We all walk past the bar, where five women in silky underwear are smiling coyly at us and attempting to make eye contact. I remember arguing the case once to Daphne that this is what men actually come to these places for: the feeling of being wanted. It’s not really about the boobs and bums and simulated sex, I told her: it’s about experiencing the simple, mind-blowing novelty of a beautiful girl trying to catch your eye. Because for the average bloke, that just does not happen in the real world.
I don’t think Daff was convinced, to be honest. She just laughed and said that whatever the reason was, it was pathetic. Even so, she wasn’t particularly angry about me coming here today. I think she just felt sorry for me because she realised how much I didn’t want to go.
I think again about her David Attenborough text, and suddenly feel a very strong urge – a physical need – to see her. I desperately want to turn around, walk straight back out of the door and go and find her. But Jonno thwacks me on the back and keeps me moving forwards.
The team flops down collectively onto one of the big oily couches next to the main stage. Jonno remains standing in front of us, chewing his bottom lip and gyrating his hips to ‘Hot in Herre’ by Nelly. The strip club is so clearly Jonno’s natural environment that it’s hard to believe he wasn’t raised in one.
‘Here we go, boys!’ he shouts over the music. ‘Here. We. Fucking. Go!’
‘Shots?’ someone else yells, but Jonno’s already up at the bar ordering them, his arm snaked around a scantily clad redhead.
A very tall, Viking-esque woman wearing only a see-through nightie approaches me and squats down by the edge of the sofa.
‘Would you like a dance?’ she asks. Her accent is eastern European, and weirdly, even though I haven’t thought about this moment in ten years, I remember her straight away.
‘No, honestly, I’m fine, thanks,’ I tell her, adding, ‘I don’t think I can afford it,’ because it seems a simpler excuse than ‘I’m ideologically opposed to it.’
She shrugs. ‘You can just buy me a glass of champagne, and the dance will be free.’
‘How much is a glass of champagne?’
‘Forty-five pounds.’
‘Right. No, thanks, honestly, I’m fine.’
First time round, I tried – unsuccessfully – to engage this woman in a highly patronising conversation about her hopes and dreams, and how she’d ended up in a place like this. It was partly to assuage my guilt about being here, but also – if I’m totally honest – probably to indulge some lame knight-in-shining-armour daydream, in which I could imagine my words compelling her to quit this awful job immediately and start flirting outrageously with me – but because she actually wanted to, not because I’d just bought her a glass of horrifically overpriced champagne. And let’s face it, that makes me just as pathetic as every other bloke in here.
I don’t bother with my patronising interrogation this time, so the Viking girl just wanders off to find another punter. I’m left sizing up my disgusting tequila shot and watching as Jonno and another Thump staff member get wriggled on by two near-naked blondes in front of me. Strangely, they seem to be looking at each other more than at the actual girls; swapping child-like grins and thumbs-ups every time a nipple comes within a few centimetres of their faces.
I feel a buzz in my pocket, and find myself hoping that it’s Daphne. But it’s not. It’s an email from Clare Rodway, at Rodway Cohen Associates.
‘Just got to check something,’ I announce, standing up and waggling my phone about. But no one’s paying the slightest bit of attention to me. I smile at the murderous-looking bouncers as I walk past them and step back out into the dying afternoon light on Shoreditch High Street.
The email is just as I remember it. I don’t bother to read the whole thing, just scan it to make sure the general gist is the same. Thank you so much for sending … Shows great promise, but unfortunately … And then the killer blow at the end: I think you’re Patrick’s son, is that right? Pat and I go WAY back, so I’ll mention you next time I see him!
I put the phone back in my pocket and think about how I reacted to this email first time round. Not well, is the answer. I felt utterly broken and desperate: like a total failure. Daphne called me as I stood outside this very club, and when I told her what had happened, she came straight back from work to meet me at my place. We then spent a dreary evening together dissecting what might have been wrong with my manuscript.
Now, looking back, I honestly find it hard to believe that I was such a jumped-up, overly melodramatic dick.
Like Harv said, I was only twenty-four years old. Did I honestly expect that the first thing I wrote would get published? Who the hell did I think I was?
The answer to that seems staggeringly obvious now. I thought I was my dad.
The first play he wrote was staged at the Young Vic theatre when he was twenty-four – though obviously I found that out from Wikipedia rather than him. And I suppose I thought … Well, what did I think? That if I performed the same trick, he might reach out to me? That he might get back in touch once he realised how similar we really were? I don’t know. It sounds stupid, obviously. But despite him leaving, despite what he did to Mum, he’s still my dad. I guess I always imagined that at some point we’d be close again. If I’m honest, I still do.
I watch the furry white sun disappearing gradually behind Liverpool Street station, and wonder for the zillionth time why all this is happening. I look down at my watch and find myself wishing
