by Simon Booker
‘Well, since you ask…’
I waxed lyrical about my canoe trip along the River Santiago, Peru’s last frontier for illegal gold mining. I’d spent a lot of time on Paddy’s iPad, getting the hang of Google and was confident that my descriptions sounded convincing. Unsurprisingly, the question of the legality of these gold mines didn’t raise a flicker of concern from Mrs Shine. She was, let’s remember, the widow of a man who had made his billions in the oil industry; scruples and ethics were low on her list of priorities. And like all wealthy people, when it came to money there was no such thing as enough.
She listened as I told her about mining prospects in the Madre de Dios, in the south of the country, and how my dear old pal Carlos knew a good thing when he saw it. Then, troublingly, she stifled a yawn as I warmed to my theme and outlined how a small investment in Carlos’s latest venture would likely see a return of at least thirty per cent within a year.
‘How small?’
I gave a nonchalant shrug.
‘A million. He’s not letting anyone in for less. Too much aggravation.’
I drew breath to elaborate but she swallowed a mouthful of sole and held up a hand.
‘Do I treat you like an idiot, George?’
‘Never,’ I said mildly.
‘In which case, do me the courtesy of returning the compliment. Does our arrangement suit you?’
I nodded, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in my stomach.
‘Then let’s enjoy lunch and perhaps a little afternoon delight at the hotel. But please – no more about “Peruvian gold” or unicorns at the end of the rainbow.’
So that was that. I knew her well enough to be sure there was nothing to be gained by pressing the point, not even later, during the pillow talk that would follow our ‘afternoon delight’. All that painstaking research, those days lying low at Rochester House, those uncomfortable hours in the wretched tanning salon – all pour rien. It was time to admit defeat. As lunch progressed, with Imelda droning on about her plans to visit Palm Springs at Christmas, my mind wandered to the Napoleonic strategy: reculer pour mieux sauter, otherwise known as making a strategic retreat before renewing an advance. There was no point in renewing my efforts to interest this particular prospect in Carlos and his gold mine. Moreover, despite a good innings of eighteen months, if my days as her paramour were now numbered I had no one to blame but myself. Everything had been fine so long as I’d never actually asked for anything but now I’d blown it. Being a die-hard republican, the widow Shine had never been impressed by my ‘Lord Buckingham’ shtick, not even in the early days. And when the truth had come out (she’d stumbled on my real passport during a trip to Mustique) she’d never seemed bothered that I had posed as a member of the aristocracy, merely amused.
Let’s make a deal, Georgie-Boy: no bullshit, just fun.
Which is what our time together had been – fun. Now I’d poisoned the goose that had laid so many golden eggs. Soon, she would punish me by finding a replacement. They always do. C’est la vie.
Still, if life gives you lemons, make a gin and tonic. As I finished my steak tartare I resolved to undertake what film directors call a ‘slow fade’ from the scene, making a strategic retreat to Rochester House. I didn’t buy Paddy’s weary mantra: ‘as one door closes another one shuts’. Even at eighty there was hope. Sooner or later, the next merry widow would appear, bringing a new opportunity to pull off the big one. It was just a question of biding my time.
Needless to say, I had no way of knowing just how swiftly the next prospect would appear, or how a woman I had yet to meet would change my world. And wake a pack of sleeping dogs.
TOM
The Cat Café wasn’t as much fun as I’d expected, not even with one of the feline residents taking to my lap while I ate a plate of sandwiches and drank a mug of tea. The sense of let-down was my own fault. I’d set myself up for disappointment by looking forward to sharing the experience with Harriet. As a rule, I enjoy doing stuff alone, especially at weekends. Galleries, walks, movies, markets, street food, gigs… When a man is tired of London… etc. And if ever I do feel lonely, it’s usually a prelude to getting down to work on They F**k You Up.
