MISS WHIPLASH REGRETS…

by

                                                                 Tom O’Brien

                                                                    act one

scene one

The sitting room of the flat of John and Madeleine.  (all scenes take place in this room) MADELEINE is seated, doing a x-word. There is a model car on the floor near her, a bright racing-type model.  JOHN is in the bathroom, shaving.

MAD:              What’s the capital of Peru?

JOHN:            (off) Bagota?

MAD:              four letters.  Ends with A.

JOHN:            Pisa…Riga…no, Lima.  Definitely Lima.

MAD:              Liza is leaving Roger.

JOHN:            How many letters?

MAD:              No.  Liza and Roger are splitting up.

JOHN:            I’m not surprised.  She’s been

                        taking him to the cleaners for years.

MAD:              Nothing to do with his laundry arrangements, dear.

                        He’s been fucking some little scrubber in the office

                        for months, apparently.  (beat) Going to seed?

JOHN:            What?

MAD:              Going to seed.  Ten letters.

JOHN:            Ooh…I don’t know.  vegetating? (beat)

                        Who’s the scrubber?

MAD:              Mona.  You know Mona.  Mona with the big…eyes.

                        (counts letters in x-word)  Ten letters… yeah. Oh no, it begins with S.

                        If you had money, would you leave me?

JOHN:            (emerges from kitchen, shaving foam on part of his chin)

                        What?

MAD:              Stagnating.  It’s stagnating

JOHN:            What’s stagnating?

MAD:              The clue, darling.  It’s stagnating.  What did you think

                        I meant…our relationship?

JOHN:            Ha ha.  What did you mean just now?…if I had money…

MAD:              Exactly what I said. If you had money, would you leave me?

JOHN:            (returning to kitchen) That’s what I thought you said.

There is a silence for a moment.

MAD:              Well, would you?

John returns clean-shaven, patting his cheeks.  He picks up a remote control off the armchair and sends the model car racing across the floor. He slows it down and maneuvers it around Madeleine’s legs.

                        Now, that’s a tricky one.

MAD:              You bastard.

JOHN:            It’s academic anyway.  I don’t have any money.

(he tries to move the car, but she prevents it with her foot)

                        Don’t do that.

MAD:              But if you had?

JOHN:            Honestly?

MAD:              Honestly.

JOHN:            I believe I would…stay put.

MAD:              Liar.

JOHN:            Why ask, then?

Pause

MAD   :           Don’t you want to ask me the same question?

JOHN:            No.

MAD   :           Aren’t you curious?

JOHN:            Maybe I don’t want to know the answer

Silence.

MAD:              Has Roger much money?

JOHN:            He has a few bob…yes.

MAD:              I mean – real money?

JOHN:            Yes, real money.

MAD:              How much real money?

JOHN:            I don’t know.

MAD:              You do his books.  If you don’t know, who does?

JOHN:            It’s privileged information.  I couldn’t possibly reveal…

He sits down, and picks up the car.

JOHN:            Look what you’ve done…

He takes a screwdriver from his kit and does some adjustments.

MAD:            Oh, you couldn’t possibly reveal…

                        Why not?  You didn’t take the Hippocratic oath, did you? 

And you’re not a priest – as far as I know.

JOHN:            It would be unethical.  There’s the employer/

                        employee relationship for a start…

MAD:              What relationship? He walks all over you.

                        And you obligingly lie down and make it easy.

JOHN:            It’s not like that.

MAD:              (putting away the x-word and watching him tinker)

                        You men are all little boys at heart, aren’t you?

 Did you have a deprived childhood or something? 

No toys to play with on your birthday…

(John doesn’t answer)

                        What is it like then?  Go on, tell me.

 Refresh my memory about what a bastard he is.

JOHN:            Roger?  He has his off days.

MAD:              So you don’t really want to nail his balls to a plank?

                        Don’t want to stick hot needles under his toenails?

                        That was just you talking in your sleep, was it?

JOHN:            I’m not saying that sometimes he isn’t a…a

MAD:              Four letters, beginning with a capital C…

                         (laughs)  You once wanted to give him

                        the wax treatment…remember?

JOHN:            The wax treatment?

MAD:              You get him to place his….dick on a table, and then

                        you pound it with a mallet until the wax comes out

                        his ears.  (John looks horrified)

                        Well, perhaps it wasn’t you

JOHN:            What sort of people were you mixing with before you met me?

