Jonny slid onto the bench next to me. He held up his phone to show me the picture he’d taken. I smiled gamely, not sure if the pixelated image was down to his lack of focusing skills or whether my eyes were refusing to play ball. He could have been showing me the Loch Ness monster for all I knew.
I pulled my dictaphone from my pocket, trying to concentrate on the screen that seemed to get blurrier the more I looked at it.
‘Jonny, mate,’ said Nick from the other side. ‘David’s got a great shot of the Houses of Parliament from here. We need you in the picture, too. The Americans will love this.’
Jonny got up and I swear the whole pod rocked. I looked up in panic, but no one seemed to have noticed. I clenched and unclenched my fists and exhaled. David was shouting encouragement to Jonny about where the light was best, but every click of his camera made my heart knock louder. I wanted to scream, but more than anything I wanted to get out of here.
Nick walked towards me and the floor lurched up and down. Except Nick was acting like everything was fine. Why could nobody else feel this damn thing swinging like a see-saw?
He sat down on the bench beside me, as calm as anything. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe but a weight pressed down on my chest, and like an over-zealous bouncer, was refusing air entry into my lungs.
‘How good are your capitals?’
I jerked my head sideways, trying to calm my jumpy pulse. ‘Are you . . . are you . . . talking to me?’
Nick nodded. ‘I was at a pub quiz the other night. Can you believe that none of my team got the capital of Australia right? And before you ask, no, I wasn’t there with the other member of Hands Down.’
My mouth was dry, but I almost managed a smile. ‘It’s Canberra.’
‘That’s what I said, but I was shouted down.’
‘Right.’
The pod rocked again, but still no one reacted. Nick seemed lost in thought about his damned pub quiz. I held my breath, waiting to see if the pod would move again. Maybe it had been a gust of wind.
‘They put Auckland as the capital of New Zealand.’
‘What?’
‘Auckland instead of Wellington. Can you believe that?’
I shook my head, and Nick continued, the indignation written on his face. ‘At least we all agreed that Rio was the capital of Brazil.’
‘It’s Brasilia,’ I said, on a shaky breath.
He frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘The quizmaster gave me the point, though.’
‘I bet she did.’
He held my eye and I realised that, for a couple of seconds, I’d forgotten my panic. All this talk about capitals had given my brain something else to do.
My lungs expanded and I took a proper breath.
He was shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what I’m more offended about – that you think I don’t know Brasilia is the capital of Brazil or that I’d flirt to win a pub quiz.’
‘You won? The other teams must have been really thick.’
‘They were. You’d think Bono and The Edge would have known that Dublin was the capital of Ireland.’
He’s kidding, right? ‘U2 were not at your pub quiz.’
He smiled, and I found myself smiling back.
Just as I began to feel like the sky wasn’t about to fall on our heads, Jonny stomped over and the walls started closing in again.
‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Earth to the lovebirds. I’ve been finished for five minutes. Are we going to do this interview or what?’
I tried to stand, but my limbs weren’t responding. Jonny was staring at me, waiting for an answer, but the only part of me willing to co-operate was my upchuck reflex. Oh God, that would be a disaster. I swallowed hard and looked at Nick, but all his attention was on Jonny.
‘We’re only here for the pictures. Zoë’s not here to interview you.’
I wasn’t?
‘Then why the fuck is she here then?’
Good question.
‘Because, Jonny, you insisted you get face time with the editor of Re:Sound, which is what I arranged. That doesn’t mean you get to choose who interviews you.’
‘So when do we do the interview?’
‘Later.’
Jonny pulled a face. ‘But I’ve got to pick up the Ducati later.’
‘The Ducati will have to wait.’
I should have stepped in and told them I would do the interview, but Nick was so convincing, I half believed that this had been the plan all along and that Jonny wasn’t the only one who’d been misinformed.
Nick peered over our heads towards the door. ‘We’re nearly back on the ground, anyway.’