That’s the weird thing about being creative. To write lyrics or compose music you need to spend time alone so you’d think it’s a lonely life – but nope. When it’s going well – those occasions when you’re, like, in the zone and the words are flowing and the music’s whirling inside your head – that’s when your mind is filled with the characters you’re creating, worlds you’re conjuring from nowhere. It’s the one time it’s impossible to feel lonely. At least, that’s how I remember it. It’s been a while.
I pitched the show to a producer at a networking event, a bloke called Paul Mendoza. He’s produced a string of musicals in the provinces but is still looking for The One – his Cats or Follies or Matilda. We got on like the proverbial and he told me to send him my libretto-in-progress and demos of three songs, so I did. Didn’t hear a word.
Maybe it’s because I was feeling down (and pretty loved-up) that I started texting those cat photos to Harriet. Maybe I was jealous, too. Did her Wolseley brunch have anything to do with her Big Secret? Were plans for a Hollywood trip more advanced than she let on? Maybe some big-shot American director was schmoozing her, whispering dollar signs in her ear. Maybe he ordered champagne. Maybe they went back to his hotel and…
… Perfect! A snog with a woman you barely know and you’re jealous of an imaginary bloke pouring imaginary champagne.
All the same, there was no denying the presence of the green-eyed monster. Which meant two things. I was falling in love. And I was in trouble.
I’ve been in trouble lots of times, in love hardly ever. The first girl to fill my stomach with butterflies was Carol Dixon from Sullivan Primary School in Parson’s Green. She was nine, I was eight-and-three-quarters, which makes her my first older woman. (Mum’s theory: men spend the first half of their lives looking for an older woman, the second yearning for a younger model.)
Apart from Carol, almost no one had made my head swim and my heart lift, not seriously, till I was much older. I’d had crushes, of course, but it wasn’t till uni that I fell in love. I’m not talking about hormones messing up your head but the full enchilada. Her name was Michelle. And maybe Dad isn’t a total waste of space because when it comes to love maybe his mantra about priorities is right: ‘kind, clever, funny, beautiful – in that order’. That was Michelle all over. Year one: we dated. Year two: we shared a flat. Year three: she broke my heart by dumping me for an estate agent. (I know!) I didn’t ask anyone out for, like, a year. There have been others, of course, but no one made me feel like Michelle. Not till now. And now there’s Harriet Brown.
So when she texted just before seven on Saturday evening I felt like a kid on the first day of the summer holidays.
Don’t suppose you feel like company? xxx
I played it cool as long as I could (thirty-nine minutes) before texting back.
Am working but Nelson would love to meet u. Especially if u pick up a curry
Her response was immediate.
Tell Nelson I’m on way. Address?
I replied then launched a frenzied bout of clearing up. It’s only an IKEA-furnished studio flat on the second floor above a launderette but it’s amazing how much mess one bloke can make if he doesn’t have many visitors. I took the world’s quickest shower and managed to stub my toe on the loo. I shoved the bathroom mess into the laundry basket, stacked the dishwasher and made the bed. Then I un-made it, changed the sheets and made it again. I sniffed my armpits then took a second shower and dressed in proper clothes – okay, jeans and T-shirt, but still.
Nelson was nowhere to be seen. I hoped she’d return in time to assume her position in the basket underneath my keyboard.
It was like an hour before Harriet arrived. I’d had time to nip to the off licence for a six-pack of Stella then go back for a bottle of red in case she turned out t
o be one of those oddballs who drinks wine with curry. I even had the gall to pinch a few flowers from my neighbour’s window box and stick them in a glass on the bookcase. Then I sat at the table and carefully arranged the iPad and notebooks that contained my so-called work-in-progress.
Five minutes later, the buzzer went. I counted to ten before letting her in, keenly aware of the blood thudding in my ears. I listened to her climb the stairs. She wore a leather jacket with skinny-fit jeans and Chelsea boots. She brandished the takeaway.
‘Dinner is served.’
I moved in for a kiss but she swerved and we ended up with an awkward brushing of lips (mine) to cheek (hers). Bemused, I ushered her towards the kitchen. Our kisses in the rain seemed to have been forgotten. I swallowed a pang of disappointment then busied myself with plates and glasses. She looked around.
