Lonely Hearts

ROYAL LADY, DUBBED THE ‘FAIREST OF THEM ALL’, SEEKS ADORING AND SUBMISSIVE MALE

Single female with perfect features, ripened like fine wine, and great ambition. Rich and not shy about it. Enjoys preening, black magic and the tainting of delectable fruit. Seeking man of stature, preferably with great social standing, for frequent complimenting. Must be willing to help plot deeds of wickedness and unfazed by close personal relationship with bodyguard.

Any interested parties must reply by personal visit to the penthouse luxury apartment in Times Square by midnight.

Disclaimer: Do not be alarmed if the appearance of said female is not what one imagined at first. Complex disguises are common and necessary.

Her Royal Highness (opening: revised)

Her Royal Highness (working title)

The stage appears as a hotel room. It is well-decorated but messy. The duvet has been thrown off the double bed. A woman sits at a large and glamorous vanity, looking in the mirror. The vanity is littered with make-up, tissues, magazines and empty glasses. The woman is elegant and middle-aged, with black hair, red lipstick and wearing a satin dressing gown.

HENRIETTA     Gin is magnificent, isn’t it? Timeless, you may say. From Hogarth to Gordon’s; crisp, fresh, never dull. (She chuckles.) And wine. Oh, wine! Full and dark and deep. When has anyone ever questioned wine, I mean, truly? It is staple ... iconic. It is fruit made poison, and yet how we love it.

It gets better with age, you know, wine. That’s what’s so magical. The longer it lives, the more we crave it. Wine does not fade away, it grows stronger.

 She finishes what is left of her current drink.

It was the greatest time of my life. I was snatched by a man with an eye for beauty. It’s always a man. He told me I was beautiful, and rightly so. I was the most beautiful woman in the world.

As she speaks she plays with her face in the mirror: pushing up her skin, nipping it, pulling her eyebrows and sucking in her cheeks.

I was known as The Queen, you know. Henrietta Regina Hawthorne. They got the nickname from my initials. See, people were clever back then. Not like now, chasing the skirt of any half-brained smile that takes their fancy. No, you see, I – I was something special. It’s so tough to make it in New York, not everyone can do it. You need that special something and by God I had it. I broke all the records: fastest selling cover, most internet searches, Sexiest Woman, Most Beautiful Woman, Most Powerful Woman. I was everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It takes a lot, you know. Yes, people hop on for their fifteen minutes but it takes real skill to form a career - a lifestyle – out of it. Oh, and I did just that, believe you me. A million dollars for one shoot. Four photographs. Four. That’s how many were published. Each one worth two-hundred-and-fifty grand.

She walks across the room and picks up a half empty bottle of gin. She walks back to the vanity where she sits and pours herself a generous glass.

They loved me, the public. They couldn’t get enough. I couldn’t leave my house without getting a hundred photographs taken, each one ending up on the front of a magazine which would then sell thousands of copies. I was a drug. An industry. Without me the business was nothing.

She picks up a magazine.

It’s a daring colour to choose, white. It could have been dull and drab. But no, there she is. Sparkling in the snow. And of course, of course she’s nude. Nude yet distant. Undressed and yet completely naive.

She takes a large sip from her drink.

Everybody’s favourite. Young. Fresh. Perfection. Pure as the driven snow. That’s what they all say, even here.

She points to the magazine cover.

Snow White Girl.

She laughs.

Well, not nearly as good as The Queen.

Customer Service

I bounded up like a dog,

Welcoming

Her into where I cannot leave.

I rub my head against her

And lick her face, barking with

Glee and enthusiasm.

May I help you with anything?

I say

Retrieve, fetch, guide, take.

No, no no no, no no

No,

I am fine.

She does not smile.

I am scolded.

But still I wag and lick and pant,

I still smile, okay, no problem,

And I try

To hide

The anxiety in my eyes,

Bad dog bad dog bad dog

The dog whistle blows,

I am expected not to hear,

I must not show that

It hurts me.

She knows that I can hear,

She knows I cannot growl,

She walks out and

I wait for my master to grant me

Freedom.

Rendezvous

Rendezvous

                     Along the beach

                                                 Get a milkshake

                                                                            Take off my shoes

                                                                                                           Count to ten

                                                                                                                                 Then it ends

Halls

Walking round halls. Down hall,
A long hall.
Perfectly personable stranger and

Perfectly strange person wait

in kitchen.

Pots and pans.

Washing up, washing machine, late nights, shouts outside, food shopping.

Cashpoint says four figures.

Saying goodbye at the end

of the hall.