MAD:              Oh, forget it!  I must have read it somewhere.

                        (pause)

Here’s another word.  Five letters, begins with M. Something we lack.

JOHN:            We’re doing okay.

MAD:              Right!  A holiday then. Three weeks in the Caribbean.

JOHN:            Not that okay.

MAD:              Roger’s just come back from two weeks in Benidorm.

Christmas, they went cruising down the Nile. Later

in the year they’re off to Mexico…

JOHN:            Not if  Liza is leaving him.

MAD:              That won’t stop him! He’ll take Mona…or some other floozy.

(beat) If I was a tramp like her…

JOHN:            You don’t know her.

MAD:              I know her type.  (beat)

I could have been like that, thrown myself at men…

it wasn’t for the lack of opportunities, you know…

JOHN:            Why didn’t you?  I find that most women have

                        a talent for that sort of thing.

MAD:              Piss off.

JOHN:            You couldn’t be like her.  Not in a million years.

MAD:              Why not?  What’s she got that I haven’t got?

JOHN:            I‘m not saying she’s got anything. 

Just…It takes a certain type of woman. A…a…

MAD:              Slag?  You don’t think I have what it takes to be a slag?

JOHN:            I was going to say look.  They  have a certain look..

MAD:              (ripping the buttons on her blouse, exposing lots

                        of cleavage, then ripping a slit in her skirt and exposing

                        her thigh)

 Like this, you mean?

JOHN:            Can you afford a gesture like that?  Silk blouses don’t

                        grow on trees.

MAD:              (ripping her blouse off completely, and throwing it at him)

                        It’s not a fucking gesture. (pause)

                      Is this the look?  Go on, tell me

JOHN:            I was under the impression you’d led a sheltered life.

Convent girl, you said  (beat)  Or was that a load of old tosh?

MAD:              Is it or isn’t it?  Is that what turns men on? Turns you on?

JOHN:            (shrugs)  Any half-naked woman is a turn-on for a man. Some more than others, I suppose. That’s a biological thing. 

But that isn’t what I meant. It’s in the eyes, it’s in the

mouth, its in the gestures. It’s an inner thing…subconscious

maybe…I don’t know…,(trails away)

MAD:              Listen to him!  The great lover speaking.

JOHN:            You did ask. I never pretended I was John Travolta or…

MAD:              Hah!  (grabs her blouse and puts it back on)

                        Does she turn you on?  Mona.

JOHN:            I suppose after about six pints I might be tempted. But

                        you know how drink affects me.  With that amount of alcohol

                        inside me a sheep would look inviting.

MAD:              Don’t be crude.

JOHN           Come on, I’m old enough to be her father!

MAD:              When did that ever stop a man?

JOHN:            She’s not my type, Maddy.  You are.

MAD:              I hate it when you call me that.

JOHN:            Sorry.  Madeleine.

Silence

MAD:              Couldn’t we rob a bank or something. 

JOHN:            We?

MAD:              You, then. What about Roger?

Could you fiddle some books?

JOHN:            Wouldn’t be a clever move.

MAD:              It would be a move, though. A…move.

JOHN:            I never heard you like this before.

 (tries the car ,but it doesn’t work)

MAD:              I was never desperate before.

JOHN:            I thought you said it didn’t matter.

MAD:              Do you have to believe everything people say?

                        (beat) I don’t want to wind up being discarded like Liza.

JOHN:            You said she was leaving him.

MAD:              She is. But she could see the writing on the wall from

                        a long way off

JOHN:            Why are you suddenly so concerned?  You hardly know her.

MAD:              Expanding my circle of friends, dear. You don’t

                        seem to have any – and mine are all…well, elsewhere. (beat)

                        We both use the same hairdresser…and…well… you know…

JOHN:            Does Roger know she plans to leave?

MAD:              I shouldn’t think he cares.

JOHN:            I can’t feel sorry for her.  She’s one of life’s takers.

MAD:              There’s plenty to go round.

JOHN:            There isn’t a well deep enough that she couldn’t drain.

                        Do you know how much she spent  last month?

                        Nearly fifteen hundred quid. Fifteen hundred

                        for a few frocks!  Roger is on the warpath.

MAD:              Good for her!  I’d spend it if I had it.

JOHN:            Not my money you wouldn’t.

MAD:             You’re so tight your arse squeaks when you walk, John.

