This Much Is True

The next day was assigned for our shows. The matinee was to take place at 2 p.m. in their open-air theatre. And I must stress again that this was the middle of August, and it was boiling hot. They picked us up and took us to the theatre. I put on my velvet, long-sleeved, floor-length Gertrude Stein costume. I went out on stage; I took my pose in the Gertrude Stein chair and looked out to the audience. And that’s when I became aware I was being watched by 4,000 nipples, give or take a few (most people had two): sitting expectantly were over 2,000 enormous, and I mean ENORMOUS, lesbians, each and every one stark naked! (I don’t know what it is about lesbians, but we’re not known for svelteness. We’re quite a chubby brigade.) There was A LOT of flesh on view. It was completely overwhelming, but my main concern was, of course, Pamela, because she was due on stage in a few seconds and there was no way I could warn her.

On her cue, Pamela appeared, tall, beautiful, statuesque. I saw her look down at the audience, and from side to side. I knew I mustn’t look directly at her, because if our eyes met that would be the end of everything. But I couldn’t resist taking a peek out of the corner of my eye when I heard her come on. For a couple of seconds, she was transfixed — not with horror or disgust — but with huge surprise. Then, like the trooper she is, she gathered herself together and went on with the show. We somehow controlled ourselves — we never looked at each other, not once, because I knew that would be curtains — and we performed.

The lesbians clapped and clapped and clapped. Well, of course, they loved it. I mean, we don’t often get to see our own stories up on stage. It was right up their alley, you could say. And at the end they gave us a standing ovation. Quite an eye-watering experience.

After the applause had finished, we got off the stage and collapsed into each other’s arms. We were quite hysterical. Pam said, ‘Miriam, I love you very much but, please, NEVER bring me to a place like this ever again!’

I’m as big a feminist as anyone, but now I always say, when you see ‘women’ spelt with a ‘y’, run like hell!

In Therapy

I went into therapy because I wasn’t always faithful. Adultery is a silly, tiresome thing and I’m sorry that it happened. But it did, and I have to admit it. The problem for Heather and me has always been that we have lived separate lives. Being apart so much, and being in show business — which encourages speedy intimacy — can give rise to infidelity.

I had an affair with a woman I met on the campus tour of Gertrude Stein and a Companion. She was a professor. I’ve said before I won’t fuck anyone without a PhD. She was my landlady and she seduced me. It was quite exciting, but she was peculiar: she liked to be hit. I’d never come across that before. Sexually, I’m straight as a die. In the early days, Heather would tease me about that. When we first got together, I said, ‘I’m not really experienced at this.’ She said, ‘Don’t you have any chains?’ Somewhat aghast, I said, ‘No!’ And Heather laughed and laughed. What I’m saying is that I don’t come to bed armed with electrical goods. Or indeed anything.

The Californian professor told me in a deep voice, ‘The repertoire of love is wide.’ When I didn’t say anything, she enquired, ‘Have you ever experienced pain in the course of love?’ Of course, I said, ‘No!’ because I hadn’t. Indeed, if anybody tried to hurt me (never mind the repertoire of love), I’d biff them from here to Doncaster. She then waxed lyrical about how magical and fantastic it was. I had no idea what she meant.

‘Do you want me to hit you?’ I ventured.

She answered, yes: she would like me to hit her — with a hairbrush. I got out of bed, went to the dressing table and picked one up. ‘This one?’ I asked. ‘Yeah, why not. I want you to hurt me.’ She turned over and exposed her buttocks. I raised the hairbrush high and gave them a good whack. She screamed: ‘Not that hard!’ Well, I didn’t know — did I? I’ll never make a good dominatrix.

It was a damaging relationship, and not just where the professor’s tender buttocks were concerned. Heather found out and she was angry, shocked and disgusted. We then separated for six months: the worst six months of my life. The loss of Heather fragmented me; I couldn’t bear it. I asked friends to help. Hodge suggested I needed a therapist to put me back together. Roly Curram found me Margaret.

If you get the wrong person, it can tear you apart. I was lucky: I got Margaret Branch.

When I phoned to make the appointment for my first session, Margaret said, ‘Now, I have to find out whether I like you, because if I like you, I may be able to help, but if I don’t like you, there’s no point in your coming.’ She explained that I had to pay for two rounds of therapy in advance. She preferred cash. ‘I like it in brownies.’ She meant ten pound notes.