by Lindsey Kelk
‘Foxgloves are complicated. Some people think they’re good luck, some people think they’re bad but they’re often associated with honesty and magic.’
‘Miracles, more like,’ I mumbled as I tore into the pack of flower food and sprinkled it into the bottom of the vase.
‘Perhaps we should have dahlias at the renewal ceremony,’ Mum said. ‘If they’re in season now, I’m sure they’ll still be available in a couple of weeks.’
‘A couple of weeks?’
Mum and Dad’s wedding anniversary was on the ninth of August, which was … in a couple of weeks. Well, bugger me. Time flies when you’re living in a shed.
‘It’s on a Saturday so your father and I thought it rather makes sense to have it on the day than wait any longer. I was hoping you might pop to the shops with me over the weekend. We’re both going to need new frocks, don’t you think?’
I hadn’t been clothes shopping with my mum since I was fifteen and she made me try on bras over my clothes in M&S and Caroline Beaumont, Shari Singh and Thomas McCall from the lower sixth all saw me and took photos and stuck them up all over the sixth-form common room. There was a reason I hadn’t lost my virginity until university.
‘I don’t need anything,’ I said automatically even though I very much did. ‘But I’ll come and help you find an outfit.’
‘Don’t laugh but I thought it would be nice if you and Jo wore the same thing,’ Mum said, busily rearranging my flowers. ‘Since you’re going to be my bridesmaids.’
Oh god, I’d forgotten. An adult bridesmaid wearing the same dress as my gorgeous younger sister, for my mid-sexual-renaissance, sixty-year-old mother. Maybe Patrick hadn’t sent the flowers, maybe the universe sent them as a preemptive apology. Jo was not going to like this at all.
‘Does Saturday work?’ I asked, staring at my dahlias and channelling their grace.
‘Saturday is wonderful,’ she hopped up to her feet. ‘I’ll see if I can book us a table somewhere nice for lunch, we can make a day of it.’
‘Perfect,’ I said, pulling the covers back up over my face. ‘Is Jo coming?’
‘I think Jo might be too busy to come back from Cambridge for the day,’ Mum said, not-so-discreetly running a fingertip along the windowsill. ‘So you get the deciding vote on your dresses. And I did think it might be nice if you wanted to help us plan the actual shindig, I haven’t organized a party since you were nine.’
A sudden flashback to my dad accidentally waterboarding Adrian when we were supposed to be bobbing for apples.
‘I’d love to, Mum,’ I told her. ‘It’ll be perfect, I promise.’
‘And you never know,’ she gave my flowers a knowing look. ‘Could be good practice for your own wedding.’
‘All right, enough’s enough,’ I said, waving her out the door. Not that I hadn’t already worked this very bouquet into my wedding speech already but still. ‘Please lock it on your way out.’
‘I’m going, I’m going,’ Mum laughed as she let herself out. ‘Oh, and Rosalind, please tidy up in here before you leave for work, it’s a disgrace.’
I knew she wouldn’t be able to help herself.
It took me all the way to work, two very large coffees and a forty-five-minute deliberation in the group text before I decided how to reply to Patrick’s flowers. Eventually I got two-thirds approval to say ‘Thank you for the flowers, they’re beautiful.’ Simple, honest and safe. Sumi was the holdout and lobbied hard for ‘Stick them up your arse’ but our official friend group rules said you only needed a two-thirds majority approval to send a text. Had it been a photo, things might have been different but it wasn’t so she was outvoted.
‘I just don’t trust him,’ she yelled down the phone after the text had been sent. ‘One bunch of flowers does not a decent human make. It’s every arsehole’s go-to move.’
‘So sending flowers is worse than not sending flowers?’
I was never going to win. Patrick could reveal he was the second coming of Christ and Sumi would still say he was trying too hard.
‘In his case, yes,’ she replied with trademark bluntness. ‘Next you’ll be wanting to bring him to my birthday dinner.’
I saw my horrified face reflected back in the glass of the recording booth. Sumi’s birthday. She hated parties, detested surprises and was universally accepted as the most difficult person to buy for on the face of the earth and yet, every year, she insisted we ‘do’ something, even though she refused to give any sort of direction as to what the something should be, where it might take place, at what time or for how long.
