Free Brenda Monk Is Funny by Katy Brand

had one left.
    Matt Linton re-entered the green room without burning up and it was clear he’d had a good gig. He was glowing. He helped himself to a beer and drank silently, still inside his adrenalised bubble of triumph. There was nothing wrong with the world as far as Matt Linton was concerned and he would shortly leave to go round to the public bar, certain as a man could be that some sort of sex would find him tonight. Jonathan slapped him on the back as he walked out and Matt sent him an appreciative look, cub to bear. Diarmuid was back onstage, re-marking his territory before he brought on a big beast. Jonathan was still sat, apparently relaxed, in his chair. Lloyd was scrolling, always scrolling.
    ‘Jonathan Cape!’
    A burst of applause, a scream from an over-excited woman. Jonathan rose from his chair, walked in no particular hurry to the gap in the wall and ambled into the light. Diarmuid, Brenda noted, hovered in the wings to watch for the first time that night. And Fenella was clearly listening too – they couldn’t help themselves.
    Jonathan knocked it out the park, but Fenella knocked it further, a fact that was apparent within two minutes of her set which was also, coincidentally, the precise time Jonathan decided he wanted to leave.
    Lloyd and Brenda dutifully trooped after him, and the mood was not improved by Joan signalling from the back of the audience that she wanted to stay and watch the end of the show. The cab ride back to the flat was silent, save for a single outburst by Jonathan who shouted, ‘Fuck,’ and then continued to stare out of the window for the rest of the journey. Once inside, Jonathan went to his bedroom, and Brenda followed him.
    Jonathan lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Brenda lay down next to him and stared at the ceiling.
    ‘You still leaving tomorrow?’
    ‘Uh, yeah. Unless you want me to stay…’
    ‘No, don’t worry. You go, you go. I don’t want to take up your time.’
    ‘You’re not taking up my time. I can stay if you want me to.’
    ‘No, it’s OK.’
    A pause where Brenda tried to figure out the right way to be. Jonathan had got used to being the best at any gig he went to. It had been that way for eighteen months now. It was strangely fascinating to see him dealing with this.
    ‘Do you mind if we don’t have sex tonight?’
    ‘Er, no, that’s fine. Don’t worry about it, it was great last night, so…’
    A light snore. Jonathan, it seemed, was already asleep.
----
    The 13.20 from Edinburgh Waverley to King’s Cross left on time and the Festival slid away from Brenda. Or rather, perhaps she slid away from the Festival. There was much thinking to do and instead of feeling gnawed from the inside at the prospect of four hours alone with nothing to do but examine her life, or try to distract herself from this pursuit, Brenda felt glad of the time. Getting up that morning had been as if in a dream. Jonathan had been sleeping deeply and she had hesitated over whether to wake him. In the end she had, feeling that leaving without saying goodbye would seem a more dramatic statement than she intended to make. So she had gently leant over his face and kissed him on the lips. He had jumped unexpectedly violently at the touch of her lips, and then tried to focus on her face, as she whispered she was leaving now to get her train. He had nodded and smiled and was whiffling again before she even left the room. Oddly, this had not bothered her as much as it usually did. She felt there was some strange membrane around her now, flesh coloured and transparent but shielding her from anything that would get under her skin.
    Brenda put her hands round the cardboard cup of cappuccino, drew it up under her chin and settled back into her seat. As the train gathered speed, she tried to look inside herself. What was going on in there? Why was she not obsessively checking her phone to see if Jonathan had called to a) see if she had got her train OK or b) beg her to come