Chapter 34 Ludo
Ludo
Throughout the week, Sunny and I kept finding excuses to bump into each other.
Texting to check if we were going to a particular parliamentary debate, grabbing coffee together over at Portcullis House, sharing a cab to a press conference in Hackney.
We snatched moments, kissing in corridors when the coast was clear, eating our lunch together on a bench in Saint James’s Park, sitting by each other in committee meetings and debates.
Then, at night, endlessly texting and calling.
It was all rather lovely. There was just one rule.
“We can’t ask each other about, or talk about, anything we’re working on,” Sunny said. “We have to keep our personal and professional lives totally separate, or it’ll get messy very quickly.”
“I don’t want it to get messy,” I said.
“Me neither.”
I had taken Friday afternoon off to get my glasses fixed and to visit Uncle Ben in the hospital. Before I left the bureau for the day, Sunny met me in our stairwell for a quick kiss goodbye.
“See you at Maxime’s tomorrow night,” I said.
“I’m looking forward to it. The hazel dormouse will not go extinct on our watch.”
“I think Mother and Father might be there.”
Sunny, who could ill afford to lose the colour, blanched.
“I haven’t actually told them about us yet,” I said. “I didn’t know what to call… this. I think they know something is up, though. Just thought I should warn you.”
Sunny took a deep breath.
“It’ll be fine. Intimidating, but fine,” he said.
I kissed him and went to catch a cab.
* * *
At the hospital I found Uncle Ben sitting upright in bed in pyjamas and a neck kerchief. He was covered in little stickers and wired up to various machines. The room smelt of antiseptic and bleach. He looked tired but cheerful enough.
“Darling boy!” he declared upon seeing me. I put the flowers I’d brought down on the table and gingerly wrapped my arms around him for a hug, trying not to hurt him or accidentally unplug him. He was still looking frail, as he had every day when I’d visited, but he seemed to be in high spirits.
“Your bruise has turned from raspberry to a sort of chartreuse, dear boy,” he said. His words were slightly mumbled, one of the after-effects of the mild stroke he’d suffered. I perched on the edge of the bed.
“Careful you don’t sit on my cables,” Uncle Ben said. “That one’s keeping me alive.”
I jumped up.
“I’m kidding. Sit.” He patted the mattress, and I carefully sat back down.
“What are the doctors saying?”
“Still worried about seizures and fainting, dear boy. My eyes keep going fuzzy. But I swear that’s because they won’t let me smoke. I’m having withdrawals!”
He spent the next few minutes trying to talk me into smuggling in a packet of Phillies Cheroots for him.
“The nurse says, ‘Oh, Mr Diamond, smoking will kill you,’ and I say, ‘I’m eighty-eight, Nadine, what does it matter now?’”
“It matters to me!” I protested.
“This is a private hospital. I’m paying for them to torture me like this. I said to the doctor, if I wanted a lecture on my lifestyle, I could have got that for free on the NHS.”
We laughed; then a moment of silence fell between us. Uncle Ben grabbed my hand and squeezed it.
“You look happy, my darling boy. Is it love?”
“I don’t know.” It was true, I didn’t know. But I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. Uncle Ben’s eyes twinkled.
“It looks like love to me,” he said. “Your whole countenance has changed. You’re walking taller. You’re glowing.”
I smiled.
“Do you think you’ve found your Michael?”
“I don’t know, Uncle Ben. It’s too soon, honestly.
But I know I think about him every minute of the day.
And when I’m with him, it’s like that feeling you get when you’re sitting in the theatre, before curtain-up, and your stomach is full of butterflies, but it feels warm and safe and like there’s no place you’d rather be in that moment. Is that what love feels like?”
Uncle Ben smiled and patted my hand.
“Put it this way, dear boy. Whether it’s love or it isn’t, it sounds like a very nice situation indeed. Just enjoy it.”
Then, I’m afraid, I gushed. For a good ten minutes poor Uncle Ben had to listen to me banging on about Sunny this and Sunny that, until eventually I noticed he was starting to look tired and I feared he might deliberately unplug something just to get some rest.
“I should let you sleep.”
Uncle Ben coughed.
“Before you go, dear boy. I’m supposed to be going to the preview of the National’s new show tonight. There’s a comp waiting for me in the ticket office. Could you sub in for me and write a little review for Monday’s paper? Just a few hundred words.”
I’ve never said yes to anything so fast in my life. Uncle Ben withdrew his grip with equal speed.
“Careful, dear boy. You nearly bit my hand off!”
* * *
I sent Sunny a message saying my phone would be off for the next few hours and slunk into my seat in the stalls, my notepad and pen on my lap.
There had only been one complimentary ticket, not two, so I hadn’t been able to invite Sunny along.
As I waited for curtain-up, the seat next to me was frustratingly empty.
I imagined Sunny sitting beside me. Holding hands with him.
Hearing him laugh at the funny parts. Swapping glances when the play got romantic or sentimental.
I was woken from this daydream by Wilhelmina Post, the editor of Stage magazine, gliding into the seat beside me.
Stage was the real theatre enthusiast’s journal of choice, read cover to cover by the actors, producers, directors, wannabes and used-to-bes, and fans of London’s theatrical community.
Wilhelmina, a woman whose dedication to shoulder pads and perms with combed-back fringes was yet to be rewarded by seeing them come back into fashion, was the centre around which this universe circled.
“Hello, Ludo, darling,” she said, kissing both my cheeks. “How positively wonderful to see you! Where’s my lovely Benny? I need someone to have a cigarette with at the interval.”
I filled her in on Uncle Ben, and she promised to swing by the hospital with a bunch of grapes.
“If you really want a few brownie points, sneak him in a packet of Phillies.”
She winked.
“Is it your first-ever review?” Wilhelmina asked. I nodded. “Darling, you’ll be a natural.”
“Any advice for a rookie?”
“Always be honest, but never be cruel. That’s the first rule.
Not if you want to last in this business.
Although perhaps that’s less of a concern if it’s a one-off.
But remember, actors have long memories, and you’re only a child.
Plenty of time for them to knock you off your bicycle in the King’s Road if they’re feeling vengeful. ”
I laughed.
“The second rule. Say whatever you like, as long as you can explain it. If you think the script was weak, you owe it to the writer, whom you’re calling out in a public forum, to explain why you thought it was weak.
You also owe it to the audience and to your readers.
If you can’t explain it, then you don’t really mean it.
“And the third rule: whatever you say, say it in your own voice. Don’t try to be your uncle Benny.
Ben Diamond is a legend of the game. His reviews are the stuff of folklore.
Laurence Olivier nearly died choking on a chocolate digestive while reading Benny’s review of Long Day’s Journey into Night. ”
“Is that the one where he wrote something like ‘The play is as rickety as the Edinburgh sleeper and takes about as long to get to its destination’?”
“That’s the one!” Wilhelmina said. “Well, it was a five-hour play even before Larry fluffed his lines. Anyway, the point is, don’t ape your uncle Benny. Develop your own style. Find your own voice.”
Golly! It was a masterclass. The theatre darkened, the audience hushed, and I felt the rush of anticipation that comes with curtain-up.
A burst of trumpets—an old-fashioned overture.
The actors took their places onstage. I picked up my pen and, in the dark, wrote down Wilhelmina’s advice.
I might not have got to spend the evening with Sunny, or with Uncle Ben, but learning from one of the industry’s all-time greats wasn’t a bad way to spend my night.
Just for a moment, I let myself imagine that this was my life—and I found I liked it very much indeed.