‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘I’m equally sure it is. I’ve spent my entire life being jealous of people with decent dads. I used to try and steal them in the school playground. And even now, when I see a separated guy with his kid on weekend custody in Maccy D’s, and they look really sad, I don’t feel pity, I think,good on you for being there, mate, even part-time, even a fraction of the time.I’ve basically spent my whole life looking for a father figure. Slept with one or two as well, in the hope of converting them to the real thing.’ Vince looks at me for a moment and I look away. Then he shakes the pan and presses on me the importance of doing this every twenty seconds.
I nod to show it’s lodged in my brain and then begin the real work. ‘For our exercise today, I want you to think of a time you were happy. You don’t have to tell me about it. Instead, I’d like you to focus on the sensations the memory creates inside you. Close your eyes and conjure them up in your mind and say them out loud if you aren’t too embarrassed.’ I’m not hopeful of this exercise after the trial with Eva but determined to give it a go.
Shrugging, he shakes the pan again. ‘I won’t be embarrassed.’
‘I forgot actors reach into their own sphincters at the drop of a hat.’
‘Watch the popcorn for me.’ He snaps his eyes shut and starts talking immediately, as though he’s been preparing this speech for a while. ‘It’s like the breeze on a still day. A swelling. A promise of something. At first imperceptible. Barely there. A kiss, a touch, a wisp of movement. Then like the wind through a cherry tree, it swells, grows, changes direction, stripping the branches bare and creating a storm of confetti. But it’s light as a feather. At this point I guess I’m only just aware of it.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Here.’ He touches the base of his stomach, just below the belt of his expensive jeans. The first kernels of the popcorn start to explode. ‘And then, it’s like, pow. A friendly punch, or a nudge. And it quicky moves, from here to here.’ His hand alights on his ribs, like he’s going to launch into some of those breathing exercises actors do in their dressing rooms. Looking scruffily handsome today, with a frayed grey T-shirt under a black shirt, he owns his kitchen like he owned the stage. Pop, pop, pop; more kernels do their stuff in the pan, reminding us who the boss is here. ‘And then, it tightens! My whole ribcage. And I gasp at breath, and instead my lungs are filled with helium.’
I notice him pinching himself and make a mental note to ask him about it. ‘Tingling fingers?’
‘Yes! No, not tingling, more like twitching. They can’t keep still, like a monkey on a typewriter.’ He wiggles his fingers.
‘And toes?’
‘Yes, toes and feet! I have to pace, tear the floor up. Or run, I can run for miles, that tension inside powering me forward like a catapult,’ he says.
‘And your head? What’s going on in there?’
‘A hot wind of chatter, like terrorists on the dark web. I tell myself the whole story of what happened, over and over. I can hear my own voice, bigging it up, reviewing it with glee, analysing it, picking it over. And then if I’m alone, vocalising it.
‘I’m happy! Happy, happy, haaaaaapppy!’ He pinches himself on the back of the hand again as he projects his words to the back of his living room as only a classically trained actor can. Then he grabs my arms and swings me round as he continues.
‘I’m not wearing my heart on my sleeve now but shouting it in pink neon, loud and clear. And then get this, it explodes. Literally. Bits of heart everywhere like cherry blossom flying around outside a schoolyard.’
He raises our arms and I’m feeling that infectious joy in my belly too. Letting go of me, he bowls into the kitchen table laughing, as I steady myself against a chair. He fixes me with his galactic black eyes, while my head spins, still dizzy with the movement. ‘However, burnt popcorn does not make anyone happy.’
He grabs the pan and tips the popcorn into two silver bowls. ‘You know why they call the kernels left in the pan old maids? Because no one has popped them yet. Now we need flavour.’ He repurposes the pan, adding golden syrup and brown sugar to a large knob of butter and slowly stirring it. When it’s melted he adds the mixture to one of the bowls. ‘That’s our sweet variety. Now for the savoury!’
He chucks a small handful of rosemary salt into the other silver bowl. ‘Taste test! More salt? And how about a pinch of chilli flakes?’
We retire to the sofa and chomp happily, flicking the old maids into the air as we analyse the plot, the characters, the acting, the way film direction has changed, the myths of the modern and ancient vampires. We laugh at the screen and each other. We eat him out of popcorn. As I pick out the final few popped kernels, I look across at him. Perhaps I have found the father figure I’ve been looking for? And I don’t begin to voice my growing feelings for his son.
When the movie is over I ask him to remain on the sofa. ‘So, here’s the science. I wanted to do that exercise earlier to see if you are blocked. Your response to the woman at the theatre suggested you are. But it’s pretty obvious to me from how you reacted today that you are emotionally intelligent and do recognise what happiness is when you feel it.’
‘At the good old age of fifty I would hope so …’
‘Middle-aged men can go backwards from forty-nine and a half,’ I tell him. ‘Why were you pinching yourself on the hand?’
‘Because you taught me to. I remember the good times and it takes me into a happier place.’
Wow. It’s working.
He tilts his head and looks at me with curiosity in his eyes. ‘Did you expect me to be emotionally constipated?’
‘Well, yes and no. I tried it out on Eva, who couldn’t identify a single sensation in her body. But then she does think with her head rather than her heart. I also realise you’re an actor, so emoting is second nature. But what happened in that theatre that night, and your inability to move on from it, suggests to me you are in a negative loop, and we need to dig you out of it.’
‘How about I pinch myself when something bad happens?’ He grins.
‘I think you need to talk to her.’
‘Who? The woman in the theatre?’
