by Zoë Folbigg
I won’t give him the satisfaction of asking though.
‘How do you even know Vin Diesel’s real name?’ James’ expression looks somewhere between horrified and impressed. Maya does have Excellent General Knowledge skills. They helped her win a gameshow once.
‘Maybe he’s calling himself Vin Power or Vin Petrol?’ Maya chuckles nervously to herself. ‘Although, no, that’s not his style. He’s more charming British luvvie than American action hero. Vin Grant?’
James frowns.
Shit, did I just say ‘charming?’
Maya knows how ridiculous she is, and that this clay shake isn’t going to go away, so she whips the stirrer around one last time before facing the inevitable.
‘Right, here goes…’
26
March 2016, London, England
‘Thank you so much for finding the time to have a drink with me. I know you’re a very busy man.’ Rosa touches Tom’s forearm gently before pushing her fingers through her neat bobbed hair. He feels the imprint of her on his skin and is surprised by her boldness, despite the fact he just hugged his boss a warm farewell.
Coffee was swapped for a quick drink in the Groucho, where Tom had a 4 p.m. meeting with the Controller of Children’s and thought it might be nice for the two women to coincide before Charmaine McCourt had to get her train back to Manchester. Introduce the chief to the talent, and hopefully make Rosa relax a little by feeling like a valued part of the team. The new star signing.
It’s now 6 p.m., and Rosa is looking relaxed enough, slinking into a curved lilac velvet booth that’s perfect for two, while she twists her flute of Cucumber Fizz on its stem with ease.
‘No problem. It was great for Charmaine to meet you too. I know she’s going to love you as much as I do.’
With a long finger, Rosa lifts the garnish out of her glass – a cucumber peeling that’s been fashioned and coiled into the shape of a rose – and eats it.
‘Starving,’ she says.
‘Do you want to grab some food?’ Tom asks, pointing his thumb over his shoulder towards an area where people are dining. ‘The buttermilk chicken is top-notch.’
Tom regrets suggesting it as soon as the words come out. Nena knew about his big meeting with his boss but won’t be expecting it to go on into the evening; he doesn’t want to get home late.
‘No I shouldn’t,’ Rosa says, smoothing down a silk shirt that’s too expensive to eat buttermilk chicken in.
Phew.
Suddenly reminded of the time, Tom moves things along. ‘So, you wanted to chat. What’s troubling you?’
‘Yes… well… It’s just—’
‘Go on…’
‘This TV world. It’s all so new to me – and I’m so so grateful for the opportunity. I just want to make sure I’m doing everything all right. Better than all right in fact. I want to be exceptional. I’m just not very confident.’
Tom looks at Rosa’s face in the rabbit warren of the private members’ club. Her eyelids are glossy and her face is intelligent – she looks more like a newsreader than a children’s TV presenter. The neediness jars with the polished exterior Rosa Samarasekera exudes.
‘Well, your producer thinks you’re doing exceptionally well, and, as I said, the rushes look brilliant. So, whatever you’re doing, keep on doing it. Don’t change a thing.’
Rosa blushes. ‘Thanks, Tom. Sorry,’ she says, turning her glass again. ‘Always the head girl! In academia and medicine, you’re always graded; you have regular feedback. Empirical data. Talking to a camera in a darkened studio in MediaCity, well, it’s hard to know whether I’m an A star or an epic fail.’
‘You’re an A star, Rosa, trust me.’
‘Thank you – I really appreciate it.’
Tom has a flash of an idea: he could put Rosa in touch with Nena, she could give her some tips – then he realises that would be a terrible idea and washes the thought away with a sip of his rhubarb gin and tonic.
Rosa sinks her Cucumber Fizz.
‘Time for one more?’ she says, looking at her watch.
‘Erm…’
‘Doctor’s orders,’ she commands, with one raised eyebrow.
‘Pardon?’
‘Doctor’s Orders: Martell, Strega, Merlot and lime juice – it’s a cocktail, here, on the menu.’
Tom’s face relaxes into laughter and he rubs his five o’clock shadow with his palm. ‘Oh. Well, it would be rude not to then. One more…’
Tom beckons a woman with a short black fringe and thick winged eyeliner, and she takes his order, before he stands to go to the loo.
