This Is Your Life (11 page)

‘You must know Mike Mellor then,' she said and before I could stop her she waved across a short stocky bloke with a shaven head.

‘Mike, do you know Jimmy Conway? Jimmy's a stand-up comic like you.'

‘Er, no, can't say the face rings a bell.' He shrugged. Mike Mellor was drinking champagne like the rest of us. But he was drinking it straight from the bottle. ‘Just starting out, are you?'

‘No. Jimmy's on the circuit, a proper comedian.'

I attempted a smile but it wasn't returned.

‘So where might I have seen you recently?' he said, taking another swig.

I said the name of the only comedy club I'd even been to, hoping that he was unlikely to have ventured that far out of London. ‘The Chuckle Cabin at Brighton?'

‘Oh yeah, you must know Chris.'

‘Chris, yeah. He's a good bloke, Chris.'

‘She.'

‘Oh,
that
Chris! Sorry. I was getting it mixed up with another club run by a bloke called Chris.'

‘Which one?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Which other comedy club run by a bloke called Chris?'

‘Oh it's a little one down there, tiny really, above a pub in Seaford, the, um, the Funny . . . the Funny Place.'

‘Never heard of it.'

‘No, Chris needs to do a bit of work on his publicity I think . . . but that's Chris all over,' I said, shaking my head in despair.

‘Jimmy doesn't do television like you, Mike,' said Arabella.

‘I do telly,' he insisted. ‘I've got my own show!' and then he felt forced to add, ‘. . . being piloted on BBC Four.'

‘Well, Jimmy won't do it on principle,' continued Arabella. ‘He only performs live.'

‘I've played most comedy clubs and I can't say I've ever seen you,' said Mike Mellor. He took another big swig from the champagne bottle and wiped his mouth like the hard man in a cowboy film.

‘No, I haven't done much in this country for a year or two,' I replied, the drink making me even more reckless. ‘I've been, um, gigging in the States for a couple of years, actually. They seemed to really go for me but, you know, it's a great scene they've got over there now'

‘Wow, the British comic who broke the States
before
he made it big in England!' said Arabella.

‘Well, I wouldn't say I was that big in the States, you know .. . I get by'

‘You must be good if you're here. Billy wouldn't be seen dead with an unfunny comic'

‘Poor choice of phrase,' said Mike Mellor.

Soon after this Arabella spotted someone she urgently wanted to speak to and I was left on my own with this scowling skinhead of a comic. We stood together in awkward silence for a while.

‘So how did you know Billy?' I asked him.

‘I didn't. I'm here with my girlfriend. She knew him through work.'

‘Oh well, he was a great guy,' I reflected. ‘A great guy . . . I'm really going to miss him.'

I chatted with one or two other people over the next hour or so and maintained the same persona, becoming increasingly confident in the role of stand-up comic returning home after storming every comedy club from New York to LA. I was a little shocked at myself, weaving such elaborate webs of
deceit, and eventually I felt overwhelmed by the need for somewhere to hide for a while. I slipped out into the lobby and wandered along a corridor. On a trolley outside the door was an abandoned platter of food and, after a furtive glance in each direction, I picked up a paper serviette and packed it with half a dozen chicken sticks, garlic prawns and asparagus spears, and looked for somewhere to stuff my face in private.

I found a little ante-room, walked in and closed the door behind me. The room was small and private but it was only after twenty seconds or so that I realized with a start that I was not alone. I'd been so preoccupied with my own hunger that I'd failed to notice a woman sitting silently in a chair in the corner. I could tell that she was a guest rather than a waitress, but I couldn't see her face, nor did she choose to look at me, even though she must have been aware of my presence all this time. She just sat immobile, her face in her hands, not so much in despair but in world-weary exhaustion. Like me, she had evidently come in here to escape.

‘Oh, I'm terribly sorry!' I blurted out through a mouthful of battered prawn Szechwan. ‘I didn't see you there . . . I'll leave you in peace.'

‘No, you're all right, don't worry,' said the voice from behind the hands.

