by Louise Voss
… 2.04:00 Bon Jovi: “Living on a Prayer”
…2.18:00 Ad: Persil
…2.18:40 Ad: Kingsmill
…3.10:10 Live link
…3.11.00 Spice Girls: “Mama”
No. No way. There was no way, after all this, I was playing the fucking Spice Girls and Bon Jovi! None of my records were here, not one. Geoff had completely ignored my playlist. How dare he! My teeth were clenched, and I was having trouble swallowing. Don’t lose it, don’t lose it, I kept telling myself. This is too important.
I sank down on a sofa in reception, causing the neck of the gin bottle to peep out from between the handles of my bag. The security guard noticed, and looked at me with an expression of casual disdain, but I didn’t care.
I’d been stitched up! Bet Geoff had never even sent that letter—he must have known I wouldn’t do the show if I couldn’t play my own records. Oh, God, what was I going to do?
“Five minutes till you’re on air. Shouldn’t you be in your studio by now?” the guard asked boorishly.
“Mind your own damn business.” I was still reeling from Geoff’s bombshell and this awful, preprogrammed, bolloxsy, brain-dead excuse for a show that they seriously expected me to do.
I jumped up, grabbed my things, and headed down the corridor, punching in the security code again as I passed through another door, and again as I finally entered the studio. It was my old breakfast-show studio, looking exactly the same as it had the morning of the UKMAs, when I’d done my last request show.
I sank down in the swivel chair behind the desk and, out of habit, slid off my shoes. Putting my handbag on the carpeted floor by my feet, I let the bag of tablets flop out slightly, so I could feel its soft bulk with my toes.
Three minutes to go. Through the thick window, the glass fuggy and brown as if all the DJs chain-smoked, I could see Pete Harness and his producer finishing up in Studio Two. Surreptitiously, I unscrewed the gin bottle, poured half a glassful into the tumbler, and downed it in one gulp, my throat constricting with the effort of not gagging.
Next door they were letting Pete’s final record (“Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves—one of my least favorite tunes) play out while they put on their coats and gathered their things. Pete waved tentatively at me through the window and gave a thumbs-up signal. I could tell that the producer, a pretty young black girl, was scrutinizing me slyly, probably trying to see how different I now was from the photos she’d seen of me before the accident. I hoped she hadn’t seen me swig the gin.
Two minutes. I hesitated over the Selector printout for a moment and then swiveled around and lobbed it into the bin by the door. What was the worst thing Geoff could do—fire me? I was only planning the one show, anyway, and besides, probably no one would even notice. Feeling giddy with rebellion and adrenaline, I unpacked my box of CDs and lined them carefully up in order, cueing up “The Ballad of Tom Jones” first. I watched as the CD slid into the machine with a metallic skid, thinking, Here goes. I was going to completely override Selector.
One minute. It felt so strange, flying solo. Strange but liberating. Pete and the producer disappeared, waving foolishly at me again. I got the impression that they’d wanted to come in and say hi, but my closed-down expression had put them off.
The Selector screen to my left was showing the supposed running order of my show, the same as the printout, but because it was to my blind side it was easy to ignore.
I found a minidisc with the New World jingle on it and shoved it in the machine, followed by one of my old breakfast-show idents—why not, I thought.
Thirty seconds. I reached beneath the desk for the bag of pills, selected ten paracetemol to be going on with, and arranged them in a daisy-petal pattern around the base of the tumbler. Taking them throughout the show would mean less to swallow all at once at the end. The pills looked inviting, and I imagined them soft and sugary like sweeties on my tongue. I decided on two per record, and none of the Valiums until the final track—I wanted to be awake to finish the show.
The clock hand swept gracefully north, toward two o’clock, and I took a deep breath, clamped the cans on my ears, adjusted the microphone, and hit the on-air button to take control. No turning back now.
