Brenda Monk Is Funny (25 page)

‘Was it?’

‘Fuck yeah.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Tonight I actually thought you might have potential.’

Brenda smiled for the first time in what felt like days.

Brenda woke up the next morning to a text from Fenella.

‘Look at the
Guardian
. And Josephine wants to meet you for a chat.’

‘OK x 2. Will meet Josephine anytime. Feel awful about it.’

‘It’ll be OK. Have you ever seen her set?’

Brenda nearly laughed as Fenella unconsciously echoed Rossly’s words.

‘No, but I’ve heard. Let me know when’s good.’

And she slid off the sofa and went to the toilet. After making a cup of hot, strong coffee, Brenda opened her laptop and clicked on the
Guardian
homepage. Nothing there she could see related to her in any way. She clicked through to the dedicated comedy page, and there it was: a review in an actual national newspaper. This was unexpected. Their show had been a one-off and reviewers never usually bothered with those as there was no opportunity for anyone who read it to go and see for themselves. Brenda closed her eyes and prepared to read it. Fenella wouldn’t have been so cruel as to flag up something really horrible. At least, Brenda didn’t believe she would now she knew her friend was not furious with her about Josephine. Brenda made a fist inside, breathed in, breathed out and opened her eyes.

‘Two comics who are, or at least appear to be in a relationship staged a highly experimental comedy stand-up show at the Newport Street Theatre last night. Jonathan Cape, an Edinburgh Comedy Award nominee and circuit regular took to the stage with his “girlfriend”, a relatively unknown comedian called Brenda Monk. They proceeded to take it in turns to critique their own relationship with mixed, but mostly positive results. Cape has form for this type of confessional stand-up which has become fashionable in recent years. His nominated and much praised Edinburgh show was an hour devoted to talking about his girlfriend, although there was no indication that Brenda Monk was that same girlfriend as details of the exact status of their relationship were not forthcoming. With that said, this reviewer would put money on “It’s Complicated” coming close to the truth. The material was mostly strong, especially from Cape who drew heavily on his previous work. One could accuse him of being lazy, and though the new stuff was no doubt welcome to his more loyal fans, he probably thought, as far as material is concerned, “if it ain’t broke”. And it isn’t, even though his love life might be. Monk had a slower start, with a few bum notes early on, but once she hit her stride she showed serious promise. And if her closing bit was anything to go by, it will be interesting to see how this sharp, funny and at times painfully honest comic develops. But the real star was the format itself, which was fascinating and original – expect more of this kind of thing to start popping up all over the comedy scene.’

Brenda read it once without stopping, absorbed that she had not been given a total trouncing, and then read it again properly. She got up and walked around the flat for a few minutes, and then returned to the sofa to read it again. Her phone buzzed. It was Fenella.

‘Can you do tomorrow night with Josephine? I’ll come to referee/bodyguard.’

‘Tomorrow night is good for me. And thanks for the
Guardian
tip.’

‘Good isn’t it? You’ve got your poster quote!’

Brenda took a minute to understand what a poster quote was, partly because she didn’t have a poster. Then she realised – she would have a quote she could use for publicity. She read the review for a fourth time and found the words she was looking for.
Sharp, funny and painfully honest
.

There it was. She could use that for the rest of time.

The gag.com review was meaningless now in publicity terms, although Brenda was grateful for it, knowing as she did that it would be the one read by all her peers. But for all its credibility, it had been superseded in the hierarchy of opinion by a respected national newspaper. She did indeed have her poster quote. All she needed now was a poster.

Brenda arrived very early at Josephine’s address and found a coffee shop nearby to wait in. Pete had told her on the phone that she should not under any circumstances be late for this appointment, and Brenda knew it too. As she sat drinking her Americano Brenda ran back over the conversation she and Pete had had the night before. She had still wanted to keep her distance. She knew she had scared Pete a little at the show but he did not seem to be running. The fact that she was so ashamed of herself reassured him that her moral compass had not completely melted in the comedy furnace, and her arrangement to clear the air with Josephine also told him there were some parameters for social behaviour that he could relate to still in play. He had asked to come over but she had declined his offer, saying she needed to prepare for the showdown with Josephine. She had agreed to come straight to his flat when she finished, whatever time that was. She was also aware of how badly she had neglected her friends, her real friends, over the past half a year and texted Laura, begging forgiveness and asking if she could come and stay for a weekend soon.