Door double locked and

kisses on cheek.

Walking up halls.

Quietly lying in bed with

nobody. No body

Here.

Life in boxes, bed in box, box

off hall, hall in halls, halls

on road, road off

Home.

One figure.

Her Royal Highness

The stage opens to show a hotel room. It is well-decorated but messy. The duvet has been thrown off the double bed. Snow falls at the window. A woman sits in the corner at a large and glamorous vanity, looking in the mirror. The vanity is littered with make-up, tissues, magazines and empty glasses. The woman is elegant and middle-aged, with black hair and wearing red lipstick and a satin dressing gown. She finishes what is left of her current drink.

HENRIETTA

It was the greatest time of my life. I was snatched by a man with an eye for beauty. It’s always a man. He told me I was beautiful, and rightly so. I was the most beautiful woman in the world.

She picks up a magazine from the table and stares at the cover before throwing it to the floor. As she speaks she plays with her face in the mirror: pushing up her skin, nipping it, pulling her eyebrows and sucking in her cheeks.

I was known as The Queen, you know. Henrietta Regina Hawthorne. They got the nickname from my initials. See, people were clever back then. Not like now, chasing the skirt of any half-brained smile that takes their fancy. No, you see, I – I was something special. It’s so tough to make it in New York, not everyone can do it. You need that special something and by God I had it. I broke all the records: fastest selling cover, most internet searches, Sexiest Woman, Most Beautiful Woman, Most Powerful Woman. I was everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It takes a lot, you know. Yes, people hop on for their fifteen minutes but it takes real skill to form a career - a lifestyle – out of it. Oh, and I did just that, believe you me. A million dollars for one shoot. Four photographs. Four. That’s how many were published. Each one worth two-hundred-and-fifty grand.

She walks over to the mini bar across the room, opens it and takes out a half empty bottle of gin. She walks back to the vanity where she sits and pours herself a generous glass.

They loved me, the public. They couldn’t get enough. I couldn’t leave my house without getting a hundred photographs taken, each one ending up on the front of a magazine which would then sell thousands of copies. I was a drug. An industry. Without me the business was nothing.

She bends down and picks up the crumpled magazine cover.

It’s a daring colour to choose, white. It could have been dull and drab. But no, there she is. Sparkling in the snow. Lying on a polar bear, of all things! And of course, she’s nude. Of course. That’s why she’s interesting. Nude yet distant. Undressed and yet completely naive.

She takes a large sip from her drink.

And now she’s the one that’s everywhere. Everybody’s favourite. Young. Fresh. Perfection. Pure as the driven snow. That’s what they all say, even here.

She points to the magazine cover.

Snow White Girl.

She laughs harshly.

Snow White. Well, it’s almost as good as The Queen.

These Damn Buttons

It seems to me that eighty will be one of those ages after which one feels completely transformed. Seventy-nine. Eighty. So much distance between those numbers.

            Well, not really, I suppose. Two hours and four minutes worth of distance to be exact.

            I’ll never fit. Suzanne must be joking. Quite a good joke, if one thinks it through. Turning eighty in a child’s bed. You’d be in fits, Ron.

            These damn buttons; too small for my fingers. I can’t – the tiny slit... my hands just don’t work the way they used to. I can’t even look at them without cringing, so creased and discoloured like a slept-in sheet.

            It’s getting to be a lot of effort, this buttoning. I walked around all day today with my cardigan buttoned up wrong. I simply couldn’t find the strength to start all over again. I suppose Suzanne thinks I’m mad for it. She can be so patronizing sometimes, Ron. She practically forced me to stay the night. Why she couldn’t simply pick me up in the morning I have no idea. She keeps talking to me in such a loud, slow voice. My hearing is perfectly fine, thank you very much. It was yours that went to the dogs, wasn’t it Ron?

            There, one done. I swear these are smaller than usual buttons, and they barely fit. The fabric is frayed around the slits. Tiny little white threads like veins or hairs. I can’t seem to push them away. They keep attaching themselves to the peeling flesh around my thumb.

            Suzanne did my hair today for the party. I can’t be dealing with any of it. I’m dreading it, Ron, if I’m honest with you. Michael’s coming, and I know how much you disliked him. Never thought he was good enough for our Suzanne, did you? Well he’s always round at ours now. What on earth will I have to say to Michael?

            She’s put me in rollers – plastic and spiky, pulling on my scalp. Honestly if you could see me, Ron, you’d cry with laughter. What a bloody picture. And then she sprayed something on their, and now my hair feels so wiry and stiff. Remember that lavender shampoo you got me last year. Oh, it was lovely, and now – Suzanne’s too old for all this malarkey, never mind me. Honestly, sometimes you’d think I was the child.

