The Lesser Bohemians (22 page)

It was a big success too. Transferred to the West End. Career-wise he’d needed that, so he was over the moon. Of course I needed it too. And once we were back in London he took me around town, introduced me to lots of useful people, made sure they knew I was now dependable. And we hobbled along in our sort-of relationship. Happy enough but

I was up in her dressing room after a show. We’d all been celebrating because she’d won some award. Everyone had had a few, except me – I didn’t those first couple of years. As usual though, I was last to leave. Leant down for the goodbye peck on her cheek but – for reasons best known to herself – she took hold of me and kissed me on the mouth and. Fuck. My whole body ticced. Suddenly I was kissing her like she was everything I’d missed. Like I’d been starving for her. The taste of     Just the thought of her breasts. So this is how you made your daughter! she said You don’t really like boys, do you? I tried to protest but     I couldn’t even stop touching her face. Let’s find out then, shall we? she said and     we didn’t make it as far as the settee.

It was a Damascene moment that but I didn’t want it to be and afterwards I was consumed with guilt. I mean, the fucking ingratitude. I went straight home intending to confess. Halfway there I remembered he loved me and I’d never leave, no matter what, so telling was only unburdening myself. Just live with it, I thought And don’t do it again. Not bad advice really. For a while it even worked. I avoided her and wouldn’t when she’d ask me up. Told myself it was unnatural to be with a woman in
her forties! I couldn’t stop thinking about her though, how it felt. Every time she touched me on stage I’d get a jolt. Luckily that works quite well for Konstantin, although she knew too and took her revenge – sitting way too close for the bandaging scene, lingering on kisses that little too long. Eventually the stress started fucking me up. I just wanted her so badly it made my teeth hurt. So one night, at the curtain call, I said in her ear I don’t like boys. She said Follow me. Which I did. Back to her dressing room. Waited until she’d turned the key and      we went for each other then. She kept saying that she loved me and must’ve completely lost her head. I’m pretty sure I said it too because in that moment, I did. I was so fucking desperate for her. And, apparently, for another mistake.

Even in the midst of it the irony wasn’t completely lost – normal Konstantins bang Ninas and it was Arkadina I wanted. But it was easy for us to get away with – we’d been working together so long and everyone knew we were close. I didn’t even have to lie to him much. When I’d get in he’d always ask how she was and     she was pretty insatiable. I was too I suppose. I just wanted her all the time, and that she let me lead helped me feel I was no one’s by right any more. And maybe because she was older – or maybe because of her child – it was important I be a man in that room, not a little boy.

The whole affair became incredibly intense and, in a lot of ways, it was great but I didn’t feel very good about the lying and started getting down about it. Started hating myself for doing it and her, for tempting me. To make it worse he worried about me getting depressed and kept encouraging me to do whatever might help, but he must have had some inkling because we stopped having sex.

Finally I couldn’t any more and told her we were done. She
took it much worse than I’d expected because, despite all the I love you’s, I never thought she actually did. I mean, she was twenty years married. I assumed I was a fling. But when I said It’s over, she said It’s not. I love and I won’t let you go. Of course hearing that I completely lost my rag. We had an almighty row. Traded lots of vicious insults. It got all melodramatic. She slapped me in the face and I stormed off. But in bed with him that night I was relieved and we had sex for the first time in weeks.

The following day was a Sunday so I went for the papers while he stayed in bed. When I came back though he was stood in the hall. When I asked what was the matter, he said Guess who’s just called? and I fucking knew. She’d told him everything. I thought I was going to be sick. She’d said, most particularly, not to kid himself I was anything but straight. I started to apologise, got really upset. He, though, was very calm. Listen, he said I’m a romantic so I know you don’t love me the way I love you. I’d hoped, in time, but you’re not going to and a gratitude fuck’s only good for so much, so let’s just part ways now. I couldn’t conceive of it. Couldn’t imagine life without him. I tried to persuade him it wasn’t like that, she was a mistake I wouldn’t repeat but he said The problem is I think she’s right. I don’t think you really like men either, do you? Be honest with me. And then I couldn’t lie. I did care about him, loved him even, and he knew that, just not the right way. Not enough. He deserved better than what I could offer – certainly better than what I’d done. So I went upstairs and packed up my things.

