Chapter Nine
Joe
I got the train from Brighton into London Waterloo, arriving at just after ten o’clock in the morning. I had a meeting with my agent, Carl Newman, and we were having lunch at Quo Vadis in Soho at twelve, but I wanted to arrive early and have a wander around first. I strolled through the always chaotic Borough Market, browsing stalls, and then I got my favourite cup of coffee from Monmouth Coffee Company, and walked through the rest of the market before heading down towards the Thames. It was one of those perfect spring mornings when the weather was cool enough to wear a light jacket, but there was a warmth to the sunshine that lay across everything. I loved living in Brighton, but whenever I was back in London, I missed it. The vibrancy of it, the creative energy it gave me, and I wondered whether leaving London had been my biggest mistake. Perhaps if I had stayed, I would have been a better writer, more relevant, dragged along by the zeitgeist, and perhaps my career wouldn’t have stalled in the way it had. Was Brighton nothing more than a retirement home for my career? My marriage?
I strolled along the Thames, sipping my coffee, and then across Hungerford Bridge, taking in the views of the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament, before I wandered up towards Trafalgar Square. I had always found a certain joy in walking in London, and especially on days like this. On the train journey from Brighton into Waterloo station, watching the neat patchwork of countryside fly past my window, I had thought about maybe moving back once Dolly was off to university. Brighton had always been Freya’s dream more than mine, and her idea of the perfect place to raise a family. She’d wanted to get away from the hustle and bustle of London, nearer the sea, and Brighton had been perfect for that. But once Freya and I were officially separated, and the house was sold, would I stay in Brighton or move back to London? Could I even afford London again? The sad answer to that was a definite no, unless I somehow got something commissioned and on television again. At the moment, my income was basically nothing, and so as much as I loved the idea of London, it would be impossible even with the sale of the house. Also, most of the people I had known ‘back in the day’ had moved away to commuter towns, or into the vast London suburbs with partners and children, and so I would have to make a whole new network of friends, which was daunting at my stage of life. Making friends was hard enough in your twenties, but at least then there was a shared experience, a sort of ‘we’re all in this together’ spirit, and we were desperate to make something of our lives and it felt like we needed people to make that happen. But approaching fifty, making new friends, new connections, felt about as painful as running a marathon when you suffered from a dodgy knee, debilitating shin splints, and had zero desire to even run for the bus let alone the full 26.2 miles.
Carl was already sitting down when I arrived at Quo Vadis. He stood up as I walked across to his table.
‘Joe, how’s it going, mate?’ he greeted me, enthusiastically.
‘Good, thanks. You?’
‘Ah, yes, can’t complain.’ We shook hands before we sat down.
I first met Carl Newman in 2004, just before The Burds , my first comedy, went out on BBC Radio 4. I had been looking for an agent for a while, and then one day I got a phone call from a lady who worked at one of the big agencies in London, who said that Carl Newman wanted to meet me. I was excited because I was twenty-five, had done a few shows, the Edinburgh Fringe, and now I had written a comedy play for Radio 4 that was going to star Jonny Bailey, one of the up-and-coming stars of the stage and screen. I was told to meet Carl in Quo Vadis restaurant which felt to me – a poor, struggling writer, who lived off beans on toast and Pot Noodles – like I had somehow made it before I had actually made it. Carl and I had met there at least once a year ever since.
Carl had gained a little weight over the years, but still retained a certain handsomeness. He still had a sparkle in his eyes, and the very definite whiff of old-school money. Carl came from a long line of entertainment royalty and knew how to wine and dine with the very best. His mother was a well-known actress, who had starred in a number of television shows and films in the Sixties and Seventies, his father was a director and his brother did something in Hollywood. Today Carl was in a sharp navy suit, his now greying hair cut in the same style he always had, and he smelled of the same aftershave he had worn when I first met him. Everything about Carl Newman was signature, from his Savile Row suits to his Creed Irish Tweed Eau de Parfum.
‘So, Joe, what’s new?’ said Carl once we had settled.
‘Umm, well, Freya and I have decided to separate,’ I replied, and I looked across the table at Carl, who I had heard describe himself as a ‘survivor’ of three marriages. He was currently dating a woman ten years his junior, and had four children with two different partners. His dating history was, at best, chequered. I had considered beforehand whether to confide in Carl or not, but after some careful consideration decided it was best to be honest about it. Carl had never been one to hide his own relationship shortcomings, and so it felt a little petty not to be truthful about mine.
