by J C Williams
“Look, Trimble. I’m not taking the heat for your shortcomings. I’ve been carrying your sweating carcass for too long. Pull your finger out of your arse or you’ll be lucky to get a job on hospital radio.”
He took one final look around the room and scrunched his face in disgust. “And clean this awful garbage dump up. It stinks in here.”
Terry wiped the excessive sweat from his brow and reached for the phone. His fat fingers mashed the keypad and he waited patiently.
“It’s me,” he said. “Tell me more about Kelvin Reed. Right, I know I wasn’t interested, but now I am.”
He paused. his head was getting more flushed.
“Three hundred quid? It was two hundred, five minutes ago.”
He bit his lip.
“Fookin’ inflation? You’re one unscrupulous shit!”
He backtracked.
“Alright, alright. Calm down. How long have we worked together? Three hundred it is. Now where is he going to be?”
He furiously took notes in shorthand.
“Where the heck is that?”
He continued to take notes.
“Okay, this weekend? And what’s he doing?”
He looked thoroughly underwhelmed.
“A charity record attempt? Who in hell wants to read about that?”
He listened intently and started laughing.
“Ha-ha! That’s a great idea. Now I know why I’ve worked with you for so long. You’re one evil bastard. Disgraced BBC presenter in vicious assault on hard-working journalist. I love it! I’ll send the two hundred through now.”
“Okay, okay, three hundred!”
He pushed the chair back and placed his feet on the table. His bobbled socks had a hole by each toe through which a yellow-tinged nail poked through. He reached into his desk drawer and like a cliché pulled a half bottle of whisky which was wrapped in a Co-Op carrier bag. He took a generous slug and wiped the excess from his mouth. His shoulders trembled as his laugh became increasingly more vocal. He was like a poor excuse for a supervillain, who’d just discovered the secret lair of his oldest nemesis.
“Sorry, Kelvin,” he said aloud. “It looks like I’m going to destroy your career for a second time.”
The captain gave a garbled apology about the short delay and assurances that they’d soon be underway. The plane was full, and it was hot, and people were getting impatient. It was early Friday evening, and there were a mix of holidaymakers and people returning from business trips. Una Jacob had lost the formal attire, but still looked commanding in dark jeans and smart blue jumper. Her brown briefcase sat between her ankles and her hands rested on a black notebook on her lap. There was a collective mumbling as the final passenger eventually appeared; even the air hostess gave him a look of disdain. He moved through the cabin and placed his bag into the overhead compartment. Kelvin Reed looked like he’d just stepped out of a Country Outfitters, dressed head-to-toe in tweed. He appeared too big for the seat and as he sat, he knocked into Una who hadn’t broken her stare from the runway apron.
“You’re late,” said Una, in a calm but determined voice.
Kelvin was flustered as he struggled to fasten his seatbelt. “Yes, but not through my own fault. Everywhere I went, people kept stopping me. I’d forgotten what it was like, I’ve not been out for months!”
“You should be grateful for the attention,” said Una.
“I used to be,” he stressed. “But people come up to me full of smiles. They recognise me from the television, and then it dawns on them — or someone reminds them — about the stories in the press. Most people have forgotten what the bloody story was, they just know it wasn’t positive. A woman in her eighties accused me of being a drug dealer last week. It’s no wonder I don’t go out anymore.”
“It’s when people stop recognising you that you need to worry, Kelvin.”
“Look,” he whispered. “Half the bloody plane is looking at me?”
“Don’t be paranoid. They’re probably looking at you because you were late.”
Una didn’t speak and wrote page after page of notes in her book. Kelvin tried on several occasions to instigate a conversation but every time he opened his mouth, nothing came out. He was good in his own company, but when he was with Una he felt uncomfortable as any silence wasn’t natural. The offer of a drink from the trolley was a welcome distraction. “Whisky, please. Could you make it a large one?”
Una declined the offer of a drink with a dismissive wave of her left hand and continued writing. Kelvin quickly sank the whisky and tried to attract the attention of the hostess for another.
