Paulyanna, page 31
It was stipulated in a section of the licence agreement that if requested, broadcasters should either return the materials to me or forward them on to other channels worldwide. This became normal procedure, rather than an exception to the rule used only on non-urgent back catalogue titles. There was much coordination and chasing up involved to make certain everything went smoothly and I couldn’t always be sure that tapes would be sent out on time. I had to ensure all materials were received well in advance, so channels could edit promos to advertise the broadcast. Written information, like the music cue sheets, synopses and artist biographies, was sent directly along with photographic slides which were used for magazine articles and television listings in newspapers. On occasion I would be forced to cancel my request then go pay for a rush copy to be delivered, which I didn’t like doing. Luckily, I never missed a deadline.
I absolutely loved being in employment in an office. I’d always regarded it as a cushy dream job for the educated middle classes and never considered it an option for myself. I was inexperienced and unqualified. I was so aware of my rough-sounding accent which made me nervous using the telephone. We didn’t have email then. I much preferred to use the mysterious fax machine. I’d never seen one before and was blown away with the concept of receiving a piece of paper that was still being sent from someone in another place.
Still faith in my abilities to write was also very low. I managed by copying word for word old correspondence penned by my predecessor. Sometimes I just Tip-Exed out the details and wrote over it in biro. The first few occasions that I did talk directly over the phone, my heart would actually quiver. It was as if manic butterflies were gouging out my insides. I really hated it and had to write out every word beforehand, including my initial introduction. It took a while before I could pick up the phone and dial freely. I think Lara knew as it seemed she purposely pushed me to ring this person or that company. Said we needed to get some artwork to make up some flyers or posters for the market stands. The only upside, a small perk, was that we would also receive a box of “promotional use only” compact discs to give away to buyers at the trade shows. I was always permitted to take one to add to my own music collection. Lara told me it was nice to have a few CD sweeteners to give the clients when the popped by. A glass of wine, some credible-sounding music and a little light-hearted banter created a marvellous buzz around the stand which was good for business.
In my eyes Lara was my direct boss. She was a strong woman, a proper leading lady, and at times a right diva too. She was the perfect role model, for me at least. I admired her strength and valued her guidance. We clashed very rarely as I knew my place. I was grateful and like to think always respectful. I considered her a cool boss. She was extremely confident and I’d say a bit of a man-eater. She wore her fuck-me boots with attitude – her words not mine. She helped me settle into my job and gain many new experiences but she could not instil any confidence. The notion I was a complete fraud and only playing at being company employee never subsided. It was outside office hours where I considered my true vocation lay.
CHAPTER 33 Moving
I wanted my own private space so moved out of the B&B at number fifty-three and into forty-nine, a tiny bedsit. There was actually nowhere to sit other than the bed, and one could argue that point but to me that didn’t constitute a bedsit. My mattress, minus its bulky frame, lay on the floor squashed tightly against the wall. This gave a minimum amount of walking space to pass by on the side. The remaining floor space, about two metres squared, was taken up by a chest of drawers on the right, a small coffee table in the centre and a sink with a wall-mounted mirror to the left. I retrieved my stored possessions from Wayne, who now lived in Archway. So by the time I added my stereo, video, television, microwave, games console and mobile phone charger, there was barely enough room for myself.
I tried to make it as homely as possible. I spent an amount of dosh on lush fabrics to drape the window. I used this Egyptian cloth covered with scarab beetles and hieroglyphics to make a canopy above and behind my bed. It gave the place a boudoir-like vibe. Or maybe that was the very vocal prostitute that occupied the room opposite. She was extremely popular, as indicated by the frequency of her orgasmic choruses.
Around this time I had Piers the Puff Dentist of Harley Street, a well-paying regular, on the go. I was seeing him twice a week and would not even consider resigning what I viewed as my primary income. As I said before, I thought prostitution was the safer bet. I believed in my skills to maintain this night-time profession much more than my ability to hold down an office job.
