Page 32 of Best Supporting Actor

The house was a few streets back from the grandly named Broadway, which Tag took to be a good sign. Off Broadway—where else would an actor stay in old York, right? Modest houses lined the road, a mix of red brick terraces and a handful of semis. Most were in good nick, well maintained and lovingly gentrified. Others, less so.

One other, especially less so.

Tag’s heart sank as he came to stand outside the address he’d been given, the place where he’d be spending the next few weeks of his life. A car up on blocks filled the neglected front garden, and next to it lay a fridge with its door agape. The battered front door of the house stood ajar and from inside came the sound of… hoovering? That was a good sign, he hoped. The curtains to the front, upstairs bedroom were closed, one hanging crooked, while a smear of grey net curtains slouched across the window of his own downstairs bedroom.

Steeling himself, Tag approached the door, dragging his case over the cracked crazy paving. He knocked and called out, “Hello?”

No answer.

He tried again, louder. “Hello?”

The hoover stopped, there were footsteps, and a middle-aged woman appeared wearing neon pink leggings and a Disney t-shirt proclaimingIt’s a Princess Thing. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth. She looked Tag up and down and said, “Yes?”

Clearing the tightness from his throat, he said, “I’m Tag. I’m renting a room here?”

“Tag?”

“Tag O’Rourke. Uh, I’ve been emailing someone called Maggie?”

She nodded. “That’s me. I didn’t expect you to be so…” She gave him another once-over, then shrugged. “All right, then. This way.” She turned and headed back inside. Tag followed in trepidation. The place stank of cigarette smoke, with a strong undertone of weed, and he had to make an effort not to cough.

“I’ve hoovered,” Maggie said, sounding rather defensive as she led him into his room.

Tag had to work hard to control his expression. The single bed which he’d seen on the website advert had been reduced to a rather dingy mattress sitting on a carpet that had probably been new in the sixties. The bedframe appeared to have disappeared entirely. An ancient and frankly lethal looking gas fire hung at a rakish angle on the chimney breast, with a dirty pink curtain covering each alcove.

Helpfully, Maggie shuffled over to pull one curtain aside and reveal a single pole spanning the alcove space. “Wardrobe,” she announced, which Tag felt was pushing the definition.

“Right,” was all he could manage.

“Kitchen’s this way,” Maggie went on, stepping over the Henry Hoover she’d abandoned in the hallway.

The kitchen contained a rickety table and chairs, a fridge, a microwave, a toaster, a kettle, and an ancient-looking electric cooker with a pan of something greasy and congealed festering on top. The sink was crammed with dirty plates, and an overflowing bin crouched beneath the counter.

“They never bloody empty it,” Maggie muttered, kicking the bin as she passed it and dislodging a minor avalanche of rubbish. “Bathroom’s through here.”

And so it was. An avocado-green suite, the bathtub stained a disturbing brown and with a plastic shower hose wedged onto its taps. A mildewy curtain hung listlessly from its pole. Tag didn’t dare look too closely at the loo.

Fuck, he thought,I can’t stay here.

But where the hell else could he go? He’d already paid a month’s rent in advance.

He felt a little breathless.

“You’re not the usual type,” Maggie said then, eying him curiously as she took a drag on her ciggy. “What is it you do?”

Faintly, although even now with a sense of pride, Tag said, “I’m an actor. I’m rehearsing a play here. In York.”

Her plucked eyebrows rose. “Actor, eh? Been in anything I know?” Then she cackled. “I suppose not, if you’re staying here.” She laughed again, tickled by her own joke.

Tag smiled, wanly. “Well, I haven’t been in anything you know—yet.”

She grunted at that, unimpressed, and squeezed past him, heading back through the kitchen. Crouching, she unplugged the hoover and then stamped on the cable button. The cable whipped along the floor and back into the hoover with a noisy rattle.

“The others won’t bother you much,” she said when it was done, gesturing to the rooms upstairs. “They’re only really awake at night, anyway. Mostly they’re stoned or working.”

“Great,” Tag said faintly. “So, uh, you don’t live here, then?”

“Me? God no.” She looked offended by the idea as she picked up the hoover and headed for the front door. “Keys are in your room. Best to keep it locked when you're out.” Over her shoulder she grinned, cigarette waggling between her lips. “Andwhen you’re in, if you know what I mean.”