I help?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know, maybe – do you think anybody has a relationship where the man comes up behind the woman while she is, say, washing up, and puts his arms around her waist, and whispers in her ear, “You look gorgeous even when you are washing up”? Does anybody have that? Even after three years? Or ever? Or is that just in films? Is that too much to ask? Because that’s what I want. Do I want too much? And also, to have somebody who says nice things to me, like, “You look really pretty tonight”, or “You really make me laugh”, or just something sometime that is spontaneous, you know? That makes me feel wanted, or valued at least. Do men do that, anywhere? Or is that just in romantic comedies? Also, I’d like to be hugged in the middle of the night, and sometimes even woken up to have sex. Does that sound strange to you? Because I know some men who just aren’t interested, at all. I know one man in particular who has explicitly been told that it is very much okay to wake me up in the middle of the night to have sex, and I won’t be annoyed, or tired, in fact I’d love it! I would love to have sex with him in the middle of the night! I have actually told him that he can do that. But he never wakes up! Not only that, he never even rolls over and hugs me! We sleep in the same bed, and he never even hugs me …’
‘Do you hug him? Do you wake him up?’ the saturated sponge asks me directly.
‘I used to. I gave up. It felt like I was in the persuading business. And who wants to feel like they are persuading somebody to hug them? It’s degrading …’
‘Does this man, is this, your husband?’
‘Boyfriend,’ I whisper, ashamed and mildly appalled to be having this conversation with somebody that I assume is a new colleague. But then Helen always says, ‘Scarlet, you’d ask advice from the speaking clock if it would answer you back.’ I suppose I am hoping that soon somebody, anybody, might tell me what I want to hear. Until then I’ll simply add to the weight of various strangers’ experiences that I am amassing in my head.
‘I think that …’ I see his thoughts flash across his wide face like a red line that signifies a heartbeat across a monitor. I see him actually thinking about what I’ve said in an effort to answer it, and not just recoiling at the emotion of it all. He and Ben would not be friends. Ben would probably accuse him of being gay. Of course he might be gay, but he seems too big … He starts to speak, then stops, then starts again.
‘I think that if I was in bed each night with a woman that I loved, I would want to hug her, and kiss her, and … certainly wake her up if she was offering what … has apparently … been offered. I would certainly do that. And if I loved her, of course I would want to hold her. Who else do you get to hold like that? Not your mum, or your friends. Who else can hug you like that? I mean, not all night, a man needs sleep, but certainly I would want to, and would hug her … Oh Christ …’
I am crying again.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask, regaining control and sweeping a finger beneath each of my eyes to mop up my tears.
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean why? I’m not undercover police …’
‘Gavin,’ he says, with a degree of suspicion.
‘Okay, Gavin, who maybe has drugs in his pocket or some outstanding parking tickets? Do you think I should break up with him and go speed-dating? Except my best friend Helen said her cousin went and she said the whole process made her feel like she was a human iPod. You just keep skipping past really good songs, thinking the next one might be better …’
Gavin looks a little bewildered. His cheeks are flushed, as if he has just climbed three flights of stairs, or necked two glasses of red wine in quick succession.
‘I’m the stage manager,’ Gavin says.
‘Okay … does that mean you aren’t allowed to answer questions about speed-dating?’
‘I don’t mean to upset you again … or more … but you can’t be in here if you are nothing to do with the theatre and … I’d rather take it up the arse from a seven-foot convict with the nickname Big Greased Shirley than go speed-dating.’
‘My God! You’d hate it that much? Do you think that’s a masculinity issue? That you don’t want to be judged by women? I mean, it could be okay … some people say it’s fun … speed-dating … not taking it up the arse … but some people say that’s fun too … I’ve never … I mean, I’ve thought about it, but … I’m not that kind of girl … except what is that kind of girl, really? A girl who likes sex? That’s fine, isn’t it, today? In this century? Like when men describe a woman as “dirty” but in a good way, I always thought that meant taking it up the … you know … but then I found out it just means that she’ll smile during sex … or not kick you off. But also, I am allowed to be in here. At least I think I am. Like I’d just be standing here crying if not? Of course I could be just watching the rain and crying over my rubbish relationship … except of course it’s not rubbish … that’s unfair … and I’m not that pathetic. At least I’m trying not to be … or maybe I am … but I’m Scarlet White, I’m Dolly Russell’s new make-up artist.’
I offer Gavin my hand to shake, thrusting my Evening Standard back under my other arm.
‘Scarlet White? In the dining room with the lead piping?’ Gavin shakes but doesn’t seem in any way stirred.
‘Hmmm, just the half a mile short of funny,’ I say, eyeing him with suspicion at the cheap and quick jibe.
‘Okay, well Dolly won’t be in for a couple of hours yet – she’s a late starter, the first wave of pills and gin don’t break on her beach until noon – but that’s good if you want to have a look around, and I can introduce you to some people, the rest of the crew – the director’s downstairs freaking out about the karma of the curtain … it’s too heavy apparently – he says it could bring us all down …’
Gavin’s delivery is so dry it’s as if he’s reading his lines from a sheet of paper. I wonder if I’ll ever know when he’s joking. I don’t know whether to laugh or not now. He must be my age. He is twice my weight and height. He has that slightly ginger but just brown hair that suggests Scottish ancestry to me, although that’s unfounded as I don’t know anybody Scottish and never have. Still, Gavin looks like he could wear a kilt and toss cabers on BBC1 on Sunday afternoons.
He ducks expertly as we weave our way along a maze of thin grey corridors, and somehow he manages not to bang his over-large head on a thousand dirty pipes hanging from the ceiling above us. The pipes are so close together that if he wasn’t ducking so swiftly he’d actually be banging out a tune. Part of me wishes he’d stop ducking because I want to know how it sounds, although Gavin would end up with concussion. I skip to keep up in my heels, my purple skirt swishing silk at my knees, my legs in fishnets flashing beneath. We are moving at speed, Gavin’s stride is long, and I start to feel a little sticky in my black cashmere cardigan that crosses directly over my heart. Neither Gavin nor I speak for what must be a whole minute; it’s a long, strange silence like the ones observed on the radio on VE Day or September 11th. I feel us trapped in a moving, uncomfortable bubble, thinking desperately of something to say while trying to catch my breath. A very short man appears around the corner in front of us. I mean, he is clinically short. Gavin acknowledges him with a nod of his head, and as I hug the wall to let him pass I glance down and see that he is completely bald on top.
‘Goodness, I didn’t even realise! I should have read the play beforehand, I know, but it was such a last-minute booking … normally I work on film sets,