JOHN:            Ungenerous to a fault, that’s me.  (beat)

            Must be my terrific personality that won the day then.

MAD:              No.  And in case you’re wondering, it wasn’t your

                        big cock either.

Before John can reply, the door to the hallway opens and ROGER strides in. Roger is a small cockney with a big voice.

ROGER:        You cant, John!  You facking cant!  Where’s the Priestley

                        cheque?

JOHN:            What…what’s up. Roger?

ROGER:        What’s facking up?  Your number’s up, that’s what. I’ll tell you

                        where the Priestley cheque is. In the bank, that’s where. Belly up.

                        And ten grand of my money is winging it’s way to Gran Canaria,

                         (Sees Madeleine for the first time)

                        Sexy.  You putting on or taking off?

JOHN:            Well, I guess he’ll have cashed it by now.

MAD:              How did you?….the door was…

ROGER:        (hands her a key)  Fifty percent of burglars let themselves in.

                        (looks her over)  I know those legs.

MAD:              Well…I’ve had them all my life.

ROGER:        (wagging his finger)  Nah, nah…They’re familiar.  I’m

                        not much good at faces but I never forget a leg…

                        (turns to John)  ‘Course he’s cashed it you cretin. But he

                        wasn’t supposed to, was he?  Put it on hold till I get back,

                        I said.  And what do I find?  Facking cashed…

JOHN:            I don’t recall…

ROGER:        You don’t recall. (he goes to the phone and picks up the

                        answering machine, then throws it on the settee)  Do you

                        recall what this is?  I spend good money installing it and

                        you don’t even listen to it.

JOHN:            There wasn’t any message…was there Mad?…

ROGER:        You’re havin’ a laugh.  I listened to your poxy voice myself

                        telling me you wasn’t there, before I left the message.

                        You must’a got it.

JOHN:            I didn’t.  I swear.

ROGER:        You’ve cost me ten grand. Ten facking grand. You’re

                        losing it, John. (To Maddy)  Isn’t  he losing it?

MAD:              Seems to me you’re the one whose lost it.

ROGER:        Oh, that’s sharp.  She’s sharp tonight, John.  Tell you

                        what, because she’s brought a smile  to my old boat-race,

                        I’m going to reduce your debt by half. You now only owe

                        me five grand.

MAD:              Now you’re the one having a laugh.

ROGER:        I never joke about my money.

JOHN:            I…can’t pay you five thousand.  I don’t have it.

MAD:              John!  Tell him go fuck himself!

ROGER:        Difficult thing to do – unless you got a dong

                        that goes round corners.

MAD:              Fuck you, buster! (she goes to the sideboard and pours

                        herself a drink.  The bottle is empty now, so she puts

                        it in the bin)

ROGER:        I’m not an unreasonable man. You can pay it off at…

                        say a ton a week.

MAD:              You’ll never make the Comedy Store with material

                        like that.

ROGER:        Well, John?

JOHN:            No.  Roger’s right.  I should have checked the machine

                        properly.

ROGER:        See.  I knew we could settle things amicably.

 (he rubs his hands)  This calls for a celebration. I know.

                        Bubbly. Lets have some  lovely-jubly.

MAD:              You must be joking!

ROGER:        You don’t run to a bottle of the old Dom Perignon then?

                        Pity.  I’ve got a fridge-full at home.  Still, not to

                        worry. Wasn’t that an off-license I saw at the bottom

                        of the street?

Roger takes out his wallet, removes a fifty-pound note, and holds it out.   

After a little hesitation, John takes the note and exits.

ROGER:        No point in having a dog and barking yourself.

                        What do you see in him?

MAD:              None of your effing business.

ROGER:        Must have some hidden talents, Johnny boy.  I mean,

                        he’s not exactly the life and soul, is he?  And he’s no

                        Chippendale, eh?  I mean, you wouldn’t want to rip

                        his trousers off  in a hurry, would you?  Still, he must

                        have something going for him. Maybe he’s got the right

                        knack. You know, what turns you ladies on?

                        Though  where he’s suddenly acquired it from…

                        ‘cos in all the years I’ve known him, he’s had trouble

                        getting his leg over the front doorstep, never mind

                        over…well, you get my drift.

  Maddy sits, pointedly ignoring Roger.  He studies her profile for a moment, then shakes his head.

ROGER:        What did you do before you met John?

MADDY:        Still none of your effing business.

ROGER:        Nah, listen.  For some time now I got this funny feeling about you.

