Brenda Monk Is Funny Read Online Free Page B

lace and elastic.
    ‘Thanks, but I said I’d go to a friend’s show. I’ll see you later.’
    Lloyd nodded and smiled, turning away as she left, forgetting her already.

2
    Alone in Edinburgh, then. Still better than being alone in London. Brenda descended the Pleasance and tacked over to the collection of venues known as the Underbelly, where Jim John’s show was due to start in less than half an hour. Passing a row of men pissing in the dark up against the mossy wall of the viaduct that towered above, Brenda had a moment to process her day. It was certainly not as she had imagined when she awoke that morning, full of heaviness at the inevitable boredom and loneliness that lay ahead. She had taken action. She touched her hair. Had it started with that chop, chop, chop? She felt exhilarated. She had taken charge, nothing less than that. And Jonathan was pleased to see her. And she was pleased to see Jonathan. Or if not pleased, then relieved. When she saw him she could stop thinking about seeing him, and that gave her a break. She knew this was not how relationships were supposed to work, but for now she didn’t care.
    Feeling a light drizzle start to descend around her, she quickened her pace. The dank caves that made up part of the Underbelly’s network were before her and she stepped inside just as the rain really began to pour. Pinned to a wall ten feet high to the right of the entrance were dozens of photocopied and printed reviews of acts appearing within. Only the good reviews of course, anything less than a three star was not included. Brenda scanned it briefly, picking out names she knew. In one small area she found Jim John’s write ups, three in total thus far, including the one from
The List
. They were fine, good even for someone who had only been in the game for a couple of years. They were nothing compared to what Jonathan would receive in due course and Brenda felt that familiar rise of ego by proxy she enjoyed whenever she consciously acknowledged that she was going out with the current king of stand-up. There were comedians above him in the pecking order, of course: TV names who flew in for a short run in a massive ‘super venue’ and then flew out again. But in terms of the clubbing comics who enjoyed niche celebrity among genuine comedy fans, Jonathan was at the top of the tree. And there was a certain romance to that, a ‘just before-ness’ that gave him a glow, his potential still ‘shimmering on the horizon’ as Peter Cook had once put it. Brenda smiled to herself – it made the exposing nature of his show worth it. And in spite of herself, she was flattered that he had devoted a whole hour to talking about her. She couldn’t even pretend to be cross. It gave her kudos, and she didn’t mind that at all.
    Moving deeper inside, she bought a drink at the pink lit bar, tried to get used to the smell of damp, checked her reflection in the mirror – her hair did look kind of cool – and found her way to Jim’s tiny venue. Exchanging her name for a ticket, she moved into the auditorium. Just fifty seats and less than half full. The ceiling was low and craggy, an old cellar of some sort or possible ex-torture chamber. The room was hot and airless. This being a late show in a venue that had turned over every hour since 12pm, the moisture caused by sweating bodies moving in and out rocking with laughter had hit the ceiling, condensed and now fell onto Jim’s audience as a fine, misty rain. Even inside you could not escape Edinburgh’s weather. Brenda took her seat, the lights dimmed and she heard Jim’s voice announce himself into an offstage microphone. The twenty-two members of the audience applauded as he bounced out from behind the curtain with his trusty guitar and commenced his hour.
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    ‘That was great. I loved it. Can I get you a drink?’
    ‘Yeah, well, I’m no Jonathan Cape, am I?’
    ‘You’re different, that’s all. It’s a completely different style. It’s great,