            I can’t sleep in this. My feet will go over the edge. The little’un’s fairy lights are going to keep me awake, and I can’t be bending down to find the plug. I’ll have to put up with the pink glow – it’s making me feel quite sick. You know I never could sleep with the light on.

            And it’s too quiet. Isn’t that strange, Ron? It’s too quiet to sleep.

            I suppose it’s because you’re not snoring.

            Done. Buttoned up to the top. I’ll leave the last one, do you remember when I buttoned myself right up to the neck? You told me I looked like a village priest, cheeky bugger.  My fingers are stained with the little imprints of these damn buttons.

            Do you remember that note you left me, Ron? Only one you ever left me, may I remind you. It must be, I don’t know, fifteen years old now. I’ve still got it. It’s right here, under the pillow. I’m never without it. You didn’t say much: remember to walk the dog, Suzanne’s calling round later, what’s for tea. But you said, ‘P.S. Working an early tonight. I’ll be waiting for you.’

            Oh Ron, I wish you were.

The Mid-Way Point

Everyone loved rainbows. It was what people were taught as kids, wan’it? Rainbows are pretty. Rainbows are great. He watched it arch over the street before him. Sorry but rainbows don’t make any fucking sense.

            It shouldn’t be sunny and rainy at the same time.

            He couldn’t explain it, not exactly. But it was easier to tell an ex-wife news than a current one. Bad news, that was.

            He walked down Grace’s garden path.

            It was like a practice run, wan’it? See how best to say things. When she reacted badly, it didn’t matter because he didn’t need to contact her ’til the bairn’s money was due.

            React badly? He knew Eliza would cry, scream, kiss him, comfort him and ask for comfort. He turned the corner after the gate and headed down the road. She would cling to him and shake him, try to knock it out, dislodge it. He’d be offended if she didn’t ‘react badly’ to be honest with you.

            He rubbed his wedding ring up and down his finger.

            What if she left him?

            The drizzle subsided slightly. A man drove past in a car. Music blasted from the shitty Ford. The man yelled something at him, laughing to himself. Tom didn’t catch what he said, but it didn’t sound like the bloody Lord’s Prayer, he’d tell you that for free.

            Two months ago Tom would have put that twat in the fucking ground. He’d have put him in a bloody hospital bed. No one dared to backchat him, back in the day. Built like a brick shithouse. But he was less broad now, skinnier, more and more each day just slipped off him like icing off a cake, or toppings off a pizza. A skinny pale base. He hoiked up his trousers.

            He turned the next corner, and the next one after that, down the back lane. He could hear the sea. Not necessarily the sea itself, but the sounds you associate with it; the sounds that all get grouped together as THE SEA: wind, seagulls, arcades, ice cream vans, kids playing. Their meaning was engulfed under the surface, sculpted and muted by the waves.

            Seagulls were pecking each others’ eyes out over a mouldy Tesco sandwich.

He just wasn’t hungry anymore. And anything he did eat came straight out the other end in a sea of red.

The sea. Taking over everything.

Red.

The sky was getting red now. He thought of Eliza’s red lips - pursing and falling, screaming, pouting and getting all wrinkly, tightening around her teeth.

He checked his watch. It was later than he thought. He had less time than he thought. And he had only just reached the mid-way point.

A woman walked past him, walking her dog. The dog looked like it’d had it really, older than sin. She was practically dragging it. As she passed he got a faint whiff of perfume, something slightly citrusy.

Eliza’s hair smelt like lemons the day he proposed. He had been to the supermarket the night before and picked up some shampoo. She’d asked for grapefruit, apparently. Lemon, bloody lemon. Honestly Tom, one job!

She’d cried and held him, kissing his neck and pushing herself into him so that their bodies were almost fused together. An inseparable force. A single unit.

What would happen when one half left?

It was funny how similarly people reacted to tragic news and happy news. Tears. Always tears. They took over like a personal sea. People literally overflowed with emotion.

Tom hadn’t cried yet.

It was suddenly night time. A sliver of moon lit his way along the alley. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and pressed the button.

The screen lit up. 20.43. Four missed calls. He couldn’t tell her over the phone.

As he escaped the alley, blinded by the streetlamp, he ascended the hill towards his house. There was not a soul in sight.

