though his expression was modest and self-effacing, his body could not stop showing off. He sat down on a stool, and his chunky thighs forced him to sit with his legs wide apart, with his huge glory on display.
I felt quite odd sitting there; like my body was going on an adventure and had assumed my mind would tag along for the ride.
I could tell my Angry Friend was furious at this turn of events, because he had sunk his teeth into my legs, and stabbed me in both thighs. ( You shouldn’t be here ), he said.
‘You don’t look like the Niall Stewart I remember. You were…’
‘What?’
‘Different.’
He gave a short, brittle laugh. ‘Well you look exactly the same. Unmistakable.’ He laughed. ‘Unique.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘You should.’ He swigged his water. ‘You were a great agent. One of a kind. Well, I thought so. You were the best agent I had.’
‘Are you still acting?’
‘No, not since after the accident. I got injured during a theatre tour a few years back. I was in some rubbish play about the sixties, playing some grungy hippy…’
Of course you were.
‘… and I tripped over a scatter cushion in the wings and hurt my back. I was laid up for months – God, the pain was indescribable! And when I managed to finally walk upright I was a martyr to sciatica.’
My mind was hot.
He had an accident. I had an accident. He has sciatica. I am sandblasted by my sciatic nerve. I think I’ve found my soulmate. Someone who might have some inkling of what I’ve been going through. No wonder my Angry Friend is furious.
Niall continued. ‘We, well, that is, me and Equity, we started to sue the theatre company for hundreds of thousands, but Equity got scared…’
I nodded, understanding. I knew the actor’s union very well.
‘… and they settled, and I ended up with peanuts, barely enough to live on. So I had no money, nobody would employ me as thanks to the court case I was now unofficially labelled as a troublemaker, so I decided to take control and do something about the bits of my life I could do something about. I took up physiotherapy, to get my body in shape…’ he waggled his fingers vaguely in the direction of his gluteus maximus, ‘hence the difference in how I look. And now I’m an osteopath. That’s how I knew you had pain.’
‘Just because you’re an osteopath.’
‘Because I could see you were in pain.’
‘But I don’t look like I’m in pain.’
‘Ah. OK, you don’t.’
He let the silence fester between us.
‘Well I don’t!’ I sipped my tomato juice intensely, glaring through the bottom of the glass at him. ‘OK? What?’
‘What?’
‘What was it that gave it away?’
‘It was the way you walked.’
‘I walk fine.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘I do.’
‘Go on then,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘If you walk fine, go and walk up and down this pub.’
‘What?’
‘Go on. Just to that Trivial Pursuit game and back.’
‘No.’
‘If you’re scared…’
‘I’ll look stupid.’
‘If you’re scared of looking stupid…’ He caught my eye. ‘Just walk into the toilets, then. Wait a minute, then come out again.’
I looked at the toilet door. It suddenly shrank into the distance, as though I was staring at it through the wrong end of a telescope.
‘OK fine,’ I said. ‘If it makes you happy…’
I stood up, glowering at him, and strode purposefully across the room. I made sure I walked like a god. One foot confidently in front of the other, arms held firmly at my sides. I strode like a superhero past the Trivial Pursuit machine. I turned heads with my determined, masculine stride. I barged into the Ladies, thrust the door aside, and nearly crushed a girl against the hand-dryer in the process.
Then I sagged, holding onto a basin, gasping and scrabbling for purchase on the damp porcelain, and sobbing with the effort. Thank God for ladies’ pub toilets. There are a million reasons to cry in them, so you
I felt quite odd sitting there; like my body was going on an adventure and had assumed my mind would tag along for the ride.
I could tell my Angry Friend was furious at this turn of events, because he had sunk his teeth into my legs, and stabbed me in both thighs. ( You shouldn’t be here ), he said.
‘You don’t look like the Niall Stewart I remember. You were…’
‘What?’
‘Different.’
He gave a short, brittle laugh. ‘Well you look exactly the same. Unmistakable.’ He laughed. ‘Unique.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘You should.’ He swigged his water. ‘You were a great agent. One of a kind. Well, I thought so. You were the best agent I had.’
‘Are you still acting?’
‘No, not since after the accident. I got injured during a theatre tour a few years back. I was in some rubbish play about the sixties, playing some grungy hippy…’
Of course you were.
‘… and I tripped over a scatter cushion in the wings and hurt my back. I was laid up for months – God, the pain was indescribable! And when I managed to finally walk upright I was a martyr to sciatica.’
My mind was hot.
He had an accident. I had an accident. He has sciatica. I am sandblasted by my sciatic nerve. I think I’ve found my soulmate. Someone who might have some inkling of what I’ve been going through. No wonder my Angry Friend is furious.
Niall continued. ‘We, well, that is, me and Equity, we started to sue the theatre company for hundreds of thousands, but Equity got scared…’
I nodded, understanding. I knew the actor’s union very well.
‘… and they settled, and I ended up with peanuts, barely enough to live on. So I had no money, nobody would employ me as thanks to the court case I was now unofficially labelled as a troublemaker, so I decided to take control and do something about the bits of my life I could do something about. I took up physiotherapy, to get my body in shape…’ he waggled his fingers vaguely in the direction of his gluteus maximus, ‘hence the difference in how I look. And now I’m an osteopath. That’s how I knew you had pain.’
‘Just because you’re an osteopath.’
‘Because I could see you were in pain.’
‘But I don’t look like I’m in pain.’
‘Ah. OK, you don’t.’
He let the silence fester between us.
‘Well I don’t!’ I sipped my tomato juice intensely, glaring through the bottom of the glass at him. ‘OK? What?’
‘What?’
‘What was it that gave it away?’
‘It was the way you walked.’
‘I walk fine.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘I do.’
‘Go on then,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘If you walk fine, go and walk up and down this pub.’
‘What?’
‘Go on. Just to that Trivial Pursuit game and back.’
‘No.’
‘If you’re scared…’
‘I’ll look stupid.’
‘If you’re scared of looking stupid…’ He caught my eye. ‘Just walk into the toilets, then. Wait a minute, then come out again.’
I looked at the toilet door. It suddenly shrank into the distance, as though I was staring at it through the wrong end of a telescope.
‘OK fine,’ I said. ‘If it makes you happy…’
I stood up, glowering at him, and strode purposefully across the room. I made sure I walked like a god. One foot confidently in front of the other, arms held firmly at my sides. I strode like a superhero past the Trivial Pursuit machine. I turned heads with my determined, masculine stride. I barged into the Ladies, thrust the door aside, and nearly crushed a girl against the hand-dryer in the process.
Then I sagged, holding onto a basin, gasping and scrabbling for purchase on the damp porcelain, and sobbing with the effort. Thank God for ladies’ pub toilets. There are a million reasons to cry in them, so you
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