When I left he said he didn’t want to see me again. The Seagull was winding down so that wasn’t a problem. But I didn’t know what to do. So I sat a while in a greasy spoon then
thought Fuck this! And I took a bus to Hampstead – right to the wasp’s nest. Soon as she opened the door, I said I’m about to do to you what you’ve just done to me, unless you fancy putting me up for a couple of weeks? With her husband and their fifteen-year-old daughter indoors, she really couldn’t make a fuss. So that’s where I stayed, in her spare room, for the two weeks left to the end of the run. Her husband was no fool. He knew. The first night I overheard her swearing I was a rampant homosexual so he should stop being paranoid – oh how I fucking laughed at that! And I didn’t care how awkward it was. He and I kept it polite but her daughter got a crush. Used to follow me around, reading me her poems, asking me up to her room to listen to records. I always made my excuses but her irate mama repeatedly warned me off. That was never my thing though so she needn’t have bothered. Besides which, she spent most weekday afternoons fucking me all over her sitting-room floor – in the noble spirit of Let’s see the run out – so who’d have kept up with that?

Anyway, the guy playing Trigorin was leaving his room and it was pretty cheap. I kind of dreaded being alone but, at least, I was getting work. The loss of desperation was standing me in good stead and almost everything I went up for now, I got. So the week The Seagull closed I moved out of hers and      I moved in here.

Funnily enough, things immediately improved with my ex – she and our daughter were in her parents’ Chelsea flat – and she began letting me have her overnight, would even drop her off at the theatre if she was going out. And I’d be so excited all day. Wanted everyone to see her. Loved getting to say This is my daughter. This is my little girl. If I wasn’t going to be off in time I’d beg some poor understudy or baby-mad wardrobe
girl to babysit until I was. And it was amazing to have her there in the best part of my life, rubbing greasepaint off my cheek, saying Daddy your face smells strange! Well worth the fortune spent on thank-you flowers and boxes of Milk Tray. I’d just sit her on the dressing table while I got changed, then tuck her up under my arm and get the bus back here.

Those early months though I was often scared of having her here by myself. I did get used to it and it got easier in time but those first nights      were hard.

Why?

My mother, he says The fear she was in me and would come out in ways I didn’t notice. So I kept a strict check on myself. Never lost my temper. Never said a cross word – even when she was driving me mad – but it was the overnights took a lot to get right. I just wanted to be a normal dad but the first time she slept over I was paralysed. She must’ve been nearly two by then. I remember getting her ready for bed. The feeding and washing and dressing was alright. Story. Turned out the light and then     she wouldn’t go to sleep. Kept wanting me to get in with her and I didn’t know what to do, couldn’t cope with it. I sat up in that chair the whole night, staring out that window, not looking at her.

Why?

In case

In case of what?

I’d get turned on

You really thought you might?

I don’t know

         my mother did.

When my mother looked at me she felt like that      so

was that because of her or because of me?

Back then      I wasn’t sure.

All I knew was if I did I’d call my ex and never let myself see her again and     I really didn’t want that.

In the end it was time that sorted it. And tricks. Reading until she fell asleep in my lap, then I’d put her down and get my sleeping bag and then that was fine. I still remember looking up at her little foot hanging over the bed and feeling so overcome, so filled with love. And that helped, and her being so innocent. You know, sitting here, hearing her sing to herself, I’d think How could you hit a child that size until they bled? Or tear out handfuls of their hair? Or let them starve? It was the first time I realised I couldn’t have caused that, or in any realistic way deserved it and that, actually, my mother had been completely fucking mad.

But another problem was the affection, her expecting it of me. She was always wanting a hug or something. It’s not that I minded the touching and I was fine with functional things. It was just a total lack of instinct. She’d be reaching for me and I’d just stand there. I could see she needed it though, so I had to teach myself to. And I did. I was awkward at first but I got the hang and before long liked nothing more than being hugged to within an inch of my life. Picking her up. Kissing her freckly cheeks. Eventually not even thinking first. Then one night she had a nightmare, lying here. She was crying and wanting me in the bed and I was freaking out when I suddenly
thought You fucking idiot. You’re the adult here, be it, enough of your nonsense now. So I got in beside her and held her until she went back to sleep and that was the end of worrying about those things. I suppose the desire to protect her helped. Being very aware of my own inadequacy as well. I’d often watch other parents with theirs in the street and when I’d see them do something that’d taken me ages to work out, I’d get such a lift. Stupid things really. Obvious, perhaps. Asking instead of just in with a slap. Knowing they have their own likes and dislikes. Not shouting them down every time they open their mouth, or just wanting them to have fun. Simple, I think, if you’ve known some kindness yourself. Harder if you haven’t.