Her defeated posture reminded me that I was at a funeral. This was someone who had needed to get away from the gossipy cacophony in the main hall.

‘I just needed a moment away from the crowd,' I volunteered, deciding to put the smuggled supplies to one side for later consumption.

‘I know just how you feel,' she said, and then she lowered her hands and I recognized her immediately. Back from the cremation and now hiding from the hordes of drunken celebs
next door was Stella Scrivens. I had gatecrashed a celebrity funeral and now I found myself confined in a tiny room with the widow and forced to make small talk.

‘You're Stella Scrivens, aren't you?'

‘That's right, yes. I'm sorry, I don't recognize you . . . '

This was not said in a suspicious or accusing way, but still I could feel the warm rush of blood to my face.

‘Sorry, no, we've never met. Jimmy Conway – are you sure you don't want to be on your own?'

‘No, you're fine, it's actually quite nice not to recognize someone. I don't know half the people here. I just keeping thinking I do because I've seen them on the television.'

‘Oh, that's not just me then?' I said, and we shared a smile of recognition.

‘No, everyone does it. Even Billy does it,' and she sighed and corrected herself. ‘Did it.'

‘I'm very sorry,' I said helplessly.

‘Thanks,' she said.

Apart from the embarrassment of talking to the widow at a funeral I had no right to attend, I was doubly discomfited by her almost oppressive loveliness. She was so strikingly beautiful I felt I had to look away, that it would seem like I was staring at a disabled person. She couldn't help it; it wasn't her fault she was born that exquisite. I had not been so attracted to anyone for a very long time but something told me I should banish any thoughts of finding out if she was available at the moment.
So, tell me, are you seeing anyone right now?
It might not go down very well.
No need to blub, darling. There's nothing wrong with being on your own.
No, it definitely felt wrong, I've always been a good judge of these things.

Trying not to be too obvious about my fascination with all
the people who had turned up, I quizzed her a little further about the celebrity guest list.

‘Some of the stars out there didn't even know Billy,' she revealed. ‘They'd never even met him, not once.'

I winced inside, while shaking my head in disbelief at the cynicism of some people. ‘Really?' I tutted. ‘That's awful. But then again, you know, the whole country
felt
like they knew him. When you're as famous as Billy was, it's like you're an old friend for people who you didn't even know existed.'

‘No, it's not that.' She smiled. ‘They're here to get on the front page of the newspapers. To be seen as one of the in-crowd. They're not here for Billy's sake or my sake. They are here because it's today's place to be famous.'

I searched for something pertinent yet philosophical to say. ‘Blimey,' I finally mumbled.

‘Their grieving comes later,' she added, ‘when they buy
Hello!
magazine and discover that the photographer failed to snap them here.'

‘Er, yes, I noticed that
Hello!
were helping organize things in the church. Are they here as well then?'

‘They offered a fortune for the exclusive rights to photograph all the mourners at the church and reception. Said I could give it to charity if I wanted. But I said no.'

‘Quite right. What a vulgar thought! I mean, it's a private wake, isn't it?'

‘No, I said I wasn't giving it to charity. Why should I give all that money away when there's this whole funeral to pay for?'

‘Er, yeah, right – I see what you mean. Good for you!'

So
Hello!
were paying for the entire funeral! I'd heard of magazines paying for celebrity weddings, but surely this was a new development. ‘Still, they must be pleased with the
turnout,' I said. ‘All those stars carrying the coffin will be one of their most famous front covers ever, won't it?'

‘Well, that was a bloody nightmare to organize I can tell you!' Stella laughed, and rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘First of all
Hello!
said the chief mourners weren't famous enough and so we had to change them for bigger stars, even if Billy hadn't known them.'

‘My God! Didn't you object?'

‘If they pay for the show, they get to choose the cast.' She shrugged. ‘But then it got worse. Can you imagine six different agents and publicists arguing over who should be at the front of the coffin?'

‘How charming. So, how did you resolve that one?'

‘In the end it came down to whose publicist had the most power. That's why the deputy prime minister was at the back,' she chuckled, almost revelling in the cynicism of it all.