“It’s a short flight, don’t have another,” said Una.
Kelvin felt like a child in her company; like he needed her permission to do anything. He’d survived for the last six months without her so wondered why he sat here taking instructions from her now.
Whether it was the whisky or years of pent-up frustration, but he moved his hand and placed it on top of her pen. “Do you not like me?” he asked.
Una was prevented from writing and looked pensively at his hand, slowly moving her gaze to his face. She maintained eye contact for what seemed like an eternity. She was tiny, but she was intimidating, and she took her other hand and pushed his away.
“Kelvin, to be honest, I don’t have an opinion of you. And you should see that as a positive.”
He looked confounded, but he was determined. “What does that mean?” he pressed.
“I tolerate you, Kelvin. That means I have no real opinion of you, positive or negative. I’m impartial and that’s what makes me a good agent. Other agents would have dropped you like a hot potato, but I haven’t, because I have no real feelings towards you.”
“And I owe you a boatload of cash!” added Kelvin.
“Yes, there is that. Look, Kelvin, I’m in the business of making money. I have to spend my time with those that make me money. If they make money, I make money. Kelvin, I don’t think you’re down-and-out. Since I last saw you, you look like a new man. You’ve lost weight, cut your hair, and had a shave. Do I think your career is over?” Una reflected for a moment before continuing. “No, I don’t,” she said. “You owe me money. But if you were deadwood, I’d write that off, as successful agents don’t like to be associated with toxic brands. It’s not good for business.”
Kelvin had a smile on his face as he replied, “That’s the nicest backhanded compliment I’ve had in months!”
“Do you want to know what really grinds my gears?” said Una, composing her thoughts. “I have young kids sat in my reception for hours, desperate for representation. None of these record producers or theatre directors will speak to these kids if they aren’t represented these days. They are hungry and will do anything it takes to make it big. I get pissed off when people like you have a successful career and go into self-destruct mode. I have another client. Clint Lee. You may have heard of him? His story was different to yours, but the end result was the same — people who have it all, and then seem to either throw it away or piss it all up against the wall.”
She returned to her notebook, leaving Kelvin to reflect. He was unsure why, but he now felt positively upbeat. Una wasn’t stupid. Far from it, in fact. And for her to have confidence in him, no matter how well it might be disguised, really gave him the boost he needed. He felt motivated, recharged, as he watched the Isle of Man coastline coming into focus before him, appreciating the view on offer as the plane banked over on its final approach.
The fasten seat belt pinged and the passengers began the scrum to dismount. A relatively overweight lady stared intently at Kelvin. He was used to attention from strangers but he felt a little uncomfortable as he reached for his hand luggage. She continued to stare as he joined the queue to exit the plane. As he approached, she clearly had a lightbulb moment, turning to her travelling companion. “It is him,” she said, with a tone of mild disgust. “That gardener who got caught wanking on a bus.”
There was a collective chuckl
e and once again, Kelvin began to wonder why he bothered to venture outside. “It wasn’t wanking!” shouted Kelvin. “It was dogging! There is a bloody difference, you know!”
Una took a step back in an attempt to distance herself from Kelvin who was now puffing his cheeks in frustration. The hostess moved quickly to avert a situation and ushered the remaining passengers from the plane.
One man remained at the back of the plane, his head covered by a scruffy fisherman’s hat. Terry Trimble watched the humiliating exchange with delight and chuckled as he replayed the conversation which he’d recorded on his phone.
“Excuse me, sir. Can you make your way to the exit?” asked the flustered hostess.
“Oh, yes, of course, sorry!” he said.
“I hope you enjoy your visit to the Isle of Man!” she followed up enthusiastically.
“Thank you, I will. I’ve got a feeling that this holiday is going to be the making of me,” he said, with a cringe-worthy undertone that made the pretty hostess feel uncomfortable.
