition of kindness?”

“I'll tell you what my definition
isn't
. Not just when the occasion warrants it, not just when you happen to be with your family or your friends and it's the social, convenient, reciprocal,
expected
way to behave.”

“But that wasn't at all the sense in which I meant it,” he said. “A deep fundamental niceness … an obvious and intrinsic goodness of heart. Impossible to hide under a bushel even when a person tries his best to do so. Those were the only things I had in mind.”

This didn't sound like just the small talk of two strangers in a pub. Not to put too fine a point on it it sounded like the conversation of a weirdo. I'd have said that he was speaking with conviction and sincerity but since there was clearly no basis for his doing so I found it all a tad alarming—possibly more than just a tad. I did what I could to change the subject: in fact the absolutely obvious thing.

“Are you ready for another drink?”

“No it's my turn.”

I shook my head. “You can send me a ticket to your new play when it's the hottest thing in the West End.”

“I'd like to think I shouldn't need to send it. That by then I might be seeing something of you. Or am I being a bit too forward?”

I paused. “Listen. I'm going to be frank with you. I think you're enormously attractive but …”

He waited. Well clearly I couldn't say It isn't any part of my plan ever to get involved with losers; not even with losers who look the way you do. I
would
contemplate a one-night stand—or even a six-night stand—could find myself thoroughly tempted to break a well-established rule; which in itself ought to make you feel quite privileged and proud. But I know that if I did, your wretched neediness could make the eventual separation painful to us both. And separation would be inevitable. The thing is, you see, I'm a materialist; and no power in heaven or on earth is ever going to change that. I can't afford to let myself get even passingly attached to a no-hoper. Oh passingly maybe—but who could say how long that ‘passingly' would last or how much it might turn out to affect us?

My thoughts were getting repetitious. I was distractingly aware of some singer on the tape—I had no idea who she was—who had taken over from Abba, who had taken over from Liza Minnelli, who had taken over from Shirley Bassey; and I listened for a moment, perhaps only to give myself more time to compose the rest of my reply: “… And shall I recognize/the light in his eyes/which no other eyes reveal/or shall I pass him by/and never realize/that he was my … ideal?”

My silence must have stretched a full fifteen seconds; maybe longer.

“But…?” he repeated at last, almost matching the sadness of the song with the sadness of that single syllable.

“But I've just broken up with my current boyfriend,” I said, “literally just a couple of hours ago and I don't feel I'm yet in a proper frame of mind to … to start talking about seeing anybody else. I'm sorry.” I looked pointedly at my watch. I'd totally forgotten I'd just offered to get him another drink. “I think in fact I ought to be leaving.” I stood up and extended my hand.

“No,” he said. “Please don't go. Not just yet. Please.” He smiled in some embarrassment. “I know that's totally the wrong thing to say.”

Well at least it was something he should realize it. And in all fairness I had to concede that from his own viewpoint there wasn't any longer any right thing to have said. But although it was flattering to have become an object of such interest to a personable stranger and my instinct told me there was not the least degree of danger in him it wasn't—well if I can say this without sounding too abysmally blasé or conceited or spoilt or whatever—it wasn't by any means a new experience. One had to be a little hard.

“You could give me your phone number,” I suggested. “Then maybe when I've got myself sorted out …” That ‘maybe'; I was very careful to make sure it was included.

“No,” he replied. “Once you walk out of here alone, I know damned well I've lost you. Lost you for all time,” he added.

God!

God! God! God!

“Brad,” I said. “Please! Less than an hour ago we hadn't even met.” I hadn't intended to advance any more argument than that. I'd intended merely to say goodbye. But there was something about his eyes, some look in his eyes I couldn't simply turn my back on. The creature was suffering; I had unwittingly been the cause of it; and no matter how neurotic or disproportionate his pain … Besides. For some reason I really felt a liking for him. A deep liking. Perhaps I was nearly as unhinged as he was, we poor couple of sods.

“I know I'm doing this all wrong,” he repeated. “But that isn't your fault. Please. They've got to make allowances. Stay just a little longer.”

Honestly! His ‘please'; my ‘please'. The air seemed fraught with the echoes of our pleas.

“What do you mean they've got to make allowances? And who are they?”

He silently shook his head and in the face of his unhappiness my questions appeared a bit beside the point. He probably meant the Fates; Frank Sinatra had spoken about those at some length in a film called
Young at Heart
.

“Yes you are doing it all wrong,” I told him gently. I resumed my seat and took his hand and began to stroke it almost automatically; feeling rather like a father who was having to explain things, perhaps the very facts of life, to his touchingly ignorant young son. “Brad I realize that you're wholly new to this game and are really wanting—like you said—to make up fast for what you think's been lost. But you need to lighten up old thing; you truly do. Otherwise it seems to me you could easily be in line for a breakdown. Which anyway after all the stresses of separating from a wife you're clearly fond of wouldn't come as the most surprising thing on earth … surely? Not to mention endless years of money worries, talents unrecognized and a total lack of job satisfaction. It can't even be a lot of fun having to sign on at the Job Centre.” Incredibly I found I had to resist a strong inclination to put my arms about him. “But Brad,” I said. “
But
…
!
”

But Danny too. Why on earth had I been going down that particular road? A road which very plainly proceeded nowhere? I got back—fast—to the essentials.

“But I just can't emphasize it enough. You must
not
come on so strong. That way you'll only scare people. I promise. Whereas if you'd simply learn to relax you'd have no end of success. Probably more than you could manage. You're far and away the best-looking man in here tonight”—I glanced about us and attempted to give him a heartening smile—“which I admit isn't saying an awful lot but let me put it another way: I think you're one of the best-looking men I've ever met and I fancy you like mad and if I walked out of here with you tonight and we ended up in bed we'd probably have a really great time and—” I had to break off abruptly. “Yet I know it would only end in trouble and in heartache; possibly more for me than for you; so you can see that in a way I'm just being very selfish …”

And patronizing I thought. Oh hell. But still. To give comfort was my overall priority. Forget about everything else.

“Just look,” I added. “All around us there are people giving you the eye, only waiting for me to get the heck out of here before they commit every foul beneath the sun to be the first to hijack my position.”

He didn't give so much as a glance at all those supposedly wild-eyed ruthless competitors straining at their starting blocks.

“Why possibly more for you than for me?” he asked.

“What?”

“Heartache?”

“Oh. Because I'm not after casual sex. I'm after a relationship.”

“Which only means you're not after a relationship with me?”

“No. Because you're not yet ready. First you've got to sleep around. Got to get rid of that whole crazy whoosh-factor thing. It'll take at least a year; possibly three. And believe me. You just won't want to be tied to anyone and needing to tell lies while all of that is going on.”