I Met Emma Thompson and Made an Idiot of Myself

How a ridiculously embarrassing encounter became my dying friend’s favourite story

December 2003

The conservatory is a makeshift construction bravely resisting its third winter. Beyond the rain-spattered glass, the Devon hills roll and fall in green. Yes, I’ve borrowed (and butchered) some lyrics from Wuthering Heights, but when life’s impermanence overwhelms, it helps to conjure up Kate Bush.

Eve holds a DVD. ‘I want to ask a favour. Will you take this home and watch it for me?’

The wicker creaks every time one of us moves. Perched on the edge of the seat cushion, I rest my Marlboro Light in the ashtray. ‘Is that Emma Thompson?’

‘Yes. In a film called Wit.' Eve takes a long drag on her Dunhill International. ‘Usually I watch everything she does, but this one… I’m not sure.’

‘Why?’

‘She’s playing a woman with cancer.’

‘And maybe that’s not the kind of thing you need to see right now.’

‘Precisely.’ Eve brushes a hand over her wiry, tufted scalp - new hair more suited to a French Poodle than a woman once mistaken for Cybill Shepherd in Moonlighting. Apparently, it’s normal. An ephemeral phenomenon referred to affectionately by Macmillan nurses as chemo-curl. ‘Emma shaved her head to make her performance as real as possible.

'Bloody hell.'

'And I think she dies at the end.'

'Fuck.'

Baubles dangle from the bougainvillea while its once-pink flowers decorate the carpet tiles. Mini paper lanterns, a reminder of summer, gather dust between the rafters.

It isn’t until late on Friday evening, hours after our arrival, that I notice the medical paraphernalia dangling from tinsel. An admirable two-finger gesture to terminal illness.

Amber, Eve’s daughter, my childhood friend and travel companion from London, scowls disapprovingly. 'Gregsy,' she says, 'shame you won’t be here on Christmas Eve. You could kiss Santa

under the colostomy bag.'

'I’ve had worse offers,' I say.

'Oooh, tell me more,' Eve says. 'Do you still go to that nightclub?'

'Give me a clue.'

'Complimentary condoms.'

'That could be anywhere.'

'The place where you took off all your clothes and put them in a black bin bag.'

'You mean Substation South, in Brixton.'

'That’s the one.'

'Haven’t been for ages. But I’m sure Naughty Knicker Night is still every Monday. Tuesday, it’s Dirty Dishes, or is that Wednesday? Whatever, there’s a man in a leather jockstrap with a set of barber’s clippers.'

'Why?'

'No definitive explanation,' I shrug. 'But the place attracts an eclectic crowd, so I imagine it’s something to do with being submissive. You know, like a slave having all their hair shaved off. S&M.'

'Now you’ve lost me.'

'Like M&S,' I say. 'Only that place is packed with obedient housewives on Discount Knicker Night.'

Between 1977 and 1981, Croyde was my childhood home. Amber and I met at the school bus stop outside the Village Stores. When Luke, Eve’s husband and Amber’s dad, died suddenly in 1980, life changed overnight.

With the Grim Reaper on the prowl, I appointed myself Chief Distracter. Playing the jester is a role I still covet.

'Do you go to Substation South?' Eve asks Amber.

'Err, it’s kind of men-only. But Sunday nights are mixed. Old-school music like The Cure, The Smiths, Simple Minds. All the stuff we used to play really loud in my bedroom.'

The fantasy of parading around a nightclub in underwear, having wild sex in dark corners, or on the pool table (it was a one-off; I was really drunk), differs from reality.

For starters, in real life, there are smells you hadn’t bargained for. Life is full of surprises. What you and I might call a soap-dodger could be another’s ultimate thrill.

In his taxicab days, my current boyfriend went to Substation South to collect a jacket someone had left the night before. Directly in front of him, a man filling one of those aforementioned black bin bags bent over to reveal threadbare, heavily stained Y-fronts.

Maybe, when distributing complimentary condoms, they should include a sachet of Persil.

On a separate note, but sticking to the same theme, Eve’s partner is a self-employed builder who never turns down paid work. The kitchen behind us was recently dismantled, and although the planning inspector has been and gone, it’s yet to be reinstalled.

Getting nailed nightly by a rugged geezer with big hands and a tool belt is all well and good, but what happens when the novelty wears thin and you want to bake a broccoli quiche?

'So, will you? Watch the video?'

'Yes, of course.'

'It’s an adaptation of a play, and it had great reviews. I’m sure there’s plenty of humour. It’s just that… well… I was thinking, you could tell me if it’s ultimately uplifting or best avoided.'

'Okay. I understand.'

*

Back in Streatham, South London, I steel myself to watch Wit. My boyfriend, now a technician for the London Ambulance Service, does killer shifts, so I have at least thirteen hours to digest (likely disintegrate), contemplate, and conclude.