“Good morning, London—those of you who are unlucky enough to be awake at this time, anyhow. Helena Nicholls here; yes, it’s me. Remember me from a few months back? Well, as I expect you heard, I had a rather nasty accident, and they had to get someone else to cover for my breakfast show. Millie’s doing a great job, isn’t she? And to be honest, I’m more of a night owl myself, so I thought I’d give this a try. I’ve got some fantastic music lined up for you tonight, twenty songs in all. It’s kind of going to be a request show—but not in the way that you remember my show from before. Sorry, folks, but you can’t ring in—tonight is going to be my songs, from my life. Don’t worry, I do have quite good taste, so don’t touch that dial.… I’ve got some Elvis Costello, Blondie, Dexys, Jimmy Cliff—so stick around. Ten songs in a row coming up after these messages.”
I bunged in a trail and ran an ad break—better make at least a minimal effort to do the right thing, I thought. There was a tap on the window, and I looked up to see the little producer girl standing there waving a white envelope at me.
I swiftly moved the tumbler, leaned my elbow on the pills so they were hidden, made sure the gin bottle was out of sight, and reluctantly waved her in.
“Hi, Helena, I’m Vicky. Are you really playing ten songs in a row? Won’t you get in trouble? That’s not the running order, you know.”
She sounded concerned, but her eyes were secretly scanning my face in the hope of seeing a scar close-up. I had a sudden urge to rip off my eye patch and loom ogreishly up at her, shouting, “Grrrrrr,” just to see if she’d scream and run away.
“I know. Thanks. I’ll deal with it.”
She handed me the envelope. “Sorry, but this was stuck between the pages of Pete’s show. I think it’s been floating around for a few days, but you didn’t seem to have a pigeonhole.”
“Thanks,” I said again. “Better crack on now.” I gestured back to the desk.
“Good luck, then.” Vicky edged backward out of the studio, as if she was worried I might take a bite out of her ass on the way out. I faded up the mic, planning to talk up to the vocals:
“Right, first up we’ve got the only recent song from this show. It’s the song that was playing when I had the accident—macabre, you might think, but I couldn’t leave it out. I think music’s like everything else in life. Even the tough things have to be faced up to. They never go away on their own. Here it is, then, the lovely Cerys Matthews with Space, and—”
Damn! Tommy started singing, catching me out. I’d crashed the intro, a cardinal sin for a DJ. Off to a great start, then.
“ ‘The Ballad of Tom Jones,’ ” I added hastily.
It was the first time I’d heard the song since the UKMAs, and it was even harder than I’d imagined. I instantly felt high again, foolish, the metallic taste of coke numbing my teeth and the rush of the bright lights spinning my head. I thought of poor Justin, having to heave me up and down on his back, and … no, I couldn’t bear it. Despite what I’d just said on air, I still couldn’t face up to that particular song. I lowered the pre-fade to a nonintrusive hum, poured myself some more gin, popped two paracetemol in my mouth, and downed them, retching almost immediately. This was not going to work. I’d have to take the tablets with water instead—one more mouthful of gin and everything would be coming straight back up again. I should have stuck to vodka.
Dashing out to the water cooler in the hallway, I rinsed out my tumbler and filled it to the brim with icy water, gulping it down gratefully to wash the bitter juniper taste out of my mouth. Not to worry, I had heaps of pills, and after the show, I could just hold my nose and pour the gin down my throat like medicine. Filling up the cup with water again, I returned to my desk and glanced at the envelope Vicky had brought in.
It was addressed to me, care of New World, in a strange plump handwriting. I slit it open and flipped the four sides of paper over to see who it was from. I suspected a nutter, writing that amount. Fan letters these days were usually just brief requests for signed photos.
At the very end I saw “All my love, Toby,” and for a split second, everything in me turned to water, from knees to nose and all the bits in between. I thought I might just dissolve right there onto my desk, fusing all the electrics in the studio and bringing my show to a premature climax. But I forced myself to remember our last meeting: Toby swaying and running off to puke, calling me “she” and sucking lager off his arms. Then I remembered Ruby telling me how they were all going to live together again as a family.…
I was so distracted that I nearly forgot to cue Jackie Wilson. With no link at all, I segued into “Sweetest Feeling,” knocked back two more pills, and devoured the letter, skimming at first through its contents.