Hayley had offered to pick them up, as after all Kelvin was family, regardless of how distant. But Una had insisted they reject the request and instead arranged for a black Mercedes to pick them up. She was all about appearance, and Kelvin could appreciate where she was coming from. It would look better for him climbing into a limousine than a ‘clapped-out Datsun Cherry’ as Una had so eloquently put it. The driver — a cheery local called James — greeted them and escorted them to the car, parked outside. The repugnant woman who’d called him a wanker was stood waiting for a bus, so Kelvin had an element of pleasure, climbing into the back of a sumptuous Mercedes. As the car pulled away, Kelvin partially wound the window down and raised his middle finger in her direct eye line. James chuckled at the reaction of the woman who was desperately pointing out the indiscretion to her friends, but they were oblivious.
“She must be a fan, Mr Reed?” observed the driver.
“Yes, she was delighted to meet me. Hopefully she’ll never forget the experience!”
“If you don’t mind me saying, Mr Reed, it’s a real pleasure to meet you. My wife and my mother-in-law are coming to see you tomorrow, they think you’re fantastic.”
Kelvin was delighted and gestured towards Una, who paid no attention. “Thanks, James, that’s really good of you to say so. What do you think the reaction of the Isle of Man public will be towards me?” he asked, fishing.
James thought for a moment before answering. “People are looking forward to it,” he said. “Not just to meet you, but the event tomorrow. I drove by earlier, and a big frame has been built and it looks like they’re putting up bouncy castles and food stalls. They’re really putting the effort in. I reckon there will be hundreds of people there tomorrow. And I’ve spoken to a few people about you, Mr Reed. You know, since it was announced you were coming over?”
James paused, causing Kelvin to lean forward, like a celebrity on Top Gear waiting to get their lap time. “And…?” asked Kelvin.
“Well, most people think you’re great,” James continued. “Not one person could tell me why you were in the papers anyway, and if you don’t mind me saying, Mr Reed, the papers are full of absolute nonsense anyway. My wife is a good judge of character, and if she likes you, then I think you’re all right. She’ll be down to see you tomorrow with the mother-in-law. Be careful, she and her mate are absolute bonkers, and they love you!”
Kelvin absorbed the stunning Manx countryside as they made their way towards Douglas. “It’s quite a beautiful island you live on James, you’re very lucky.”
“Have you been before, Mr Reed?”
“Please, call me Kelvin. Yes, I was here about fifteen years or so ago. I was doing something for Countryfile, with John Craven. I thought it was a wonderful place then.”
“You should move over,” said James. “The Manx people are very friendly and I’m sure you’d be made welcome. As you can see, there is plenty of green space for you as well.”
Kelvin smiled. “That’s not a daft idea, James!”
It was only twenty minutes getting to Douglas, and as they drove on the promenade seafront, James pointed to a vast wooden structure, partially covered by a perimeter wall and with only the top visible. “That’s where you are tomorrow, Kelvin. That’s the Sunken Gardens,” he said. “Your hotel is only up the road, so it’s only a short walk.” It was a hive of activity already, with tradesmen finalising the wooden wall and positioning a mesh fitting on which to affix the flowers.
Una had said nothing throughout most of the journey, and Kelvin was unsure if she’d perhaps fallen asleep. In truth, she was merely lost in thought. Kelvin didn’t know it, but this was important to Una. She’d invested a lot of time in him, and as she said earlier, she didn’t work with failures. If Kelvin was finished, it would be a slight on her character. One she’d certainly recover from, yes, but one which would be remembered by her detractors — of which there were many — just the same.
“Here we go,” said James, pulling up outside the Empress Hotel. He jumped out of the car and attentively held the door for Una. He didn’t receive a thank you, but he did receive the hint of a smile from her. Turning to Kelvin, he said, “We’ll hopefully see you tomorrow, Kelvin, and if I’m with the mother-in-law, you’ve been warned!”
“I’ll see you outside here, tomorrow, at eight a.m. I’ve arranged a press briefing with you and the organisers,” said Una to Kelvin, walking a pace in front of him after they’d gotten out of the car.
Kelvin looked confused. “Don’t you want to meet for breakfast?”
Una looked back over her shoulder. “I’ll meet you outside at eight a.m.,” she said, firmly.