I’d met Piers late one night whilst cruising the outskirts of Hyde Park. He lived his life so far in the closet it offended me and made me feel dirty. Hence the nasty nickname. He was married with two daughters and lived out in the country, the proud owner of a mansion-sized property with a swimming pool and tennis courts. It didn’t escape my notice that when he showed off photographs of his family, in whom I had no interest, there was often some ostentatious item surreptitiously placed within the frame. Like a pony. I knew he was showing off his achievements. Inwardly I thought it pathetic but resented him nonetheless. Outwardly I feigned interest and showed a measured amount of amazement.
I didn’t much care for married men, as I thought them both cowardly and cruel. I sympathised with any wife that regarded their husband as some kind of butch, head-of-the-household provider, not knowing that after a weekend of family time, he’d be skipping off in secret to visit his male bedfellow. However, he did pay well enough. He was also the type of person that didn’t like to be thought of as one who paid. To combat this he tried to create more of a relationship by taking me out to eat beforehand. As far as I was concerned, that added nothing but an unnecessary expense.
He had a hang-up regarding safe sex, which suited me fine. He was so paranoid about contracting something, the dealings with him were clinical and almost 100% sterile. On many occasions he would forego sex completely and we would just chat. Which at first sounds ideal, unless, like me, you’d developed an aversion to probing, personal and patronising questions. To be honest, I preferred to just get on with it. His suggestions that I could get a better life if I was only willing to try hard enough annoyed me slightly less, knowing what I always failed to mention – I already had another job.
At the age of twenty-five and after years of many sexual encounters I had managed to avoid contracting HIV or anything too unpleasant. Richard wasn’t so fortunate when he got tested soon after our trip to LA. It was a surreal scenario when he broke the news. I couldn’t voice any of the thoughts and responses that popped into my head. It was not the right time for “I told you so.” Richard shocked me further by saying, “And I thought you’d be the first one to catch it.” I would have been offended if that too hadn’t been inappropriate. Had he ignored all my badgering and really believed his choice of partners weren’t those type of men? We shared another one of those, oh so rare, weepy five minutes.
All was not lost as combination drug therapies were now readily available on the NHS. Richard was allocated a flat in Culham House, smack bang in the middle of the Brunel Estate off the Westbourne Park Road. Although it was only a short walk from trendy Notting Hill, in reality it was a world away and quite a horrible place to live. Six-storey-high housing units, complete with menacing walkways and piss-smelling lifts. Proper inner city dwelling. A gang of local kids hung around outside and would shout “Batty boi” whenever they saw him. I always walked quickly through the estate. If they were to shout at me, I would have said nothing. But not Richard, he would yell back, “Piss off, you little cunts!” As a former brat myself, I did advise him not to respond as I knew it would only fan the flames to their fire. Richard ignored my advice and did things his own way.
Like when he got his grant to help furnish his empty flat, would he listen then? No. He bought a waterbed and a remote control dimmer switch for the overhead light, two futons and a hessian grass rug. Also a roll of cream muslin for the windows. He had no money left for the essentials like a refrigerator or stove. He bought no crockery or cutlery but he did buy an electric kettle. I didn’t visit his Scrubsville residence that often. My reason was simple. It was way too nasty.
Russell had also moved and now lived back in Marble Arch. An old acquaintance from The Carpenters Arms who worked for a property company made good on his promise to help find him a place.: a stylish studio flat in a quiet mews that had its own enclosed courtyard which was perfect for Dusty. Russell also managed to find employment managing a bar in an exclusive gentlemen’s club down the road, in Mayfair.