He was right. We were only a few feet away from terra firma. The capsule suddenly didn’t feel quite so small and enclosed. A sea of people in the queue had their faces turned towards us. Among them were some very excited girls who’d arrived because Jonny had probably Instagrammed pictures of his naked swimmer.
When the door opened, the fresh air energised me like a hit of caffeine. I stepped onto solid ground, my legs less wobbly with each step. Jonny was immediately swallowed up by the crowd, but then his bodyguards appeared to ferry him towards a waiting Range Rover, leaving me, David and Nick to fend off the disappointed fans.
It didn’t take long. Most of the girls quickly realised their prey had sped off in the opposite direction, so they didn’t waste time hanging around us.
One of the last to leave was a brunette girl in school uniform, who looked about thirteen. Her closing shot was to tell me in rather grown-up language that Jonny had no interest in ‘an old slag like me’ and that I ‘should fucking well watch my back’.
Charming.
David promised to have some shots for me tomorrow morning and headed back to the tube, leaving me alone with Nick. There was so much I wanted to tell him, and this was the perfect chance. But before I could speak, Nick was moving towards the main road and raising his arm to hail a cab.
‘Jonny has some crazy fans,’ I said as I followed.
He stopped abruptly and I almost went into the back of him. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’ The taxi he’d been hoping to stop sailed past us. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. He was obviously in a hurry, but I couldn’t let him leave without acknowledging what he’d done.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ I said, ‘For . . . you know.’
‘Organising the interview?’
‘No. Well, yes. But not just that.’
The words wouldn’t come. It didn’t help that he had his full attention on me now. The gaze that had darted up and down the road searching for a free cab was now searching me. The whites of his eyes were really white and it made his stare even more intense. I wanted to squirm and wriggle free, but couldn’t. Where’s a rabid Jonny fan when you need one?
I broke eye contact to check my watch. I could always thank him by email.
‘You wanted to thank me for that refresher on capital cities.’
I looked up. He still had that intense look in his eye, but he was also almost smiling.
‘I appreciate it. It was very—’
‘Timely?’
I swallowed. ‘Yes, exactly.’
‘Don’t think about it.’
A cab appeared and stopped without Nick making any kind of gesture. Did I need to add telepathy to his list of talents?
He opened the door. ‘Why don’t you take it? Jonny will be ready for his interview at my office at six. Send someone else to do it. I’m sure you’re too busy at such short notice.’
I climbed into the cab and turned to thank him, but I didn’t get a chance because he closed the door, and the driver took it as a sign to pull away.
The whole experience had left me feeling shaken, but I tried not to dwell on it. Back at the office, I asked Lucy to go and interview Jonny. She looked less than thrilled by the prospect.
After I came back from lunch I heard her trying to palm it off on Gavin by challenging him to a game of
Rock, Paper, Scissors.
‘You must be joking, Luce,’ he snapped. ‘Why would I go from having zero chance of having to interview that twat, to a one-in-three chance?’
‘Because I’d be eternally grateful,’ she replied in a flirty voice.
Maybe it was just hot in the office, but I could have sworn Gavin went red at her reply.
20
Everybody Hurts
The rest of the weekend passed without incident, and late on Friday afternoon, I boarded the train at Victoria for Alice’s hen weekend in Brighton. Her other friends had caught earlier trains and I was the last to check in to the B&B. It faced the sea, which was an unexpected bonus, but was closer to Hove than Brighton. Still, even a dyed-in-the-wool Londoner like me could take pleasure from waves breaking on the pebbled shore to a rhythm of satisfying whooshes.
Alice had texted me where they were – a bar on the pier. I dumped my case on the floor between the paisley curtains and the single bed – the only place it could fit – then sat and rechecked my phone hoping I’d find a message from her along the lines of ‘decided to call it a night’. But it was barely eight o’clock on a Friday and even Alice was upping her rock ’n’ roll game for her hen weekend.