But I was up to the challenge. In fact, I was going to ace it.
‘Sumi.’
‘Ros.’
‘Did Jemima book anywhere yet?’
‘No,’ she replied, already distracted. ‘She’s been away, she’s not back until Friday.’
‘Let me plan your birthday,’ I said, suddenly feverish with excitement.
Sumi paused before she replied as I pressed my hand against my forehead to check I wasn’t actually feverish. What was I thinking?
‘You know I don’t want a fuss,’ she replied.
This was a lie.
‘Something quiet, just us.’
Another lie. A previously prepared guest list would be forwarded at some point in the next hour and it would include at least seventeen people. It always did.
‘It’ll be perfect,’ I promised, already scribbling down ideas on my notepad. ‘Just keep Saturday night free and await further instructions.’
I heard her breathe in, second-guessing herself before she spoke, and I knew exactly what she was going to say.
‘You’re not going to bring him, are you?’ Sumi asked.
‘Not to be an arsehole but yes,’ I said, kind but firm. ‘I would really love it if you could give him one tiny chance to prove he’s not actually Satan himself.’
She huffed down the line. ‘And I would really love it if Kristen Stewart showed up on my doorstep with two cats and a minivan but that doesn’t seem very likely either.’
‘Don’t give up on that dream just yet,’ I said, scribbling down notes. ‘I’ve got four days to make magic happen.’
‘Ros Reynolds, if you throw me a Twilight-themed birthday party, so help me god, I’ll murder you.’
I crossed out my first idea.
‘I promise he’ll be on his best behaviour and, if he isn’t, you can be incredibly horrible to him and hunt him for sport. Please can I invite Patrick?’
Sumi considered the request.
‘I can hunt him for sport?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like in Hunger Games?’
‘You can go full District 12, with my permission.’
‘Then he may attend.’
‘You won’t regret it,’ I promised.
‘I almost certainly will,’ she replied. ‘But I want to be proven wrong. Right, I’ve got to go.’
‘Important lawyering?’ I asked, firing up my computer.
‘I have an all-day arbitration session scheduled to try to resolve a dispute between two hotel development groups and the Dominican Republic that could result in a two-billion-dollar lawsuit,’ she replied.
‘A hotel is suing a country? How does someone sue a country?’ I asked. ‘Did they fall down a pothole or something?’
‘Yes, Ros, that’s exactly what happened,’ Sumi answered with a sigh. ‘I’ve got to go. Love you.’
I ended the call determined to plan Sumi the greatest birthday party of all time. When we were younger, we’d gone on so many wild, spontaneous adventures but for anything other than an evening out, I’d have to get approval from Jemima and it couldn’t be too energetic or Lucy wouldn’t be able to participate. And while Adrian might be able to splash out on a ten-course tasting menu at some super fancy restaurant I had never even heard of, I was on a tight budget if I ever wanted to live somewhere that wasn’t a shed. I needed something fun but not too physically demanding. Affordable but still exci
ting. Something that would make Sumi so happy, she’d forget to be shitty to Patrick and they would end the night as BFFs.
‘Piece of piss,’ I whispered to myself as I scrolled through my options. ‘It’s going to be the best birthday ever.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Second Chances was full of inspirational advice on how to open yourself up to new opportunities and allow magic into your life. What it was not so good at was telling you how to do so when you were trapped in the bowels of your office with no natural light and a rancid stench that crept in through the walls and was in no way improved by the addition of half a can of air freshener.
‘Ready for the big meeting?’ Ted said, knocking on the studio door before letting himself in. ‘Our boy’ll be here in two minutes.’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ I agreed as I gathered my notes and knocked four empty cans of sugar-free Red Bull into the bin. I’d spent my first week deep in prep but today was the big day. I was finally meeting Snazzlechuff.
‘Come on, we’d better be in the meeting room when they get here, his agent doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’ The corner of Ted’s mouth flickered.
‘What’s the agent like?’ I asked as we climbed the stairs.
‘Impressive,’ he replied.
‘That’s an interesting way to describe someone,’ I said as we emerged back into daylight. I took a deep breath in, slightly relieved to discover the world was still there.