He had always wanted to climb Mount Everest, as daft as it sounded. Something about the isolated achievement, accomplishing something huge completely alone. He imagined himself grabbing at chunks of icy rock, shivering with cold, and just as he begins to lose hope the ground curves slightly and flattens and he is filled with sudden energy. He begins to scurry and run. The wind blows in his face and snow lands in his mouth and melts as he laughs. He stands in the centre of the peak, only just large enough for him, and raises his arms in triumph.

He knew that probably wasn’t geographically accurate, but you know, it was a fantasy and all that. Just a fantasy.

This year I’ll do it.

Will ya now?

Yep. No more messing around. I’ll start a sponsorship.

Might wanna join a gym as well.

Sly sod.

Daft bugger.

Ha ha.

Alright then. I believe you.

Crackin’, so how much shall I put you down for, pet?

A bloody tuppence.

He stood staring at his front door. It loomed large above him, black with shadow. Slowly, he turned the key.

She ran to him.

In the early hours of the morning, as they sat at the dining table, their arms around each other, Eliza slowly wiped a tear from Tom’s face. Lipstick stained his cheek.

            ‘This will be your Everest,’ she said.

A Little Experiment with Script Writing...

BREAKDOWN

ACT ONE

SCENE ONE

A woman, ANGELA, sits in an office on the visiting side of a desk. The chair behind the desk is empty. She is well-dressed but tired looking. She looks around uneasily.

ANGELA

Typical, new job, then this. She’s going to flip. She’s going to flip her bloody lid... Well... I mean, they must expect these things sometimes... life outside work... people have lives. Families. Christ.

She turns around to look at the door then faces the desk again.

What kind of boss... no water provided in the office. Stupid cow. In my condition. (She laughs nervously.) In my condition. All that time at home... Harry, shit. Reel him back in, that’s what Mum would say. Reel him back in, Angela.

A woman, MARTHA, walks into the office. She is dressed in a smart suit, hair tied back and perfect make up. Although she is older than Angela, she looks better. Angela begins to stand but Martha signals her to stop. She takes the seat behind the desk.

MARTHA

Now, Angela-

ANGELA

Ms. Grey, I really-

MARTHA

As a new recruit, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But very rarely do employees request a private meeting with me on a Monday morning.

ANGELA

Yes, Ms. Grey, I’m very sorry-

MARTHA

It is the busiest time of the week, you know.

ANGELA

Yes, I’m so sorry.

MARTHA

So what is it you wanted to tell me?

Angela looks at Martha and then the audience. The stage goes 

black.

SCENE TWO

A middle aged man, HARRY, sits in an old-looking armchair in a murky living room. He is fidgeting, uncomfortable. Occasionally he looks up as if hearing someone moving around above him; his wife, asleep.

HARRY

Getting desperate now ... stopping and starting. It’s fine... then spluttering and wheezing. Useless old thing. That’s the problem... too long doing the same thing. (He pauses.) It gave out on us the other day. Don’t blame it, like. Angela going mental as usual... my fault the guy wanted four hundred quid. Unbelievable. She just ... yelling and nagging... hair tied back... baggy old jumper, and I just- I hate this fucking car.

He readjusts himself, running his hands through his hair and crossing and re-crossing his legs. He looks at his watch.

Better get ready.

SCENE THREE

A bar, night time. HARRY sits at the bar, several empty pint glasses next to him. A young, attractive woman, CHRISTINA, stands beside him. Her hand is on his shoulder. She is wearing a short skirt and a tight t-shirt.

CHRISTINA

You’re knocking them back, Harry. In a rush?

HARRY

Tired. I shouldn’t be- I’m just tired.

CHRISTINA

Well, then relax. Here, I’ll get the next round.

She beckons to the bartender.

Two pints please.

HARRY

Cheers but, I really, you know, it’s getting late.

CHRISTINA

Usually you’re full of energy.

HARRY

It’s just, maybe this- I mean, tonight’s just-

CHRISTINA

She caresses his hair.

What’s the matter, Harry?

HARRY

He looks around the bar.

Christ, it’s miserable in here, innit. Dark and, and-

CHRISTINA

What, romantic? Private? I think it’s great.

HARRY

I can feel my eyes going. I’ll have to get home. Angela, she-

CHRISTINA

She removes her arm from him, visibly annoyed.

For God’s sake, Harry, what’s-

HARRY

Oh, I can’t stop yawning. This’ll have to be my last one.

He takes the pint gratefully from the bartender and chugs half of it in one gulp. Christina turns away from him and begins putting on her coat.

HARRY

Sheepish.

Same time next week though, yeah?

Christina picks up her bag and storms out. Harry finishes his drink more slowly.