Free Charlotte Street by Danny Wallace Page A

on
The News of the World
sat, motionless and silent, his pen never once lifted, his eyes dull and bored. I’ve sat in the screenings like this before with him. He doesn’t seem to like anything he sees. And yet it’s his name you’ll see flash by on buses, underneath words like ‘HILARIOUS!!!’ (with three exclams) or ‘A LAUGH RIOT!!’ (with two) or ‘THE MOST IMPORTANT FILM OF THE DECADE!’ (with a sober and important one).
    Which would be fine, if any or all of those applied to
SuperTroopers
.
    Today’s offering was a teen comedy, in which lots of people fell over in a mall. There were hot girls, and geeky boys, and a scene in which a food fight broke out in a canteen, and halfway through they cut to a fat lad under a table shovelling discarded hamburgers into his mouth. That was the only time the man from the
Mirror
laughed, which woke the guy from the
Mail
.
    I stopped paying attention roughly halfway through. Somewhere along the line I got to thinking about the evening that lay ahead. Subtly, I took the gallery flyer out of my pocket. I could sense a PR somewhere in a darkened corner looking round at me to ensure my attention was still on the action on the screen. I folded the flyer up again, as if somehow getting it out had been a mistake, but when they turned back, stole a glance.
    Enigmash-up: A Journey through the Ego to the Id via You, Me & They
.
    Christ.
    The main picture they’d used looked terrifying. Jesus on the cross holding a Pot Noodle in one hand and a copy of
Heat
inthe other. I knew how the evening would go. Warm white wine in plastic cups and canapés bought from Lidl. Considered silences standing before canvases that look like mistakes. And I’d be on my own. There’d be a list, of course, and once they knew I was press, I’d be engaged in overfriendly chit-chat I’d never remember with someone I’d never see again. And then I’d get on the tube, and go home, and write it up, and maybe watch the news at ten, and go to bed.
    What an evening.
    ‘I like your name,’ said the PR, an hour and a half later, as I made it to the door. ‘It’s like that other man’s, isn’t it? From the programme.’
    ‘Jason Priestley.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘So what did you think?’ she said, and this of course is why she’d stopped me.
    ‘Oh, gosh, you know,’ I said. ‘They must have had such fun making it!’
    ‘It’s a
lot
of fun, isn’t it?’
    ‘Must’ve been,’ I said. You need to be nimble with these people. ‘My kids would
love
it.’
    This was an excellent technique.
    ‘Would they?’ she said. ‘How old are your kids?’
    ‘Oh, they’re, you know, young. Young kids.’
    ‘How young?’
    ‘They’re … four.’
    ‘Both of them?’
    ‘Ah-huh.’
    ‘Twins?’
    I tried to work it out.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, it’s an 18!’
    ‘Ha, yes, but, you know, they’d probably like the … colours.’
    ‘Lovely, I’d love kids. What are their names?’
    Oh, let me go, I’ve got an awful gallery to see.
    ‘Alex,’ I tried, pulling the names out of thin air. ‘Alex is the … one of them. And Bob.’
    ‘Alex and Bob?’ she said. ‘What? Like in the film?’
    Eh?
    I saw the poster over her shoulder and took in the film’s name for the first time.
Alex & Bob Get F***ked Up
.
    ‘Bye,’ I said.
    When I got out, there was a text waiting.
    Ready?
    It was from Dev. I read on.
    I’ll be at the Fitzroy. You better be there
.
    I looked at my watch. He’d already be there. What if he’d picked up the photos? I still had the ticket, but he could be persuasive. What if I just swung by, just to make sure he wasn’t up to any monkey business?
    No. It’s out of the question. I’m a professional. I’m working.
    I looked again at the flyer for the gallery opening.
    Enigmash-up: A Journey through the Ego to the Id via You, Me & They
.
    Jesus and a Chicken & Mushroom Pot Noodle.
    I tapped my lip.
    ‘Bollocks!’ said Dev. ‘She’s married.’
    I looked at the photo in front