Fleabag Read online

  Phoebe Waller-Bridge

  FLEABAG

  NICK HERN BOOKS

  London

  www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Original Production

  Introduction

  Dedication

  Note on Text

  Fleabag

  About the Author

  Copyright and Performing Rights Information

  Fleabag was first performed at Underbelly on 1 August 2013 as part of the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. It transferred to Soho Theatre, London, on 3 September 2013 and was revived there on 7 May 2014. The cast was as follows:

  FLEABAG

  Phoebe Waller-Bridge

  VOICE-OVERS

  FEMALE VOICE

  Holly Piggott

  (RECEPTIONIST)

  MALE VOICE

  Adam Brace

  FEMALE VOICE

  (LECTURE-HALL TANNOY)

  Charlotte McBrearty

  LECTURER

  Teresa Waller-Bridge

  BOO (VOICEMAIL)

  Vicky Jones

  EX-BOYFRIEND

  Charlie Walker-Wise

  (TEXT MESSAGE)

  Director and Dramaturg

  Vicky Jones

  Producer

  Francesca Moody

  Designer

  Holly Pigott

  Associate Designer

  Antonia Campbell-Evans

  Lighting Designer

  Elliot Griggs

  Sound Designer

  Isobel Waller-Bridge

  Associate Sound Designer

  Max Pappenheim

  Stage Manager

  Charlotte McBrearty

  PR

  Chloé Nelkin Consulting

  Introduction

  Phoebe Waller-Bridge

  I am obsessed with audiences. How to win them, why some things alienate them, how to draw them in and surprise them, what divides them. It’s a theatrical sport for me – and I’m hooked.

  When Vicky Jones (director of the stage play/inimitable genius/excellent friend) and I were producing nights of short plays under our theatre company, DryWrite, we were forever scrabbling for new ways to put the audience in the centre of the experience.

  Each experiment illuminated little tricks of how to construct a satisfying story. We would give briefs to writers, challenging them to elicit a specific response from the audience. It would change each time, but one, for example, was: ‘Make an audience fall in love with a character in under five minutes.’ Writers would write the monologues, actors would perform them, and each audience member would express their ‘love’ by releasing a small, heart-shaped, helium balloon at the moment they fell in love with the character on stage.

  Each writer could measure their success by how many balloons floated to the ceiling of the theatre during their piece. At the end of the night we’d all then charge to the bar and discuss why some pieces succeeded over others. Whatever the experiment, the audience rarely behaved in the way we expected them to, prompting many fascinating conversations and debates about character, story and language that proved invaluable lessons in playwriting.

  Over the years, we put on event after event, experiment after experiment, and at the heart of them were always the big questions about how to affect the audience. How do you make people heckle? How do you make people invest in one character over another? How do you make an audience forgive a terrible crime? There was one I was most intrigued by – ‘Funny/Not Funny: How do you make an audience laugh in one moment, then feel something completely and profoundly different in the next?’

  It was this tightrope that I wanted to walk with Fleabag. When we were developing it for the Edinburgh Fringe, I was obsessively looking for ways to surprise the audience, to sneak up on them just when they least expect it.

  I knew I wanted to write about a young, sex-obsessed, angry, dry-witted woman, but the main focus of the process was her direct relationship with her audience and how she tries to manipulate and amuse and shock them, moment to moment, until she eventually bares her soul.

  Adapting Fleabag for TV in 2016 meant this same fundamental structure still applied, but experiments with the audience took another interesting turn and Fleabag’s relationship with the audience intensified.

  In theatre, people come to you, or your characters. In TV, characters arrive in people’s living rooms, their kitchen tables, and are often even taken into bed with them! It’s a very intimate way of communicating with an audience and a privilege to experiment with. With this in mind, I was determined for the audience of the TV series to feel like they were having a personal relationship with Fleabag – hence the audience address – and the absolute ideal situation was that at the beginning you should feel she wants you there and by the end, that she wishes she hadn’t let you in. A feeling I imagine lots of people have felt after spilling it all out to a stranger.

