The Grand Scheme of Things, page 10
I cocked my head, following her interpretation like a cat to a laser beam, almost there, but losing it before I could fully grasp it, then catching it again. “You mean, like I attempted to shy away from that connection? That’s one of the reasons, I guess.”
“Precisely. That’s why you didn’t even use your own name. ‘Edward Moore,’ ” she said, sotto voce. “You pulled a Harold Danforth, didn’t you? Just like Charlotte. It’s genius. It really is.” She removed her glasses and laid them on the table. “You wanted the play to have an origin story of its own, not to ride on the coattails of those who have come before you. You didn’t want all your… privileges, so to speak, to get in the way.” She gestured towards me at the word privileges. “And yes, considering how charged this work is, I completely get why you’d want to keep your identity hidden. That’s the real answer, correct?”
“Uhhh… perhaps?” Well, actually, absolutely not at all.
“It’s a shame you got your friend to cover for you. I could smell a fish, you see. I just have this… instinct. An instinct for authenticity. I turned down the script the first time around for that reason alone. I believe whatever is meant to be will be, and that it’s no coincidence you’re finally here, as you are.” She smiled.
“I… umm.” I was momentarily stunned, though still holding my composure. I could definitely see where the nickname Smarmy Helen originated from. “Look. It’s not that complicated. I just had a bout of imposter syndrome and I was afraid that I was writing something I didn’t have the authority to write about.”
“Imposter Syndrome begone.” She swatted her hand as if to shoo the psychological phenomenon out of the room. “You have a gift. We all know that everybody loves the underdog, and you tried that angle. But Hugo… authenticity is key. That is how you unlock doors. Otherwise, congratulations for being the most experimental playwright to ever get your foot in the Wentworth doors. This is a story we can laugh about one day, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.” I scratched the back of my neck. “I mean… what are the chances this whole ‘Edward Moore’ thing will ever be spoken about? Because I do find it rather embarrassing now, and I’d like to protect my friend’s decency. It was never her idea, so she doesn’t need it following her.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about. Our agency doesn’t have a reputation for letting talent slip through its fingers. Nobody is to know that this script was once rejected, just as much as you don’t want anybody to find out. We’re starting afresh, right here, right now. How does that sound?”
I nodded, breathing. “Good,” I replied. “Sounds good.”
After Helen’s insanely presumptuous spiel, she summarized what the next six months were likely to look like and how and when the production of the play would commence. She gave me a breakdown of how the budget would work and how long rehearsals would run. She said she had her eye on the perfect candidate for the director: Nahid Norouzi, a seasoned actress who had shown an interest in making a debut from behind the curtain. If all went as planned, she would be one of the first women to get a directorial position on a Wentworth play in years, and the second-ever woman of color to boot. Still baby steps, but at least they were getting somewhere. Helen told me it would hopefully be somewhat of a collaborative process between me, the director, the producer, general manager, and so on. With every minute I sat in that office, everything was becoming more and more real to me, and I felt nauseous. What the actual fuck had I got myself into?
I felt dazed after the meeting. I immediately picked my phone up and called you, relaying everything that had just occurred as I walked through the city streets. Despite all this being a clear red alert for a potential case of plagiarism, such a case had not been brought up. Helen must have seen the photos of you and me from the ceremony, and she knew that at the least, you were privy to whatever boundaries this morphing play traversed. Ironically, your attempt to initially submit the play under a different name had helped you in this instance, because Helen was under the impression that it was I who was the rightful owner and that you were the fraud, or at the least, a performer in the show of Whose Play Is It Anyway?
“I genuinely don’t get this woman’s thought process,” I said to you over the phone once I’d brought you into the loop. “She thinks the name change is genius. She’s rewarding me for the same thing she essentially punished you for. And this whole C. H. Edmonds thing—I haven’t even spoken to my cousin in, like two years. We’re not even close. She hasn’t even reached out to me since the win, for fuck’s sake.”