Dear Helena
… fantastic to talk to you when you were at Lulu’s … can’t believe you didn’t leave your number. I had been trying to get hold of you ever since you left hospital, via your agent, but you didn’t reply, so I suppose you never got the letter.
Damn, I must have thrown it away along with Geoff’s letter
… forgot to mention it when we spoke on the phone, and when you saw me drunk that day. So, so, sorry about that; I’m mortified. I made Bill come with me to Richmond in the hope of bumping into you—what a twat, eh? As you noticed, I was hardly at my best. I gather that Bill told you why.… miss you very much … think about you all the time …
Omigod! I read the final page more slowly:
It might seem to you like I’m running after you because I’m on the rebound—but I’m not, I promise. Things hadn’t been right between Kate and me for ages, but because I’d already been walked all over by one woman (Lorraine, the one you met), I just wouldn’t allow myself to see that it was happening again. It’s been a nightmare, but Kate and I will stay in touch—we have to for Ruby’s sake. Ruby doesn’t understand what’s going on, although I think she’ll be fine. She was happy staying at Lulu’s, even when I was away on business. Kate did most of her recovering at her lover’s flat, where there apparently wasn’t room for Rubes. Kate and Giacomo (prat!) have now bought a house together, and Ruby went to live there a few weeks ago—in fact, the day after you went to Lulu’s.
So Ruby was mistaken when she thought Toby was coming back to live with Kate, too—jeez! That would teach me to take the word of a two-year-old as gospel. I couldn’t believe my idiocy.
… The Italian Prat is actually a fairly reasonable guy, and Kate’s keen to be “mature” about access (so I should bloody well hope!), so I’m sure I’ll still see lots of Ruby.
Anyway, listen, I’m worried about you, Helena. It’s fine if you’ve decided that you don’t want to pursue a relationship with me (well, actually, it’s not fine at all, but I’ll live with it), but you seemed upset when we spoke on the phone. Even though she hadn’t met you before, Lulu thought you were acting a bit strangely, too. I still can’t believe that you really wanted to give away something as precious as your memories of Sam. You aren’t planning anything stupid, are you??
Whatever you think of me now, please do me one last favor and call me to let me know that you’re okay. It’s 0171-386-9162 (Lulu’s number—I’m staying there until I find a place of my own. We’re selling the house in the country).
I’ve been scouring TimeOut ever since the girl in your agent’s office told me that you were going back to New World, and I was delighted to see your nighttime show listed. I’ll be tuning in, you can count on it. It will be fantastic even just to hear your voice again.
All my love,
Toby xxx
When I looked up from the letter, I saw that there were only two seconds left of Jackie Wilson. I’d been intending to talk a little bit about Sam, and how we first met, before I played “Route 66,” but I was too flabbergasted. Leaving three unprofessional seconds of dead air, I hastily pulled down the fader to start Sandie Shaw and flopped back into my chair.
This truly was radio at its worst—I hoped that nobody was listening. And this was the show that was supposed to be going down in history. I’d have to pull myself together and concentrate harder.
It also occurred to me that I hadn’t once even thought about Sam while the record was playing. Perhaps my theory about music and memory wasn’t so infallible after all.
Still, there was a long way to go. Three down, seventeen left. I touched the Ziplocked stash of tablets with my toe, rubbing them affectionately against my sock. I had never felt so confused. I took two more tablets. Then another two, quickly, to prove that Toby’s revelations weren’t going to change my mind.
Damn you, Toby, I thought through the jolly brass of “Route 66.” It’s too late. I can’t go back now. This show sucks so badly that even if I hadn’t ditched the format, I’d probably get fired for it.
I replaced the cans and listened to the end of Sandie Shaw before opening the fader on my mic again.
“That was a little-known but fantastic track from the great Sandie Shaw, her version of the classic song ‘(Get Your Kicks on) Route 66.’ I know I said these were my songs, but that one’s for my dad, over in New Jersey.
