by Simon Booker
Congratulations Mr and Mrs Bottle-bank…
Okay, I know I sound like a love-struck kid, and no, I’m not practising signing my married name but I’ve always had a fast-forward button in my head when it comes to blokes. Can’t help it. I have a tendency to skip ahead to see what might be around the corner. Or who. (Would Tom say ‘whom’? Must check.)
If he shows up again, that’s cool, but I’m not bothered. Staying at Nan’s means I’m not lonely. Plus, I’ve plenty of stuff to think about, like should I try and find a new agent or would that just be rearranging deckchairs on the Titanic? Above all, how am I going to stop The Thoughts from sabotaging my career, not to mention the rest of my life? That’s the shit thing about being single – no one to chew things over with. Nan’s great but career advice isn’t her thing, especially showbiz. She thinks it’s all premieres with Bradley Cooper but the reality is more panto with Bradley Wiggins – if you’re lucky.
To her way of thinking, I hit the big-time when I played a dead barmaid in Midsomer Murders. Six hours in a ditch while proper actors got to do actual acting with actual dialogue. The bluebottle wrangler kept bringing more and more flies. Six thousand bluebottles. Hundreds of maggots. Who says showbiz isn’t glamorous?
At least it was something for the CV. Right now, there’s sod all else on the horizon except frothing cappuccinos for hipsters who can’t be arsed to make eye contact.
But then, just when you think it’s all doom and gloom, along comes something that makes you shout ‘plot twist!’ and feel one of those bursts of optimism that keeps you dreaming of Hollywood long after any sensible person would have given up.
I’d left my phone in my jeans so it wasn’t till I got back to Nan’s that I found the email from Richard Young, the DJ at Silk FM. I’m sworn to secrecy but I’ve made the Voice of London shortlist! Apparently I mustn’t tell a soul until the winner is announced so obviously I told Nan straightaway. She was chuffed, even though she didn’t really understand what it meant.
‘So… you’ll be a station announcer? “Next train to Clapham Junction platform eleven” – all that malarkey?’
‘Not exactly, Nan, no.’
Sitting in her cosy kitchen, I explained that if I win it would mean recording the announcements for all the buses and tubes.
‘It’s a voice-over job. Probably take a few days to record all the variations. Just me and a producer in a studio, like recording an ad, which I can handle without freaking out.’
‘Oh. So not really a proper job.’
‘Depends what you mean by “proper”.’
‘One you go to, Monday to Friday. With wages.’
‘No, not like that.’
‘Oh, well – never mind.’
‘You don’t sound too happy.’
‘If you’re happy, darlin’, I’m happy. Just don’t give up the day-job.’
I hate to admit it but she’s right. Still, it looks like I might be in with a chance. It was only when I re-read the email that I noticed Richard’s PS. Congratulations! May I take you to lunch to celebrate?
He’s given me his personal email address. Isn’t that nice?
RICHARD
Oh, for heaven’s sake, where’s the harm in lunch?
Harriet’s email was polite but made it clear she couldn’t take time off during the week. I’d planned on leaving it there but something got into me, possibly the third glass of prosecco at the publishing party for a book on super-yachts. In the last two weeks, I’ve endured PR bashes for a computer game (never play them), a slasher film (asleep after ten minutes) and the launch of a new 3-D printer (can barely work the microwave). Why I go to these things I have no idea.
When I got back to the flat, I popped something in the oven, opened a decent bottle of red and sat in darkness. I must have dozed off because next thing I knew, the slow-cooked lamb shanks with honey-roasted root vegetables were burned to a crisp. I chucked them and ate some baked beans straight from the tin. Then I dragged myself to the laptop and tried to read the news but couldn’t concentrate.
Flicking through emails (mostly Viagra spam) I re-read Harriet’s reply, then pinged her a line suggesting lunch on Saturday. (I mean, what’s the difference between lunch on a weekday and lunch on a weekend? Lunch is lunch, right?)