The appointed hour arrived and Brenda knocked on Josephine’s door – a council flat in a small estate on Brixton Hill. Brenda rarely came to Brixton but had in past occasionally met friends who lived south to see a film at The Ritzy, and then drink Pina Coladas until 3am in a bar on Electric Avenue. But it wasn’t her place. It was so unfamiliar, with its kiosks selling multi-coloured braided hair, poker straight bobbed wigs, the market with two dozen vegetables she couldn’t name on display on one stall alone and the sound of patois being spoken on the streets – she felt out of sorts.

Fenella opened the bright red door and stood aside to let Brenda in. She very slightly rolled her eyes, and Brenda’s mood lifted a little. She entered a tastefully furnished living room dominated by a vibrant Swedish rag rug that covered the whole floor like a carpet. Two sombre west African wooden masks hung on walls, looking blankly through empty eye sockets at Brenda as she sat down opposite Josephine.

Josephine was quite still, her legs tucked under her, a cup of camomile tea in her hands. She watched Brenda as she sat and offered her nothing. Fenella sat on one of four cheap looking dining chairs that surrounded an oval dining table, in the middle of which was an artfully arranged vase of dried flowers with bright orange seed pods hanging off some of the stalks. Brenda sat on the edge of her seat, wondering who was supposed to speak first in situations like these. Josephine cleared her throat, and Brenda realised she was the one who was expected to start.

‘First of all, I’d like to apologise…’

No movement from Josephine.

‘I had no right to do that material.’

‘Then why did you?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Isn’t it always?’

‘Yes, and it’s no excuse.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Well, Jonathan backed me into a corner.’

‘Really? You looked pretty in control on stage to me.’

‘No, I mean beforehand. I stupidly signed a contract Lloyd gave me for the show without reading it…’

Fenella instinctively sucked her teeth. Brenda pressed on.

‘And I didn’t realise until the day before that I’d basically signed away all the rights to anything I said on the night.’

Josephine raised an eyebrow at this and glanced at Fenella, who pursed her lips. Brenda was minutely encouraged.

‘It meant that if I did my best material he would own it and I wouldn’t be able to do it again. So I decided I would write all new stuff and just hope it worked. I wrote that abor… That joke about you while I was in a kind of frenzy in the middle of the night, and I crossed it out because I knew I couldn’t use it. Then I felt the gig going away from me and I knew reviewers were in, and I had to use something and part of me knew, just knew, that it was a good joke and so… And so I said it. And I regretted it instantly. And like I said, I’m really very sorry.’

Josephine sat silently. She very deliberately sipped her tea.

‘It is a good joke,’ she said finally. Brenda was not expecting that.

‘Uh, thanks.’

‘Don’t do it again.’

‘I won’t. I won’t ever do it again.’

‘Good. Because I’m having it.’

Brenda’s brain was working slowly. She didn’t quite comprehend, but was just happy not to be pinned to the wall by her throat.

‘But the contract says…’

‘He doesn’t own it if I say it.’

‘Well…’

‘I’d like to see him try.’

There was silence.

‘You can go now.’

Brenda sat still for a second, hardly believing what she’d just heard. Fenella stood up and walked her to the door.

‘OK?’

Brenda breathed out.

‘Is that it?’

‘What you’ve got to understand about Josephine, my little friend, is that she is quite, quite mad. Which is why I love her. But I’m afraid you got a taste of the famous temper last night, and as I am sure you can imagine, the world looks a little different once the cocaine’s worn off and you’ve had some sleep.’

Brenda nodded, speechless with gratitude.