‘Back in a second,’ he nods, as he winds through the room, pressing hands and patting friends on the back as he passes the bar and heads to the basement toilet. As he goes, Rosa surveys his tall frame, gives his anatomy a once-over. He looks more dapper than usual. His cords and cable-knits have been replaced by a navy blazer, a crisp white shirt and chinos. Tom always exudes an air of authority, of competence, whatever he wears, but smartness suits him.
Nice bum.
While he’s gone, Rosa looks around. At the soap star who recently got back from the jungle; at the comedian with the hangdog expression and the dirty coat; at the actress who’s been misbehaving here since she was a teen. She watches the pianist play ‘As Time Goes By’ and sees Tom pat him gently on the back as he walks back towards her, past the piano with a Union Jack painted on it.
A waitress puts two blood-red cocktails and a little bowl of Twiglets on the table.
‘So, Charmaine was asking after your baby. How old is she?’
Tom’s eyes light up. It’s easier for his eyes to light up than Nena’s. He’s in the Groucho having a drink, excited to get home to his baby; knowing he’s not been tending to her every whim all day; knowing that he will sleep through the night undisturbed because Ava’s cries don’t terrify or wake him the way they do Nena. She always bounces out of bed first; Tom often doesn’t wake at all, even when the cries persist and Nena tries to ignore them.
‘Yes, she’s almost five months.’
‘Ooooh, tough times,’ Rosa curls her nose.
‘No, it’s wonderful! I have a five-year-old too.’
‘Oh right,’ says Rosa, thrown.
‘Yes. Arlo’s easier; Ava’s a little madam – not a sleeper. It’s a good job she’s so beautiful.’
Rosa looks at Tom, Doctor’s Orders bringing a glimpse of confidence and a flash of a determined look.
Like her father.
‘Like her mother. She’s got this shock of black hair and bright blue eyes…’ Tom stops short of getting his phone out. He’s a senior figure at the BBC and Rosa is new talent. She doesn’t need to see his baby photos.
‘Your eyes are the brightest blue – I’ve never seen it before – they must come from you.’
Their eyes lock.
‘So, do you have kids?’ Tom asks, changing the focus, suspecting not.
‘Gosh no! Between the hospital – this – and my busy social life, I don’t have time for anything else. I’m too selfish anyway. I like late nights and long lazy lie-ins.’ Rosa purrs, and gives her cocktail a little stir. ‘I’m enjoying life too much to be anchored down anyway at the moment. I’m not even dating. Not exclusively anyway.’ She looks up at Tom and he feels distinctly flustered.
Now it’s Rosa’s turn to change the focus, she doesn’t want to overstep the mark.
Yet.
‘Oh, so I received an invitation today, for some big Children’s party next month.’
‘Oh yes, the Bertie & Betty sixtieth anniversary.’
‘That was it!’
‘That’s great you’ve had an invitation – should be fun. Bertie still comes to loads of events. He was even at Camp Bestival last year. He’s almost ninety; he was camping too!’
Rosa scrunches up her face as if to say, How ghastly, but Tom doesn’t notice.
‘Such a trouper. But it’ll be a brilliant opportunity for you to meet loads of other Chi
ldren’s talent: producers, editors, assistants, poets, artists, writers, contributors…’ Tom doesn’t mention that he hopes his wife will make it to the party.
‘Can’t wait,’ Rosa whispers, slinking deeper into the embrace of the plush lilac seat.
‘Hey, so I had better go – see my daughter before Nena puts her down.’
Rosa doesn’t acknowledge that she knows who Tom’s wife is, lest she give away the fact that she googled it, so she finishes her drink in one slurp and licks her lips. ‘Yes. I’d better get to my shift.’
‘Shift?’
Tom looks at the drink Rosa has just drained.
‘Yup, I’m doing nights for the next three days. Well, for the next three nights…’
‘Wow,’ says Tom, hoping Dr Rosa doesn’t need to use a scalpel in the next few hours.
‘Oh, it’s fine. I’m on top of my game,’ she laughs, accidentally revealing that she had no doubt she’s doing brilliantly on My Brilliant Body, the medical show she’s the star of. ‘And I’m more of a night owl than day. I come alive at night.’ She sticks her tongue out and winks.
