Silence. I loved it. It was one of my favourite sounds in the world, after the children’s laughter and ‘I love you’ and the Coronation Street music.
‘Mind if I have a look at your laptop?’ I asked. I still had ‘Going Underground’ running through my head. Some people might say my life is in a rut but I’m quite happy with what I got . . .
‘Help yourself.’
I booted it up and searched for the website Becca had mentioned.
Some people might say that I should strive for more but I’m so happy I can’t see the point . . .
‘What are you looking at?’ Alex peered around the ‘Sport’ section while I typed in the name of my school.
‘Hang on,’ I said, watching the blue boxes build along the bottom line of the screen as the page whirred itself open. Then a list of names appeared. ‘Oh my God!’ I cried excitedly. ‘Amanda Benson! I’d forgotten all about her!’
‘Amanda . . .? Oh, right, Friends Reunited. Is that the first time you’ve seen it?’ He sounded incredulous.
I would have shot him a look, but was too busy staring at the names, all throwing memories at me – Anna Stevenson’s amazing ginger freckles, Anthony Woodsley and his reputedly huge willy, Rachael Albright of the pink hair and studded dog collars. ‘We don’t all sit around in offices arsing around on the Internet every day, you know,’ I said tartly, and then stopped short. Danny Cooper. There he was.
‘All right, all right. I was only saying.’
I ignored him and clicked on Danny’s link.
Living and working in Manchester – managing my own record shop. Two dogs, no kids, GSOH.
Yeah, and? I wanted to ask. What else? Wife? Ex-wife? Partner? No one gives a shite about your dogs, Dan – what’s the beef on your love-life?
‘What’s Amanda Benjamin doing with herself, then?’ Alex leaned over, trying to look at the screen, and I closed Dan’s message at once.
‘Amanda Benson,’ I corrected him. ‘The usual boring stuff.’
‘What, married, two kids, six hamsters and a drink problem?’
‘Something like that,’ I muttered.
Add Your Details, a link was inviting me. I clicked on it and started typing my own message.
Went to university in Brighton, then travelled for a year. Came back to good old south London and worked in sales before I met my partner Alex and we had our two sprogs – Molly (2) and Nathan (five months) . . .
I stopped. God, it sounded dull. No, I sounded dull. What the hell would Danny think when he read that? He’d probably thank his lucky stars he’d got away up the motorway to Manchester when he’d had the chance.
I deleted all of it. Maybe I should just add my name, forget the details. Then I thought back to my conversation with Anna. Maybe I could just . . . embellish a little . . .
Lived in Brighton for a few years, doing my degree. Then I travelled around the world, stopping in Vietnam to work in an orphanage for two years.
I giggled out loud at the enormity of my lie. The travelling bit was true enough but the only work I’d done had been a few crappy fruit-picking jobs in Australia and New Zealand to raise some extra dollars. Voluntary work in South-East Asia . . . forget it. I’d been too busy bronzing myself, climbing mountains, haggling over sarongs and smoking the mind-bending grass. I sighed nostalgically. It had been such a great time.
‘Who have you found now?’
‘Nobody. You didn’t know her,’ I said, typing away again.
Came back and did an MBA before getting a job in finance . . .
No. Too dull – and far too unrealistic.
Came back and retrained at King’s. Am now a leading brain surgeon . . .
Even worse. Everyone would know that was a lie. It had to be something at least on the right side of credible.
Came back and did three months’ work experience on Newsnight, before being offered a permanent place as a researcher.
Yes, good.
Made the jump to Channel 4 two years ago as . . .
I racked my brains. What would everyone have heard of ?
. . . a producer of Countdown . . .
Absolutely no way. Terrible idea!
. . . a producer on Big Brother.
Yes! Definitely yes. Then, as a nudge to Danny, I added:
No dogs, but own teeth and GSOH.
There. I sent my details away to the database and a message flashed up, telling me my name and message had been added to our school board. For some weird reason, my hands were trembling.
