Theatre script - "Home~Work"

A friend reminded me about this short play that was put on in the Black Box a couple of years ago. It was fun to read back through it and remember how the actors breathed life into it on the stage. I thought I'd post the script here so do feel free to have a nosy :) It's about a woman, who works from home, noticing another woman who lives across the road. The other woman also works from home. But it seems her work is slightly more interesting than hers, given the number of males coming and going from her house every day...

Home ~ Work

By Rose McClelland

Part One – The Neighbour

(Monologue - to be performed by an actress aged 25-40)

Twenty minutes. I watched them that afternoon. 

Beer belly man left, a smile on his face and a spring in his step. And five minutes later, another guy turned up. Five minutes! I began to wonder did she not give herself time for a quick shower, or a quick change of her knickers for that matter. No, five minutes later client number two arrived. He wasn’t bad looking to be fair. A bit of rough and ready if you like that kind of thing. (I like that kind of thing). A builder-type. In his thirties. He arrived in a white van. It even had the name and phone number of the company sprawled across the van. ‘No job too hard’, the van bragged. (Quite). ‘Busty Boilers’. (Top anonymity here). I was half-tempted to open the door and call “Yoo-hoo! Over here!’ He would look around and I’d be all jokey and flirt and say, “Want it for free over here mister?” but then I thought about it and I thought, I’m in my pyjamas and I’ve no make-up on. Probably not the best look. I also thought – say he’s paying her fifty quid for a quick 20 minutes, I’d need at least a meal and a glass of wine to warm me up. I would even stretch to a boojums and a can of coke but it’d still take longer than twenty minutes. And time was clearly of the essence for him.

While Mister Builder was in, I did the dishes and tidied the kitchen. I couldn’t resist the pull of the window though. The magnetic draw of the drama was too much.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later, Mister Builder bounced out, a spring in his step too. I began to wonder about her services as a professional. Clearly she was very good at what she did if the smile-o-meter was anything to go by. Twenty minutes for a shag and a smile. You had to hand it to her. Last date I went on, it took him three hours to build up the courage to kiss me and then when I discovered he kissed like a frog on a heart attack, it felt like a terrible waste of an evening.

Oh! There’s client three! My word. Tall. Slim. Nice clothes. Very fancy car. This guy was seriously a catch! I began to feel a little jealous. Three times action in one lunch break compared to my [….. pause as though counting…] in how many weeks. [Shrugs shoulders]. Okay, months.

Very intrigued about tall guy. What on earth was he doing paying for sex? Surely he could have anyone?

Then again, I reasoned with myself, say fifty quid for twenty minutes – end result – a shag. Probably tons cheaper than dinner, wine, movie – repeat for at least three dates before she feels it’s okay to have sex. It’s a maths game.

And if we’re still talking maths, she’s had a total of five clients in one lunchtime. Say fifty quid a pop – that’s £250 for one lunchtime’s work.

I think I’m in the wrong job.

I wanted to meet this ‘Lady of the Night’. I wanted to find out ‘why’. Why did she end up in that job? What lead her into it? Did she have a drug problem? Did she have childhood issues? But of course how could I do that without being nosy? I couldn’t exactly say – ‘Oh, I live across the way from your house – I was just wondering if I could borrow a cup of sugar – oh and by the way – what is it that makes you want to work from home as a prostitute?’ Not a very polite opening gambit is it?

Hmm.

However, I did think we had a lot in common. She worked from home, I worked from home. Both of us slobbed around in our pjs (except when she was in her dressing gown). Neither of us had to deal with office politics. Or the commute in the rain. Or getting out of bed before five to nine. So much in common.

But then my entertainment ended. She moved out.

I saw her load all her stuff into a van bit by bit. There was a man helping her. Builder type. I wonder did she pay him in kind. They loaded up the van. She took one last look at her apartment, and she got in her car and left. She looked a bit desolate; like a bird being shoved out of the nest too quickly.

The cul-de-sac seemed very quiet after she left. My friend joked that I should set up a new Lady of the Night business. ‘After all, there’s a gap in the market now’, he laughed.