Summarising a cinematic work of art while adequately conveying nuance, pathos, and humour is not my aisle (a popular phrase used by long-haul cabin crew). So here are my Wit bullet points:

• Brutal plot twist: Vivian Bearing, a no-nonsense English professor obsessed with John Donne’s poetry, gets Stage IV ovarian cancer.

• Chemo carnage: Vivian endures fever, chills, vomiting, and abdominal pain, all while deadpanning her way through existential dread.

• Doctors as villains: Her oncologist and a former student treat her like a lab rat. Only Nurse Susie gives a shit.

• Flashbacks and fourth walls: The film swings between Vivian’s past and present. In true Eric Morecambe-style, she breaks the fourth wall to roll her eyes at the audience and share her innermost thoughts.

• The real sting: Vivian/Emma is Eve. Her irreverent humour and dignity had me bawling from the opening credits.

• The end: Vivian dies reciting 'Death be not proud', because even cancer can’t kill a force of nature.

  
  

The next evening, I call Eve.

'Definitely don’t watch it.'

'Oh, I worried you’d say that.'

'The end is brutal. I mean, it’s incredible because it’s Emma Thompson, but why put yourself through it?'

'You are a dear. Another favour. Can you get me some more Dunhill Internationals? No one here will buy fags for me. It’s so annoying. Giving up now won’t make the slightest difference.'

'Yeah, of course. I’m in Johannesburg before I see you again. I’ll do a sweep of all the duty-free bars on board.'

'Where would I be without you,' Eve says, inhaling smoke.

'The feeling is mutual,' I say. 'I can’t stop thinking about how amazing Emma Thompson is. If I ever met her, I’d have to say something. I’d tell her she’s as brilliant as Meryl Streep. How none of it seemed acted. Like watching real life.'

'Having no nostril hair is weird,' Eve says. 'Sometimes it feels like I’m exhaling all of life in a second.'

*

January 2004

'Attention cabin crew.' The captain’s voice is clipped and clear. 'Forty minutes to landing. That’s forty minutes…'

Preparing a packed jumbo jet for landing is a period of intense activity requiring focus and teamwork. Crew, who may not have slept for the past twenty-four hours, shift into overdrive.

The breakfast service picks up pace. Trays are collected. Belongings are stowed. Landing cards are distributed. The tidying and securing of galleys and cabins begins in earnest. Some passengers, still asleep, will need gentle but firm encouragement to rise. Those lucky enough to be flying Business or First have bedding to be gathered and seats that must be returned to the landing position.

This is also the time when 90 per cent of the passengers decide to use the toilet.

Boeing 747s on approach provide a sensory experience: the whirr of wing flaps moving into position, the fluctuating volume and tone of the engine - occasionally roaring like we’ve entered the mouth of a dragon. Abrupt changes in cabin pressure. For seasoned cabin crew, these sounds and sensations mark the timeframe.

On this trip, London-Johannesburg-London, I’ve been working in Business Class on the main deck. Gita, working in Business Class on the upper deck, rushes down the stairs.

'Do you have any spare landing cards?'

'Sure,' I say.

'Emma Thompson is so lovely,' she says.

'How do you know?' I ask.

'Because she’s sitting upstairs.'

'Emma Thompson? Upstairs? Right now? Are you serious?'

'I thought you all knew.'

'No.'

Gita disappears up the stairs, leaving me astonished.

Despite my requirement to return fifty-two coats and jackets to their owners, the desire to drop everything is non-negotiable. Not in a million years could this situation be dismissed as random coincidence.

Here, now, in the clouds above Bognor Regis, fate has brought us together. All I have to do is tell Emma about Eve, explain the connection to Wit, and fulfil my role as intermediary.

Obviously, there’s apprehension. Famous people must get fed up with sycophants. But divine intelligence has gifted this opportunity, trusting me to utilise every ounce of sense and sensibility (the title of Emma’s Oscar-winning movie, no less).

Emma, empathetic, compassionate, intelligent, will have words of comfort for Eve, and yours truly, Gregory Green, is the chosen conduit for that message.

I climb the stairs. Take a breath. Peek over the stairwell barrier.

Oh.

My.

God.

There she is.

Her hair’s grown back.

Oh shit, she’s looking straight at me.

She’s waving.

I look behind to confirm she’s waving at someone else. She isn’t.

Shit. She’s coming over.

Shit. Shit.

'Hi,' Emma says. 'You must be Oliver.'

'No.'

Say something.

Anything!

'Sorry, it’s just,' Emma smiles, revealing those sensational teeth, 'I mentioned to Gita I would love my tea in a large mug.' She holds the mug aloft.

'Oh.'

'And, apparently, Oliver, who’s working in First Class, brought it up for me.'

'Did he?'

'Yes. He did.'

We exchange a smile.

I’m overheating.

Awkward silence.

Christ. I’m burning up.

'Confession,' Emma says, 'I actually knew they had decent mugs because I’ve travelled in First on a few occasions.'

