Brenda Monk Is Funny (2 page)

A gust of wind picked up and blew past her ears without warning, taking the last of the gin with it. Brenda felt excited again. Screw Jonathan (and she certainly would, of that there was no doubt, their relationship wasn’t that old yet) she was her own person and could do as she pleased. Who was he to banish her from the entire city of Edinburgh? This was her (not quite) professional domain as much as it was his. Indeed, she had been invited to come up for the first two weeks to review for a comedy website (at her own expense of course) but had declined out of respect for Jonathan’s wishes to be left alone. Well, she was here now, and had as much right to be as anyone.

Turning right out of the station and onto Princes Street, Brenda stood for a moment to admire the castle, punched straight out of the ground by some ancient giant, thrusting skywards on its rock. A crash round H&M saw her with three days’ worth of clothes and a quick stop at Boots took care of her personal hygiene needs. She turned towards North Bridge and fell in step with the crowds of day-trippers, tourists and Festival-goers eager to make the most of the atmosphere. Brenda paused half way across the bridge to admire the view – on one side the gothic city spread out beneath her and on the other it seemed to simply stop in its tracks and abruptly become open countryside, all watched over by the mountain they call Arthur’s Seat, the threat of dark clouds behind it.

‘I’ll climb Arthur’s Seat this year,’ thought Brenda, like everyone else who comes to the Festival but never seems to rise early enough to make it genuinely viable.

And then on she went, down the brief, steep, narrow descent of Old Fishmarket Close, along Cowgate, and then up the steep, brief ascent of the Pleasance, to the cobbled courtyard that still remains the spiritual centre of the whole dirty, delicious, deranged Comedy Festival.

Brenda walked through the stone mouth of the Pleasance courtyard and immediately saw three people she knew. On the yellow and black chalkboard to the left were the names of the shows that had sold out that day. Right in the middle ‘
Jonathan Cape
’ had been written in large, capital letters, implying that it had sold out so early in the day that space had not been at a premium at the time of writing. As the evening crept in, the board had become full and names were being squeezed into the remaining gaps. One had even been written inside the ‘o’ of Jonathan, such was the space his name occupied. Jonathan had that elusive, maddening buzz, it seemed. He was going to have a very good Edinburgh, that much was clear. This could take him from top range circuit player into the realms of TV panel shows, televised stand-up specials, arena tours and… And well there wasn’t really anything after that, history seemed to show, but that didn’t bother anyone too much. It was more than enough, for a stand-up comedian anyway.

‘Brenda!’

A small man with red hair was making his way between the pub tables that took up most of the available space inside the courtyard. Brenda recognised him immediately. Jim John was a promising comedian with a nicely original line in songs about girls he had fancied at primary school.

‘Brenda, I didn’t know you were coming up.’

Brenda examined his face to see whether he looked concerned at her appearance. Had Jonathan been telling people they were ‘on a break’ again? But no – she must stop being so paranoid.

‘Hi Jim. Spur of the moment thing. London’s empty.’

Jim John rolled his eyes. ‘God, what I wouldn’t give to be back in London right now, away from all this.’

He gestured round to the packed courtyard, filled with punters, players and comedians waiting for shows to start or winding down after shows ended, and drinking, drinking, always drinking.

‘Oh fuck off, Jim. You love it. You wouldn’t be anywhere else and you know it,’ Brenda said, smiling. ‘How’s it going? I saw a nice review in The List.’

Jim covered his ears with pleasing melodrama.

‘No! Don’t tell me. I’m not reading them, any of them.’

‘Of course you’re reading them. The first sign that someone’s definitely reading their reviews is them saying they’re not reading them.’

Jim dropped his hands and shrugged.

‘It said I was “still finding my voice”. I mean, fuck off, really.’

‘Well, I thought it was good. You should be pleased.’