I left my jeans and Converse on, but changed into a cotton peasant top – which felt appropriately seaside-ish. I’d barely taken five steps out of the front door before returning to get my jacket. Walks along British shores were not balmy strolls under shady palm trees, but hard slogs against gale-force winds. By the time I got to the pier, my cheeks were stinging and my hair had doubled in volume, as if it had been blow-dried by the jet engine of a 747.
Alice and co. were bunched together in a booth that comfortably seated six and rather uncomfortably seated nine, as I discovered when I joined them carrying a fresh bottle of wine. I knew Annette and Helen, but the other five faces were new to me. Annette, who had organised the weekend, immediately stood up when I sat down.
‘Everyone, this is Zoë Frixos, the sister-in-law.’ A polite cheer went up – thank God they weren’t all completely pissed yet. ‘You know what to do, girls.’
The girl to my left thumped the table, clapped once then the rest of the group sang ‘Laura!’ The girl after her then thumped the table twice, clapped twice, while everyone announced ‘Seema’. And so it went on, till we got to me, by which time I’d cottoned on that I needed to thump the table and clap nine times while they chorused my name.
‘And back round again!’ decreed Annette, so the whole process was repeated like a Mexican wave.
I had to admit it was a neat trick to remember names. I’d barely been here ten minutes and could correctly identify everyone: Laura, Seema, Flo, Sally, Vicky, Helen, Annette and Alice. Maybe I should suggest it next time I was at a work dinner and struggling to match names to faces.
I was also pleased that I wasn’t the most underdressed of all the hens. Laura and Seema looked like they’d come straight from work – both were wearing buttoned-up blouses and sensible skirts. Most eye-catching was Flo, however. She was wearing earrings that reached her neck – a constellation of gold stars on delicate chains that caught the light whenever she moved her head. She must be the jewellery designer – Alice had mentioned her. Pete had secretly commissioned her to custom-make a necklace for the big day – an uncharacteristically thoughtful impulse from my brother.
‘We’ve got you a little something, Alice,’ said Annette. She reached under the table and brought up a rather phallic-looking package. Annette had shown remarkable restraint in not suggesting we all wear fake tits and tiaras; I could forgive her one dildo. I only hoped that Alice wouldn’t be mortified.
She started unwrapping and the package got thinner and thinner; Annette must have bought something from the beginners’ range. But when Alice removed the last of the wrapping, her gasp was echoed by my own. In her hand was a stick of rock, a swirl of lilac threaded with white. Inside was written: Alice and Pete. Not Alice luvs Pete, or Pete and Alice 4 EVA, just Alice and Pete.
‘We had it made especially,’ said Annette to impromptu applause.
Alice looked happy to the point of tears – and not only because she wasn’t having to thank us for gifting her a plastic phallus. She was genuinely moved.
‘It’s in the right colours and everything,’ she whispered.
Annette grinned proudly. ‘And that’s not all. We’ve made one hundred and fifty miniature versions that you can give your guests as wedding favours.’
Alice flung her arms around Annette and let the tears fall. ‘Thank you so much!’
The moment was topped off by the arrival of flutes and two bottles of champagne. Annette had thought of everything.
I was feeling rather less sympathetic towards her, however, when the disco started. She insisted we all dance, and kept requesting those annoying records that have tacky choreography that she forced everyone to do.
‘YMCA’, I quite enjoyed. ‘Saturday Night’, I was less happy with. ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ was hopeless. Who the hell remembered this? I drew the line at ‘Gangnam Style’ and excused myself to go to the loo.
I splashed water on my cheeks to cool down. It was quieter here, and it was good to catch my breath. The bar was heaving; I was a few glasses gone, but still had stray moments of concern that hundreds of us were drinking away our cares while suspended above the freezing English Channel supported only by a few rickety pillars.
Alice joined me a few moments later. ‘You’re missing “The Locomotion”,’ she grinned.
‘Damn.’