They stand and grab their bags.
‘I’ll get you a taxi,’ Tom says, as he guides Rosa out, careful not to touch her back as he follows her through the cosy club.
As they put their coats on in the plush green and leather of the lobby area, a man with frameless spectacles stops and squeezes Tom’s arms.
‘Tom! How are you?’
‘Nick – great thanks. How’s News? How’s Xander?’
‘Both good thanks. We’re off to Washington in a few weeks actually, going to be based there for the election.’
‘Oh wow – sounds great.’
Tom is aware of Rosa, prim, preened and ready by his side. ‘Oh, Nick, this is Rosa Samarasekera, she’s currently filming a new show for Children’s.’
‘My Brilliant Body,’ says Rosa, as she shakes Nick’s hand.
Tom does a mental sigh of relief that Nick will be out of the country when My Brilliant Body airs, so he won’t see just how well Rosa would fit in his News department.
‘Rosa, lovely to meet you. Tom, it’d be great to catch up before we leave.’
‘Yes let’s. Oh, and well done on the BAFTA nom – I take it you’re not leaving until after that?’
‘You know me, I turn up to the opening of an envelope.’
‘Well, let’s hope the envelope opens your way.’
‘Thanks, Tom.’
The men loosely hug and Rosa smiles tipsily, as she and Tom head out into the stir of Soho, where he swiftly hails a black cab from the corner of Old Compton Street.
‘Where are you going to, is it Guy’s?’
Rosa is as tall as Tom in her gunmetal grey wool coat, sharp black tailored trousers and leopard-print stilettos. Their eyes meet and she nods.
‘Guy’s please, mate.’
The taxi driver nods and Tom opens the car door for Rosa, frightened by the fire in his belly.
She bends her slim legs to ease herself in, the bones in her feet are visible as she elegantly swings her knees in and shuts the door. She opens the window and gazes up at Tom, looking dashing on the pavement.
‘Thanks again.’ She gives him an assured smile.
‘My pleasure. See you at work.’
Businesslike.
Tom taps the edge of the curved cab roof twice to indicate the driver to go. He needs to get out of this quicksand fast. He slings his leather satchel across his body and strides up Dean Street towards the lights and the buses of Oxford Street, with a spring in his step.
‘“Not very confident”?’ he smiles to himself. ‘My arse.’
27
March 2016, The Haven, Thailand
‘Hey, brother, that was inspirational,’ gushes Jon, clasping Moon’s hands in his and giving him a solidarity hug.
Moon smiles and releases his hands so he can tuck his parted floppy fringe behind each ear.
‘Thank you,’ he nods, before calling out to the room. ‘Broth will be another fifteen minutes, so have a look at some of the reading materials, talk to each other, share experiences. We’re all in this together, remember, so take comfort and good energy from those around you.’ Moon gives a sage nod as he excuses himself from the open-sided bamboo lounge and heads down some steps to the kitchen block, further down the path.
James stands to stretch his legs, kicks out his rolled-up blue jeans and holds his hands out to help lift Maya.
For forty-five minutes, Maya and James sat cross-legged on a rug while the night breeze from the sea generated a tinkle from a chime made of shells – a gentle soundtrack to Moon’s lecture on how to support the lymphatic system. As Maya drifted in and out of listening, trying to pay attention but distracted by thoughts of Green & Black’s, she looked around at Moon’s disciples and tried to gauge how far along they were in their ‘healing journey’, as Moon called it; to see where she fitted in all of this. The small Australian woman with sparkly eyes and sinewy arms was definitely a pro. The overweight Canadian called Justin asked a lot of questions, while Maya tried to count how many other Canadian Justins she’d heard of (two). And there, sitting opposite Maya on the carpet, nodding enthusiastically at Moon’s sermon, was regular detoxer Jon, catching Maya’s eye every now and then. After Moon finished talking, guests shared their progress notes and observations, exchanged stories about what brought them here and divulged details of the contents of the little sieve baskets that caught all the matter they had flushed from their bowels.