“I’ve got nothing to add. I saw this coming from as far away as Andromeda,” you said. “I’m not remotely surprised. It’s all so typical. Isn’t it just?”
That word, typical, was so dismissive, yet weighty with the understanding that you were never going to be as shocked as I was in that moment. Typical was shorthand for life is a zero-sum game, and the winners have already been chosen.
x Down to Earth
I had known Belle since we were both around thirteen. We went to the same school and floated around the same social circles, and our fathers were both partners at Pointon & Sumner. Even then, she was not on my radar for the majority of our adolescence. As most people at school did, I saw her as one of the many sought-after girls in our year, always in and out of relationships with one of the many sought-after boys. I was socially awkward for the first two years of secondary school, but things changed in year nine when I was finally integrated into the sports culture à la the rugby team. I’d accrued an appreciable level of notoriety due to my penchant for saying yes to everything—downing an unidentified amalgamation of alcoholic beverages from a shoe at a match after-party, collecting traffic cones as souvenirs, toilet-papering a friend’s ex’s house—you name it, I’d do it. Come year eleven, it wasn’t much of a surprise to find out that I’d been nominated for prom king, and the same could be said for Belle being in the running for prom queen. I rode the high of being the most revered kid in school. It felt great to be seen, and even better to be seen side by side with a gorgeous blonde. It was a golden time in my adolescence, when I learned there was currency in attention. It didn’t matter what the attention was for, as long as it was celebratory. I sometimes cringe when I think back to those days. But the jubilant hollers, the pats on the back, the warm embraces, and the everlasting kisses, they remain rose-tinted in my memory. Up until that point, Belle and I had barely shared a conversation that didn’t revolve around our maths, history, or chemistry classes for longer than five minutes, but we both found ourselves standing together onstage with our sashes and crowns, winners of the ultimate popularity contest. We ended up at a mutual friend’s post-prom celebration, where we shared a series of Jägermeister-flavored kisses, and the rest was history. We spent two years in sixth-form college walking hand in hand around the hallways, taking the role of the insufferable yet undeniably well-suited and attractive couple who couldn’t spend more than one second apart.
The tides turned when it came to picking universities and we realized that we had completely different geographical desires. Durham was her first choice for politics, philosophy, and economics, and I was banking on Oxford for law with UCL as my runner-up and my eventual fate. The following three years were spent long-distance, sewing together our many miles apart with frequent FaceTime conversations and monthly visits on the train to each other’s campuses. But it would be a lie to say everything was smooth sailing; there were points in our relationship when object permanence would fall apart for me, and it would take a friend’s mention of her in passing or an evening text to snap me back to her. By the time we graduated, she felt a bit more like an old friend than a girlfriend, and the apertures in our relationship started to form. It was a case of people realizing before we did, however. People including my closest friend, Damian.
* * *
I rocked up to his house on a quiet August evening, rich in the milieu of a pink-and-blue sky, about a week after the bizarre Wentworth meeting. Even though Damian lived a stone’s throw from me over in Fulham, he said he didn’t want me to be the first person to turn up to my own celebration drinks. He waited for his girlfriend, Georgia, to arrive and for a small cluster of my university friends to roll through one by one to set up the lounge with balloons and kitsch party decor. Andrew, Damian’s housemate, opened the door a few moments after I knocked. I was met with the smell of something piquant cooking in the kitchen, and there was an immediate chorus of “Congratulations” once everyone was made aware of my arrival. Johan, my fellow UCL law comrade, was the first to stand up and greet me with a hug. His sister Klara followed, and then so did Olivia, Matej, James, and Lucas. Emmy, Belle’s best friend from Durham, had also made it to the party. Olivia and Matej went to grab some glasses and a bottle of 2011 Taittinger from the kitchen. At this rate, I was convinced my blood would eventually be full of at least 40 percent bubbly. We all gathered in the middle of Damian’s lounge just in time for him to raise a toast to me in my brand-new, absolutely bonkers, totally authentic, totally deserved career path.