‘Nice place. Hope I gave you time to tidy up?’
‘Just about. How’s Nancy?’
‘Drinking Baileys and watching The Exorcist.’ She nodded towards the cat bowl. ‘Where’s Nelson?’
I gestured towards the cat flap that led to the balcony and the rooftops beyond.
‘Out with friends.’
She ran a finger over the Yamaha’s keyboard. ‘How’s the musical going?’
‘Slowly.’
She squinted at my notebooks. The pages were a mess: doodles, scribbles, crossings-out, half-baked ideas for lyrics.
‘ “Boy Meets Girl”?’
‘The opening song,’ I said.
She flipped through the pages.
‘ “Honeymoon Blues”?’
‘Second song.’
‘ “Once More With Feeling”?’
‘A duet.’
‘About?’
‘Pretending you’re still loved-up even though you know the relationship is over. It closes Act One. Well, it will if I ever finish it.’
‘What’s stopping you?’
I shrugged. ‘Life.’
‘Don’t be glib. I’m interested.’
I started opening the cartons of food and spooning out rice and vegetable curry.
‘I write all day at work. It’s boring bollocks about double glazing but it’s still writing. When I get home my brain’s, like, fried.’
‘So get up early, work on the musical before you go to the office.’
She crunched on a poppadom. We opened cans of lager, sat down and started to eat. And the weird thing? It felt like the last time we’d had supper together, at her Nan’s house. It felt like we’d been doing this for years.
* * *
Later, she asked me to play one of the songs so I sat at the keyboard and picked out the opening notes of ‘Boy Meets Girl’. She held up a hand.
‘Wait. Set the scene.’
I cleared my throat.
‘Act One, Scene One: a prison.’
She frowned.
‘I thought it was a show about dysfunctional families.’
‘It is. The prison is a metaphor for the way we’re all captives of our upbringing. The boy’s Raphael, his visitor’s Jessica. They’re in their twenties, from rival crime families.’
‘And they’re in love?’
‘Not yet. They’ve never met but hate each other anyway. She thinks his father murdered hers.’
‘Did he?’
‘Wait and see.’
‘Why is she visiting him?’
‘To let him know that he’ll pay a price for what he did.’
‘Sounds dark.’
‘The best musicals are dark. Chicago, Les Mis, Cabaret…’
‘I know. I’m an actress.’ She nodded towards the keyboard. ‘Play it again, Sam.’
‘You know, Humphrey Bogart didn’t actually…’
‘… say, “Play it again, Sam.” I know Casablanca by heart, Tom. Just let me hear the song.’
‘You’re not expecting me to sing?’
‘You hum. I’ll read the lyrics.’
So I played the first verse. Harriet listened intently, absorbing the song’s rhythm. I played it again as she hummed along, half-singing, half-reciting the lyrics in time with the music.
Boy meets girl
In a room
Tensions high
Pulses racing
Girl meets boy
Threatens doom
Time goes by
He is pacing
She raised a hand. I stopped playing.
‘ “He is pacing”?’
‘Yes.’
‘In prison?’
‘Why not?’
‘I assume they’re in a visitor’s room?’
‘Exactly.’
‘How come he’s walking around?’
‘It’s theatre. They can’t sit still, talking. People will die of boredom.’
She thought for a moment.
‘They’ve never met, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So instead of “he is pacing” how about, “finally facing”? As in, meeting for the first time?’
She was right: it was better.
‘Let me think about it.’
She shrugged.
‘Either it’s better or it’s not.’
‘I like it,’ I said. ‘It’s in. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’
She ran a finger down the page and frowned.
‘ “Threatens doom”? Seriously?’
‘Are you going to do this all evening?’
‘Not if you’re going to be a hyper-sensitive fuck-trumpet.’
I managed to keep my smile in place.
‘It’s cool,’ I said. ‘Tell me what you think.’