I continued to visit Russell every Sunday evening. It became a fixed point in my routine and a sort of life anchor. Russell would cook a proper Sunday dinner with cauliflower cheese and everything. We’d eat, drink, listen to music and play Scrabble. When we got too merry to concentrate, we played Sorry!, a board game in which players move four coloured pieces from the start position to home in order to win. It was similar to Ludo, only using numbered cards instead of two dice. I was even permitted to smoke joints in front of him. No more pretending. It became an unsung statement of my independence and a spiritual high-type thing. John would also come around; the three of us all got along dandy. Sometimes Richard would pop by and when John got his new boyfriend, he attended Sunday school too. Life was never stationary for long.
I met Neil in Brief Encounter. As soon as we made eye contact I lost whatever manicured coolness I possessed and became a bumbling idiot. That was a sure sign I fancied someone. Under normal circumstances I knew all the right moves and could flirt outrageously. By now my unabashed phrases were well rehearsed and expertly articulated with a saucy squeeze of the thigh at just the right pressure. When my private passions were fully evoked, I became shy. I could no longer hold a gaze, not even for a millisecond. I always averted my eyes well before their face turned. I didn’t pick up handsome fellows for my own enjoyment. With him I made an exception. But if he hadn’t come over, I know I wouldn’t have bothered. I would have continued to steal glances until I got distracted. After so many times, no more than three separate encounters, if someone hadn’t bothered to approach me I decided we were incompatible. In this I became adamant, perhaps even arrogant, as expected my men to do all the running.
Even from across the room in a packed-out West End gay bar Neil’s quirky image stuck out. The polite way to describe him is eccentric. He had a Scottish accent and spoke as though well educated. He was tall with short brown hair, parted on one side. The night I met him he was wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches, brown corduroy trousers and tan brogues on his feet. He dressed more like a country laird than a youth of twenty-one. It was his dark wolf-like eyes that drew me. I wasn’t normally attracted to young people. Either physically or mentally, I liked strong men, not weak boys. He didn’t work out so his body wasn’t athletic or toned but he was bigger than me, and not only in height. He looked a right nerd and I quite liked nerds. I was old-skool, pre-trend and had always been into geek chic, fo rizzle.
Neil’s head was full of random information. I could ask him anything and always got some kind of answer. If he didn’t know he would just make it up. I know, because I caught him out. He admitted he constantly fed me bum information because he liked to see how gullible I was. It turned out he was actually twenty-four and not twenty-one. Most of Neil’s intellect was consumed by trivial facts that had little or no use other than to enter a pub quiz. The rest of it, by booze. He was what I’d call a functioning alcoholic. He liked a good drink like I did a smoke, every single day.
It would be fair to say I often experienced little to no gratification from sex and looked at it disdainfully. More a chore than a reward. Sex with Neil was very physical. Unpractised in the ways of mutual affection and total submission, I became the novice. It had been over five years since I’d been fucked – sorry, I meant made love. Much to my delight he was more than capable to take the lead under the covers. Safety remained a priority so extra strong condoms and the correct type of lubrication were always used. Be warned, oil-based lubricants can damage latex condoms.
When Neil asked me if I’d like to be his boyfriend, I wasn’t expecting it. I was looking for a companion so told him I needed to mull it over. I even discussed it with Richard. I regarded our weekend fling as a selfish pleasure and a type of reward, nothing more. Richard had been saying for a long time I was uptight and needed a good seeing to. In that I suppose he was correct. After years of performing passionless sex, it was cathartic to vent all of those pent-up urges. Although Neil was penniless and had no job, I went against Richard’s advice. Neil became my second husband.
I didn’t expect our relationship to last long. My desire for Neil was mostly carnal. When it came to sex he took me places that I’d never been but my feelings towards him were very different from the ones I experienced with Russell. The purity and all-consuming first-love adoration was absent, but then so was the heartfelt angst. We were equals. We had fun and laughed a lot; seriousness never existed in our relationship. I consented to being his boyfriend after he agreed to an open relationship pact. I didn’t want to possess him or need to control him and I certainly didn’t want any restrictions. My liberty and my lifestyle were precious. I told myself he should have the same freedom and that he was far too talented to keep for myself. How untruly selfless of me. Friday nights were our own to do with as we pleased.