‘I’ll make sure you get to dance to it at the wedding.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
Alice went into a cubicle and I checked my phone out of habit. I had a missed call from Justin, but no voicemail. I checked the time he’d rung: ten o’clock. Strange – were he and Patrick having another ding-dong about Italian olive oil? The phone rang again and Justin’s name flashed up.
‘Hello?’ The line was crackly and all I could hear were muffled voices.
I hung up, but a few moments later it rang again. This time I heard someone say my name.
‘Justin? Is that you? I can’t hear you. Let me ring you back.’
Alice had emerged from the cubicle and was washing her hands.
She stopped when she saw me. ‘Everything okay?’
The string of calls was unsettling. Had something happened?
Alice was looking at me, waiting for an answer.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ I reassured her. ‘But I’m just going out to see if I can get better reception. I won’t be long.’
I pushed through the bar and out into the night air. The wind was calmer, but the temperature had dropped. My cotton shirt did nothing to keep out the sea-cooled air and goosebumps sprang up on my arms. My hand trembled as I dialled Justin’s number.
He picked up immediately. ‘Zoë?’
The line was clear at last. ‘Is everything okay, Justin? I’ve missed a bunch of calls from you.’
‘It’s Patrick.’ His voice cracked. ‘He’s had a heart attack.’
*
I walked back into the bar barely aware of anything around me. The dance floor was filled with people sitting in rows, pretending to paddle boats. A few bars from ‘Oops Upside Your Head’ filtered into my consciousness. Annette was waving at me from her prone position on the dance floor, but I kept walking till I reached the table. Laura and Seema smiled at me and I smiled wanly back, and grabbed my bag and jacket.
‘I have to go,’ I told them. But even as I said the words, I wasn’t sure what I meant. Go where?
‘Is everything okay?’ I heard one of them say, but I didn’t answer. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other. I needed to keep moving.
Alice found me when I was halfway along the pier.
‘Zoë, sweetie, what’s wrong? You’re shivering.’ She prised the jacket from my hand and wrapped it around my shoulders. ‘You’re in no state to go anywhere alone. Tell me
what’s happened.’
‘Patrick’s had a heart attack. He’s in surgery now. I need to get back to London.’
‘Oh my goodness. That’s terrible. But you can’t go alone. Let me come with you.’
Her words snapped me back to the present. ‘It’s your hen weekend, Alice. I can’t let you leave.’
‘Well, I can at least go back with you to the hotel. Come on, I’ll find us a cab. I don’t want to hear any arguments.’
The taxi reeked of greasy food. The stale stench of kebab made my stomach turn. If the journey had been even one minute longer, I would have thrown up on the back seat. Instead, I retched on the pavement as Alice paid the driver. All I remember thinking was how the splatter reminded me of the shooting stars on Flo’s earrings.
*
The next morning, I felt numb. I’d bought a tea at Brighton station, but had only managed a few sips. The sachet of milk I’d tipped into it had barely affected the colour; the dark brew sloshed against the cup, murky and unappetising, as the train rumbled north towards London.
After we’d got back to the hotel last night, Alice had wrapped me in the single duvet fully clothed while she checked train times. I sat motionless on the bed, only coming back to life when my phone rang: it was Justin telling me Patrick was out of surgery. He was stable, but critical.
Patrick was alive.
The news was like oxygen; I could finally draw breath. I didn’t want to stay in Brighton – I’d suck the cheer out of everything – but I’d promised Alice I’d wait till morning to go.
She’d knocked again on my door just before midnight. I hadn’t been sleeping, just staring into space.
She handed me a slab of Green and Black’s dark chocolate. ‘Pete said it was your favourite. When I spoke to him, he sounded pretty cut up.’
My hands were shaking, making it hard to open the wrapping. Alice straightened the bed covers to give me a few seconds to compose myself before she sat down. ‘He’d mentioned Patrick before, but I didn’t realise he was a regular at your parents’ restaurant.’
Love Songs for Sceptics Page 19
