I nipped over to The Bay Tree just after 2pm. I wasn't due to meet Romey until three but a little contretemps betwixt Kieran and I had me wanting the pub as much as a new born puppy wants its mother's teat. I'd just sold the film rights of Juliet Miller's play about Mata Hari - 'Mrs. Macleod' - for a cool hundred thou. Kieran said Warners were willing to pay twice as much but I'd argued that the Yanks wanted to change the basic contention that Mata was a scapegoat and turn her back into the femme fatale urban legend says she was. Kieran had said what did that matter, it was money. I said you don't compromise art for money but of course Kieran said you always compromised art for money. From the year dot as it happened. I argued it was academic anyway since the big bucks are only paid on the first day of principal photography and since the ratio of my authors' work getting from option to green light is about twenty to one why sell out your integrity? Besides Miller was rather keen on the French company who had been desperate to acquire the option.
'Why does she want the Frogs to have it?' Kieran asked, affronted by authors who didn't see money as the be all and end all.
'I don't know. Loyalty? Because they've wined and dined her in Paris three times?'
'I've been wined and dined in Beijing mate, didn't make me loyal enough to want to buy a chain of Chinese restaurants.'
'I don't know Kieran, because she likes holidaying in a Gite in the Dordogne?' I can argue as ridiculously as Kieran.
'You've cost Notso about fifteen thousand smackers!' This was contentious of course, even if the project did get to principal photography. Throwing up my arms in frustration, I called him a berk and headed to the stairs en route to the Bay Tree.
'That the best you can do Ant?' he said as if goading me into a fight. Very un-Kieran like. It must have been the thought of all that money down the khazi. 'Berk?'
'You know what berk stands for don't you?'
'It means you think I'm a fool, which I'm not. Not when it comes to money. As you'll see if you stay long enough to see my negotiating skills in full military regalia. '
Presumably the martial imagery was a reference of him going to war when it came to money. You can never tell with Kieran. Just as likely that he couldn't come up with anything else to say.
'I've only just arrived.' I know I am not at all endearing myself to Kieran even as I know his is an empty threat. 'You're not going to get rid of me. Sarah reckons with my writers Notso's revenue will increase by ten per cent this year.'
Kieran puffs out his cheeks as if he knows I'm right. It's weird seeing his facial expressions without a mask. Even Sarah has eschewed the cloth. Actually from the day I took the piss for her wearing one to the 'Women for Freedom in the Arts' exhibition. So I take sole credit for a tentative return to some semblance of sanity.
I'm thinking I must try harder with Kieran. There must be some way I can endear myself to an unreconstructed, chauvinistic, money-grubbing pig who would sooner sell his grandmother into sexual servitude than be seen to go against the tide of prevailing opinion. Even as woke-ism is more alien to him than a spaceship of economic migrants from Neptune. Perhaps I should ask him out for drinks to talk about his Mustang (which must hang somewhere - vomit.) But, as I'm frantically thinking of ways to be nice to Kieran, the inner Spanish Inquisitor in me comes bubbling to the surface. I'm something of a confrontational pervert, I just can't help myself sometimes.
'Berk doesn't mean fool. It's rhyming slang. Berk is short for Berkshire Hunt.'
'So?' Kieran has the attention span of an autistic goldfish. As far as he's concerned this dialogue was over a few paragraphs ago.
'What does Berkshire Hunt rhyme with?'
Kieran thought for a moment. 'High wire stunt? 'He looked pleased with himself. 'Sorry, can't think of a rhyme for berk. Two out of three though. Shire and hunt. Wire and stunt, geddit?'
Is he really a fool or just playing at one? Not being the type to tolerate fools gladly, either way it's academic.
'Berk is pronounced bark.'
'What?'
'It's not berk, it's bark. Bark-shire, not berkshire. Like Leicester is pronounced lester not lie-cess-ster.'
'Leicester is not in Berkshire, it's in Leicestershire.'
'What's that got to do with the price of bloody fish?' More frustrating than trying to thread a needle with a strand of hair. How is it I get Kieran to understand that I'm calling him a See You Next Tuesday?
'Okay,' I persisted, 'So what does Bark (as in woof woof) and not Berk (as in Burke's Peerage) Shire Hunt rhyme with?' I was exuding impatience like a Sumo wrestler exudes sweat in Equatorial New Guinea while Kieran stood there as unphased as he was nonplussed. 'Tuesday Kieran! Bloody Tuesday!'
His widening eyes said that he still didn't get it, but he wasn't bothered. 'You literary types are such a hoot to be around,' he giggled, batting me away with the side of his hand as he walked off, leaving me with the slaking thirst of a failed communicant (close!).
