Brenda Monk Is Funny (21 page)

She had work, though, even though she was effectively paying herself to do it. Or rather, MasterCard was paying her to do it and she was paying MasterCard to let her. So in a sense she was currently paying to be a stand-up comedian. She had a hot flash of terror at what she had done and suddenly wanted so badly to see Pete she could barely stand it. She picked up her phone, held it for a moment, and then sent a text.

‘You know that drink? Do you want to have it now?’

And then waited.

‘No.’

So Brenda went back upstairs to bed and masturbated, orgasmed in less than fifteen seconds and then fell asleep again.

She woke at 6am to a second text from Pete that must have been sent shortly after the first one, by which point Brenda was dreaming.

‘Don’t booty-call me, Brenda. Let’s have a proper drink and a conversation first. When are you free?’

She felt heartened by his use of the word ‘first’. She texted him back.

‘Tonight, but early.’

Brenda arrived at the pub they had picked because it felt ‘neutral’. She was early this time, the result of the joke Pete had made about lateness giving him the upper hand, Brenda didn’t relinquish the upper hand quite so easily these days. She bought a large glass of white wine and sat in a quiet corner with a high wooden panel on one side. It felt private, which was good. If they were going to have a difficult conversation she didn’t want to feel self-conscious. Pete arrived and she watched him looking around for her. She felt nervous, although she couldn’t honestly say she knew what she wanted tonight. Apart from sex. She definitely wanted that, but not at any cost. But it was more than that. She had missed him, but she couldn’t detangle the reasons why. Did he simply provide comfort when she was feeling lonely? Or was there more to it than that? She hadn’t really allowed either of them the time to find out because she always fitted him between other things. Pete saw her, smiled in an attempt to look relaxed, and came over.

‘Oh, you’ve got a drink.’

‘Yes, I thought I’d start early with the lady petrol so I can achieve total irrationality by last orders.’

Pete laughed but this remark certainly didn’t quell his anxiety and Brenda kicked herself inside for saying it – it wasn’t a helpful way to begin. Pete got himself a pint of Pilsner and sat down opposite Brenda. Brenda realised she had no idea what Pete wanted either.

‘You look well,’ he began, for the want of something better to say.

‘Thanks,’ said Brenda, ‘so do you.’

‘Did you have a good Christmas?’

‘Quiet but nice. You?’

‘Yeah, just family. Saw my sister and my nieces and that was… nice.’

This was awful. They both sat with engines revving but not in gear. How could they get this started properly? One of them would have to be bolder than the other. Brenda spoke first.

‘So, you said you wanted some time to yourself. How’s it been for you?’

Pete looked at the table and frowned.

‘It’s been… uneventful, I guess. I don’t know what I was expecting to happen, that I would have some revelation or something, but it never came. I just got used to not seeing you.’

That was a punch. A bleaker sentiment Brenda could not have imagined.

‘I’ve stopped talking about us on stage. Well, mostly. I mean there are three jokes that just work every time and, you know, at this stage I do need guaranteed laughs so that I can safely extend my set with new material. If something doesn’t work, I can pull out one of my trump cards and get the gig back on track, so… sorry, I’m rambling.’

‘No, it’s OK. I want to understand.’

Brenda nodded and felt sick, the way she always did when a man she was attracted to was extremely nice to her.

‘It’s hard to explain. I ditched my job. I’m doing stand-up full time now.’

‘That’s a brave move. Must be going well.’

‘Yeah, it is. I mean, I’m not being paid but I’m getting better at it, so I hope it’s only a matter of time…’

‘What are the three jokes you do about me?’

‘It’s nothing awful. I mean, the joke’s on me really. You’re always the hero. I say, my boyfriend…’

‘My boyfriend? How am I your boyfriend?’

‘Oh, well you’re not, I know that. It’s just that the joke works better if I say it’s my boyfriend.’

‘Isn’t that a bit weird? To do material that sounds as if it’s real but the basic premise is a lie?’

‘It’s not a lie, it’s just a
framing device
.’

‘A framing device? Stop, please, you’re killing me with romance.’

There was some humour in this remark and Brenda was encouraged by it.

‘It’s blurred with comedy, Pete. I don’t think people really believe you’re talking about a real person. When Jonathan was doing his show about me, I used to meet people and they’d say, oh, I didn’t think you actually existed…’

‘But you did.’

‘Yes I did.’

‘And you had feelings, real feelings that aren’t just part of a framing device.’