‘Jonathan’s all over it, as per fucking usual. He’s the courtyard celebrity this year, no doubt about it. And look, here he is…’

Brenda instinctively ducked behind Jim as she followed his gaze to where Jonathan had just entered the courtyard. She felt the molecular structure of the whole place shift. People started nudging each other and already a small, shy crowd had gathered round him. Edinburgh has the ability to create these microcosmic celebrities for the space of four weeks in any year, where a handful of comedians who are not remotely famous, except to the most devoted of comedy fans, for the remaining eleven months, are suddenly treated as if they are Jack Nicholson. Men fawn, women flirt, they can do no wrong. Some go on to become truly famous and rich beyond their wildest dreams, some only last one year and then go back to their old lives headlining the larger comedy clubs around the country, and some enjoy this same Edinburgh celebrity for a few years in a row before sinking without trace or going to live in Australia or to ‘try their luck in LA’, usually after an horrifically abortive TV debut where every vulnerability and weakness both professional and personal is brutally exposed, leaving a trail of bruised executives wondering what they had seen in them and vowing never to do coke again.

Watching Jonathan now, Brenda’s principal sensation was lust mixed with anxiety – a heady combination and one that reminded her she had not had sex for three weeks. Standing at least a head above all those around him, with soft brown hair that flopped appealingly, a small wooden stud in one ear, broad shoulders encased in a soft, brushed cotton lumberjack shirt that fell down over his perfectly distressed jeans, he was that rare thing – a genuinely physically attractive comedian. In fact, it had been suggested that he was too good-looking to really make it in comedy. People didn’t warm to stand-up comedians who appealed to the eye as much as the mind, at least in the UK they didn’t. Which was why Jonathan was keen to go to New York in the autumn and begin what he saw as his ‘real career’ in America. As Jonathan made his way to his venue entrance, Brenda felt her guts turn to liquid. No matter how well she knew this man was not good news, there was no way she could give him up just yet. Sex with Jonathan wasn’t always amazing, but he did have a particular gift for oral and he was very generous with it.

‘Is it normal to hide from your own boyfriend?’

‘I’m not hiding. It’s just nice to watch him the way, you know, a stranger would sometimes…’

‘He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?’

Brenda ignored Jim’s question. She had one of her own.

‘Who’s that woman?’

A slightly dumpy but striking looking woman was walking alongside Jonathan. Her manner was proprietorial.

‘Julia, I think she’s called. She’s American, maybe from some agency out there? I can’t say we’ve been “officially introduced.”

Brenda didn’t like it. Women like this attached themselves to Jonathan at an alarming rate, and Jonathan let them attach themselves with alarming ease. Brenda would become jealous and Jonathan would become outraged at her distrust. They would argue, Brenda would storm out and then come back later and apologise. Jonathan would then spend a couple of hours deciding whether to accept her apology while she sat meekly in his living room. Once he had calmed down they would have sex and Brenda’s initial questions would remain unanswered. It was a shitty, dysfunctional pattern but so long as it continued to end in sex it would barrel on in this manner.

‘Look, I have to go but come to the Attic Bar later, OK? I’ll be there from around midnight. I can sign you in.’

‘Jonathan can sign me in,’ replied Brenda, a little too sharply.

‘Of course.’

Brenda came to her senses.

‘What time is your show?’

‘10.30. You want a ticket?’

‘Yeah, can you leave me two on the door? I’ll bring Jonathan.’

‘No problem. You’ll have around thirty seats to yourself so you can stretch out.’

Brenda smiled sympathetically.

‘You’ll be a sell out soon, just wait for people to catch on. I’ve heard good buzz about you for a Newcomer nomination.’

Jim brushed aside any feeling of being condescended to and looked grateful.

‘Enjoy the show. I mean, you know, as much as you can…’

Jim left and Brenda frowned. ‘As much as you can’ – that was unsettling. She hadn’t seen much of Jonathan’s show when it was previewing in London as he had asked her to stay away and there had not been any reviews as yet. Given how easily he was selling out reviewers were attending other shows first that might need a boost.

Brenda had the best part of ten minutes before the start and so she made her way over to the bar. Already thick with people, she had to wait seven minutes just to get served. Holding her pint in its plastic glass she walked over to the venue entrance. As she had anticipated Lloyd was standing in the doorway, watching Jonathan’s audience file in: a healthy mix of young and middle-aged, with as many women as men. He saw Brenda just as she saw him and his face betrayed him momentarily – a shadow of concern passed over his eyes and then, ever the professional, he smiled brightly.