“I’d like to raise a toast to my best friend. I think it’s safe to say we didn’t see it coming, but clearly my boy’s full of secrets. Next thing you know we’ll be celebrating his coming out of the closet.” He grinned, grabbing my shoulder with his free hand as a murmur of laughs followed. “He told no one about this play—not even me, the oldest mate he has. I thought we had a deal back in after-school drama club in year five that we’d keep each other in the loop when we eventually climbed the ranks of success, but I think I can forgive him this one time. I’d like to stay in his good books. At least until the prize money runs out.” Another laugh from the crowd. “Seriously. Congrats, brother. I’m proud of you. I always knew you were destined for greater things. So, let’s drink to that. Cheers.”
With that, glasses clinked and our cozy congregation whooped and hollered. Klara grabbed the TV remote to start playing music on Spotify as everyone split into conversations. I floated around the room, dipping into a chat with Matej and James before jumping into Lucas and Klara’s one-on-one. Then Georgia suggested we play a drinking game while Andrew ran into the kitchen to get his homemade pizza out of the oven. We sat on all the free sofa spaces and the stragglers got the armrests, balancing their drinks on their knees.
“Let’s have a go at Never Have I Ever, shall we?” Georgia declared. “We don’t have to explain the rules to that one.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Lucas. Just a reminder: you take a shot if you have done said thing, okay?” James said, followed by a light “Fuck off” from the target of his teasing.
“Okay, okay. Who wants to go first?” Georgia asked.
“I will!” Klara piped up. “Let’s start off easy. Never have I ever… written a play.” She looked at me, beaming with mirth. I took a modest swig of my champagne, which was technically a transgression of the rules of the game. I hoped that wherever you were, your taste buds were awash with a rich carbonated Chardonnay, balanced with notes of peach, cherimoya, and mandarin peel and hinted with almonds.
“All right, my turn,” Lucas started. “Never have I ever… lost my passport in Chile three days before my flight back to the UK and had to apply for an emergency travel document.”
“I think I’m being singled out here a bit,” I responded, going in for a second gulp.
“That’s sort of the point. It’s your party, Hu,” he said.
“Well let’s switch it up a bit before my whole life story unravels in front of us.”
Klara laughed at my joke and rested her head on my shoulder just as Andrew entered the room with a tray of mushroom and truffle oil sourdough slices.
“Oh! I’ve got one!” Emmy lifted her hand up like a student in class, then used the same hand to grab a portion of pizza from the traveling platter. “Never have I ever… gone engagement-ring window-shopping before.”
I stayed still, hoping everyone wouldn’t think it was something I had to drink to. But Emmy wouldn’t stop looking at me, and when she lifted an eyebrow and tilted her head forwards, everybody else caught on. This was no longer a drinking game, but an exposé on the workings of my impulsive life decisions.
“You’re going to propose to Belle?” Klara gasped, turning to me. “Shit! It’s about time.”
“We always knew you’d be the first one down the aisle. You’re so whipped.” Johan laughed.
“I think you mean at the altar, he’s not the bride,” Lucas said.
“He may not be the bride, but I don’t think he wears the trousers either,” Johan bantered.
“Hold your horses, you lot. I was just… curious. Nothing’s set in stone. Emmy, come on.” I looked at her, shaking my head.
“Whoops. Sorry. Slip of the tongue,” she replied, snickering. “I’m just already planning my maid of honor dress is all.”
I saw Damian shoot me a look from across the room. I couldn’t help but notice he wasn’t as enthused as everyone else. I felt the buzz of my phone in my back trouser pocket and took it out, seeing a push notification from Instagram. With consummate timing, Belle had posted a new photo. It would have been quarter to three in the morning where she was, but she was willing to stay up just to make sure she’d hit peak follower traffic. My thumb hovered over her, hanging midair on the famous rice terrace swing in Bali. I was about to double-tap the screen but was snapped out of it by the sound of Emmy’s voice. “You haven’t drunk yet, Hugo!” she barked. “Drink!”