To be precise, I suggested brunch. More casual than lunch and it seems to be what young people prefer (not that Harriet is young, exactly, just younger than me). Everywhere you go on a weekend, smug couples are queuing for Bloody Marys and Eggs Benedict, as though they’d invented the concept of brunch whereas some of us have been scoffing pancakes with bacon and maple syrup ever since we were knee-high to the proverbial.
I didn’t hear back straightaway, which was fine, but when I woke up the following morning, still half-dressed, I found I’d not only finished the bottle of Merlot but made serious inroads into a second. Which is when I started to get antsy. Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to drink while I’m on these pills. Had I over-stepped the mark with Harriet Brown? Been ‘inappropriate’? (God, how I hate that word.)
I hurried to the laptop to check the email I’d sent the night before. It seemed harmless enough.
Let me know if brunch on Saturday suits you. The Wolseley does the best Eggs Benedict. I’ll book for midday on the off-chance you’re free.
Too keen? Perhaps, but it had been ages since I’d invited a woman to…
… To what exactly? This wasn’t a date, it was a work thing. Well, work-related. But did it pass the ‘inner voice’ test, i.e., could I claim it on expenses without troubling my conscience?
Not really.
So… did that make it a date? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, I was over-thinking the whole thing and behaving like a teenager with a crush on the girl next door.
I took my pills and showered, then got dressed without looking at my mobile to see if there was a reply from Harriet. Emerging from the flat, I sucked in the soggy autumnal air and donned my Ray-Bans, even though the skies were leaden and grey. It had rained overnight, leaving the air tangy and fresh. Taking my usual route into town, I kicked through sodden leaves in Regent’s Park and considered the dire state of my social life and marriage. Solvitur ambulando, as Diogenes said. It is solved by walking.
The circumstances surrounding Tom’s arrival had had many lasting ill-effects, not least sending me into my shell. But Bonnie hadn’t been in touch for months. Did I miss her? Sometimes, especially on a Saturday morning with the weekend ahead and only white space in the diary. Would she come back? Possibly – she had before, more than once. Could I forgive her – yet again? The jury was out. Meanwhile, the prospect of a leisurely brunch with the dark-haired, green-eyed actress put a spring in my step – assuming she would accept the invitation. I strolled through Mayfair and Soho, determined that my mobile would remain in my pocket, the voicemail resolutely unchecked.
On the dot of 10 a.m., I arrived at the Shaftesbury Avenue studios, mustered a cheery hello for Jools on reception then had coffee with my producer, Pam. She’s a nice woman and good at her job but says things like ‘two more sleeps before Crimbo’ and ‘I can’t wait for my holibobs’, which makes me want to kill her. Five minutes into the meeting, she asked if I was okay.
‘Fine, thanks. Why?’
‘You don’t seem your usual self.’
‘Who am I? Tutankhamen?’
She smiled.
‘Seriously, Richard, are you okay?’
I tried to sound more confident than I felt. ‘Never better. Unless you know something I don’t.’
We moved on to the Agony Uncle emails. She was resistant to including two on depression (we’d tackled the topic last week) but I stuck to my guns. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many people are affected.’
Scrolling through the listeners’ emails I stopped at the sight of one signed ‘George B’.
Dear Richard, I’m estranged from my son. I did something unforgivable many years ago and he’s never let me forget it. Do you believe in se
cond chances? My son doesn’t. I’m in the autumn of my years and winter is approaching. Is there anything I can do to make him see sense before it’s too late?
‘He can fuck right off,’ I said to no one in particular. I deleted the email. Pam seemed startled by the vehemence in my tone. She leaned forward.
‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about?’
‘How about super-yachts?’ I said.
‘Super-yachts?’
‘I went to a party last night. I know a lot about super-yachts.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of super-yachts.’
‘What, then?’
She took a breath.
‘Never mind. As long as you’re okay.’