Four
I put the laptop away and finished my coffee, trying to imagine Danny’s face if he logged on to the site again and saw my name. He’d be impressed, I was sure. Fancy Sadie Morrison working for Channel 4! he’d think. Mind you, she was always creative at school. The paintings she did for her Art A level portfolio – brilliant, they were, especially the portrait of me. Good at English, too. Should have known she’d end up doing something in the media.
I picked up the pile of weekend newspapers that I hadn’t so much as glanced at yet, and suddenly felt as if I’d been caught cheating in an exam. First Jack, now Danny. What was I like with my fantasy jobs?
The last job I’d had before I went on maternity leave with Molly had been as a sales manager for a small publishing company. It was fun, sure, and there were lots of perks, and some people – my mum, for example – seemed to think it was terribly glamorous. Which it wasn’t. Not as glamorous as being a TV producer by any means. Still, it was something. A job. I had been an independent working woman, with my Next trouser suits and company car. Needless to say, it all seemed a very long time ago now.
The ‘Jobs and Money’ section of the paper was on top of the pile, and, on impulse, I grabbed it and started flicking through the ads. Just to see what I could do, you know. Just to remind myself that I could still get an interesting job if I wanted to.
ITN Senior News Correspondent . . .
Cool or what? I couldn’t resist imagining myself in sexy little Moschino suits, with horn-rimmed spectacles and a stern interviewing technique. I would frighten those MPs into squealing out their secrets in live interviews or, alternatively, I’d ply them with booze and let them give themselves away. I’d be a TV legend!
I glanced through the details. Nice pay, flexible working hours (good) . . . oh. Keen interest in current affairs. Well, duh. You don’t say. I thought back to my outstanding contribution to the political discussion last night and regretfully moved on to the next ad.
Sales Manager for a new publishing company . . .
Now, then. I could definitely get that one, if I wanted to. I was brilliant at sales, wasn’t I? I had always met my targets, and was sure that the old magic would still be there. A,B,C my first boss had instructed fervently. Always Be Closing. In my heyday, I could have closed five deals before breakfast! Well, lunch anyway. It all depended on how hung over I was, really, and how susceptible the booksellers were to my sweet-talking. And, to be quite honest, how short my skirt was.
I read the ad again. Religious books. Oh. That would be a no, then. Even I couldn’t be convincing about religious books. I scanned down to the next ad.
That was when I saw it. Talk about coincidence!
Producer required for new chat show. Do you have creative flair, an ability to work on a tight budget, and the organizational skills to juggle a hectic workload?
Yes! I did. I bloody did!
We are an independent television production company in the heart of Soho.
Lovely. All those lunches, and all that shopping . . .
You are an experienced producer with great ideas and a full contacts book.
Well, not quite, but . . .
Interested? Send your details to Emma Tomlinson at . . .
Interested? I was, actually. Apart from the last sentence, the experience bit, it sounded great. A TV producer, just like I’d put on the Friends Reunited website. It really was a coincidence.
My hand hovered over the paper, not
quite wanting to turn the page on the ad. I tore it out instead. Maybe it would be fun to apply – not seriously, obviously – but just . . . as a way of proving something to myself. Anyway, it was all good practice. I would have to apply for jobs again in the future, when the kids were older. I had to keep my hand in, didn’t I?
I thought back to the lies I’d told to Jack earlier in the week, to Chloe the night before, and now, via a website, to Danny, and everyone else I’d been at school with. I was obviously a good liar, that was without doubt. I could bullshit with the best of them. Was I good enough for the Firestarter TV Company, though?
I switched on the laptop again and started typing.
Dear Ms Tomlinson,
I am writing in application to your advertisement in the Guardian for the producer’s position.
As you will see from the enclosed CV, I have had many years of experience working on a variety of television programmes, and, in particular, daytime chat shows. After finishing my Media Studies degree, I undertook a voluntary placement on This Morning where . . .
I paused for thought. God, I was enjoying this. I was going to flog it for all it was worth, load this letter with bullshit until it reeked of the stuff.
. . . where I learned many aspects of programme-making, both on the studio floor and in the offices. For me, impeccable organization is the key to a successful live programme like This Morning, and as a TV producer, good team-working skills are essential.