“Hey, it’s a good thing this isn’t my old show, isn’t it? For those of you who remember it, I used to never play a song unless the person requesting it could practically write a thesis on the reason they wanted it played. And I have to tell you, right now I wouldn’t play any of these records if I was that punter, ringing in for them.… But I do have an excuse. I knew there wouldn’t be enough time to talk much on air about why these tracks are important to me, so I wrote it all down instead. And if any of you care enough, perhaps one day it’ll be made into a book, and you can read it. It’s a thesis about my life, I guess.”
I paused. “Who thinks that I maybe ought to be just a little less self-obsessed?”
I faded up “Wichita Lineman,” determined to talk up to the vocals without crashing them: “And here’s a song that reminds me of being a kid, hanging out with my best friend, fighting with my mother—the way you do when you’re nine years old. I thought that it was about a linesman, you know, like they have in tennis matches.”
Bingo. Got it right that time. Suddenly love-struck linesmen and my own self-obsession seemed terribly funny, and I began to laugh. The show wasn’t going a bit like I’d imagined it would. All those months, writing and planning and being serious and grief-stricken—and now these songs were making me laugh? Perhaps I was losing it. Or maybe it was the medicinal cocktail starting to take effect.
Well, since Toby had had the decency to write and declare himself worried about me, the least I could do was to ring him. I liked the idea that he would be the last person I ever spoke directly to.
I dialed Lulu’s number, feeling a ridiculous heady sensation that I couldn’t quite identify.
The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. Just my luck. Eventually an answering machine picked up and curtly instructed me to leave a message. I spoke quietly, guiltily, in case I woke up Lulu.
“This is a message for Toby. I’m really sorry to call so late. Anyway, I got your second letter, but not the first one—oh, by the way, it’s Helena here. Call me back at the studio, if you like. I need to tell you something. I hope you get this message, but it’s two-fifteen and you’re probably in bed asleep. But if you aren’t, then ring me on”—I peered at the number of the XD line written on the studio phone—“0171-935-6906—that’s a direct line into the studio. Bye, Toby. It was really great to hear from you.”
Not speaking to Toby had pulled me back to earth again, and I felt like I was getting down to business as I played “Sunday Girl,” “Sitting in Limbo,” and “Home Again.” I concluded that it probably was the pills making me feel weird, so I decided to ease off them for a while, to stay alert.
I talked
a lot in between each record, more than I’d intended, but kept it to generalities: when, why, what. Inside, I waited to be overwhelmed by memories of Sam and me on magic carpets, of the visitor’s pink ribbon and the preacher with the bouffant hair, of my first bedroom sessions on the rickety bass—but it didn’t happen. Yes, I remembered Sam, and saw her face, and relived the feeling of the love that bounced off the high tapestried walls of the Freehold Baptist Church, and heard the flat thud of my bass strings before I knew how to properly play it—but the odd thing was that I felt it all quite fondly.
It was like watching a much-loved movie, the way you go, “ooh, I love this bit!” but you aren’t particularly glued to it because it’s too familiar. You’ve seen it too many times before. The revelation I was expecting never occurred.
By revelation, I mean a defining moment, some sort of It’s a Wonderful Life–esque catharsis; that by seeing my life unfold before me through those songs, it would make me appreciate its value, and I’d want to live again. This was not happening, but something else was.
Slowly, slowly, as each song shook out and laid before me its patchwork memories, I realized that, yes, these were indeed my memories, for better or worse—but frankly, I’d spent so much time dwelling on them in the past few months that they were no longer quite so interesting to me. The funny bits still made me laugh, but not out loud. The sad bits brought tears to my eyes but didn’t destroy me. I had become an observer instead of a participator.
I’d thought that playing the music would tip the balance, but it didn’t. My memories had, in the writing of them, become downgraded from Top Priority to Day File. By osmosis and obsession, they had become part of me. Suddenly I didn’t even want to share them with the rest of the world. I didn’t want a bumper sticker announcing to anyone that I’d Told London My Song—I wanted to keep my songs. Now that I’d given away the Hel-Sam box, they were all I had left of Blue Idea, of Sam, of the past. They were mine.