‘Brenda! Naughty Jonathan didn’t tell me you were coming. Let’s find you a nice seat. You’re coming in? Lovely.’

Brenda relaxed. Lloyd always made her feel important, and welcome. He placed a guiding hand on her back and gently propelled her round the edge of the large, cabaret style room to a stool at the back.

‘You’ve got a drink? Wonderful. I’m so glad you’ve come. It’s a great show, real buzz this year. We’ve got a bit of business to do after the show but Jonathan needs a bit of R&R if you know what I mean.’

Lloyd winked warmly, that strange combination of camp and heterosexual, and a brief image of an orgasming face crossed Brenda’s mind. It was too fast to identify it, but she felt certain that it was her own.

Brenda’s expert eyes swept the room. People were sat in groups of three or four at small round tables. There was noisy chatter, a good sign – they were already drunk. 7.45pm was a great time to be on. People would have had a good few drinks, but didn’t tend to have dinner beforehand, meaning they were nicely tipsy but not sleepy. They also had a sense that this was the start of their evening, bringing with it the energy and anticipation of a good night. A slot in this venue at this time was the holy grail for most stand-up comedians of Jonathan’s level and he was the man to beat this year. You could feel it in the room. These people had already decided they were going to have a good time and all Jonathan had to do was keep them onside. It would take a lot to lose them. Brenda shivered with anticipation. This was still a thrill for her. She sat at the back, in the connoisseur’s spot. She felt secretly important. Nobody here knew that Jonathan Cape’s actual girlfriend was in tonight. Not even Jonathan.

The lights dimmed and a hush followed.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage Mr Jonathan Cape!’

Loud walk-on music boomed through fat speakers – a thumping, funky, dirty old soul track – and a spotlight illuminated a microphone in its stand in the middle of the otherwise empty stage. On the back wall a banner that read ‘
Jonathan Cape
’ in graffiti-style letters had been pinned to a black curtain and had a 3D effect. In the tight fifteen-minute turn-around between shows there wasn’t time to do much more than this but it looked good and effective and was more expensive than anyone could have guessed, having been designed and built by an expert with care and understanding of the constraints of this Festival. Less experienced acts demanded complicated stage sets and consequently kept their audiences waiting and found them grumpy before the show even started. Not Jonathan though. He had good management behind him with an eye on the money as it moved in both directions.

The man himself now loped on to loud applause and a couple of whoops. Pushing his hair out of his eyes and assessing the front three rows before he had even made it to the mic, he couldn’t have looked more on top of his game. Brenda’s head spun – she had an adrenaline rush perhaps almost as strong as his. His confidence never failed to impress her. She studied him closely, she saw all his tricks, but the execution was so perfect you couldn’t help but marvel. As he reached the mic stand, flicked the mic out of its cradle and moved the empty stand behind him in one easy move, you knew already that this was going to go very well.

‘Good evening, good evening, good… evening.’

First laugh.

Jesus, he could get a laugh off ‘good… evening’ these days. The audience were at pre-orgasm stage before he even opened his mouth, all he had to do was tip them over the edge and keep them coming. His mouth curled up at one side into a smile that said, ‘I am in full control.’ It was sexy – he was feeling sexy and it showed. A woman near the front let out an involuntary yelp. Manna from heaven. Jonathan, who had been strolling along the front of the stage, stopped dead in his tracks.

Second laugh.

Brenda shook her head. This was too easy, even for Jonathan. He’d be irritable later, complaining that he might as well have not written any material at all, although you’d never know it to look at him now. He turned his head and gave the woman his full attention.

‘Good
evening
,’ he said straight to her pink face.

Third laugh.

‘Are you going to let me do this show, or should I just take you outside and show you all my jokes at once?’

The audience erupted. The woman buried her face in her hands. Her friends laughed enviously, faces upturned, white throats exposed, ready for kiss or kill and both equally welcome. Brenda felt a dead weight in her stomach. She’d forgotten that this is what happened when he didn’t know she was in.

‘Of course, I shouldn’t let you flirt with me, madam – I do have a girlfriend.’