She was so small and warm and full of chat and stuff she had to know. I love it. I loved it. I’ve still got tapes of her voice and I’ve probably never slept less in my life but     I didn’t want to miss a moment of watching her unfold. When she starting talking I wasn’t there. Her first steps though, were to me. It’s ridiculous what you’ll do to make your child smile but there’s nothing I wouldn’t have done for that hearty little laugh. Even at five a.m. getting my eyelids prised up with Daddy no more sleeping! I loved walking with her on my shoulders. Feeding ducks in Regent’s Park – then having to quack all the way home. Swimming lengths with her strangling round my neck, screaming with excitement and knocking my glasses off. I remember taking her to Brighton, just to see the sea. It was a perfect day. Paddle. Fish and chips. She wanted to take the ocean home and wouldn’t budge. So I ended up carrying a bucket of salt water back to London on the train. Stubborn as a mule she was and prone to a screech when she didn’t get what she wanted. But I never once raised my hand. I’d sit her on that desk until I got Sorry Daddy, big kiss, then jumping off and back to
playing birds. I was always trying to think what I’d show her next. I wanted to give her experiences because I’d no money for buying stuff. I wanted her to see the world and learn not to be scared like I’d been. To know she was the best person in it because    she really was.

He smiles into the memory like warm inside. And what about the director? I ask Did you ever see him again? I did, he says Thank God!

Occasionally I’d get a note at the stage door to say he’d been in, hoping I was taking care of myself. That went on for well over a year. Then out of the blue he called and said It’s time, come for Sunday lunch. So I went, nervously, but I needn’t have been. He welcomed me at the door like the prodigal son and introduced the man he’d met – who you’ll meet tomorrow night, and they were together for the rest of his life. We all had dinner. I stayed late, talking, catching up. Them about each other and work. Me too and my daughter, my health. That he was obviously happy relieved a lot of my guilt and that evening began the friendships that’ve been the closest of my life. They were     are      my family – what I imagine family should be. I still stay over there a lot. Often go to their house in France. And they were mad about my little girl, adopted her as a kind of grandchild, I suppose. Laughed off her yoghurt paintings on their Persian rugs. Made her doll houses from model boxes and bought the toys I couldn’t afford back then. It certainly didn’t do me any harm either, being around people in love.

Those were a few fine years for me and I was very well. Not up to anything destructive. Getting better at taking care of myself. If I struggled with the guilt towards my ex or felt low handing the baby back, I did nothing bad to shake it off. Just worked hard
and tried to stay in London as much as I could. I saw a few girls on and off. Nothing serious because my attention was all for her but      I used to imagine I might meet someone one day, get married, have more kids. I liked the idea my life might be normal after all. Jesus, what a fucking idiot! I can’t believe it now.

Why? I ask. Oh, he says, unwinding himself and closing his eyes.

One Sunday evening, when she was four, my ex came to pick her up. She said I have to talk to you, so we left her in here, asleep, and stepped into the hall, out there. You know I’m getting married, she said. I do, I agreed. The thing is he’s Canadian and      we’ve decided to move back. Who? I said. All of us. And leave her with me? No, I’ll be taking her with. But you can’t take her to Canada, I said. Why not? she said Or don’t you think you owe me this? You can’t just take her away, I said I’m her father, I have rights as well. And whose side do you think a court would take? Do you really want it to get to that? No, I said But I won’t let her go. You have to, she said You’ve already ruined my life once, you’re not going to ruin hers as well. I said I’m not going to ruin anything ever again. If you don’t let her go, you will, she said This is her chance for a normal life, to have a good man as a father, responsible, grown up. He’ll take care of her as his own. He already has a house there and a good job lined up. But I’m her father, I said You can’t change that. You’re a broke ex-junkie actor who lives in a bedsit and can’t keep his dick to himself. Do you think that’s good for her? Does she deserve to live like that? But I love her, I said. So choose what’s right – for her instead of yourself – because what do you think your love will be worth when she’s stuck on some north London council estate? We’ll give her a good education, a stable home, brothers and sisters, ballet classes, whatever she
wants or would you prefer her to grow up to be poor and alone? And like you? Do you want her to have your life? Is that really what you want? Is that the best you imagine for her? Don’t you want better for your daughter? And then I knew she had me. I had nothing to say. Nothing to offer in place of those things. Nothing except my broken-down self and how could that ever be enough? I just looked at her and      she knew she’d won. In the end it took so little but      she had it all. Alright, I said What’s going to happen now?