I arrived at The Bay Tree about ten after two. It's a very popular hostelry for those in the know, but down a small alley so not immediately obvious to anyone promenading down the main drag. It is also small enough to be discreet and I had asked Miranda, mein hostess and principal shareholder in this little goldmine, to put us upstairs where there are some booths which you can book in advance and which shield you from any piss artist's affable approach. Showmey might well get recognised but no-one is going to ask for his autograph or a selfie if we're in a private booth. In any case many of the clientele of The Bay Tree are figures of prominence, mostly from the world of entertainment. This is reflected in the prices so it's not a pub for the average stray. So, to the general punter, Romey will just be seen as another has-been.
As I climbed upstairs the subtitles on the TV above the bar glared at me. (The one thing I hate about The Bay Tree is their TV screen. It's really there for sporting events but when nothing is happening Miranda has it on twenty four hour propaganda, sorry news, without sound. I have protested but to no avail.) Anyway the subtitles under the voiceless newsreader alluded to 28,000 new cases of Covid registered today. What a load of rancid diarrhoea. It only takes ten minutes of research to discover that the way they are using these PCR tests is a deception up there with Mata Hari. They were never designed to diagnose anything. In fact the inventor expressly said PCR is not a diagnostic tool because at a certain level of amplification if you do it well 'you can find almost anything in anybody. ' Hence a positive test on a paw paw fruit and a goat in Tanzania. My bicycle tyre would probably test positive after riding through a puddle containing hedgehog piss. According to a clinician friend of mine 90% of those testing positive have no symptoms. Most of the tests conducted in this country were done at cycles of thirty five, meaning 97% were false positives. Whoever's running this show wants more people to be ill than really are, for whatever reason I haven't a clue. One day it will be seen as a bigger load of bulshit than a herd of a million cattle lunching on laxatives.
Thinking this was probably as good a time as any to divulge my history with Tickler and how Sharon's dad featured, I settled in the reserved booth and dug out my iPad to start making notes. I mulled over the embarrassing phone call last week when, after a gap of forty years, we greeted each other as long lost pals when we were, if anything, adversaries. I couldn't get what I'd rather do to a rhinoceros out of my head. He rang off after agreeing to meet, saying he didn't much want to reminisce about our theatre days. Fat chance I thought, I could probably remember enough to make his current fat arse shift uncomfortably in his seat. And I would have started noting the indiscretions now - beginning with Sharon's dad - if a familiar head hadn't appeared at the top of the stairs. (Yes, the indiscretions will have to wait. I know, I'm a big tease.)
She looked a lot worse than when I last saw her, her face seemed to be lopsided and I reckoned she'd shed ten pounds since the middle of May. And Tanya's as skinny as a broom handle anyway. Having fully ascended the stairs she stood at the side of the booth, out of breath like she'd just done a hundred yard dash to avoid a lesbian-eating Stegosaurus.
'I've come in here (puff) every day (puff) looking for you (puff).' Aggressive, like Tanya's questioning always was. And also condemning, like it was my fault she hadn't run into me.
'When we last met there was a bit of hostility between us when we parted,' I finally said as if I was expected to muster a defence.
'Sent you an email on the 25th.'
'I know.'
'Ten days ago. I knew you wouldn't bloody answer. I've left messages with Hilary at Notso.' I'd ignored them. 'I've been in here every day since.' Not that a big deal as Tanya lives in a Housing Association flat off Drury Lane, a quarter of a mile away. 'I need to talk to you about Pattie.'
'I'm meeting someone Tanya.' The pitch of my voice rose to a squeak as if someone had strangulated my prairie oysters. I was anxious because I really didn't want Tanya Parker, a Guardian journalist, around when Jerome Tickler pitched up. It was a quarter to three.
'Let's arrange a time then.'
Feeling trapped in my booth and also mindful that I needed to get rid, I invited her to sit down - briefly. 'You walked out last time virtually accusing me of Pattie's death.'
'Yeah, well I didn't mean that. I was angry. Though I do think there was - is - something suspicious and I wanted to talk to you about it.'
I tried to ignore her face but I couldn’t. 'Tanya you look, er….'
'Terrible, I know.'
'What's up with your face?'
'Bell's Palsy. It's a paralysis.'
I knew what Bell's Palsy was. A client of mine had it once. Half of his face drooped for about six months. He used to dribble his beer so much we ended up giving it to him with a straw. As I was thinking about what to say to her my phone whistled 'text'. I took a surreptitious look: 'Can't come in. I see Tanya Parker has cornered you. Be in touch. JT.' Bollocks. Screwed by a journalist. Not for the first time. For Showmey Romey read Don't Showmey Romey.