‘Wait until you meet her,’ Ted said, holding open the meeting room door and waving me inside. ‘I think that’s their car outside.’
I looked out the meeting room window to see a huge white Range Rover pulling into the alley down the side of the building.
Ted frisked his oversized hoodie for imaginary crumbs and took a deep breath in.
‘I’ll go and get them. Get ready, Ros, your life is about to change forever.’
I rolled my eyes as I helped myself to a Hobnob from the plate in the middle of the table. The meeting room was nice, big, airy. Just the sort of room in which you’d like to spend eight hours of your day, five days a week, rather than a mouldering pit. According to the pop art painting on the wall, this was the Alexander Graham Bell room. All the PodPad meeting rooms were named after icons of telecommunications: Bell, Samuel Morse, Guglielmo Marconi and, for reasons best known to someone who was not me, Keith Chegwin. Every time I walked past his meeting room, with its bright Cheggers mural on the wall, I couldn’t help but shudder.
‘Ros Reynolds, are you ready to meet a superstar?’ Ted shouted from outside the door. I stood up then sat down then stood back up. What was the correct protocol for meeting internet-famous children? I felt like Mary Poppins without the magic bag. Or the chimney sweep. Or the songs. I didn’t feel that much like Mary Poppins.
Ted flung the door wide, an enormous smile on his face as he ushered in a furious-looking woman with the biggest white leather handbag I had ever seen on her shoulder and a coffee the size of a fire extinguisher in her hand. She had to be the impressive agent. She was followed by a sad-faced man holding a set of car keys in one hand and a four-pack of full-sugar Red Bull in the other. Bringing up the rear of the strange party, was what I assumed to be a Snazzlechuff. He was a shortish human in blinding white jogging bottoms, matching oversized track jacket and enough gold chains to weigh him down to the bottom of the Thames tottered in behind the adults. The outfit alone would have been disturbing enough but, perched on his shoulders was a bizarrely lifelike, furry panda head.
‘This, is Snazzlechuff,’ Ted breathed, holding out his arm as though he were presenting the Christ child.
‘Hey,’ squeaked the panda.
‘Hi,’ I replied, not sure whether to shake his hand or call social services. ‘I’m Ros.’
‘Snazzlechuff,’ he replied, as though he could be anyone else. ‘You can call me Snazz if you want.’
‘Snazz it is,’ I said. I was trying so hard not to stare.
‘We haven’t got long. We need to be in Milton Keynes for the opening of a Tesco Metro by half eleven,’ barked the woman with the handbag as everyone got themselves seated around the table. ‘Let’s hear the new girl’s ideas.’
‘So, I’m Ros,’ I said brightly, holding out my hand. The agent stared at it as though I were offering her a shitty stick. The man didn’t move. Slowly, I pulled my hand back in towards me and bit my lip.
‘Veronica, Ros just joined us from America,’ Ted offered. ‘We’ve brought her in especially for the project, the result of a global search for the perfect producer.’
I looked over at my boss without saying a word. What was he talking about?
‘Fan-fucking-tastic,’ Veronica replied, rattling her fingers against the table before pulling a pen out of her bag and slipping it between her fingers as though it were a cigarette. ‘Let’s hear what she has to say then.’
‘Obviously we know Snazz has a lot of fans,’ I began, watching as the panda reached across the table for a Hobnob, broke it into four pieces and carefully fed it up underneath his mask. ‘And we want to offer them something with the podcast they can’t get anywhere else.’
Veronica nodded, winding her finger in the air, signalling for me to continue.
‘Well, one idea would be …’ I looked down the table to see the panda staring back at me blankly, not moving, not breathing, just a dead-eyed panda with black, blank pits boring into me. I stared into the abyss and the abyss was a YouTuber. ‘One idea would be for Snazz to choose some vintage video games and tell the story of how the game was developed, any social significance, interesting founder stories, stuff like that?’
Veronica looked over at her young charge. He did not move.
‘He hates it,’ she declared. ‘What else?’
I took a deep breath and opened my notebook, pretending to be pleasantly surprised by what I saw when in fact the page was filled with a shopping list of things I needed to pick up from Tesco on my way home from work.