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. On and on I wrote, turning my CV into a two-page work of art, and my letter into a modest reflection of some of my greater triumphs. Hey, even I would have given me the job, I sounded so good. I giggled as I read it back again. Well, even if it wasn’t all true, nobody could fault my creative writing skills.
There was a cry from upstairs, and I emailed the thing off without a second thought. Gone. See? Motherhood wasn’t the only thing I could do. Lying came as easily as breathing.
The next morning, I dropped in to see my mum. She and my dad still lived in our old family home, a three-bedroom semi in Tooting, with its spotless net curtains and gleaming ornaments arranged neatly on every surface. Everything was just as it had been when I’d grown up there. Same carpets, same curtains, same layout of the furniture. The only difference I noticed whenever I came back, fifteen years after moving out, was the change of soundtrack. No more thumping music from Cat’s stereo. No more low giggles from Lizzie, sitting on the stairs, twiddling the phone cord around her fingers as she chatted to her mates. Nowadays I walked in and heard the kettle hissing, the Hoover rumbling or – if my mum was in a frivolous mood – Frank Sinatra.
Molly went to play with the jangly bead curtain and fridge magnets in the kitchen, as always, while I plopped Nathan on the floor to practise rolling, and sipped my scalding tea.
‘I take it you’ve heard about Mrs Green,’Mum said, perching on the edge of an armchair. My mum never seemed to sit comfortably in her own home. She always perched, as if she was ready to fly up and knock together a cauldron of savoury mince at any moment. I knew she’d be thinking of all the things she had to do before going to the school for dinner-lady duty, like ironing my dad’s socks or getting out the chicken to defrost for tomorrow’s tea. Even in her late fifties, she was every inch the diligent housewife, the domestic goddess of Fernwood Terrace.
‘Mrs Green?’ I frowned, wondering who the hell Mrs Green was. ‘No.’
She clucked her tongue. ‘Did Lizzie not tell you? Well!’ She put her cup down on the saucer. ‘It’s lung cancer. They’re devastated, of course. Six months, the doctors are giving her.’
‘That’s terrible,’ I said, racking my brains for some memory of the poor woman I was obviously meant to know.
‘Isn’t it just? With her Leanne almost eight months gone, and the father nowhere to be seen as well.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I really don’t.’ I saw her looking down fondly at Nathan, who was trying to get over onto his front. ‘’Course, you’re all right, aren’t you, bubs?’ she said. Down went the cup and saucer on a polished side table, and there she was, hoicking him up in the air to nuzzle his hair. ‘I said, you’re all right, aren’t you, eh? Got a smile for your grandma, then?’
Nathan beamed at her and batted a fat hand in her vague direction.
‘Isn’t he Grandma’s little pickle, then? Isn’t he Grandma’s little darlin’?’ Then her tone changed. ‘Ooh, is that a tooth he’s got coming there?’ She squinted into his mouth. ‘Is that a toothy-peg, my little chubkin?’
I got to my feet in interest. ‘I hadn’t noticed anything,’ I said. ‘Where?’
‘Oh, I think it is,’ she said, expertly running a finger along his lower gums. ‘Right here. My Nathie-wathie got his first little toothy coming, hmmm?’
My hands twitched. ‘Can I see?’ I asked.
She passed him over. ‘’Course, you’ll want to put some clove oil on that, if it starts bothering him,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘Shall I see if I’ve got some? Your dad uses it on his teeth sometimes.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some homeopathic stuff for teething back at home.’
She stopped in her tracks. ‘Right,’ she said doubtfully. There was a pause. ‘Because I used clove oil for you three, and it was wonderful. That and a dab of brandy if you were screaming your heads off!’
‘I’ll see how he goes,’ I said. ‘He might not be too bothered by it. Molly’s teeth came through without too much palaver.’
My mum was still on her feet, poised to make a dash for the clove oil at the slightest sign of encouragement. ‘Well, it’s here if you want it,’ she said in the end. She resumed her perch on the arm of the chair. ‘Although I daresay you’ve got your own brandy.’