There were a few provisos. First and foremost he wasn’t to show real affection. He could shag around but his heart and mind were meant only for me. He could mention his conquests but not discuss the intimate details. Plus absolutely no trespassing on each other’s stomping ground. Neil didn’t interfere in my business activities so I got first dibs on Brief Encounter and the Piano Bar. Besides, we needed the money. I never once felt jealous or insecure as these were all my terms. Neil didn’t live with me – there was no room in my single bed. He continued to rent a room with his cousin Simon, somewhere close to Brick Lane Market in the East End. If he did stay over I always woke up knackered. At the best of times I am restless, never comfortable and constantly flipping over. Most of my nights I spend in REM sleep. I laugh, I cry, I shout and every single night I dream. For hours I would listen to his snoring and curse the minutes as they neared the moment of alarm. We eventually slept top to tail so I woke up to his feet in my face. This was the better option.
As my other half, Neil accompanied me to Sunday school around Russell’s. The fixed personalities of Russell, John, Richard and Neil were all so different and appeared totally incompatible. I still tended to modify my own speech or at least adapt the topic of conversation so I could relate to each of them properly. I noticed that not one of them bothered to do the same, so no independent friendships of their own developed. It was nice to see everyone could behave relatively amicably, until they got pissed. Then one of them would surely fill the void with stroppy bickering. I maintain that I never got involved in petty drunken squabbles but on occasion I got sucked in to defend. I had grown a thicker skin over time and could easily take a badgering without great offence. I was even up to martyring myself, when signs indicated someone was becoming a wee bit irate. These sessions sometimes became tiresome so I’d joke and say if I won the lottery, I’d dump them all and buy myself some new friends. Perhaps there was a small grain of truth in my words of jest.
I must have been employed for almost a year before Dominic, a co-owner of Screen Ventures, announced he was leaving to establish a similar company named 3DD. Although he was the executive director I didn’t really know Dominic. I never had any direct dealings with him. I had always considered Lara to be my chief. It was she who employed me and she who bossed me around. I knew it would also be her who fired me when I eventually messed up. I always got the impression that she fought my corner and quashed many of the questioning doubts that came from above. She was assertive in the way she had taken me under her wing.
Lara was producing, or was it assisting a producer, perhaps a production assistant oh no, that was me. Runner for the day on a small television production. Maybe she was co-ordinating Aargh, I don’t know. Anyway, she took me with her. It was an out on location segment to be edited into an interview on The South Bank Show, a television programme about the arts. I was there to help out and make myself useful. I was shown how to roll up cables. I swept away rubbish, ran to the shops and fetched and carried what was necessary. I was very able. I did enjoy being around film crews. I was fascinated by all the set up. The construction side over the technical. Thankfully the expensive camera was safely out of my reach. With my talent, there came a guarantee if I twiddled a knob it would surely come off in my hand.
The shoot’s location was in a disused church hall. We were using its stage to film a thespian monologue that was eloquently expressed by the show’s guest. We were also filming in the back-stage dressing area where the props and costumes were haphazardly stashed. The artist sat in front of a bulb-laden cabaret mirror and gave an interview. She chatted as she brushed powder into her face. It was filmed over her shoulder to catch the reflection in the looking glass. I couldn’t suppress my urge to manipulate some of the junk in the background. You can probably imagine the type of things – an Aladdin's cave of Shakespearean props. I rearranged the mound ever so slightly to create a more stylised chaos. I draped feather boas and leaned a candelabra at an angle; I propped up sticks and a sword and balanced a helmet on a pile of regal-looking fabric. I wasn’t asked to interfere, so I tried to be subtle as I didn’t want anyone to notice. I just wanted to watch them film and enjoy the satisfaction of knowing I put it there. I wasn’t taking this career very seriously, although I was having fun.