‘Yes, I know. But my feelings were all fucked up because I respected the comedy. And I suppose I now know, because I wanted to be up there doing it too. So even though sometimes I felt violated in a way, I never really put my foot down about it. It wasn’t why I left him.’

‘So, you have left him now, then?’

‘Yes. I mean, we haven’t had the official conversation or anything but it’s pretty clear it’s over. He wants to do a show together where we each do material about the same relationship issues. Like a kind of comedy his and hers perspective.’

‘Sounds like a very unorthodox couples therapy.’

‘Yeah, except the aim is not to get back together…’

Pete nodded and drank his pint.

‘So, the jokes, then…’

‘Oh, yeah. OK, I mean, it’s hard to tell a joke and make it funny like, here, now, like this…’

‘I’m not here to laugh, Brenda. I’m aware that this is not the world’s smallest and most awkward comedy show. I just want to hear what you’re saying about us… me.’

‘Ummm, well the first one is about going out with someone who imports Danish furniture…’

‘It’s not just Danish.’

‘I know that, but the joke works better if I say Danish.’

‘OK.’

‘And it just leads into a bit about couples getting obsessed with watching Scandinavian box-sets, and how it’s creepy that every time we watch an episode of
The Killing
I come home the next day and there’s a new piece of furniture from the TV show and I’m scared that one day I’ll look over into the corner of the room and see a really tastefully designed wooden coffin and you’ll be standing in the dark with a knife.’

A glimmer of a smile passed across Pete’s eyes.

‘It sounds shit when I say it like that but it works when I do it properly.’

‘I can see that,’ said Pete generously. ‘Go on.’

‘The next bit is really short, and it’s just a silly little gag about the first time you do a shit at your boyfriend’s house.’

‘I remember it well. I’m still in treatment.’

‘Shut up!’ Brenda laughed, and Pete smiled properly and those kinks in his cheeks that Brenda had not seen for so long melted her from the inside.

‘It’s not massively original but a certain sort of crowd likes it, so it’s got me out of difficulty a few times. And then the last bit is about…’

Brenda stopped and frowned.

‘Is about?’

‘Sorry, I’ve just realised the third joke is actually about Jonathan, it’s just I ascribe it all to the same man.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘It’s nothing bad. It’s just a thing about shaving all your pubes off to make your cock look bigger.’

‘Hah, great.’

‘No, it’s a joke about me. It leads into a thing about me shaving all my pubes off to make my cunt look bigger. That’s the gag.’

Pete cleared his throat and took a long draught of beer.

The disabled toilet was big enough for them both to lie down, and as Pete put his face between Brenda’s legs she knew this wasn’t going to take long. After less than thirty seconds she pulled his head up, indicating that she wanted him inside her now and he obliged fully. It lasted a minute and a half at a driving pace and then he rolled off and lay beside her, head twisted slightly under the bars that lay along the side of the toilet bowl to help more legitimate occupants.

They regained their breath.

‘Oh shit, I needed that,’ Brenda sighed.

‘Me too.’

Pete pushed up on his elbow and kissed Brenda softly and gently on her mouth. She smiled dewily up at him.

‘I really fucking love having sex with you,’ she said and he kissed her again.

‘Come home with me,’ he said.

‘I can’t. I’ve got a late gig. I could come over after though.’

‘I have to be up early, I need to get to bed.’

And there in a nutshell was the problem. They lay quietly side by side, staring up at the ceiling which was covered with bits of dried toilet roll someone had once soaked and thrown up for unknown reasons.

‘I’d like to try and make this work, Brenda. I missed you. I was surprised how much I missed you. Can you do something for me, though?’

‘I’ll try my best.’

‘Do you think you can just stick to those three jokes about us? I mean, any other stuff you say, can it be made up or based on other relationships, or about an ex or something? I think I can take a lot, but I can’t feel comfortable about our private things if I feel they’re just going to be used for material. I’ll start to watch what I say and then it’ll be dishonest and we might as well not bother.’

Brenda felt an instant knee-jerk reaction to being told to limit what she could talk about on stage. She had started doing stand-up so that she could whatever she felt like saying, and now someone was telling her she couldn’t. And yet, she could see the sense of it, and honestly, it was the reasonable position to take. She knew that would be the objective view. And so if she wanted to have a real, adult, relatively functional relationship with another human being this would always be an issue. So was Pete worth it? That was the real question. Was he worth it?

Brenda turned to look at him.

‘OK. We’ll try it like that and see how we go.’

Pete nodded.

‘Let’s take things very slowly then. When are you next free?’