But then I decided my skanky days of working from home in my pj’s are over. I think I’ll go back to office work. I think I’ll get new high heels and fancy suits and doll myself up in make-up. I think I’ll have a nice routine structure of 9-5. Plus, there’s plenty of men to eye up in the coffee dock. Who knows, maybe one of them will take me out for a quick boojums?

Part Two – The Client

(Monologue - to be performed by an actor aged 35-50)

Twenty minutes. That was the slot she allocated me. It was her special deal, she said. 

Twenty minutes for fifty quid. I suppose she assumed I was one of her cheap-skate clients. The builder types. With the Sun newspaper rolled under one arm and a can of Special Brew in the other. But I wasn’t her typical client. Money isn’t an issue for me. It’s time. I don’t need a three hour slot. I’m in a rush.

I get a six thirty flight most mornings. Meetings from eight thirty onwards. Meetings as late as eight at night. Client dinners. Head hits pillow. Then it’s up an’ at ‘em next day all over again. I employ a lot of people. I generate a lot of tax. I’m not a waster you know.

Okay, I’m being defensive, I know. Look, it’s the biggest cliché in the book. Lonely hotel rooms. Stressful hours. No time to socialise.

But really, don’t judge me.

I’ve no wife. No kids. No girlfriend tucked away that I’m cheating on. I’m just a single guy. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m just away from home a lot.

Yeah, I guess I’m lonely.

Some might say I’m a good looking guy. Tall. Nice clothes. Nice car. I suppose I appear a ‘catch’. But I’m never in the same place long enough.

I’ve tried the online dating thing. Do you know how hard it actually is to get a date off one of those things?

You send her a message. She replies. You get a bit of banter going. And then she suddenly stops. Blocks you. For whatever reason, I don’t know.

Or say you actually get to the stage where you arrange a coffee date. You keep the banter going. You walk on thin ice. You make sure you don’t say anything which she’ll misread or suddenly block you for.

And then, just before the coffee date, she suddenly cancels. Claims a sudden cold. Or a sudden important meeting. Or the death of her pet hamster. Or just doesn’t bother contacting at all. So you’re sat in a coffee shop, wasting valuable time.

The list goes on. Say she does turn up. She’s two stone heavier than her picture. Or ten years older. Or just the same, but less… sparkly.

Once in a while, a miracle occurs. She turns up. She looks good. There’s good banter with her. But that’s it – just a coffee. Do you know how many dates it takes to wine and dine a woman into bed? And how much money? Too much. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be happy to do it, if I was in the same town for long enough. But I’m not. One week it’s Belfast. The next it’s Dublin. Then it’s London. Sometimes even New York at times. What do I work at?
Er… client confidentiality here?

So in Belfast I now see Sasha.

London; it’s Tanya.

Dublin; it’s Eva.

Yes, it’s weird. Yes, it feels strange. Especially when they remind you that time’s up. That’s harsh. Do you know how much pressure it puts on a guy to perform on time?

It’s a bit like the time I went to a counsellor. Just when we were chatting great and I thought we were getting on well, she looked at the clock and said, “Well that’s the time up for today”. I was in the middle of a big confession. It felt like a slap in the face. I never went back to her after that.

But I do go back to Sasha.

And Tanya.

And Eva.

I did ask Sasha once if she wanted to be my ‘only one’. My courtesan – I think is what it’s called.

She laughed in my face. “Your girlfriend, you mean?”

Well no, I said. I explained the terms. She’d come with me. Accompany me to each town. Be there on my down time.

“That’s a girlfriend”, she persisted.

“Well if you want to call it that”, I told her.

“And sit around all day waiting for you? No thanks”. She said it with a smile to show me she was joking. But I liked that about her. A bit of spark. She wasn’t afraid to argue back.

I’m working on her. One of these days she’ll succumb and be my one and only.

Part Three – The Escort

(Monologue - to be performed by an actress aged 25-35)

Twenty minutes, I told him. It’s just fifty quid for twenty minutes. They always take the twenty minutes option. Even if it’s one hour for one hundred, they’ll still take the twenty minutes. Suits me grand. It’s easier to get them in and out again (pardon the pun). If I can bunch three or four clients into one lunch time, then that’s me done for the day and I can relax.