Kelvin dropped his bag in his room, and as it was a pleasant evening, took a stroll along the promenade. He felt at home and for once relished being in a public place. Those that did notice him gave him a courteous smile or a polite request for a selfie. It was easy to get lost in the Isle of Man and be anonymous if so desired. Those with an ego would be easily disappointed that it didn’t get tickled so often. He walked down from the main promenade to the vast sandy beach, removing his socks and shoes. It’d been years since he’d waded barefoot in the waves. A friendly Labrador was just as eager to join him in the sea, as it should happen, and playfully jumped around him in the water. The owner of the pet instantly recognised Kelvin, pulling a mobile from his pocket to eagerly snap a photo. “I thought you’d had enough dogging!” the man joked, laughing heartily, but then, quickly adding, and quite cheerfully, “Don’t worry, I’m only kidding with you, Mr Reed! We’re all looking forward to seeing you tomorrow!”
Even the insults over here were good-natured, thought Kelvin, and he did chuckle at how much that picture of him and the Labrador would have been worth to a lowbrow journalist. He re-joined the promenade and made his way to the Sunken Gardens. Being a gardener, his first reaction was to admire the beautifully crafted flowerbeds that spanned the perimeter of each of the gardens. It was a testament to the people of Douglas that such creativity had remained intact in a major town centre.
“Don’t mind me!” he said, to the joiners working on the wall. From the taxi it looked vast; from here it looked colossal. He’d an idea of the scale required and looked up the videos and pictures of the previous attempt, but now he was here, this would take a herculean effort. The volume of flowers required to fill that frame was staggering.
“Kelvin!” shouted a voice from the promenade. For the last few months, whenever he’d heard his name shouted it was usually followed with an insult. He was pleasantly surprised to see a sociable face and be greeted by a warm handshake. “Kelvin, it’s fantastic to see you. I’m Jack, one of the organisers of this and a neighbour of Hayley.”
“Great to meet you,” said Kelvin, enthusiastically. “You’ve certainly got your hands full here. It’s quite a size!”
Jack looked overwhelmed. “I know, it’s bloody huge. I didn’t realise how big it was going to be. I just wanted to thank you for c
oming over, it really has helped raise the profile. I’ve been inundated with calls from the press over the last few days.”
Kelvin rolled his eyes. “Sorry about that, Jack.”
“No, it’s positive, honestly, Kelvin. Most of them thought it was a great idea and as one of them said they’ve all got elderly relatives, so anything to raise the profile to protect them was a great thing. Two of the papers weren’t going to cover it, but the journalists are coming anyway and bringing their families for a short break. Said they’d been here on holiday when they were kids and wanted to come back with theirs.”
“Do you think you’ll have enough flowers?” asked Kelvin. “You’re going to need a fair few.”
Jack scratched his chin. “We’ll know tomorrow. Hayley has been great, and I think she’s requisitioned every flower in the northwest of England. The sponsors have been generous, so we haven’t had to scrimp. She seems confident. We’ve divided the day into four quarters, North, South, East and West, and are inviting people from each part of the Island to come along for a couple of hours each. They’re welcome to spend the day, but this will give most people a chance to actually put flowers on the wall and really feel part of it. We’ve got schools coming along, and the kids have apparently been collecting flowers all week. A few of our Silver Sprinters — you’ll get to meet them! — are running a bus service to bring the elderly down who want to come, but don’t have transport. It’s a real community event, and hopefully we can raise money for the vulnerable that fall victim to scams.”
Kelvin looked a little reserved. “Sorry, Kelvin, I’m boring you, going on like this,” said Jack.
“No, far from it!” Kelvin assured him. “You’ve actually humbled me. I’m so used to being kicked lately that I’ve forgotten that there are actually good, selfless people out there. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but when I was first asked to come over, I said no. Well, I don’t think I was that polite about it, actually. But hearing you talk about this has actually restored my faith, somewhat. From my short time here, I’m starting to realise you Isle of Man people are a special breed.”