After the afternoon Maya had, taking turns with her hot boyfriend to do self-administered coffee colonics, she didn’t want to relive or share any of the details or any of the trauma, thank you. Let alone in front of her ex-boyfriend. So Maya and James sat and listened to the group; to stories of excess and enlightenment; to Moon.
James is a good listener, but he’s tired, so as he helps Maya up and she smooths down her purple Roxy beach dress, he gives her The Look that reminds her of the pact they made: that they would listen to Moon’s talk, politely look at some leaflets, drink their broth and go with the codewords ‘Shall we catch the news?’ when one of them is ready to leave. Both Maya and James thought it would be a handy exit strategy if things got awkward with Jon, although neither said that aloud.
Maya ignores James’ reminder about their pact, that it’s almost time to go, she wants her broth first.
‘That’s him,’ whispers Maya, sticking an elbow in James’ rib and nodding towards Jon, standing chatting to the Australian with sparkly eyes. Maya feels a stab of something in her tummy, but maybe that’s the after-effects of the colonic – it has been gripping ever since ‘That Experience They Don’t Want To Talk About’.
‘I know,’ James says, trying not to sound irritated. Even if he hadn’t noticed Jon looking across at Maya during Moon’s talk, he would have guessed that he was Maya’s ex. It wasn’t the actor’s arrogance, his Omega watch or his impeccable quiff. Nor was it his puffed-out chest, or piercing eyes that irked James while he looked at his girlfriend. It was the feeling that Maya was looking back.
Maya casually pretends to peruse the leaflets on the table, wondering how she’s going to introduce James to Jon, knowing she has to at some point; wishing she had a mobile phone to snap a photo of this crazy coincidence and send it to Nena for reinforcement. Maya didn’t go to the internet room and get online today, she was too tired from her run, from the clay shakes, from the herbs, from her headache, but she needs to in the next couple of days to file her column, and she knows first stop will be a gossipy email to tell Nena that she ran into the Baby-faced Assassin, who isn’t so baby-faced anymore.
She’s gonna flip.
‘I know, right?!’ the Australian says with playful eyes, as she runs her fingers through her hair. She looks up intently at Jon. ‘But the chia seeds make all the difference – they are so worth it. I’ll give you the recipe.’
Chia seeds?
Maya’s trying, but she can’t help feelin
g that the clay shakes, the herbs, the psyllium husks and the vegetable broth will make her so miserable, none of this will make any positive difference to her life.
I don’t want to be thin and angry.
James is trying a bit harder. He did go first with the clay shake and the colonic. He did listen to Moon’s sermon without looking around the room and daydreaming about everyone else’s back stories, and he is walking over towards Jon and the Australian woman with an extended hand.
‘Hi, I’m James.’
‘Good to meet you, James. Jon,’ Jon nods, with a bemused smile and a confident handshake.
The Australian extends a tiny hand and says she’s called Kimberley, while Maya pretends to read about the beneficial properties of lemongrass.
Get it over with, Maya.
Maya sidles over to James, Jon and Kimberley and slips her arm around James’ waist. She smiles a hello at Kimberley, who excuses herself to go to the loo.
‘Wish me luck!’ she laughs, while James, Jon and Maya all smile and wince internally.
‘Great to meet you, Jon. Maya tells me you two used to go out.’
Wow.
Maya is surprised and impressed by James’ uncharacteristic forwardness.
Jon’s cheeks flush a very English shade of red and his arrogant air drops.
He looks slightly cagey.
James loops his arm around Maya’s waist and she feels his thumb gently rubbing the small of her back.
‘Yes, the university years. “Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, and delves the parallels in beauty’s brow…”’
‘Pardon?’
I don’t recognise you, mate.
‘Shakespeare. Sonnet 60.’ Jon clears his throat. ‘You’re a very lucky man, James.’
James smiles as if to say I know. Stubbornness has edged out irritation, the dimple in his left cheek sinks and his tanned and amiable face looks comfortable, confident, friendly. Maya is blown away by how much cooler James is than she would be if she had to be at Poo Camp with James’ ex, Kitty Jones.
‘So, Maya tells me you’ve been through this before then?’ James’ smile belies the fact he’s trying to suppress the image of Jon’s hands on Maya. ‘When will I stop craving Nando’s?’