  If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you get a lot for free from an audience if you make them laugh. The power of comedy is astonishing to me – how it can disarm an audience and leave them wide open and vulnerable. Ultimately, for the Fleabag audience, I wanted the drama of this woman’s story to leap into their open, laughing mouths and find its way deep into their hearts.

  This piece was originally written for the BBC Daily Drop in 2016.

  To Vicky Jones

  Note on Text

  Other characters can be recorded voices, played by other actors or played by Fleabag.

  Pauses and beats are indicated by the space given between lines.

  Lights come up on FLEABAG.

  She is out of breath and sweating.

  FEMALE VOICE. He’s ready to see you now.

  FLEABAG. Thank you.

  FLEABAG attempts to hide that she is overheating.

  MALE VOICE. Thanks for coming in today. Really appreciate you sending in your CV.

  FLEABAG. No problem.

  MALE VOICE. It was funny!

  FLEABAG. Oh? Okay. That wasn’t my intention, but –

  MALE VOICE. Great. Our current situation is unusual in that… we don’t have many… any women working here. Mainly due to the –

  FLEABAG. Sexual-harassment case.

  MALE VOICE. Sexual-harassment case, yes. Are you alright?

  FLEABAG. Yes, sorry – I ran from the station. Just a bit hot. Sorry. I’m really excited about –

  MALE VOICE. Water?

  FLEABAG. No, I’m – I’ll be okay – actually, yes please, that would be great.

  Over the next speech, FLEABAG pulls her jumper halfway over her head exposing her bra. She realises she doesn’t have a top on underneath and she attempts to pulls her jumper back down as if nothing had happened.

  MALE VOICE. So we are looking for someone who can handle themselves in a competitive environment. It will mainly be filing, but we have some pretty good filers so – Haha – yeah. It also involves updating the website and throwing up an occasional twit. It says here that you have done something similar before at the… café that you used to –

  Ah okay. Um.

  I’m sorry. That won’t get you very far here any more.

  FLEABAG. Oh no – sorry – I thought I had a top on underneath.

  MALE VOICE. Yup. Okay. But for the record.

  FLEABAG. No seriously. In this case – genuine accident.

  MALE VOICE. Look. With our history here I understand why you might have thought –

  FLEABAG. I wasn’t trying to – Jesus – I was hot –

  MALE VOICE. I take this kind of thing very seriously now.

  FLEABAG. I’m not trying to shag you! Look at yourself.

  MALE VOICE. Okay. Please leave.

  FLEABAG. What!? But I – you don’t understand. I need �
��

  MALE VOICE. Please just leave.

  FLEABAG starts to leave. She turns back.

  FLEABAG. Perv.

  MALE VOICE. Slut.

  FLEABAG. Wow.

  MALE VOICE. Please leave.

  FLEABAG. You please leave.

  MALE VOICE. It’s my office.

  FLEABAG. Yeah?

  MALE VOICE. Okay.

  Sound effect of feet walking away and a door opening.

  FLEABAG. Wait.

  Footsteps stop.

  –

  FLEABAG turns to the audience.

  Three nights ago I ordered myself a very slutty pizza.

  I mean, the bitch was dripping.

  That dirty little stuffed-crust wanted to be in me so bad, I just ate the little tart like she meant nothing to me, and she loved it.

  That pretty much nailed that, and it was pretty late by now, so I dragged myself upstairs and got into my office – or… my bed – and tried to work on the figures for the café. I run a guinea-pig-themed café. But it’s out of cash and it’s going to close unless a cheque falls out of the sky, or a banker comes on my arse, but neither are going to happen, and I don’t want to dignify the banker-man with a proper mention so I’m not going to talk about him or how I do sometimes wish I could own up to not having morals and just let him come on my arse for ten thousand pounds, but apparently we’re ‘not supposed to do that’, so okay. I won’t. Even though it would solve everything. I won’t.

