Cinnamon Twigs (9 page)

             
‘You’re just a player.’ I folded my arms across my chest like an indignant child.

             
‘How can a guy be a player if he doesn’t have a girlfriend to play? I get into girls’ knickers, not their hearts. I haven’t hurt anyone.’

             
‘I see what you mean…’

             
‘This relationship talk is bloody dreary! Men spend their lives searching for a woman who isn’t high maintenance. Women spend their lives searching for a man who “understands.”’

             
I laughed.

             
‘You’re going out tonight, and you’re gonna get laid. Deal?’

             
‘We’ll see what happens.’

             
‘Look at you, mate. You won’t have any trouble pulling. Be free and bury the bone! Let’s get on it and have a good time.’

             
‘Okay.’ I smiled.

             
‘That’s my boy.’

             
‘So long as you don’t threaten me with a frozen fish again. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life.’

             
‘That’s because you’ve never had it done to you. There was a girl named Jenny I was seeing for a short while during college and her dad worked in Cardiff market…’ He trailed off. ‘I’ll give you a buzz later. See you tonight.
Au revoir
.’

             
‘
Ciao
.’

             
I crawled into university the next day, pale-faced and blurry-eyed. Flashbacks of downing flaming shots and stumbling around semi-naked came back to me. But I hadn’t made it into a stranger’s bed.

             
‘At least you kissed other girls. That’s a big step.’ Michael lit a cigarette as we sat on a bench, opposite a war memorial statue.

             
‘Did I? I must have had chronic beer goggles.’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘I’m not even sure if they were all female.’

             
‘Hah, it wouldn’t surprise me if you got with a lady boy!’

             
‘Shut up.’ I groaned.

             
‘Right, we’re going out again tonight.’

             
‘You must be joking.’

             
‘Nope.’ Michael grinned roguishly. His breath still reeked of tequila.

             
‘Mate, I feel like hell.’

             
‘Intoxication is the best cure for crapulence.’

             
‘That doesn’t make sense! You have serious issues!’ I laughed.

             
‘We are going out until you get laid, even if it means going out every night this week. I didn’t even pull last night, so I need to make up for it tonight.’

             
‘Screw it. Okay then.’ A tired smile flashed across my face.

             
My mother was mortified when I told her I was going out again. She threatened to stop me from getting ready.

             
‘You look dead-and-won’t-lie-down, and you’re going out again! You’re becoming an alcoholic!’ She glared at me.

             
‘I’ll look fine after I’ve showered and gotten dressed. I’m a student, not an alcoholic.’ I used the excuse every alcoholic scholar makes.

             
‘If you go out, I’ll change the locks.’

             
I laughed and ran upstairs to get ready.

             
Michael’s idea of getting over a hangover involved bottles of wine and shots of white Sambuca. Cigarette smoke and kebabs mingled into an all too familiar scent, still lingering in my nose the next morning. A girl lay next to me, her face buried in a pillow and her matted brown hair draped over my shoulder. She turned over, revealing her modest breasts, and smiled at me. She talked about how much fun we’d had, but I couldn’t remember her name, so I left before making a tit out of myself. Michael had been right. There was no point in searching for a deep and meaningful relationship. I’d had a good night with Sarah, Laura or Alex - whatever her name was. Sex and cynicism would pass the time, until I met a girl I really liked.

             
Michael and I developed a reputation during the following few months. Whispers traveled in the university corridors. Michael was given the nickname ‘Minge Monster’ by our friends. I realized I wouldn’t find a decent girl if she knew I’d behaved like a lecherous
Sesame Street
character. But Michael didn’t care. He basked in his reputation, calling himself a hero for losing count of his conquests. I made a conscious decision not to sleep with everything that moved. I’d given promiscuity a go and it had been fun, but sex was a bonus that came with a genuine relationship. Michael could take the same route as Don Juan if he liked.

In the dream space, intersillient figures cut through tendrils of smoke, each beat takes on new meanings, and reality

is your audience.

Delivering long, uneven lines, we’re

all friends,
our issues issuing from us, deeply shallow.

No more problems. Your debit card

doesn’t serve its old purpose anymore,

and the figures
in the cobalt blue grow ever tantalizing.

You battle it out with the hasty clock,

eyes wide, admitting newfound

natural light.

Awake. Organs ravaged. Flecks of rain

on the sill. Outside, sober citizens struggling with their umbrellas,

which bloom like black roses.

Alone, frightened, nameless

in this stinking hole,

the figure beside you too obvious, emerged.

And there, brink of despair,

you are the audience,

viewing yourself in the harshness of day.