'Bloody great,' I muttered.
'What?'
'Nothing. Look, I've got to go - ' Tanya grabbed my wrist before I could stand up. In a remarkable flash of insight I deduced she wasn't flirting because I'm seventy and she's gay.
'You haven't finished your beer.' I stared at my pint of Young's, of which I'd only imbibed a quarter. Bit of a giveaway, old Ant leaving his beer. 'A lot's happened since we last met.'
I sensed she wanted to tell me something, but I couldn't resist a dig anyway. 'Yeah, you gave Kieran's baby a bad review in Liverpool for a start.'
'More than that. That's just show business.'
' "Magical Mystery Chore?" '
'I don't write the titles. Some Guardian sub thinking they're witty.'
I resisted making a snide remark about Chris Witty even as I know he's a paragon of virtue to all Guardianistas and Covidians everywhere and instead scrolled on my iPad and read: ' "If even a smidgeon of the premise of this whimsical chicanery turned out to be true then Paul McCartney would have been literally turning in his grave, which presumably would not have been on the Mull of Kintyre because that would have been written after he died." '
'How touching, you saved my review.'
'Point of reference.'
'I half expected to see you up there.'
'Wild horses would not have blah blah blah.'
'Liverpool Empire though. 2300 seats. Bit optimistic isn't it?'
'It's got 80% advanced sales.'
'You say that as if you're proud.'
'I don't care.'
'No, they don't float your boat do they? Musicals. Funny, you were in enough of them a lifetime ago.
'Been doing your research have you?' She leaned back and stared at me. Now she had my attention, her defiant bolshie character had resurfaced. ‘Why are you so keen to see me, Tanya?'
'Well, apart from the fact that I feel terrible - '
'What, because you gave us a bad review? I didn't think contrition was in your make-up.'
She was almost affronted. 'Not, not because of that! Physically.'
'Catch something while bed-hopping at the Adelphi Hotel?'
'I didn't stay at the Adelphi, it's so 1970s.'
'Got a dose of something undesirable in a dodgy Liverpool nightclub?'
'Did I really deserve that?'
'I'm sorry.' I know I'm mean, but in my defence it's Tanya. She's so self-righteous. 'Probably because you work at The Guardian and are so pro the official Covid narrative'.
'I don't. And I'm not. Not now.'
'What.'
'I'm not pro Covid narrative anymore and I’m not long for The Guardian. They're about to cancel me.'
I was stunned into silence, which was just as well as it was Tanya's turn for her phone to tender a notification. A cursory look and she was out of her seat. 'Sorry Anthony, I have to go.'
I'm wrong-footed. 'But you said…You've come in every day to try to see me!' I'm protesting. Suddenly I feel stood up.
She waved her phone in the air. 'Yeah, but this is important too.'
'Yeah but…' I can't find the words. Tanya Parker cancelled by The Guardian? Doesn't hell freeze over first? I'm bemused at the sudden status shift: she comes in needing me and goes with, it seems, me needing her. 'Tanya - '
As she descended the stairs she turned: 'Take me to lunch. Not this weekend, weekend after.'
'I live in Chislehurst,' I bumbled. 'Why would I be in town at the weekend?'
'You come in to see shows don't you?'
'Pre Covid I did, sure. There's nothing to see these days.'
'What I've got to tell you: it's really important!'
'So tell me!' I had to get out of the booth to keep in her eye line as she got to the bottom of the stairs.
'I can't, someone's about to leave the country.'
We're now playing to the whole pub, which makes me exceedingly uncomfortable.
'Tanya -' I protest again, weakly this time.
'Phone me. Unlike you I'll pick up or return the call. Anthony, it's really important. It might well tie in with Pattie.'
And she's gone, leaving me to slide back into the booth away from the prying eyes of, amongst others, the stage hands of the Coliseum, currently doing a get-in for La Traviata, aka The Fallen Woman. It may be a different kind of falling but the irony is not lost on me. Though are we talking Tanya or are we talking Pattie?
As I settle back with my remaining beer I contemplate the dynamic that has just shifted between us. What's gone on between Tanya and The Guardian? How have they fallen out?
And does that mean that the enemy of my enemy is about to become my friend?
Ooooo, how juicy! I love how you're intertwining all the covid failures in here Bell's Palsy made the list!
So, another connection node: I wrote a play about Mata Hari in college called The Eye of the Dawn. It kinda followed the structure of Pinter's Betrayal where you witness the action backwards. And the vignettes were transitioned through dance.
So, this Tanya character is gonna get real, eh? Love it! Can't wait for the next one.