‘Hunky-dory, thanks for asking.’
We talked for another few minutes then wrapped things up. Trying to put ‘George B’s email out of my mind I spent a desultory half-hour flicking through the tabloids, looking for showbiz titbits to read on the air. It wasn’t until eleven that I escaped to the loo and allowed myself to scroll through my iPhone with what I admit was feigned insouciance.
Still nothing from Harriet Brown.
Zilch, nada, nichts, rien, zip.
Not a peep.
Which was fine.
Absolutely fine.
I slipped the phone into my pocket, stared into the middle distance and took a breath. Time for a reality check.
Why was I in a state of suspended animation over a woman I’d met only once?
More importantly, why was I hiding in the lavatory, feeling on the verge of a panic attack? It couldn’t be the medication. I’d been on the same pills for months.
I considered the possibilities. Was it that I hadn’t heard from Tom for a while? The boy seemed to have given up on me. If so, I could hardly blame him. I’d made no attempt to return his calls. He wasn’t to know I was low.
In that moment, hiding in the loo, I felt horribly alone. My son was a stranger. My wife was on a beach in Goa, or maybe having life-affirming sex with her lover. And here was I, spirits nose-diving, stomach churning with anxiety. Staring at the door, I had one of those rare bursts of clarity that take me by surprise.
I’m on my own. Me, myself and I.
Bonnie would say it’s my own fault, at least as far as Tom is concerned. And I’d have to agree. As for me driving her into the arms of someone else, it’s not so simple. True, I’ve let friendships peter out. Men do. We’re lazy, content to let our wives run our homes and everything else, from booking holidays and dentists’ appointments to remembering birthdays and buying presents.
Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
As for the wider family, since Bonnie’s parents died it’s been just the three of us: me, her and Tom. Unless you count ‘Gorgeous’ George, which I don’t. As his email confirmed, he’s not dead (more’s the pity), just dead to me. My mother, on the other hand, is long gone and well out of it. I know ‘this too shall pass’, and it’s not as if I’m actively contemplating launching myself off Beachy Head, but oh, won’t it be peaceful when the whole shebang is done and dusted?
I was ruminating along these lines, sinking deeper and deeper into despair, when I heard footsteps outside the cubicle. A male voice, one of the production assistants. His name’s Luke. He’s about twelve. Isn’t everyone nowadays?
‘Richard?’
I said nothing.
‘Pam sent me to say you’re on air in two minutes.’
Christ! How long had I been hiding?
‘On my way,’ I said.
I flushed the loo. He sounded relieved.
‘Okay, I’ll tell her.’
I waited till I heard him leave then emerged from the cubicle and washed my hands. I stared at my reflection. No wonder Pam had asked if I was okay. The overhead lighting didn’t help but I looked as if I’d spent the night in a skip. I’d missed a spot shaving, my shirt was crumpled, my hair was like a mad professor’s and there were dark circles under my bloodshot, rheumy eyes. We’re not talking bags, we’re talking suitcases. Nine months shy of my fiftieth birthday I was staring at the face of a raddled old soak, someone who might sell you a copy of The Big Issue. I made a mental note to book an appointment at the spa in Knightsbridge. Facial, manicure, haircut. The Full Monty. And then it happened.
I walked into the corridor and strode towards the studio and my phone pinged.
An email from Harriet Brown.
Sorry for slow response. Saturday should be fine. Okay if I confirm tomorrow? Where is The Wolseley?
A surge of relief flooded my body. Feeling ten feet tall and lighter than air, I pushed open the studio door, donned my headphones and sat at the mic. On the other side of the glass, I could see Pam, her expression a mixture of bewilderment and relief. Waiting for the newsreader to finish, I felt more cheerful than I had for days – no, weeks. A burden lifted. The world was a sunnier place.
The news ended. I tapped the screen and played the opening jingle.
‘The Richard Young Show!’