And drink I did. Eventually the questions were divvied up between the other participants, so it wasn’t just me in the hot seat. It didn’t take long for the room to fill with a level of rambunctiousness that almost leveled with our undergrad days. Soon after, Georgia, Olivia, and Lucas were dancing, and Emmy, Klara, and Andrew were having a drunken DMC on the sofa nearby. Johan and James agreed to do a run for more alcohol before the store closed, and Matej called it a night and left with them, giving me a final congratulations on the way out. I sauntered into the kitchen to grab some water to cancel out my blood-champagne levels when I encountered Damian, leaning on one of the counters as he dug into some reheated leftover food. I could tell by his stature that he was a little drunker than I was.
“So when’s the wedding, then?” he asked, stuffing a forkful of chicken and rice in between his greased-up lips.
I turned on the tap at the sink, filled a glass three-quarters of the way, and took a cautious swig. “I haven’t proposed to her. Emmy just pulled that out of her arse.”
“Why did you drink to the prompt?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged.
“So you’re not going to propose?”
“Maybe one day.”
Damian snorted. “Hugo. You can bullshit everyone in the world, but you can’t bullshit me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you don’t love her anymore.” He placed his Tupperware bowl on the walnut wooden worktop next to him and crossed his arms, looking straight at me.
“Come on, Dame. You know that’s not true. We’ve been together for nearly seven years. It’s not going to be a honeymoon at this point, is it?” I was glad to hear a song by the Clash start blaring loudly in the living room, drowning out the potential for any eavesdropping.
“You know that’s not what I mean. I’ve been with George for half that time and it’s yet to feel like a chore to be around her.”
“My relationship isn’t a fucking chore.”
“Look. I’m just saying that I know deep down you’re not going to marry her. And if you did, it’d probably be for everyone else more than it would be for you or her.”
“Damian—”
“Deep down you’re relieved that you’re not traveling with her, aren’t you? I mean, I get it. You’re a down-to-earth lad. You’re not in it for the Instagram or Twitter followers, or whatever. It’s not like you went online and started blasting off about your award, but she did straightaway.”
“I think you’re being really harsh on her and I don’t appreciate it,” I rebutted.
“Nah, mate. I’m looking out for you. You’ve spent the last couple of years on autopilot with Belle, even if you don’t realize it. But I think you’re moving in the right direction, leaving law and all that. You’re figuring out who you really are, which is good to see. I’m hoping that’ll bleed into your relationships.”
“Oh God. Don’t be such a condescending twat.”
Damian shook his head, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “I’m just saying. You don’t need to fake being in love. You can find the real thing, brother. You’re gonna have a line of women at your feet once you hit the West End, you know.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“See? Down-to-earth.” He smirked. Seconds later, the sound of the front door swinging open was accompanied by the crinkle and clinking of bottles in plastic bags and a muffled conversation between Johan and James. “Just think hard about it,” Damian said in a low voice as the boys got closer to us. “Fuck weddings, fuck autopilot, and fuck fake love.”
I felt the water on my feet before I heard the smash on the tiled flooring. My palm had produced enough sweat for me to lose the grip on my glass. I was standing there like a Pompeii victim, frozen in the pumice from the volcano of my own embarrassment. Johan and James walked into the kitchen at the same time, letting out a big “wheyyy” in unison at the sound of the glass smashing. Damian laughed before offering to help me clean up the mess. Klara and Georgia soon bustled into the room in response to the commotion, followed by Emmy and Olivia.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on, everyone. There’s glass all over the place. Watch your feet,” Damian declared, going for the dustpan and brush in the cupboard under the sink.
During the commotion, I was still processing what he had just said to me about Belle. More than anything, I wanted your input on the whole situation; my best friend’s words just weren’t enough anymore. Who knew—maybe being in a stable relationship with a beautiful blond borderline social media influencer was a good look for a budding playwright with a burgeoning career. Maybe it was good PR. Maybe you’d appreciate it. Despite finding myself toying with this narrative, it all didn’t matter in the end. Soon enough, our master plan might have begun to fall apart, just as it was falling into place.
