Brenda Monk Is Funny (22 page)

She heard her name being called and she stepped out onto the stage with a confidence that even surprised herself, and held the microphone with ease and familiarity. She was even now able to pull it out of its cradle and move the stand as she delivered her opening line so no momentum was lost.

‘Hi, I’m Brenda Monk,’ she told the excitable crowd, ‘but please don’t be scared. My name means nothing. I’m not religious, although I did go to Catholic school. The nuns were really uptight, and as you can imagine, they weren’t keen on having a Monk in the class. The Priest liked me a lot though, especially after I had my hair cut short…’

She was enjoying herself now, delighting herself even from time to time and it showed on stage, as she moved around naturally and freely, finding she wanted to maintain eye contact with the audience.

‘Yeah, I don’t think being forced to learn about Jesus on my knees in front of a pervert has left me with any lasting psychological damage though, so that’s good. But enough of that. What I’d really like to talk to you about is my deep and pathological fear and hatred of carpetry… Carpetry? Sorry, I meant to say carpentry! Wow, I really fucked up my own joke there, all that set up and for nothing. What the hell is carpetry anyway? Did Jesus spend his life laying carpet tiles around the office buildings of Nazareth? I think not…’

Brenda felt high – even a stumble couldn’t stop her now. She acknowledged it and turned it into a joke, getting a bigger laugh than she may otherwise have done. She felt unstoppable. She sailed through.

That evening, back at the flat alone, Brenda took stock. She got out her notebook and listed her accomplishments so far… Having died on her arse a few times, she had learned not to fear it. She had also learned how to turn a gig round if it wasn’t going well and Rossly’s advice – always acknowledge what’s happening in the room – was used to great advantage. She now knew how to deal with a heckler. She knew how to make herself perform when she was flat and tired. She knew she could still come up with the goods when she was sad or upset, she knew how to slightly rearrange material on the fly according what was going well, and once or twice, she had even experienced the thrill of improvising entirely new material on stage mid-gig if something occurred to her as she was talking. This was truly the mark of someone who knew what they were doing, and though she wasn’t confident or consistent enough yet to do this on a regular basis, the fact that it was happening at all was very encouraging.

Brenda barely saw Fenella, Rossly or anyone else in her life apart from Pete, and the hundreds of strangers she entertained around the UK. She bought an old Nissan Micra from Ebay for £450 and used it to drive to gigs outside London. It was a far cheaper way to travel, and meant she could always get home afterwards, thus saving money on hotels. Paid gigs were still highly elusive. She had got £35 for a set in Liverpool, and it had cost her more to get there and back than that. But a club she had played in Cardiff had intimated that they might be willing to book her for proper money at some point in the future if her next few unpaid gigs there went as well as the first. Sometimes she was able to split the petrol money with other comedians going to the same gig, and the long journeys back with a ‘carful of cunts’ as one comic put it were immensely enjoyable and informative. And with all this, Brenda had never been happier, she felt she was flying. She felt in charge.

The money was a worry but she still had a good four and a half months to change things, and she knew she was building a reputation. Following her success in the regional heat, she had now actually got her name onto the list of working comics that was curated by gag.com. That was a huge deal. It was just a stub at the moment, but she had been acknowledged on some level by the comedy industry. She was real and in comedic terms, she existed.

And she had Pete. He was officially her boyfriend, and the newness of it all meant they were on best behaviour. He did not complain that he mainly saw her between the hours of midnight and 3am and Sunday afternoons. He was able to entertain himself at the weekends, just as Brenda had when she first got together with Jonathan. This was, after all, the first six months of the relationship and they were both delighted with how much they had in common. He didn’t ask too much of her and she asked almost nothing of him, except that he adapt his sleeping patterns to accommodate her work. Although Brenda usually did not wake until gone lunchtime, Pete’s self-employment meant that they could sometimes steal an afternoon together and join the retired and the unemployed in the simple pleasures afforded by the hours between 2 and 6pm – a late lunch, a film in an empty cinema, an afternoon in a quiet pub.

And now, with the start of February, the double gig with Jonathan approached. It was laughable at this point that they were in a relationship and they both knew it, but as Jonathan was never one to draw a line under anything in case it suited him to pick it up again at some undefined future moment, it took a clarifying text from Brenda to really lay it out.

‘Just to be clear, we’re not actually going out anymore. The relationship is for gig purposes only, OK?’

To which she had received nothing, which was typical. If he acknowledged it he could of course be held to it. But it didn’t matter. She had made the move she needed to make and that was that. And ironically, extracting herself personally meant that she could now fully concentrate on the job in hand.

A venue had been booked for the 14th. By a stroke of luck, Valentine’s fell on a Sunday this year and so most places were dark that day anyway, and the low maintenance nature of the show meant that it was simple to open up, have one junior technician to operate basic lights and sound, and make a little extra cash at the bar. It was a West End theatre just off Leicester Square that was known for holding stand-up shows that were slightly more ambitious than the average club put on. It held around four hundred punters and the show was already selling well.