I wanted to offer some sort of consolation, to try to reclaim the funeral for her. ‘Well, anyway, it was a great send-off.'

‘Thanks.'

‘And it was a lovely service.'

‘Hmm.'

And then six words slipped out.

‘It's what he would have wanted.'

She looked up and did her best impression of a widow thankful for those few crumbs of comfort. Beyond all the grief and anger that death brings to the nearest and dearest, there is another, unexpected form of suffering the chief mourners must endure. The torture of being subjected to an endless barrage of platitudes. ‘It's what he would have wanted,' I had said, and she smiled and thanked me for my kind words.
No, it's not what he would have wanted,
is what she should have said.
A big showy funeral paid for by
Hello!
magazine is not what
he would have wanted at all; staying alive for another forty years and dying peacefully in his sleep surrounded by lots of grandchildren
–
that's what he would have wanted.
Of course, no grieving wife is permitted to say this. Manners demand that she graciously react as if this latest cliché was the most appropriate, touching and thoughtful comment that any guest at a funeral could possibly come up with.

I thought perhaps the time had come to leave her in peace, so I said it was nice to meet her and reluctantly returned to the coalface of chit-chat. I stood around a little longer, but realized I wasn't enjoying this at all and since I'd only come along for the experience, for the fun of it, I told myself I might as well head home.

‘Ah, Jimmy! I've been looking for you everywhere,' said Arabella from the
Sunday Times.

‘Oh, hello again.'

‘Look, do you have a card or anything?'

‘A card? What do you mean, like a postcard or something?'

‘No – a card, you know, with your number on.'

‘Oh I see. Erm, no, no – didn't bring any with me today.'

‘It was just that I've been thinking of doing a feature on the state of British comedy and I was wondering whether I ought to include you, “the stand-up comic who won't do television”. I've been chatting to Mike Mellor but I think I'd rather interview you, if that's possible?'

I know I should have thought long and hard about agreeing to do this but I didn't think long and hard at all, I thought short and easy.

‘Er, yeah, that would be OK, I suppose.' I shrugged, my heart suddenly racing inside. ‘I'll have to try and fit it around my gigs, of course,' I said coolly, but then I worried that she might decide it was all too much trouble. ‘Although I could
always cancel if you were stuck for dates,' I gabbled. We exchanged mobile phone numbers and then one of the people from
Hello!
magazine asked us to move to the side slightly, as we were standing behind a couple of stars who were obligingly posing for the camera and our anonymous faces obviously weren't adding anything to the shot. Everywhere there were shallow celebrities who only turned up to this wake to further their own career prospects. Could their egos really be so enormous as to lose any sense of what was decent and appropriate?

‘Great, Annabel, I'll look forward to hearing from you!' I said as I headed off. A feature on stand-up comedy including me, I thought. My name in the
Sunday Times.
What a result! This is the best funeral I've ever been to!

27 Elms Crescent,
East Grinstead,
West Sussex,
England

Dear James,

Lady Diana Spencer got married to Prince Charles today, which beneath all the pomp and circumstances was just a normal family wedding and it's good for tourism as well. A while after the engagement was announced she actually broke down in tears because she was so fed up with being photographed wherever she went, but I suppose you get used to that after a while. They say that all publicity is good publicity, but there must be exceptions, like the Yorkshire Ripper, for example, he can't have got many more driving jobs after his name was in all the papers. But now that you are a celebrity, James, you just have to accept that the press are always going to be
prying into your affairs. It's a bore, I know, but I'm afraid that's the price you have to pay; everyone is endlessly fascinated with every aspect of your life all of the time. That's why I don't mind that at the moment no one is the slightest bit interested in me. That's actually a
good
thing, because one day I'll look back and envy the privacy I have now. The total absolute privacy I am lucky enough to have at the moment, never being hassled by people ringing up for me, no one writing letters to me or expecting to see me all the time, or any of the time really. These are precious times for me, and I keep reminding myself of how fortunate I am.