Page 18 of Not Moving Out
I had too much energy at that moment, and I was still on a high, so, without anyone to share it with, I decided to have a shower on my own, and do the one thing I needed at that moment. It was something else I was becoming accustomed to since Joe and I no longer had sex. I still had needs, desires, and without the luxury of a man in my life, I had to take care of that myself. So I got undressed, grabbed my rabbit vibrator from my nightstand, and headed into my en-suite shower for some much needed ‘me time’. A phrase that had once been a luxury and used to consist of a nice bubble bath, or time alone to read a book, was now something else entirely.
Chapter Nine
Joe
I got the train from Brighton into London Waterloo, arriving at just after ten o’clock in the morning. I had a meeting with my agent, Carl Newman, and we were having lunch at Quo Vadis in Soho at twelve, but I wanted to arrive early and have a wander around first. I strolled through the always chaotic Borough Market, browsing stalls, and then I got my favourite cup of coffee from Monmouth Coffee Company, and walked through the rest of the market before heading down towards the Thames. It was one of those perfect spring mornings when the weather was cool enough to wear a light jacket, but there was a warmth to the sunshine that lay across everything. I loved living in Brighton, but whenever I was back in London, I missed it. The vibrancy of it, the creative energy it gave me, and I wondered whether leaving London had been my biggest mistake. Perhaps if I had stayed, I would have been a better writer, more relevant, dragged along by the zeitgeist, and perhaps my career wouldn’t have stalled in the way it had. Was Brighton nothing more than a retirement home for my career? My marriage?
I strolled along the Thames, sipping my coffee, and then across Hungerford Bridge, taking in the views of the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament, before I wandered up towards Trafalgar Square. I had always found a certain joy in walking in London, and especially on days like this. On the train journey from Brighton into Waterloo station, watching the neat patchwork of countryside fly past my window, I had thought about maybe moving back once Dolly was off to university. Brighton had always been Freya’s dream more than mine, and her idea of the perfect place to raise a family. She’d wanted to get away from the hustle and bustle of London, nearer the sea, and Brighton had been perfect for that. But once Freya and I were officially separated, and the house was sold, would I stay in Brighton or move back to London? Could I even afford London again? The sad answer to that was a definite no, unless I somehow got something commissioned and on television again. At the moment, my income was basically nothing, and so as much as I loved the idea of London, it would be impossible even with the sale of the house. Also, most of the people I had known ‘back in the day’ had moved away to commuter towns, or into the vast London suburbs with partners and children, and so I would have to make a whole new network of friends, which was daunting at my stage of life. Making friends was hard enough in your twenties, but at least then there was a shared experience, a sort of ‘we’re all in this together’ spirit, and we were desperate to make something of our lives and it felt like we needed people to make that happen. But approaching fifty, making new friends, new connections, felt about as painful as running a marathon when you suffered from a dodgy knee, debilitating shin splints, and had zero desire to even run for the bus let alone the full 26.2 miles.
Carl was already sitting down when I arrived at Quo Vadis. He stood up as I walked across to his table.
‘Joe, how’s it going, mate?’ he greeted me, enthusiastically.
‘Good, thanks. You?’
‘Ah, yes, can’t complain.’ We shook hands before we sat down.
I first met Carl Newman in 2004, just beforeThe Burds, my first comedy, went out on BBC Radio 4. I had been looking for an agent for a while, and then one day I got a phone call from a lady who worked at one of the big agencies in London, who said that Carl Newman wanted to meet me. I was excited because I was twenty-five, had done a few shows, the Edinburgh Fringe, and now I had written a comedy play for Radio 4 that was going to star Jonny Bailey, one of the up-and-coming stars of the stage and screen. I was told to meet Carl in Quo Vadis restaurant which felt to me – a poor, struggling writer, who lived off beans on toast and Pot Noodles – like I had somehow made it before I had actually made it. Carl and I had met there at least once a year ever since.
Carl had gained a little weight over the years, but still retained a certain handsomeness. He still had a sparkle in his eyes, and the very definite whiff of old-school money. Carl came from a long line of entertainment royalty and knew how to wine and dine with the very best. His mother was a well-known actress, who had starred in a number of television shows and films in the Sixties and Seventies, his father was a director and his brother did something in Hollywood. Today Carl was in a sharp navy suit, his now greying hair cut in the same style he always had, and he smelled of the same aftershave he had worn when I first met him. Everything about Carl Newman was signature, from his Savile Row suits to his Creed Irish Tweed Eau de Parfum.
‘So, Joe, what’s new?’ said Carl once we had settled.
‘Umm, well, Freya and I have decided to separate,’ I replied, and I looked across the table at Carl, who I had heard describe himself as a ‘survivor’ of three marriages. He was currently dating a woman ten years his junior, and had four children with two different partners. His dating history was, at best, chequered. I had considered beforehand whether to confide in Carl or not, but after some careful consideration decided it was best to be honest about it. Carl had never been one to hide his own relationship shortcomings, and so it felt a little petty not to be truthful about mine.
‘Oh no, really? I thought your marriage was one of the lucky ones. What happened?’
‘Nothing happened, really,’ I said, as a waitress walked across and offered us drinks. Carl ordered his usual bottle of white wine for the table, and we both got water, too. The waitress took our order and walked off. The restaurant was slowly filling up. ‘We just gradually fell out of love, I suppose.’
‘No one cheated?’ said Carl, raising an eyebrow, and I knew exactly why he was asking. He always had to cover his back. If I did get back on television, had slightly more fame and notoriety than I did now, he had to make sure there weren’t any skeletons in the old family cupboard.
‘No, Carl, no one cheated.’
‘Good boy.’
‘I just think that, very slowly, we just sort of stopped making an effort, stopped doing the things that had made us happy in the first place, and then one day you wake up and realise, fuck, this isn’t really a marriage any more.’
‘Sorry, old boy, really. I know I’ve had my relationship indiscretions over the years, but I always believed in you and Freya. I thought you would make it to the bitter end.’
‘Me, too.’
‘Well,’ said Carl, pouring us both a healthy measure of wine, and then holding his glass out over the table. ‘To new beginnings.’
‘To new beginnings,’ I repeated, chinking my glass gently against his, and then taking a sip.
After a few minutes, the waitress returned and took our food orders. When Carl and I met for lunch, I always knew we wouldn’t be rushed for time. It was one of the best things about working with him. He had patience. Some agents might have already given up on me, and to be fair, I wouldn’t have blamed them if they had. The last ten years had been unproductive, and unsuccessful in terms of actually getting something commissioned, but Carl had stood by me and supported me throughout. He believed I had the talent and would eventually come good. I was the racehorse you kept backing because I had good form, or the footballer that was going through a bad patch. What was the saying?Form is temporary but class is permanent.Carl genuinely believed that, which was why he still wore the same fragrance and was dressed by the same tailors. Everything with Carl was long-term, except, of course, his romantic relationships.
‘So, Joe, let’s get into it,’ said Carl when we were halfway through our main course. ‘What are you working on?’
Unfortunately, this was the part of the lunch I wasn’t looking forward to. After catching up, chatting about the state of the business, and what he had been working on, the inevitable question about me and my career had followed.
‘I was working on the sitcom we discussed last time.’
‘Oh, right, yes. The one set in the fictional media agency. Loved it. How’s it going?’
‘It’s not. There was just something not working with it. The characters, or the setting, I don’t know, but I’ve binned it anyway.’
‘Riiight,’ said Carl, his tone telling me exactly what his next question would be. ‘So, what’s next?’