The show had been advertised in the listings and had a couple of preview puff pieces in London newspapers. Her name was on a poster. People were talking about her. This was a leg up in the industry of magnificent proportions, and if it went well it would propel her to the next level. The gig would certainly be reviewed by someone. This might provide her with a useable quote for any future publicity material, and would look good on her website. The whole thing was just thrilling. Brenda had even agreed that Pete could come after he had quite reasonably argued that she couldn’t shut him out forever and it wasn’t fair to prevent him from coming to events that were open to everyone but him. And given their circumstances, he had in fact been extraordinarily understanding. When he had pointed out that Brenda was spending Valentine’s Day on stage pretending to be another man’s girlfriend she had seen his point, and checked herself.

Brenda communicated with Jonathan by email about the list of topics they would both cover and the format was nailed down: they would both start the show sitting side by side on a large leather sofa in the middle of the stage. Instead of a microphone in a stand they would use radio devices, with packs clipped to their waistbands, and looped over their ears. They would have five loose topic headings and each perform five minutes on each, taking it in turns. One watching the other from the sofa, standing up when it was their turn to perform; sitting down when they were watching.

It was all going incredibly well, until the moment two days before the gig when Brenda was at Pete’s flat, working on her material and Pete picked up her contract and casually flicked through it.

‘Uh, Brenda, did you read this before you signed it?’

Brenda looked up from her notebook.

‘Yeah. I mean, I skimmed it. Lloyd said it was just a standard deal.’

‘So you know they will own everything you say on the night, then? I mean, you’re happy with that?’

Brenda frowned – this was news.

‘In what sense will they own everything?’

‘Well, this clause says that the show format is theirs and all the material performed by either party will be wholly owned by them in all countries in perpetuity.’

Brenda was across the room slightly faster than the speed of light and was looking over Pete’s shoulder.

‘Where does it say that?’

‘Here, on page five.’

Brenda snatched the contract out of Pete’s hands and tried to read the words, but her head was spinning. First of all, she couldn’t believe she’d broken rule one and signed a contract she had not read.

‘You know rule one is…’ Pete began.

‘Yes, I know,’ Brenda snapped, and tried to focus.

Second of all, she didn’t quite know what the implications of their ownership would be. Was it a really terrible thing? They’d only own the precise material she used on the night. They wouldn’t own anything new she wrote and didn’t perform. Or anything old she didn’t perform. The trouble was, of course, that she would want to use her big hitters for such an important show. It would be all her best material that she had spent the past six months trying out, honing, improving, testing and modifying. All her top jokes would be unusable after this one gig. She could do her second best stuff, but then she risked being reviewed badly and she’d lose everything good about it in the first place.

‘Those little fuckers.’

‘I can’t believe you didn’t read…’

‘I KNOW THAT, PETE, YOU DON’T HAVE TO KEEP SAYING IT!’

‘Well then, why didn’t you?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t fucking know. Lloyd had a bulging envelope of cash right in front of me on the table and he was just going to give it to me as soon as I signed, and I knew it would buy me a car and OH SHIT, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Can I renegotiate, do you think?’

‘No, you’ve signed it.’

‘Can I back out?’

‘You could, but they could sue you. They probably wouldn’t, but they’d put it about that you’re the kind of comic that backs out of big shows at the last minute and that’s not going to help you, is it?’

‘OK, OK. Let me think. Let me think, let me think, let me…’

Brenda’s mind was racing, but she wasn’t going to take this lying down. She dialled Lloyd’s number and he answered straight away.

‘What’s this bit about you owning everything?’ Brenda asked as soon as she heard his voice.

‘It’s just a formality,’ he said, unconvincingly.

‘A formality for what?’

‘Well, in case we wanted to take anything further, you know, down the line. It’s best to cover all eventualities. It happens all the time in LA. It’s totally standard.’

‘Yeah, well, taking fat out of your arms and injecting it into your labia happens all the time in LA. Doesn’t mean I want it in my life.’

‘Never say never.’

‘Don’t fuck around, Lloyd. What does it mean?’

‘You signed the contract. You could have read it first. Maybe it’s time to get an agent if you can’t be bothered with the admin?’

‘An agent takes 15%, and since that would currently be 15% of nothing, they’re not exactly queuing down the street to take me on.’

‘That’s not true. You’ve just been paid £500. That would be £65 for an agent. A nice bottle of wine at lunchtime at least…’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Now come on, Brenda. This gig is going to be good for you and your…new career. So let’s not be like that. Why shouldn’t we own it? We’re paying for it.’

‘You’ll make it all back on the box office.’

‘Well, that’s our risk. Here’s a lesson for you gratis. You can either work for free and own everything, or get paid and give something away. That’s the choice you’ve made.’