'I bet you have.'

'Erm, yes.'

Massive awkward silence.

'But the thing is,' Emma continues, 'I can’t actually afford it at the moment.'

'I find that hard to believe.'

Shit! Shit! Fuck! Why did I just say that?

The man queuing for the toilet stares at me. Like, really stares.

Say something!

For fuck’s sake!

'Shall I take it back to him?'

'Sorry?'

'The mug. To Oliver.'

'Well, I haven’t actually finished.' Emma lowers the mug. We peer down at its half-drunk contents.

'It doesn’t matter. We’re about to land.'

Grabbing the mug, I pull it away from her. She pulls back slightly, so I double down. Tea slops into the stairwell. Clutching the mug to my chest, I smile.

'To fly to serve,' I say, but have no idea why.

Engulfed in shame, I bolt down the stairs, creep into the First Class galley, and deposit the mug on the side.

Strapped into my jump seat for landing, low, grey, rain-bearing clouds scoot past the window. Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, Big Ben. The Thames, snaking its way to Windsor and Heathrow beyond, usually bring comfort.

But today, the knowledge that my bed is within reach fails to register.

At least my shirt is white, and the passengers sitting directly opposite probably can’t see it’s drenched in sweat.

*

On our last day together, I give Eve 600 Dunhill Internationals (thanks to two kind colleagues who each carried a carton through customs). Eve says she probably has enough fags to last for the rest of her life.

She also says, 'I think I feel a vicar coming on.'

We laugh at her turn of phrase.

'Is that weird?' she says. 'I haven’t thought about God since Luke died.'

'Are there things you want to confess?'

'Mmm, let me think. Well, I probably should have paid more tax when I owned the tearoom.'

'Don’t worry about that,' I say. 'The church is the biggest Ponzi scheme on the planet.'

'And I once had a voracious sex life.'

'Oh dear, this could be a problem. Straight women and gay men go to hell for that sort of thing. We aren’t supposed to partake in immoral activities. Well, you can do the missionary position, for procreative purposes, within the confines of wedlock.'

'Bollocks. I got pregnant with Amber before I was married.'

'We’re fucked,' I say.

After debating sexual inequality, we decide Heaven can’t be populated exclusively by heterosexual men and nuns and, if it is, we probably don’t want to go there.

The Macmillan nurse arrives and teaches me how to change a stoma bag. Eve seems delighted with my unsqueamish can-do approach.

I make her a cheese and tomato sandwich (after washing my hands, obviously), but Eve says I’ve gone gay with the tomatoes. Gay, in this context, means over-the-top.

Of course, we discuss my encounter with Ms Thompson. I do my best to see the funny side, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve squandered the opportunity to give Eve something more profound than an anecdote.

*

Eve’s funeral is held in the local church. Six of us gather outside to receive the pallbearers’ instructions.

The winding, narrow lanes with their high hedges haven’t changed. Twenty-five years crumble in a second.

A few feet away, Amber and I cycle past. She’s in her sky-blue anorak, negotiating a mouthful of pear drops. I’m already smoking. Twenty John Player Specials cost seventy-five pence in 1979, and it’s a miracle my fur-trimmed snorkel parka didn’t catch fire.

Does everybody’s stomach lurch when they remember time moves at the speed of light? Someone please press rewind and slow motion. Give us a chance to take everything in. To do better. To put things right.

The vicar, burly, bearded, shaggable in a daddy-bear kind of way, shakes my hand. We talk.

Before this malarkey, he spent years working as a Lampie. Has illuminated everyone from the Eurythmics to Tina Turner, with Live Aid in between. If God sits on the lighting rig, Heaven has ringside seats.

'Are you Greg, the guy who works on the aeroplanes? he says.

‘Yes.'

'The one who made a total bellend of himself in front of Emma Thompson?'

'Yes,' I say, horrified by his insider knowledge but delighted with his cheeky irreverence.

'That was such a brilliant thing.' He pats me on the back.

'Maybe for you.'

'No, I mean for Eve. I’ve sat with the dying for years, and when the end is close, most people haven’t got a bloody clue what to say. Eve told that story to everyone. It was the king of ice-breakers. The ultimate conversation starter. A truly divine gift.'

I want to respond with something flippant, but emotion has blocked my airway.

'She talked about you non-stop.' The vicar squeezes my shoulder. 'You probably have no idea how much she loved you.'

'I had a feeling,' I said, finally catching my breath. 'But now I know for sure.’

✈️ Written by Graham J Sharpe through his alter ego Gregory Green.

*

Gregory Green is the lens through which I explore the same events and emotional truths found in my real life. Greg’s version allows for artistic licence, blurred memory, and the creative reshaping that storytelling invites.

Greg is the protagonist of my forthcoming novel Fairy Feet and the short story Sea Change (Muswell Press, November 2025). Between Graham and Gregory, we explore love, loss, memory and belonging.

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