And she did. As the evening wore on, we worked our way through the four songs I’d completed, or so I’d thought. There was no doubt: Harriet’s ideas improved two of them – not musically, that wasn’t her forte, but she had a knack for sniffing out a duff lyric and coming up with an alternative that was spot on.
After my early defensiveness, I made myself relax and took her suggestions on board. I managed to convince myself my original lyrics were rough drafts, placeholders awaiting the real thing. As we warmed up, Harriet began to sing the lyrics rather than recite them. Her voice was lovely, especially when she sang the part of Roxanne, the female lead. Clear, mellifluous, perfect pitch.
Just after eleven-thirty the man downstairs sent a text telling us to ‘pack in the racket’.
‘I should go,’ said Harriet. She grabbed her jacket. I reached for my wallet.
‘Go halves on the curry?’
She shook her head. ‘Cook for me sometime.’
‘It’s a deal.’
A peck on the cheek. She held my gaze.
‘Don’t give up, Tom. It’s good.’
Then she was gone.
And that was that.
Despite the meal, my stomach felt hollow. Had I been friend-zoned? Nothing in her manner had encouraged me to make a move or given any sign that she remembered our kissing marathon in the rain. She’d been friendly and shown interest in the musical but that was it.
I cleared the table then opened another beer. For the first time in ages I was energized, eager to work. Settling at the keyboard, I plugged in the headphones so as not to disturb the neighbour. I started scribbling ideas for a new song called ‘Better Together’, fooling around with a basic chord progression and a simple melody: a C-chord, followed by a D-chord, with an F-minor to mix things up, fitting the melody alongside the chords and coming up with a tune that was optimistic without being too jaunty.
Next time I checked, it was 2 a.m. and Nelson was coming in through the cat flap. I spooned food into her bowl but she wasn’t interested. She climbed into her basket underneath the Yamaha and settled down for the night. Perhaps she was being fed elsewhere. I wouldn’t put it past her. Cats can be fickle. Especially females.
HARRIET
Today was the first time I heard myself on the radio – the real me, that is, doing something other than a voice-over. A text from Richard told me w
hen to tune in.
Listen at 12.15. R x
I snuck into the café’s loo and downloaded the Silk FM app. He was on-air, talking about the Voice of London competition.
‘… so here’s the second person on our shortlist of three: meet actress and barista Harriet Brown from Walthamstow…’
He played thirty seconds of our interview – the bit where he’d asked what I like most about travelling by bus. Sitting on the loo, I winced at the sound of myself wittering on about the view from the top deck of the night bus from Walthamstow to Trafalgar Square. Then Richard was back.
‘… So that’s finalist number two, Harriet Brown. If you think she should be the new Voice of London text 97902 to the following number…’
He played clips from the other finalists’ interviews: Samira Khan first, then Andy Smith. I reckoned it would all come down to whether or not the judges thought commuters wanted a woman herding them around on tubes and buses. If so, Samira was probably more suitable – more London. But if people wanted a bloke both of us were sunk.
Back at the Gaggia, I made three cappuccinos and two lattes, operating on autopilot while thinking back to our encounter outside The Wolseley. True, the champagne had gone to my head but had I been drunk? Nope. So why had I kissed Richard – a proper long snog in the taxi – when a peck on the cheek would have done? Yes, he was nice-looking and flirty but he was also married, not to mention fifteen years older. I like maturity in a man, so age wasn’t the issue – but what about his wife? He’d said she was having an affair. Did that make him fair game? Or did he make a habit of taking women to posh restaurants then hitting on them? That might explain why his wife had run off with someone else.
I was unclear about his situation but sure about one thing: no more married blokes. Not after Cockweasel.
Speaking of Damian, I may have behaved like a love-struck twat-nozzle, but the ride was worth the fall. Not only was he tall, dark and handsome, he was a maxillofacial surgeon. One day he might be doing dental implants or cosmetic surgery on someone injured in a car crash, the next he might fly to Africa to give free reconstructive surgery to poor people who’ve had cancer. He’s part dentist, part plastic surgeon, part Superman. He’s also gorgeous and a demon in the sack.