‘Oh no, really? I thought your marriage was one of the lucky ones. What happened?’
‘Nothing happened, really,’ I said, as a waitress walked across and offered us drinks. Carl ordered his usual bottle of white wine for the table, and we both got water, too. The waitress took our order and walked off. The restaurant was slowly filling up. ‘We just gradually fell out of love, I suppose.’
‘No one cheated?’ said Carl, raising an eyebrow, and I knew exactly why he was asking. He always had to cover his back. If I did get back on television, had slightly more fame and notoriety than I did now, he had to make sure there weren’t any skeletons in the old family cupboard.
‘No, Carl, no one cheated.’
‘Good boy.’
‘I just think that, very slowly, we just sort of stopped making an effort, stopped doing the things that had made us happy in the first place, and then one day you wake up and realise, fuck, this isn’t really a marriage any more.’
‘Sorry, old boy, really. I know I’ve had my relationship indiscretions over the years, but I always believed in you and Freya. I thought you would make it to the bitter end.’
‘Me, too.’
‘Well,’ said Carl, pouring us both a healthy measure of wine, and then holding his glass out over the table. ‘To new beginnings.’
‘To new beginnings,’ I repeated, chinking my glass gently against his, and then taking a sip.
After a few minutes, the waitress returned and took our food orders. When Carl and I met for lunch, I always knew we wouldn’t be rushed for time. It was one of the best things about working with him. He had patience. Some agents might have already given up on me, and to be fair, I wouldn’t have blamed them if they had. The last ten years had been unproductive, and unsuccessful in terms of actually getting something commissioned, but Carl had stood by me and supported me throughout. He believed I had the talent and would eventually come good. I was the racehorse you kept backing because I had good form, or the footballer that was going through a bad patch. What was the saying? Form is temporary but class is permanent. Carl genuinely believed that, which was why he still wore the same fragrance and was dressed by the same tailors. Everything with Carl was long-term, except, of course, his romantic relationships.
‘So, Joe, let’s get into it,’ said Carl when we were halfway through our main course. ‘What are you working on?’
Unfortunately, this was the part of the lunch I wasn’t looking forward to. After catching up, chatting about the state of the business, and what he had been working on, the inevitable question about me and my career had followed.
‘I was working on the sitcom we discussed last time.’
‘Oh, right, yes. The one set in the fictional media agency. Loved it. How’s it going?’
‘It’s not. There was just something not working with it. The characters, or the setting, I don’t know, but I’ve binned it anyway.’
‘Riiight,’ said Carl, his tone telling me exactly what his next question would be. ‘So, what’s next?’
What’s next? The question that every writer in the world despised. What was next? It symbolised exactly what I hated about being a writer because it almost never mattered what you were working on, whatever success you had in the past, the most important thing was always, what’s next? The past was ancient history, the now was very much old news, and the only thing that really mattered was, what was next? I lived in a world of the future.
‘Honestly, Carl, I’m not sure. With the separation, and Dolly off to university in September.’
‘Young Dolly, off to university already? Fuck me. The last time I saw her, she was just off to secondary school. Does she know where she’s going yet?’
‘She wants to read English at Durham.’
‘Oh, right, wonderful university. My brother, Freddie, went to Durham. She’ll love it.’
‘So with her leaving in September, Freya and I are living together until then. I have moved into the spare room, but it’s a bit tense.’
‘I can only imagine. So, you’re doing one of those modern parenting things everyone is doing these days. You separate but keep living together out of necessity. Magpie parenting or something, isn’t it? I read an article about it in the Guardian a few weeks ago.’
‘Something like that. It’s just for the time being until Dolly has moved out. Although, if I don’t get something commissioned soon and start earning some money, I fear for the future.’
‘You have what, five months until D-Day?’
‘About that.’
We both paused to take mouthfuls of food, and then Carl looked out of the window for a moment, and as I watched him, I noticed something change in his expression. A flicker of something flashed across his face, and his eyes lit up, and then he turned back towards me. Something was coming.
‘Maybe that’s your idea!’ he said.
‘Sorry? What’s my idea?’
‘For a sitcom. Yes, what could be better? It has everything you’d ever want or need for the perfect series. A couple trapped in a loveless marriage, but under the same roof. A daughter desperate to leave, but having to wait until university. It has everything, Joe. Time, pressure, love, parenting, and all under one roof so a piece of piss to shoot.’