‘But it wasn’t an informed choice.’

‘Then you should have informed yourself better. It was all there on the page in front of you, you just preferred to look at the money.’

‘That’s a dirty trick, Lloyd. You know I’m broke and you put that money there to distract me.’

‘Then learn some self-control.’

There was no way she was going to win this. He was totally correct on every level except the one involving basic human decency. Why had she ever expected anything else? She modified her tone.

‘OK then, Lloyd. You win this one. Just tell me one thing. What are you going to do with the tape?’

‘We might develop it into a show in LA. Some TV execs are interested in the format for Jonathan, so we said we’d get them a tape.’

‘What about me?’

‘Oh, we’d get someone else to play you.’

‘Why not just use me?’

‘They’ll probably want an American girl. That’s usually how it works.’

Incredible.

‘OK, fine, I’ll stick to the contract. But only to the contract, to the letter of it, and nothing else, OK?’

‘Sure. Sorry Brenda, I’ve got call waiting.’ And he hung up.

Brenda worked solidly for the next two days on new material – effectively burner material that she would use once and then throw away. Pete fed and watered her and apart from using the toilet, basic hygiene maintenance and one brief shag, she did not move from his lovely pine dining table, sitting hunched over her notebook, scribbling away and occasionally chuckling to herself. Jonathan was in touch, checking there was no overlap in their material, which made Brenda smile darkly to herself. She found it surprisingly easy to lie to him. She had a couple of missed calls from Laura but that could wait until much later. Fenella called, but Brenda managed to fob her off by saying she was in a creatively concentrated mindset and didn’t want to dilute it too much – a line Jonathan had used on her frequently if he didn’t feel like seeing her while they were together. Fenella and Rossly wanted to come along to watch (out of a ghoulish curiosity apart from anything else) which didn’t bother Brenda. The more the merrier, as far as she was concerned. As the remaining hours dwindled, Brenda began to feel increasingly pumped, a combination of coffee, lack of sleep and gimlet eyed determination not to allow Lloyd and Jonathan to walk all over her.

The night before the gig, Brenda let Pete make her some proper food and she actually sat down and ate it with him, knowing full well that she would be unable to consume anything the next day. A bowl of spaghetti carbonara had something of the flavour of a final meal about it, and though Pete was not allowed to know the content of Brenda’s jokes, he assured her that he had no concerns about the quality. Brenda smiled queasily. What was once a most exciting opportunity had become something toxic. Her new objectives were to use material that would garner a great response from the crowd but that she would never feel inclined to perform again, get a couple of good reviews to use in the future and to destroy Jonathan, comedically or otherwise. These were not impossible aims, but he had four years’ worth of experience and 99.9% of the crowd were his fans, meaning that they were already on his side before they even entered the building. She had six months of experience and no fans whatsoever, unless she counted Pete, who had never seen her perform, and Fenella and Rossly who were on her side but would still always come out in favour of comedy itself, rather than any particular comedian. She would know instantly from their faces whether they thought she had given a good account of herself.

Brenda knew she would barely sleep but resisted the sleeping pill Pete offered her in case it made her sluggish the next day. She knew she could perform with abject exhaustion – she’d done that several times before – but she couldn’t perform medicated, or at least, she had to yet to try. When she did sleep, she dreamed literally: she was on stage and did not know her jokes, the audience all had their backs to her, she was shouting but no sound came out, she was blind. There was no expert interpretation needed here. Her subconscious mind and her conscious mind were so in tune that the mysterious filter was nowhere to be found. This was a problem that required every part of her mind, body and soul; she was consumed by it. Every hour or so, she got up and returned to her notes, checking again and again, obsessively making additions and corrections. Around 4am, Brenda sat down at the table for the last time that night and opened up her notebook. She looked through her material. It was good, but was it good enough? Was it strong enough, challenging enough? She picked up her pen, wrote down a line. Looked at it. Scribbled it out. This was a fight, not just between her and Jonathan, but within herself. She picked up the pen, wrote the line again and forced herself up the stairs.

Brenda woke up around 7am having slept in half hour bursts for the previous three hours. It was still dark, but the light was beginning to show and some early birds were singing. Brenda got up, left a sleeping Pete in the bed, and opened the door to his tiny roof terrace. The air was cold but dry and soothed her aching head. She needed to cool down, step back for a moment and get her mind right. The birds were singing louder now and a new dawn was creeping in. Brenda looked down and caught sight of a fox weaving its way between the gardens of the ground floor flats below, stealthy and silent, watchful and wily. It was a solitary creature, wholly responsible for its own well-being. It was careful not to get injured. If it could not hunt, it would not eat and no other fox was going to stop and look after it if it could not keep up. No, other foxes had to take care of themselves – that was the reality of being a fox – you were on your own. A fox only picks a fight if it’s sure it can’t lose. Brenda shivered and went back inside.