             
Sex filled each corner of the university premises, resting silently on the lips of horny students, etching itself on the faces of couples rushing to their lectures, and scrawling its deviant ways all over the literature I studied. Andrew Marvell did his best to get his ‘freak on’ in the poetry I studied, and even Shakespeare liked to mention the forfended place. But meaningless sex is concerned purely with performance. It’s all an act, as Michael showed whenever he boasted about his latest bedfellow. That kind of performance would always pall for me.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Gorsedd Gardens 

I finished my first year at university and prepared for a hectic summer with Michael. We went on camping trips
(as well as a holiday to Faliraki, but more on that later) and enjoyed numerous nights out in Cardiff and Swansea. But we also found time to discuss the future, and how to go into professional acting.

             
              After calling agencies and enquiring about television work, we landed a couple of jobs as extras. I didn’t mind waiting around on set, pretending the camera wasn’t on me, because I learned a lot about how television worked. Most of our fellow extras did it just for shits and giggles, but Michael and I took it very seriously, even though we knew that standing around on television sets wouldn’t ensure cinematic success. Unlike many other extras, we’d never get caught falling asleep on set, even if we’d been called at 5am. We were always alert and attentive. It’s what we wanted to do for a living. If you come across old episodes with the pause button on your remote at the ready you’ll spot me popping up like
Where’s Wally
in shows filmed in Cardiff, such as
Casualty
,
Pobol Y Cwm
,
Being Human
,
Ar y Tracs
,
Upstairs Downstairs
,
Alys
,
Doctor Who
and, believe it or not, performing silently opposite the wonderful Scottish actor Richard Wilson, in
Merlin
.  

             
Michael and I earned some money and gained experience. Later in the summer, we became members of the actor’s trade union, Equity. It used to be the case that you couldn’t do anything without an Equity card, but our foremost aim was to get hold of a proper acting agent. Getting hold of Equity cards was just a way to pamper our egos back then.               

             
‘This is a big steppingstone.’ Michael sipped a pale grey cocktail as we sat at a bar in Cardiff.

             
‘Yeah, but we’re at the very bottom of the ladder, mate. Let’s not kid ourselves,’ I said.

             
‘At least we’re
on
the ladder now. That’s a big steppingstone from nothing. Every fish out of water is closer to becoming an amphibian.’

             
‘That’s an interesting analogy!’ I laughed.

             
‘I’ve always wanted to be an actor. I can’t imagine being anything else. It’s like I was born to do it.’ He placed his glass on the polished surface of the bar and motioned to the waiter for another drink. ‘And then I met you. Someone who has what it takes, and is as determined as I am. It’s gonna be hard work, and it could take us years to get anywhere. But we
will
share the red carpet one day.’

             
‘I really hope so.’ I fumbled with a disposable lighter in my pocket.

             
‘Always believe in yourself. Trust your instincts, and trust your mental insight. Perspicacity is the key to admission.’

             
‘Uh, yeah, of course…’

             
Sometimes I really didn’t know what the fuck Michael was talking about when he spoke in dubious riddles and used words I’d never heard before. But I knew he would always be by my side, egging me on. He was the best friend an aspiring actor could ask for, full of infectious confidence, and he would be there to instill self-belief despite the inevitable rejections. He might have been cocky, but he knew he’d picked a difficult dream. His presence would carry him all the way. I had no doubt about it. He had it made from the beginning. 

             
When we entered our second years at Cardiff University, we knew we’d made progress. We intended to graduate and get decent jobs to fall back on when our intake from acting wasn’t high. We knew the importance of money.

             
That September was the most beautiful September of my life. Michael and I liked to drink in the afternoons after lectures, under the shade of Lord Ninian Edward Crichton’s statue, in Gorsedd
Gardens. We’d smoke cigarettes and watch the pretty girls pass by. Students ran across the turf, attacking each other with water guns. Others bathed in the sinewy rays of light, or read books on Cardiff Museum’s stone steps. Blooming flowers splashed yellows and reds across the Gardens, their lemony scents lingering in the crisp air. Tawny butterflies fluttered over our heads.

             
There was something in her blue eyes that made me feel as if we’d met before, or that we were destined to meet that September. Something familiar about her smile and the way the sunlight sifted through her pale blonde hair.             

             
‘You’re obsessed with that girl.’ Michael waved a hand in front of my eyes. ‘You’re drifting in and out of conversation. Keep your eyes in their sockets, your tongue in your mouth and your dick in your trousers!’

             
‘She’s gorgeous. I’m sure I’ve seen her in my lectures.’

             
‘Why don’t you ask her out?’

             
‘Don’t be stupid.’

             
‘What’s the problem?’

             
‘I can’t just walk over to a girl I’ve never spoken to and ask her out!’

             
Michael raised an eyebrow.

             
‘It would be awkward,’ I said.

             
‘Sometimes I wonder where your confidence goes. One minute you’re as full of yourself and as awesome at schooling life as I am, and the next minute…’

             
‘I’m not confident about certain things, that’s all.’

             
‘Are you telling me you’re not confident with women?’

             
‘Well…’ I trailed off.

             
‘I’ve seen you pull plenty of birds.’

             
‘That’s when I’m drunk.’

             
‘You have to be drunk to pull?’

             
‘I feel awkward otherwise.’