‘You’re saying I should write a sitcom about my current situation?’
‘Why not? I’m sure it’s tough, but there must be some comedy in there, too, and everyone loves that these days. Nobody wants a straight sitcom any more, Joe. I’m afraid the era of comedies like The Mornings is over. Now it’s all about comedy drama, the humour of life, of reality, and what’s more dramatic or potentially funnier than two people stuck under the same roof, in a marriage that used to work but doesn’t any more? Yes, by Jove, I think it’s a genius idea. I mean, really, well done!’
‘I mean, it’s not my idea.’
‘But it will be. What do you think?’
I took a moment to think about it, and perhaps he was right, but how could I write it as I was going through it? Surely I was too close to it. Too involved to make it funny because, trust me, I hadn’t found much humour in the break-up of my marriage so far. It had just been fucking difficult, heartbreaking, and also I was sure Freya wouldn’t want me writing about the intricate details of our crumbling relationship. In fact, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would absolutely hate it. My career, my work, had definitely been one of the defining factors in the breakdown of our marriage, and so using it as my way of moving on would go down about as well as a warm seafood salad for breakfast.
‘I think the idea has potential, but I don’t know, Carl. I’m literally still going through it. I’m not sure I have the space from it to make it funny. Maybe in a year or two once the dust—’
‘In a year or two, Joe, someone else will have written it. Think about it. So many comedies on television are about people getting together, or being married, but there isn’t one about a couple that have already decided to split but are forced to cohabit. It’s like The Office , you know. The joy of The Office was watching people that were forced to spend eight hours a day treading the same carpet. They didn’t love each other, or often even like each other, but they had to be together. Now you focus that down on to two people and a child. They all want to leave but they can’t. There’s your humour. There’s your show. It could be called, oh, I don’t know—’
‘ House Shared? ’ I said instinctively, and Carl’s face broadened into a smile.
‘Yes!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘ House Shared . It’s perfect!’
Carl and I had lunch for almost two hours where we discussed the finer points of House Shared , until eventually he had another meeting and I had to get back. I stayed in London for another hour or so, doing a bit of shopping, until it was time for the train back to Brighton. I wanted to miss rush hour and so I left before it all got a bit much, although as I boarded the train, I quickly realised it was still going to be packed.
Luckily, I managed to find a seat with a table, squeezed against the window next to a mother with a fussy baby and opposite a young man who, despite wearing headphones, was still playing his music so ridiculously loudly I could hear every word of every song – and no, it wasn’t something I enjoyed. In years gone by, when money was far less of an issue, I would travel first class, so I could work. There was just something about being on a train that I had always found so creative and sometimes the hour between Brighton and London would seem like five minutes if I was in the zone. It was the gentle rattle of the train, the countryside and towns flying by the window, the casual mutterings of nearby conversations and people talking on phones. Stopping at stations, people getting off, struggling with luggage, and then new passengers getting on, and getting settled.
Today I had my laptop, and I opened it up, and typed the beginning of a new idea. House Shared . Maybe there was something in it. I knew Carl was right that it had all the ingredients for a perfect modern sitcom. Comedy and pathos, and something that most people would be able to identify with. It could be about love, marriage, parenting, and that moment in life when you have to let go, whether you want to or not. It could feature flashbacks of when the daughter was small and the couple were happy, and mostly be set in one house, and around Brighton. As I started thinking more and more about it, I began writing things down, just ideas for scenes, character notes, and by the time the train pulled slowly into Brighton station, I had written well over 2,000 words.
As I walked out of the station, and towards home, I got a text from Carl.
Just mentioned House Shared to my assistant Sara and she loved it!
Get writing!
I put my phone back in my pocket and started off through the Brighton streets towards the house where my wife and daughter lived, and where the idea of House Shared would be set. I felt that buzz I only got when I knew I had an idea that might actually go somewhere. It only happened from time to time, that spark of creativity, that surge of adrenalin when I felt I was at the beginning of potentially something magical. Ideas like electrical shocks were already popping into my head, connecting to other ideas, as a whole new world began to form in my head, and I felt myself walking a little taller.
I got home and walked into the kitchen, where I saw Freya standing up and looking pensive. Seated at the dining table was my father.
‘Dad,’ I said, putting my bag on the floor. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Hello, Joe,’ said Dad, standing up, his large frame filling the space between us. ‘I was just passing by and thought I’d stop in.’
I looked at Freya and she looked at me, and I knew exactly what she was thinking.