Switching on the mic, I addressed hundreds of thousands of Londoners, burbling my customary blend of cheerful nonsense while my mind replayed Harriet’s words over and over and over…
Saturday should be fine.
As I introduced the first love song of the day, another voice – my own – was playing inside my head, responding to her question:
‘Okay if I confirm tomorrow?’
You bet! Yes, oui, si, tak, jawohl and yee-hah!
From despair to elation because of an email from a woman I barely knew.
Uh-oh.
TOM
In a weird display of workplace sadism, Colin insisted on dragging out the Friday editorial meeting – ‘our A-team catch-up’ as he likes to call it. As the clock ticked towards five-thirty, the six of us were marooned in the strip-lit boardroom, grinding through the agenda. I found myself concentrating on an elaborate doodle on my notepad. At one point, Colin leaned over.
‘Who’s Harriet?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your doodle. “Harriet”. New love interest?’
‘Nope.’
I left it at that and stifled a yawn. Colin blinked at me.
‘Are we boring you, Tom?’
‘Yep.’ It slipped out before I knew what I was saying. ‘Look, it’s, like, five-thirty on a Friday.’
‘And?’
‘Mate, I want to go home. We all do.’
Cue stunned silence. Mercifully, Priti (graphic designer, total sweetheart) saved the day by saying she had to take her daughter to the dentist. Colin grudgingly brought the meeting to a close and released us into the wild.
And wild it was: torrential rain and winds howling around the Embankment and adding to the rush-hour misery. I left my bike in the rack and squeezed onto a bus. By the time I made it to Dalston it was almost seven o’clock. I ran the final few yards to the café, arriving out of breath only to discover Harriet had called first thing to say she wasn’t coming in.
‘Is she okay?’ I asked her stand-in, a bearded hipster with a bad case of halitosis. He mumbled something about a family emergency. I fought the urge to tell him he could use a mint. Outside, sheltering in the doorway, I sent her a text.
At café. R U OK?
My mobile rang immediately. The sight of her name on the screen quickened my pulse.
‘Nan had a fall. She won’t go to hospital.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Have you got a helicopter?’
‘It’s being serviced.’
‘Just my luck.’
‘Seriously, can I do anything?’
‘I managed to get the doctor out. He bandaged her up, gave her some painkillers.’
‘What about food?’
She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Sardines on toast. Nan’s Friday treat. Followed by Nightmare on Elm Street. We’re living the dream.’
I took a pen from my pocket.
‘What’s her address?’
‘Why?’
‘Just answer the question.’
Forty-five minutes later, soaked to the bone, I stood outside a neat two-up-two-down in a quiet Walthamstow street and rang the bell. Harriet appeared at the door, her eyes widening in surprise. I raised a Tesco bag.
‘Veggie lasagne. All the ingredients. Just call me the fourth emergency service.’
She mustered half a smile.
‘I can’t cook.’
‘No problem. This is a job for a professional.’
Another hesitation. She called up the staircase.
‘Nan? Is it all right if a wet bloke cooks us supper?’
A voice from upstairs.
‘Is he tall, dark and handsome?’
Harriet looked me up and down.
‘Will two out of three do?’
‘Ask if he likes sardines.’
The smile broadened to a grin.
‘He can do better than that.’
The thing about coming from my background – walking on eggshells for fear of triggering Mum’s bipolar disorder or upsetting Dad – is it makes you, like, hyper-vigilant, braced for an outburst of temper or loony-tunes behaviour, and always eager to please, sometimes too eager. But if cooking for someone’s grandma isn’t tantamount to a declaration of love, I don’t know what is.
The kitchen was small and cosy. Fresh flowers on the pine dresser. A hand-embroidered tablecloth. Good quality pans, the kind designed to last a lifetime. Nancy remained upstairs, yelling out where to find things and how to operate the ancient oven. Harriet opened the wine I’d brought and sat on a stool, watching as I chopped onions, carrots and peppers.
