Dead Famous

DAY FIVE. 9.00 p.m.

The row began with the best intentions. David had suggested, in an attempt to engineer a rapprochement between himself and Layla (and hence avoid her nominating him), that since he was trained and practised in the art of recitation perhaps he should learn one of Layla’s poems and recite it for her. Layla had been touched and flattered and because there were no papers or pens allowed in the house David had set to learning the poem orally directly from the author.

“Lactation,” said Layla.

“That’s very, very beautiful,” said David.

“It’s the title,” Layla explained.

“I understand,” said David, nodding gently, as if the fact that “Lactation” was the title required a heightened level of perception to come to terms with.

“Shall we take it two lines at a time?” Layla asked.

By way of an answer David closed his eyes and put his hands together at the fingertips, his lips gently touching his index fingers.

Layla began. “‘Woman. Womb-an. Fat, full, belly, rich with girl child. Vagina, two-way street to miracles.’”

David breathed deeply and repeated the first two lines of Layla’s poem. It was clear from his manner that he thought Layla would be amazed and thrilled to have her words lent wings by such a richly liquid and subtle voice.

If she was, she hid it well. “Actually, that first line is meant to be very upbeat, joyful,” Layla said. “You’re being too sombre. I always say it with a huge smile, particularly the words ‘girl child’. I mean, think about it, David, doesn’t the thought of a strong, spiritual woman’s belly engorged with a beautiful girl child just make you want to smile?”

David was clearly aghast. “Are you giving me direction, Layla?” he asked.

“No, I just want you to know how to say it, that’s all.”

“The whole point about getting an actor to work on a piece of writing, Layla, is in order to get another artist’s interpretation of it. An actor will find things in a poem that the author did not even know were there.”

“But I don’t want the things that aren’t there, I want the things that are.”

David seemed to snap. “Then you’d better recite it yourself,” he said, jumping angrily to his feet. “Because quite frankly it stinks. Apart from the repulsive imagery of fat, engorged female stomachs, from, I might add, a woman with less flesh on her than a Chupa Chups stick, I am a professional actor and I simply will not take direction from an amateur poet! Particularly after I have paid her the enormous compliment of actually taking an interest in her pisspoor work!” And with that David headed outside for a dip in the hot spa.