                        Something tells me we’ve met in a previous life.

MAD:              What were you – a pile of manure?

ROGER:        Before you met him…what’s that, six months ago?…what

                        did you do?     Were you ever Miss Whiplash?  You got the

looks for it.  No…?   A dancer?  I bet you was a dancer. You

                        still got the pins.  Lap-dancing up West.  Is that what

                        you did?  The old nut-cracker shufti at my table?

MAD:              Life’s too short to dance with ugly men.

ROGER:        Not dancing then.  How about hooking?  Did you ever

                        do any hooking?

MAD:              I don’t believe what I’m hearing!

ROGER:        No, you’re right.  You don’t look like no hooker I ever knew.

MAD:              And you know plenty, I suppose?

ROGER:        A sex maniac, that’s me.   Can’t get enough of it.

                        You know that survey that found men think of sex

                        every six minutes?  Well, they made a mistake;

                        I reckon it’s  every  six seconds. (laughs)

                        But then, I’m sure Liza has marked your card.

MAD:              Liza  doesn’t confide in me.

ROGER:        You must be the only female in the Western world

                        deprived of that pleasure, then.  Yak, yak, that’s

                        all she does, morning till night.  Her dog-and-bone

                        bill is bigger than a tally-roll at Tesco’s on Christmas

                        eve.  (beat)  Not that she has to pay the facking thing.

                        (another beat)  Mind you, she does do a good turkey.

                        I’ll give her that.

MAD:              I can’t see you appreciating home cooking!

ROGER:        (laughs) Nah, nah.  You got your knickers in a tangle,

                        girl.  Nothing to do with nosh. Well, no…that’s wrong.

  See…it’s…(pause)… What do turkeys do?

MAD:              I don’t know.  Hate Christmas?

ROGER:        Yeah, that’s good. I like a woman with a sense of humor.

                        But it’s not the answer.

MAD:              What is it, then?

ROGER:        (after a pause)  Okay.  Chickens go cheep, cheep

                        Ducks go quack, quack.  Turkeys go…?

MAD:              Gobble, gobble.  (realizes what she has said)

                        Oh, Christ….

ROGER:        Not your cup of tea?  Some women come

                        into their own at that sort of thing. Have the mouth

                        for it.  Like Liza. (pause)  Fellatio, fellatio, where

                        art thou now?  Good fellatiatists…fellatiatists?….are

                        born not made.  Mind you, geography has a lot to do with

                        it.  Take England, for example.  Now, English birds

                        ain’t bad at it…not bad at all. Whereas the Irish, they won’t

                        touch it with a barge pole. Poles now, they’re quite

                        partial to it, but then they would be, wouldn’t they …gives

                        quite a new meaning to the expression ‘sliding down a greasy

                        pole’, don’t you think?… but best of all are American women.

                        They just love it.  ‘Giving head’, they call it. (laughs)

                        You can always tell an American woman by her mouth. Must

                        be all that exercise getting her laughing gear round…

MAD:              Do you practice at being offensive?

ROGER:        Nah.  It just comes naturally. (beat) What are your feelings

                        on going down?

MAD:              On you?  I’d rather go down on a gorilla.

ROGER:        Now, now, don’t be hasty.  It could be financially rewarding.

MAD:              You’re offering me money!  What do you take me for?

ROGER:        Five grand for a few minutes work.  Easy money, eh?

MAD:              You can’t be serious!

ROGER:        Why not? Wipe the slate clean for John.

MAD:              John doesn’t owe you any money.

ROGER:        He cost me ten grand. (pause)  Or maybe you did?

                        Maybe you erased the message?

MAD:              There was no bloody message.

ROGER:        No matter. If I can’t get it out of you, I’ll get it out of him.

 With interest.  He fucked up, he’s gotta pay.  Trouble is,

he can’t afford to pay – not even on my deferred terms.

 You’re a realist, I’d guess….so I’m offering you a way out.

 A blow-job for five grand. (laughs) A grand a minute!

 Even Naomi Campbell doesn’t earn that much!

MAD:              You’re a real bastard, aren’t you, Roger?

ROGER:        Right down to the soles of my Gucci shoes.

                        It’s a done deal, then?

MAD:              You mean now?

ROGER:        No time like the present. (he looks at his watch)

                        If we hurry, you should be able to wash it down with

                        a glass of bubbly.

                                                                                    end of scene one

to be continued…