  Even though I could.

  Lying in my office, the café numbers start to jump out at me like little ninjas, so I rationalise it would be good to just switch off for a bit. Improve my mind. So I watched a pretty good movie, actually, called 17 Again with Zac Efron who is… fit.

  I know.

  But seriously, he’s actually a – a really good actor. So – Yeah, but the film could have been worse – honestly. Check it out.

  Then that finished. So I lay there. Thinking. Café. Numbers. Numbers. Zac. Numbers.

  Googled Obama to keep up with – y’know. Who, as it turns out, is also – attractive.

  Lay there. Numbers, numbers, Obama, numbers, Zac, Obama, numbers, Zac –

  Suddenly I was on YouPorn having a horrible wank.

  Found just the right sort of gangbang.

  Now that really knocked me out, so I put my computer away, leaned over, kissed my boyfriend Harry goodnight and went to sleep.

  –

  I wake in the morning to find a note from Harry saying

  ‘That was the last straw.’

  Which is… pretty out of the blue if I’m honest. Didn’t know he was counting straws. But nice to know he was paying attention. All his stuff was gone. And everything in the fridge. I was a bit thrilled by his selfishness. Suddenly fancied him again. But relieved one of us did something – he used to say things to me like

  HARRY. You’re not like other girls… you can… keep up.

  FLEABAG (ponderous). Keep up.

  I stood staring at a handprint on my wall from when I had a threesome on my period. Harry and I break up every twelve to eighteen months and when we do, well…

  I wish I could tell you my threesome story was sticky and awkward and everyone went home a little bit sad and empty, but… it was lovely.

  Sorry.

  I admire how much Harry commits to our break-ups. The fridge is a new detail, but he does always go the extra mile. A few times he’s even cleaned the whole flat. Like it’s a crime scene. I’ve often considered timing a break-up around whenever the flat needs a bit of a going-over, but I never know what’s going to set him off. Keeps me on my toes.

  I sit on the loo and think about all the people I can have sex with now.

  I’m not obsessed with sex.

  I just can’t stop thinking about it.

  The performance of it. The awkwardness of it. The drama of it. The moment you realise someone wants your body… not so much the feeling of it.

  I’ve probably got about a week before Harry comes back. I should get on it.

  Okay.

  Into the shower. Boom. Bedroom. Make-up. Boom. Gonna really make an effort. I take half an hour trying to look nice and I end up looking… amazing. I mean, best in ages. One of those days. Boom.

  Gorgeous, fresh-faced, heels, wearing a skirt, new top, little bit sexy, on my way to save my café and yes, I am strutting.

  I see a man walking towards me from the bus stop. He can’t take his eyes off me. I’m all walking like I’ve got a paintbrush up my arse, thinking:

  Yeah, check me out, cos it’s never gonna happen, Chub Chub.

  –

  I opened the café with my friend Boo. She’s dead now. She accidentally killed herself. It wasn’t her intention, but it wasn’t a total accident. She didn’t think she’d actually die, she just found out that her boyfriend slept with someone else and wanted to punish him by ending up in hospital and not letting him visit her for a bit. She decided to walk into a busy cycle lane, wanting to get tangled in a bike. Break a finger, maybe. But it turns out bikes can go fast and flip you into the road. Three people died. She was such a dick. I didn’t tell her parents the truth. I told her boyfriend. He cried. A lot.

  –

  Chub Chub’s getting closer. Oversized jacket. Meaty face. Looks me up and down. It’s like he’s confused about how attractive I am – he can’t quite believe it. I worry for a second I’m going to make a sex offender out of the poor guy. He’s about to say something. Here we fucking go, this better be good. He’s passing, he’s passing. He clears his throat, brings his hand to his mouth and coughs:

  CHUB CHUB. Walk of shame.

  FLEABAG. It’s too late to go home and change. I have some flat shoes in my bag and anyway, he’s fat.

  And he can’t take that off at night.

