Very early April
When I started working as a light entertainment agent's assistant I discovered I had an embarrassing problem. And it continued on into the time when I became an agent, and basically, yea, verily, into my present life: I have a shocking memory. Obviously I cannot remember whether I've written about this before.... so I'll do so now just in case and then probably again in a few blogs' time. Repeat until fade.
The discovery went like this: I would go out to reception and recognise someone waiting there. I would then get up on my tip toes and lean over the reception desk in order to have as private as possible a conversation with Norma, the receptionist, and I would ask her whether the person was a friend/colleague/drinking buddy/sexual conquest* of mine or if they were famous. Norma, thank the universe, was an expert in my drinking buddies and family members, so would be able to say 'Corrie', 'News At Ten' or 'it's your mother'.
There were so many things about being an agent which brought home to me how little I ever wanted to have any kind profile or celebrity, far too many to name here, but one of them was that terrible feeling of someone looking at me as if they know me and my having to respond as if they do, just in case they do, because I have too poor a memory to be able to work out whether they are Peter, my plumber of fifteen years, or Beyonce (she's a singer-songwriter-megastar). I have too few fingers and toes to be able to enumerate the number of times I have grinned broadly at someone, as I gambol towards them confidently, been on the verge of saying hello while they look back, 87% friendly, 13% unsure, and just as I'm about to say something I realise they're off the Fast Show or similar, and I have to convert the word I was about to utter into one of the noises that goes with the end of a cold whilst trying not to look as if I was about to break my stride. This manoeuvre should really be on my CV: I am genius at it.
And so there I am at the beginning of the last POPArt show milling amongst the audience before they are seated, which is actually the beginning of the show (see what we did there?) and I spot someone I know. Or do I? She is very familiar, a slim, attractive, dark-haired woman with lovely eyes. Have I slept with her?** Is she a friend of Kate's? Why isn't Norma here for me to ask? If she were here she'd whisper, 'no, she's a famous broadcast journalist'. Our eyes meet. She smiles at me. Does she know me, have we met? And suddenly we are talking to one another and embracing as if we are old friends and I know who she is: she is a correspondent for the BBC whose work I have followed for years.... basically I'm simply a fan: we have never met before. I feel about her and her work maybe how you feel about Nigel Slater or Kate Moss or One Direction. Unless you hate them, then I feel the opposite feeling.
I have met so many of my heroes through Kate, or rather through Kate's absence, and we present ourselves to one another, raw side out, for me the loss so fresh I want to cry. For them? Who knows.
She has come here today with the journalist for whom Paulina now works part-time... and with Paulina herself. Paulina is looking good. It is lovely to have her here, this most important of Kate's mates, who comforted my sister through so many difficult times, kept her company when she was so alone, the person who kept the house running when Kate died as we dribbled around, incapable, one of the strong team of women insistent on washing up during the period of the funeral, the obvious and perfect choice for the end of the show. I forget how short she is - she's shorter than my mother. She tells me this is her first trip to see a play. That's pretty hardcore: the first show she is seeing in her life is a show about the effect of the murder of her good friend had on that friend's sister. I tell her it's not like all theatre, that people have said it's different. I wonder whether she is nervous. She is not nervous. Of course she's not. This woman, who can withstand the hurricane of injustice, who can laugh as she tells the story of her life and break my heart.... of course she's not nervous.
Swiftly we are into the after-show questions, hosted by one of the amazing women who run POPArt. The BBC correspondent asks me a great question - I am being very forthright about the BBC and I get to explain how I do not want the utter sanitization of journalism, that people will always have to risk and sometimes their numbers will come up, but how those decisions are made is important. I feel as if this BBC correspondent I do not know but respect massively has given me the chance to explain myself even better.... she feels like a friend***. I know the danger of letting that feeling in - she is not my friend, she is Kate's, but just for a few delicious minutes I enjoy the fantasy. And I point out to Bartelt that, unlike a few other journalists, she is not behaving as if we do not have the right to speak because we are not journalists ourselves.
Post-show I get a picture taken with Paulina. I can't believe we have less than two weeks left in the country. I do not want to think about leaving..... so I don't.
*Just trying to add some showbiz snazz to the image you have of me. Hope it's working, hope you're impressed.
** Obviously not, but I'm just trying to add some credibility to my sex-life. Hope it's working, hope you're impressed.
*** She is not my friend, but I'm just trying to make it look like someone like that would like me. Hope it's working, hope you're impressed.
No comments:
Post a Comment