‘You talked to her, didn’t you?’

‘A bit, but it didn’t take much. She gets it, you know, and her material… My god, I don’t think there’s a man in London that hasn’t been lashed in some way or another.’

‘So why doesn’t she take down Jonathan?’

‘Well, two things. First of all, she genuinely loved Jonathan. And second, it was a very traumatic time and no matter what she says, I don’t think she’s over it.’

‘I feel so bad.’

‘Don’t. It is a good joke. And look, you may have to live with this… I wouldn’t be wholly surprised if it was heard again in the not too distant future.’

‘Oh no. I’m never doing…’

‘No, not you. Her.’

Brenda gaped.

‘You’re not serious. She meant it?’

‘Yes,’ Fenella significantly lowered her voice, ‘I think, now she’s calmed down, she can see a way to use all that stuff for herself. I think you showed her how it could be made funny. I don’t know for sure, I’m just saying it wouldn’t amaze me.’

Brenda really didn’t know how to respond to this. Comedians were truly a breed apart, she thought, even though she was now one herself.

‘And my god, you should’ve seen Jonathan’s face behind you when you said it. Oh Christ, Brenda, that was truly wonderful to behold. And for that, I can only thank you.’

Fenella gave Brenda a quick hug and shut the door. Brenda walked back through Brixton, wishing you could still buy bags of weed on the street as easily as ten years ago, and descended the wide stairs into the Tube station.

Twenty minutes on the Victoria Line and Brenda was out in the air again at Finsbury Park. A short walk down three residential streets, and she found Pete was waiting for her at his flat.

‘That was quick. I wasn’t expecting you ’til at least 10,’ he said.

She fell against his solid warmth, wrapped her arms round his body and started crying. He squeezed her and then held her away from him to look at her properly.

‘Did she try and strangle you again?’ He asked.

‘Oh no – I think that was just her idea of a playful tiff,’ Brenda replied and wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘Sorry, this is just tension release, or PMT, or something. I’m stopping now.’ And she did. ‘At least you’re making jokes. That’s a good sign,’ said Pete and led her through to his immaculate living room area. He opened a bottle of wine and poured it into two beautifully made, exquisitely understated glasses. Brenda pulled herself together and drank hers until she felt like talking.

‘It was totally bizarre. It lasted about three minutes. Fenella was there. I sat down and apologised and explained a bit about why it had happened. And she just sat there like some sort of fucking sphinx and then basically said, you can’t do that joke again because I want to do it myself.’

‘What?’

‘And then she told me to go away.’

Pete was dumbfounded.

‘She wants to do the joke herself? But I thought she never spoke about all that stuff.’

‘That’s what she told me, although I get the impression that sometimes it’s the coke talking. The problem is no-one quite knows when it’s the coke talking and when it’s Josephine, and maybe there isn’t really any difference between those two things.’

‘So you’re off the hook then?’

‘It looks like it.’

‘And you’re not bothered about her using your joke?’

‘She’s fucking welcome to it. I never want to say those words again. You know, I remember thinking at like my first or maybe my second ever gig, “I could say anything I want”, and it was so intoxicating that I thought I’d be high off it forever, but now, I don’t know…I don’t know if I want to just blurt anything without thinking. In fact, I’m pretty certain I want to change my style entirely.’

‘In what sense?’

‘Well, you know, I started getting into comedy when I was a teenager, and I liked all kinds of comedy then. I’d hoover up anything. And when I started reviewing, it was the same. There wasn’t any one kind of comedy I thought was “the best”, or the “real comedy”. And then I started going out with Jonathan and I met all his friends and went to all their gigs, and they were all into this confessional stuff. You know, talking about their lives all time, no boundaries, no rules and I sort of absorbed this idea that that was the “true comedy” and all the other kinds are inferior somehow, because…because that’s what they think.’

Pete nodded supportively, though he had no experience of what she was describing. Brenda paused and frowned, trying to force her thoughts into one place, and continued.