  –

  Harry’s a bit fat. He lightly pats his belly, like he’s a little bear. Proud of what he’s achieved. Hunted. Gathered. Eaten. Pat. Evidence. Pat, pat. It makes me laugh. A pretty girl at a party once asked me if I secretly liked that Harry had a little paunch, because it made him less attractive to other women. Her boyfriend was the whale in the corner, blocking the door to the toilets.

  I asked her if he made her wash the bits he can’t reach. She slapped me. Actual slap.

  Which means he did.

  –

  Boo’s death hit the papers.

  ‘Local café girl is hit by a bike and a car and another bike.’

  There was a buzz around the café all of a sudden. Flowers, notes, guinea-pig memorabilia were left outside in her memory.

  Boo made sense of the guinea-pig theme. She was all small and cute and put pictures of guinea pigs everywhere. I pretend they’re not there. Which I suspect makes the whole guinea-pig-café experience a bit creepy.

  Boo was built a bit like a guinea pig. No waist or hips. Straight down. She rocked it. And she was beautiful. Tricky though. Jealous. Sensitive. But beautiful and… my best friend.

  –

  Ten past eleven at the café. Quiet. Eerily so. Boo always used to play music, read out horoscopes and shrivel crisp packets in the microwave. Used to make the place stink, but she’d turn the little packets into key rings and give them to the people who were especially polite.

  One guy in the corner drinking tap water and using the plug. He should buy something, but it’s just nice to have someone around. He’s reading. He’s quite attractive actually, but he doesn’t look at me. Even when I purposefully drop a cucumber so I have something to bend over for.

  Even Joe hasn’t turned up.

  Joe’s always here at eleven. Proper old geezer, cockney from the toes up, one of life’s good people. Huge teeth, white hair, ludicrous grin and a joy that slaps you in the face until you can’t help but smile at it. Even the fucking furniture loves Joe. I swear the door swings open voluntarily when he arrives, if only to give the man an entrance. Suddenly he’ll just be there. CRASH. It almost clatters off its hinges with the force of him.r />
  Nothing touches Joe. He’s invincible. You can hear him bellowing ‘ALLO, SWEETPEA’ to the whole street before he swaggers in, long white hair blowing behind him, cut-off checkered trousers and white T-shirt with braces, dripping wet from the rain all:

  JOE. Alright, magic. What a beautiful morning! I can’t get over how glorious it is out there. Lucky to live, eh. Lucky to live.

  FLEABAG. I don’t know what he does. I just know he comes in at eleven.

  Usually.

  Find myself watching the door. Didn’t notice he was such a regular when Boo was here, but now…

  But then it’s okay, because I see his silhouette take up the window and wait for the door to crash open. But today it just flops to its side with a whimper and Joe limply shuffles to the counter.

  I’m not prepared for this.

  Alright, Joe?

  JOE. Yeah… yeah. I’m alright, ducky.

  FLEABAG. Tea, Joe?

  JOE. Yeah lovely, lovely. Thank you, darlin’. I’m just gonna… be out the back.

  FLEABAG. I make his tea. Six sugars. I take it outside and place it on his little table. He rolls a fag and watches the cup steam.

  JOE. Now, ain’t that a beautiful thing.

  FLEABAG. Not sure what to… I ask him for a rollie. I don’t smoke. Well I do, but – shut up.

  Can I have a rollie, Joe?

  JOE. Sugarplum, you can have anything you want. May I have the honour?

  FLEABAG. Yeah, thanks.

  He rolls it with his spindly, inky fingers. Takes four seconds. Proper pro. I take it and light it. We smoke. I sit beside him. Two of us on tiny little kids’ chairs – sort of a gimmick thing, but really they were cheaper. He looks ridiculous.

  JOE. I love these chairs y’know.

  FLEABAG. What’s… wrong, Joe?

  JOE (sighs). Ah my girl, I just… I love people. I love people. But… they get me down.

  FLEABAG. Yeah. People are… shit.