‘I’m not talking about your English version of them, which is basically fake news. I mean theme park nachos. The real deal. Good grill cheese, jalapenos dripping with more brine than a Central Park hot dog, and unnaturally green guacamole out of a tube. And the most important part– real yellow corn chips.’
He stands and strides to the cupboard, pulling out a brand of tortilla chips I don’t recognise. Grabbing ingredients, he comes to life, humming an out-of-tune version of ‘Hallelujah’, and turning a dial on the biggest modern Aga I’ve ever seen. The reason for his sudden switch of mood isn’t apparent. He assembles the food on a large plate, chucks it into the oven and grabs a bottle out of the freezer. ‘Tequila time.’ He puts it on the counter. ‘Did you drive here?’
‘God no. I live in Shepherd’s Bush. The Underground is one of its main attractions.’
He brings a second glass. I had no idea a man’s irises could be that dark; there’s hardly any definition between them and his pupils. He pours us a shot each, while continuing to analyse the ideal consistency of nachos. ‘You have to be really careful as there’s an optimum level of heat– too much cooking and the cheese loses its gloop, too little and the chips don’t have enough time to warm.’ He pauses and looks down. ‘I’m not really dressed for therapy, am I? I’ve gotten lazy.’
‘I need to reconfirm I’m not actually a …’
‘Mucho apologies. Give me a moment to throw on some pants and a sweater.’
He takes the stairs two at a time. I hear cupboards and drawers being opened and closed as I wander over to the oven to keep an eye on the food. The chips are beginning to brown around the edges of the silver plate, but the cheese in the centre remains untoasted. I close the door and examine some of his awards on the mantelpiece. Mostly British, they span everything from the stage to film. Picking one up, I feel its weight. And then I notice there are no photographs. Nothing of his parents or wife. His Wiki page said he had a son, but there’s no family memorabilia in the room.
He looks happier when he returns, although his hair still needs a wash and his feet are bare. ‘Mexican night has begun,’ he announces. ‘Let’s nacho our heart rates into a critical state with this dead-ass weapon. It won’t kill us, but we might feel the pull of themuertos.’ He strides to the oven, grabs the nachos with a tea towel and brings them over to the table. I tentatively take an overloaded chip and some cheese spills onto my lap. When I reach into my pocket for a tissue, my fingers touch the sunflower seeds I brought with me. I planned to start the session by producing them, asking him to pick one, swallow it and imagine a sunflower growing in his heart. It’s now becoming apparent he’d rather clog up his heart with a potent mix of carbohydrate and fat before declaring London theatre broke it. The actor opens a plastic container of sour cream and dollops some onto the plate, squeezing the tube of pretend guacamole on top.
‘When did you last eat?’ No reply. I consider the ethics of taking £500 to eat junk food with him. And then I dig in.
‘Theme parks understand their customers and how to sell to them. They feed the waiting people quickly and efficiently, disguising the healthy profit margin with an illusion of value for money,’ he says, shovelling a dip-coated chip into his mouth.
‘Is all the gym equipment in your dining room for running off the squirty cheese?’
‘I’ve been an actor for thirty years. I know how to keep in shape. This is a one-off, a special operation. An early flirtation with the Día de los Muertos. Maybe we will call it La Semano de los Muertos. You know how good it felt to have that much power by the way?’
‘Tell me,’ I say, feeling we might be circling around something significant.
‘Off the scale fantastic, every time.’ He picks up the bottle of tequila and refills his glass while I put my hand over mine.
‘Tell me more, about how good it felt.’ He knocks back the alcohol. Frustrated I can’t keep him on track, I deliberately needle him. ‘I think at some stage we should talk about emotional eating and explore any childhood triggers.’
He doubles down on his position. ‘I did enjoy our family visits to Coney Island. But, as I said, I am a grown-up, capable of managing a healthy diet.’
‘Eating lunch with you isn’t how I envisaged our first session going.’
‘But it’s so fun!’ he says, shoving another loaded chip into his mouth and wiping his lips with a serviette he grabs from the kitchen counter.
I need to get this back on the rails. ‘Obviously I am client led. Increasing your personal brand of happiness is all about exploring what feeds your body and your spirit, your soul too if you believe in that. Self-expression and self-guided sessions can be valuable. Having said that, I think we should have some ground rules going forward.’
‘Of course.’ He stands, lifts the empty plate and puts it in the sink. ‘You’re the expert.’
I consider the options for a moment, refusing to let imposter syndrome creep back in. ‘No alcohol. I realise it can help get rid of inhibitions, but it muddles things and prevents clear thinking. Also, it will be useful if you remember the session the following morning. I’d like us to have some clear goals, which I suggest we sign off on in advance and evaluate every few weeks. And over the next few weeks I plan to do some diagnostics about your current state of mind and the values you hold. This may involve filling in a form or two.’
I open my handbag and produce a sheet of paper, stuck to a clipboard. ‘I think it would be useful at this stage to see what you aspire to. I designed this for you. It’s called “Happiness 101”. You might think it’s a tired old cliché, but a bucket list of your hopes and dreams is a good place for us to begin. I want you to be honest, but not necessarily realistic. Give yourself permission to think out of the box or go for broke. If you believe in world peace and would like to help manifest it then put it down, as long as that’s what’s really in your heart. Later we can brainstorm how you’d go about realising these ambitions to help you climb out of your current slump.’
‘What if I want to put a bucket on my happiness bucket list?’ His handsome jaw forms itself into a smirk, and I’m pleased to see the Vince Marino swagger coming back. Encouraged, I pull the packet of sunflower seeds from my pocket, empty a few into my hand and place one in his palm. ‘This is for you. I’m not going to tell you what to do with it. I want that to come from you. But it’s a symbol of the sunshine and growth our sessions will hopefully inject into your life. I’ll see you once a week unless you decide that’s too much or too little. How about we review things in four weeks? Oh, and, Vince, I need you to be as honest with me as you have been today or we’re wasting your money and my time.’ When he clasps his hand around mine to seal the deal I don’t react. It might be the first celebrity handshake I’ve ever had but I need to stay super-professional. Putting the clipboard on the table for him to fill in later, I tell him I will see him next week and invoice monthly.
As he walks me to the front door, I wish him a good day.
‘It’s better already.’
And it is. I walk with a Vince swagger to the Tube.
Girls’ night in. I unscrew a bottle of red wine as Eva pounces on the steamy dough parcels cooked up by our favourite Chinese takeaway. Remaining in trouble for this morning’s antics, Doodle is banished to the corner of the living room, where he snoozes with one ear perked, and a jaw ready to receive tasty morsels.
‘Did you know dumplings were first invented to give people medicine for frostbitten ears? They slipped it in with the filling. Somewhere in Siberia I think,’ I say as I bite into one and a sweet-sour tang floods my taste buds.
‘Not true,’ says Eva.
‘It is absolutely true. It’s why they’re shaped like ears.’
