Do You Remember The First Time?

Are you a romantic? At 18-years-old I was, I still am.

Amy Beeson and Takbir Uddin, The Birmingham Rep 2000 image taken from The Independent article ‘What’s Age Got To Do With It’

When the clock struck midnight at the millennium I was waiting to fall in love, worried I never would meet someone, eager to start my young adult life and leave the heavy years of catholic secondary school behind me. I was the mixed-race opinionated daughter of a Labour Activist Divorcee who handed out condoms in the Guildhall Shopping Centre as part of her job as a health visitor. Amy isn’t university material; my headmaster told my mother. Mum was having none of it. How triumphant we were when I got into my first choice of UEA. I’d deferred entry as a backup plan but since I’d passed my A levels it had left me free to pursue writing on my gap year and put my night school secretarial qualification to good use and earn some money. I’d only gone along to keep my friend DJ company, but it was one of the most useful things I ever did, netting me almost triple minimum wage in administrative jobs working for MPs and county types with fancy job titles.  

I assisted on school plays in sixth form and had somehow wangled my way into using the windowless storage cupboard that was the office of the Head of English next to the school library. That was the norm at my school, the bigwigs had offices overlooking the drive, but some teachers had to share their workspace with boxes of Opal Fruits, Wheat Crunchies, Marathons and cans of Vimpto destined for the vending machines in the stale misty cloakroom that smelt of Skips, muddy football boots and Lynx Africa. My best bit of luck had been having Mrs King for A level English Literature, she’d stood up for me when the Headmaster suggested I’d be more suited to Stafford College and was the first person to tell me I could write. I remember flicking through the Yellow Pages in Mrs King’s office in search of theatre companies I could contact for work experience. I was astonished and thrilled when Birmingham Rep offered me a chance to work in the literary department, which I eagerly accepted and led me to being part of their stable of young playwrights aged 16-24 working towards writing plays for a summer festival called TRANSMISSIONS.

Every other Saturday since the autumn of 1999 my mum had driven me from our small Staffordshire village into town so I could take the train to Brum on my own. I’d tasted big city life and I liked it, indulging in coffee and sandwiches from New Street Pret a Manger at lunchtime, and shedding my schoolgirl self with a new sexier wardrobe from H&M. I’d even been taken out dancing by my new theatre friends. Living the high life to the soundtrack of Madison Avenue, Moloko and Craig David in the clubs on Broad Street and China Town. I was transformed. I’d never even wanted to step foot in Zanzibar, Stafford’s Nightclub, despite all my schoolfriend’s talk of foam parties. No that was not my idea of romance. I lived on blended fantasies of The Vampire Lestat or Christian Slater with the home and manners of Mr Darcy.

Now it was Valetine’s Day and I was in the Studio of The Rep watching a play I’d written in rehearsal with real actors, and a professional director for the first time. It was half-term, and this was an opportunity to hear our work performed and get feedback before we began rewrites and found out whether we would be chosen for the festival in July. We’d been tutored by the generous and talented playwrights Carl Miller and Noel Grieg, and directed by The Rep’s Associate Director, Indhu Rubasingham. If her name sounds familiar Indhu will become the Artistic Director of The National Theatre in Spring 2025. We knew we were jammy to be there, but not quite how lucky we were in our mentors.

Everything in the studio was black. The prickly upholstered metal tiered seats, the floors adorned with gaffer tape and cables, scratched walls, and the plastic moulded chairs on which the actors sat. Their scripts fluttered as the actors jumped around, my white pages in their hands, my words taking flight, creating air. It had magical woody dusty scent, and my skin tingled with excitement just to be there. I looked over my shoulder at my peers, trying not to make it obvious I was searching for Takbir, the Bangladeshi Brummie who’d taken it upon himself to walk me to Birmingham New Street every Saturday after writers’ group. I’d proven myself unable to pass through the crowded city centre streets without being chatted up, scammed or signed up for a religious cult, and he was a streetwise inner-city boy who’d noticed this was all new to me. I’d barely registered him at first, it was his play that captured my attention, it was my favourite of everyone’s work, and now he wasn’t there. It had been two weeks since I’d last seen him. That time, for the first time, as the train pulled away, he smiled a huge cheeky grin at me, his brown eyes twinkling as we waved goodbye. My heart did a little leap and I thought, that’s not good. He was not what I had in mind for myself, and I didn’t think he liked me, not like that.

My turn was over, and the company had started dissecting someone else’s work. I attempted to soundlessly root through my rucksack for my notebook, eager to jot down ideas. My bag was full of makeup and a change of clothes for the evening. The Rep had given us tickets to see a play in the Main House. Free tickets were a brilliant perk, though I always had to leave in the interval to get the train home. But tonight, one of the girl’s was putting me up at her house so I wouldn’t miss out. I looked up at the lighting rig as a spotlight fell on me. There in his signature army jacket with a tall Starbucks mocha in hand was Takbir, smiling right at me. Our eyes locked and I smiled back, and it was like a movie, for a moment the rest of the world was a blur and the air was super charged. I felt the intensity of being really seen. How did he even get up there? How long had he been there? Moments later he was by my side, ready to watch his own play. Our thighs touching on the compact seating, giving each other surreptitious shy glances. His smile still lights me up now and 24 years later his coffee order is still the same. It was the year 2000 and everything in my life was changing. I had no idea the trouble a Muslim Bangladeshi Brummie from Aston would be in for loving me, I didn’t even know where Aston was.

Do you remember the first time you fell in love? Tell me in the comments.

If you’d like to read any of my published books then please consider buying from my online bookshop. The New Arrival, Our Country Nurse and Happy Baby, Happy Family. To find out more about my life as Head of Storytelling visit Wordsby Communications.