‘But I don’t know if I think that. I don’t know. And when I started doing gigs, I just sort of slipped automatically into that style. But now I don’t think it’s what I want. It feels… cheap. And lazy. And I mean, where does it stop? That’s the trouble – it’s like a snake eating itself, and then when there’s no more snake left and you’ve cannibalised your whole life and put it on stage, what’s next? You have to start doing awful or crazy things just so you’ve got something to talk about. Or you start talking about other people and then, you know, things start to get messy. I don’t know. I remember the look on Diarmuid Coyle’s face… sorry, Diarmuid Coyle is this really amazing comedian who’s always trying new things, and doesn’t rely on anything personal at all. I remember the look on his face in Edinburgh when he met Jonathan, and he just had this vibe of total contempt. And I got it, you know? I got it, even though I was Jonathan’s girlfriend, I got where Diarmuid was coming from.’

Pete nodded more enthusiastically now. This he could understand. Brenda reached over and touched his knee lightly – an instinctive need to connect with him, though she barely knew she was doing it.

‘And I think I realise now… I think I realise that I don’t actually want to do that kind of stuff. Rossly said to me, oh sorry Rossly Barns is this Australian comedian I’m friends with, he said to me months ago that it’s not about just making people laugh, it’s about how you make them laugh. What do you make them laugh with? How do you control the laugh? And I didn’t understand at the time, I just thought he was being pretentious, but I see it now, I see it. I want to do something different. I used to have this bit about Shrek being right wing that I really liked, and I felt good doing it but it never quite worked so I dropped it because other stuff was going better, and now I see that I dropped it because I couldn’t be bothered to work on it. Because it was easier to do the other stuff, you know about boyfriends and whatever. It was easier to do that than work on my Shrek bit, but I don’t want to do this because it’s easy. I want to do it because it’s hard.’

Brenda took another sip of wine. Pete sat quietly next to her.

‘I think I understand.’

‘It’s hard to explain to a non-comedian…’

‘Yes, but I think I understand. I think it sounds like exactly the right thing to do.’

Brenda smiled at him and sniffed some snot.

‘Do you want to come to Devon with me for the weekend to see Laura and Susie?’ she asked quietly. It was a spontaneous offer, but it felt good.

‘Yes, sure. That sounds fun. When?’

Brenda still couldn’t quite believe how easy it was to make arrangements for the future with him. It seemed marvellous and strange after all that time with Jonathan.

‘Dunno. In the next few weeks. I haven’t got a gig for a fortnight, so I’m going to write a whole new set and try it out. Might as well take advantage of not being paid…’

They ordered an Indian take-away and ate it in front of the TV with the rest of the bottle of wine and then went to bed, and Brenda briefly remembered how it felt to be part of a normal couple, and liked it.

Brenda had not known Pete had a car, and she had also not known that it was a very nice car. He was obviously proud of it, and she found this curious and endearing but also slightly unappealing. She never in all her life had imagined that she would be with someone who was proud of their car. He pulled the Mercedes S-Class round to the street where she was waiting to get in, and she noted that it was pristine inside. Most of the cars Brenda was familiar with, including her own, were carpeted with a thin layer of fast food detritus, used tissues, a torn map book, some empty plastic drinks bottles and old cardboard coffee cups. But Pete’s car didn’t even have any weird sandy gravelly stuff in the folds of the leather gear box cover. She didn’t really know what to make of it, though obviously it was no hardship to be driven in it. Pete was waiting for her to comment, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to play it straight.

‘Your cock is perfectly adequate, you know.’

‘I do know, yes, but it’s my balls I’m worried about.’

‘Well, I’ll check them later for you.’

‘In Laura and Susie’s house? I assumed I’d have to leave my dick at the door.’

‘I’m sure they’ll let you bring it inside as long as you can control it.’

‘I can’t guarantee that, Brenda. I simply can’t guarantee it. I wish I could, but you know what I get like around the gay community. I get a liberal erection that will not go down.’

Brenda giggled and watched London become not-London out the window.