It’s like I’m in actress mode, I tell myself. All actresses have to perform. My performance is just a slightly different genre.

Sometimes I take a drink to relax myself. Or a tablet. But generally I depend on my acting skills to kick in.

Stage One – Meet and greet. Big smile, pretend I’m delighted to see him (no matter what he looks like).

Stage Two – Initial set-up. Get him comfortable, ask him what he’s looking for. This is my “pretend I’m a physio” role – pretend he’s just here for a massage.

Stage Three – the actual act. This is the hardest part (oh dear, there I go with my puns again). But this is the part that’s a blur. I’m on auto-pilot. My head is fuzzy. I’m thinking – fifteen minutes top, then it’s over. I’m thinking money.

And then it’s over.

Stage Four is easy – taking the money – bye bye, do come again. (puns, how many?) And it’s done.

I only have to do four of these a day and that’s two hundred pounds made. I only work two days a week. Two days a week – lunchtimes only. It means I have a lot of time off.

Of course I don’t tell people about my job. I’m only telling you because …. well, you’ve sussed me out.

And I know you’re judging me. That’s okay. That’s why I don’t tell people.

Oh, I know what you think. That I must be on drugs. Or have childhood issues. Or how I must be a homewrecker.

You’re probably worried your boyfriend is seeing me on the side. I’m sure he’s not. The guys that come to me are the guys who can’t get it elsewhere. I like to see myself as a sort of ‘sex worker’. I’m releasing tension. I’m preventing sexual assault.

But the truth is, I couldn’t bear an office job. I’ve done it before. The long hours. The horrible commute. The standing in the pouring rain waiting for a bus at seven in the morning. The office politics. The bitchiness. The griping.

When I was too stressed in my office job, the doctor told me I was depressed. Depressed/ Stressed – whatever. He gave me pills and sent me on my way. I retreated home to my safe sanctuary. The pills made me feel like I was sinking down through the carpet. A bit like in Trainspotting. Maybe I do fit the druggie prostitute stereotype after-all.

Anyway, off sick, I hatched a plan. I’ve had fuck buddies in the past. I know how it works. Home, quick shag, they disappear. They might re-appear. Same cycle. I might as well get paid for it.

And the hours are fantastic. The perks of the job. Roll out of bed by eleven a.m. Quick shower. No commute. Finish work by two. Rest of the day to myself. Stress free.

Of course there are the down-sides. Say I’m at a party and someone asks me what I do, I can’t say, “Oh, I work from home as an escort!” Because they’d judge me. Like you might be doing now.

So I say I’m a legal secretary. That shuts them up because it’s so bloody boring.

The other downside is that I can’t have a boyfriend. Apart from the obvious – he’d be jealous of four men a day trooping through his living room, I honestly wouldn’t have the energy to have sex with him. It’d be like a busman’s holiday.

And then of course there’s the future career prospects. I’ve no pension. The minute the wrinkles or sagging appears, my career is over. And then when I do try to get a job in my local Tesco’s, my CV is non-existent.

Don’t get me wrong – of course I get jealous. When I scroll through Facebook and I see the perfect lives and the husbands and the two point four children and the hidden sub-text of security and pension and unconditional love – yeah, of course it looks nice.

But it’d be good if I could get one of those courtesan jobs. One of my clients has suggested that recently actually. He’s good looking too. Tall. I don’t have to do the blurring out thing when I’m in stage three with him.

But I think he was joking. I joked back with him. I said I’d cost him a fortune. Fly me to every town with him? Wait for him all day and be available with he’s ready? Next he’ll be wanting me to do his Tesco shop for him and bear his two point four children. I was joking with him but of course, secretly I was delighted. Holding my breath in fact. Perhaps if I put up enough of a chase, he’ll finally seal the deal.

In the meantime, I’ll just keep slapping on the wrinkle cream and enjoying my daily lie-in.

(END)

"Home~Work" was performed in the Black Box theatre, Belfast. 
It was directed by Colm Doran and performed by Vicky Blades, David Paulin and Mary Frances Loughran.