‘Sunday.’

‘You have gigs every other day this week?’

‘Yes, and two of them are out of London.’

‘Jesus.’

Brenda didn’t speak. She had no plans to cancel them.

‘OK,’ Pete conceded ground. ‘Sunday it is then. Come to my flat and I’ll cook us lunch.’

‘Late lunch?’

‘OK.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

‘It will be.’

‘I love your confidence.’

‘It masks my deep existential angst.’

‘I imagine visiting Denmark on a regular basis helps with that.’

‘Funnily enough, it doesn’t.’

‘OK, see you Sunday,’ said Brenda, standing up and pulling on her jeans.

‘I think I might stay here for a bit, soak up the atmosphere.’

‘Soaking up piss is what you’re doing. This toilet is unisex.’

‘That is a thousand per cent correct.’

Pete got to his feet and Brenda slipped out and away.

‘Do you have a website?’ a fellow comic had asked her at that night’s gig, and Brenda had bashfully admitted she did not. In fact, she was embarrassed that it hadn’t even occurred to her.

‘Then how is anyone supposed to find you?’ He had continued, possibly, it seemed to Brenda, slightly enjoying watching her squirm, ‘Or are you keeping yourself a secret?’

No, she was not keeping herself a secret, not at all. Brenda had arrived home around 1am and immediately set about creating one. She blessed the era into which she had been born, for without a great deal of technical know-how Brenda had created a website using an online template that would cost her around £12 a month to maintain. With it came an email address. Now she felt she was in business, even if any business had yet to find her.

A part of the internet belonged entirely to Brenda Monk. That alone was a statement, and another weapon in her arsenal.

A few days later as she was preparing for the first heat of the new act competition, Brenda had a call from Lloyd, just as Jonathan had said she would, asking her to meet him at Soho House the next day. She turned up to the private members’ club and climbed the steep, narrow wooden stairs to a large restaurant area with big sash windows and an atmosphere of deals being done. Lloyd sat in the far corner and waved to her as she approached.

‘Brenda! You’re looking great. Sit down, what can I get you?’

Brenda ordered a coffee and took the chair opposite Lloyd. On the table in front of him was a small pile of papers stapled together and an envelope stuffed full of cash.

‘So, how’s things with you and Jonathan?’ Brenda asked politely.

‘Oh fantastic, couldn’t be better. The buzz around him over there is immense.’

‘Yeah, he said.’

‘Oh, you’ve seen him?’

Lloyd didn’t look altogether pleased with this information.

‘Yeah, at a party.’

‘Well you know all about it then, our little idea.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I think it’s really interesting. He’s so innovative and with you on board it could be really special.’

‘I don’t see how you could do it without me on board.’

‘Quite. Clever Brenda. So, to business. Here’s your contract.’

‘I need a contract?’

‘Well, we want to pay you, Brenda, so it’s for your protection as much as anything.’

He smiled creepily and Brenda suddenly felt she needed to get away from him as fast as she could. He seemed contaminated in some way.

‘You want to pay me?’

This was welcome news, she had to admit, however much she hated the messenger.

‘Yes. Five hundred quid. There it is, all in there.’

He patted the envelope.

‘I hope you might find it useful.’

Useful? It would mean she could buy a cheap little car for a start, which would allow her to drive to gigs outside of London. It was more than useful.

‘Just sign the contract here and here and take the money.’ The cash looked good enough to eat – fat wads pushing its way out of the open side of the envelope. Brenda saw that Lloyd had two copies of the contract open in front of him, laid side by side on the table. The had both been turned to the signature page and Brenda could see that both Lloyd and Jonathan had already signed their own names. The only gaps left were for her.

‘It’s just a standard thing – nothing controversial. We’d also like to film it, if that’s OK, just for our own internal use, but you’ll be welcome to have a copy for your website if you like – I see you have a website now, which is great – you’re really having a good go at it all, aren’t you? Fantastic.’

Brenda thought she might actually become ill if she spent any more time sitting here, and the money was practically talking to her now. Lloyd proffered an expensive looking pen – his ‘signing pen’ as he liked to call it – and Brenda took it, scribbled her name twice, picked up the envelope and her copy of the contract and downed her coffee.

‘Great to see you, Lloyd. See you in a few weeks,’ she said and exited fast.

First Regional Heat and Brenda took a corner of the green room and spoke sternly to herself: nearly fifty gigs under her belt by now. She had a very solid fifteen-minute set that succeeded more often than it failed. There was no way she wasn’t going to get through.