‘What if he interviewed other inspirational young people? I’m thinking Greta Thunberg, Millie Bobby Brown … Malala?’
Veronica quite rightly choked on her coffee.
‘Next,’ she barked.
‘He’s not very chatty, is he?’ I said as Snazz pulled the zip on his jacket up and down and up and down in silence. ‘All my ideas involve quite a lot of him talking.’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Veronica replied. ‘I’ll give him some Red Bull and a Mars Bar.’
Snazz snapped another Hobnob in half and tittered under the mask.
‘Red Bull and a …?’ I whispered, wondering if the number to Childline was still the same.
She fixed me with a cool, level glare. ‘Do you have any more ideas? Because these are just as bad as the ones we heard before.’
Glancing down at my notebook, pages full of suggestions and a dozen or so failed attempts at drawing a house without taking the pen off the page, a cold sense of dread gripped me in my seat. I could not lose this job, I just could not.
‘Ros?’ Ted’s voice cut through the tension like a rusty bread knife.
‘What if he just sat around and talked to his mates while they play video games and we call it Snazzlechuff Says?’ I blurted out.
Ted gasped with either joy or despair, it was far too difficult to tell.
‘CHUFF,’ Veronica barked.
The panda snapped to attention.
‘Snazzlechuff Says,’ she repeated. ‘Yay or nay?’
His narrow shoulders pinched together in what seemed to be a shrug.
‘He’ll do it,’ Veronica declared, snapping her fingers twice.
‘We could record live at WESC,’ Ted suggested, popping up and down inside his too-big hoodie like a designer meerkat. ‘Make a big noise for the first episode.’
‘Love it, two birds one cheque,’ she replied, standing up and clapping in the sad man’s face. ‘Let’s go.’
While Ted saw them all out, I loitered in the staff kitchen, admiring the big pink fridge
and reading all the different kind of coffee pods. The longer I could stay upstairs, the better.
‘Good work in there,’ he said, striding back into the office, his chest puffed out like a peacock. ‘Snazzlechuff Says, it’s got a good ring to it.’
‘Why did you tell them you’d brought me in from America to do this job?’ I asked, pocketing a bag of Mini Cheddars to take back down to my lair.
‘It’s more or less true,’ he muttered.
‘No, it isn’t,’ I countered with a laugh. ‘What’s the matter, could you not get anyone else to do the show or something?’
Ted continued to show a very peculiar interest in his shoes and I realized I’d accidentally worked out the truth.
‘I thought this was a dream job anyone would kill for?’ I said, turning my accusatory glare on the rest of the producers in the open-plan office, all of who suddenly seemed very interested in their computer screens. ‘Wait, what did Veronica mean when she said she’d heard ideas before?’
‘Thing is,’ Ted said before clearing his throat. ‘Everyone else here and half a dozen freelancers have already had a crack at it. We were on our last chance with Veronica today.’
My eyes widened and I felt an ever so slightly smug smile growing on my face.
‘Oh,’ I said, possibly a little too pleased with myself. ‘So what you’re saying is, I sort of saved the day today.’
‘You could say that,’ Ted agreed. ‘Sort of.’
‘Well,’ I sucked the air in through my grin and reached for a shiny green apple from the fruit bowl, tossing it up in the air and just about managing to catch it. ‘Well, well, well.’
‘But um, just so you know,’ he said, picking up an apple of his own and shining it on his T-shirt. ‘If this doesn’t work out, we won’t really have a reason to keep you on. So let’s give it everything you’ve got, yeah?’
What are you doing tonight? I really want to see you. Southbank Centre at seven?
I fizzed as I reread the text from Patrick that had sent me sprinting across Waterloo Bridge on a Thursday lunchtime tour of London, readying myself to leave for our second first date. Superdrug for makeup essentials, Chanel for a spritz or seventeen of nice perfume, Topshop to replace my greying old granny pants with a more acceptable date-night thong. I had an entire debate with myself in the changing room. I knew a pair of knickers could not change the course of mine and Patrick’s relationship but I bought the black lacy thong anyway. It never hurt to have one in your arsenal even if, I realized only after I got back to the office, it did really rather hurt my actual arse.