I stroked Nathan’s back. ‘Mmmm,’ I replied. I didn’t bother telling her that health visitors weren’t so encouraging on the babies/alcohol idea these days. In fact, I steered off the subject of babies altogether. Somehow it was easier that way.
Back home, tempted though I was by the tower of washing up and a bout of Hoovering, I couldn’t resist making the most of a ten-minute breather. Nathan was dozing and Molly was amusing herself by getting all of the saucepans out of the cupboard, so I got out Alex’s laptop again, and booted it up.
I found that my heart was beating fast. My mouth was dry.
This is crazy, I told myself, he won’t have replied already. He won’t even have seen it. But Danny Cooper had been spreading through my subconscious like oil on water ever since my phone call with Becca. Things kept coming into my mind when I wasn’t expecting them.
I’d remembered his laugh – his loud, staccato ha!-ha!-ha! that sounded so ridiculous, it always made me giggle.
I’d remembered his handwriting – straight up, girlishly rounded, no curl on his ‘g’s and ‘y’s.
I’d remembered how he loved it when I went on top. The wild look of abandon on his face as he’d come.
And what about the quickie we’d sneaked in the boys’ toilets one afternoon when school was out? We’d so nearly been caught by the caretaker. Sssshhhh ssssshhhh ssssshhhhh, his broom had gone in the corridor outside. I remembered how desperately we’d tried to stop sniggering as we kissed in the cubicle, smells of pine disinfectant and schoolboy piss all around us.
I tried to ignore the metallic crashes from the kitchen as I waited for the internet connection to start up. It wasn’t possible for a child of two to actually break a saucepan, was it? Click . . . click . . . whirr . . . the computer went.
Right. Here we go. I went straight to my email account. Inbox: 0 new messages, it said.
None. Curses.
I went to the Friends Reunited website again, just to see if I was on there. Maybe there’d been some technical glitch, maybe they hadn’t transferred my details yet. Maybe . . . Oh. Sadie Morrison, there I was.
I felt deflated. It was ridiculous of me. What had I been expecting? Honestly, I was such an idiot. Had I
really thought that . . .?
I pulled back from the path my mind was taking, not sure if I wanted to spell out the hopes that had been stealthily building up since the day before. A first love was just that, after all. The first love before you went on to the second, third, fourth, however many it turned out to be. Just because someone was your first love didn’t mean they were your best love. Of course it didn’t.
I went back to the website. I would look up Alex, I decided, and see how he had portrayed his life to the watching world. After a few clicks, I found his Leeds comprehensive school and quickly scrolled down to his year. Ahh. There it was. And there he was. Alex Blake.
It was strange to see such a familiar name in a list of unknown people, some of whom had known him as a teenager, sat in assembly with him, played in the same football team as him, maybe smooched at the Christmas disco with him . . . I clicked on his link.
Went down south to study at UCL, and never made it back up the M1. Working as a sub-editor now, and loved up with a gorgeous Cockney bird who’s kindly given birth to my two beautiful children, so had better stay put for a while. Up the United!
Gorgeous Cockney bird, eh? Was he talking about ME?
I stared at the words. He’d really put that. He’d really described me as a bird. Me, the supposed love of his life. The cheeky bloody sod.
I read it again. My first thought was to hack into his message and rewrite it, make it sound more . . . well, more serious, for starters. More committed to me and the kids. The ‘loved up’ bit could stay, I supposed, although I would have liked something a tad more long-term-sounding, instead of making me sound as if he’d picked me up in a club a few nights before on an E-fuelled bender. I fell in love six years ago and remain deeply committed to this amazing woman. That sort of thing. Oh, and I’m planning to propose to her any day soon. Yeah. That, too.
The gorgeous bit . . . well, that could stay. That could definitely stay. Had he been pissed when he’d written it? WHEN had he written it? Obviously before the late nights with Nathan had really started kicking in and ravaged my face so cruelly. And the bit about the beautiful children – yes, well, of course I agreed with that wholeheartedly.
Any Way You Want Me Page 5
