by Simon Booker
I pulled up at a red light.
‘Why didn’t you mention the TfL competition?’
‘I did,’ she said. ‘The other night, in the café.’
A memory stirred.
‘You said something about a London voice-over.’
‘The Voice of London – exactly.’
‘Okay… But you didn’t say what it involved. Or that it was on the radio.’
‘Is that what’s pissing you off? That you found out on the radio?’
‘Who says I’m pissed off?’
‘Sounds that way. This is weird for me too, you know.’
The light turned green. I pedalled on.
‘I’m still trying to take it all in,’ I said.
‘Meaning what?’
Meaning, I’m in love with you so it’s a total mind-fuck finding out that you know my father and weirder still hearing you flirt with him on the radio.
‘Oh, shit!’ said Harriet. ‘I missed my stop.’
I heard the ting of the bell then the sound of her footsteps clattering down the bus staircase.
‘How long have you known him?’ I said.
‘Not long. A week, ten days.’
Which is when I was struck by the thought that made me jam on my brakes so hard I nearly flipped over the handlebars. Shaken, I climbed off the bike and dragged it onto the pavement.
‘Was he the one who took you to The Wolseley?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ri-ight.’
‘What does “ri-ight” mean?’
It means that’s the sort of place he takes women he fancies. It means I’m jealous of my own father. It means my brain is going to burst into flames.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I’m just trying to wrap my head around this.’
‘Me too,’ said Harriet.
‘So you admit it’s weird.’
‘Of course it’s weird.’
I said nothing for a moment. Trying to gather my thoughts. To say something normal.
‘Good news about the competition though. Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’
There didn’t seem to be much left to say but I wasn’t ready to hang up.
‘So, do you…?’ I tailed off.
‘Do I what?’
‘Feel like celebrating?’
‘Um…’
‘What does “um” mean?’
She sounded sheepish.
‘I said I’d have a drink with him.’
‘Let me guess – at The Wolseley?’
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘He invited me to his flat.’
HARRIET
Father and son?
Christ on a bike with fuck off sauce and fuck off sprinkles!
I was on the bus when Tom told me. Missed my stop. Even now, I can’t see a resemblance but then I don’t look like Mum or Dad so what did that prove?
Had I missed something? I remember Tom not wanting to talk about his father except to say they weren’t on speaking terms and their relationship was ‘tricky’. How had he put it? Sometimes he wouldn’t speak to me for months on end. Once, he virtually ignored me and Mum for a year.
I’d assumed he was exaggerating but maybe not.
I also remember Richard mentioning a son called Tom.
Like there aren’t ten billion Toms.
But that’s it. Okay, so it was the mother of all coincidences but that’s all it was – a fluke.
Still, what was I supposed to do about it? Tom had sounded seriously pissed off and who knew what Richard would say. Would they laugh it off? Maybe compare notes? Would they find out that I’d snogged them both?
It could have been worse. I could have slept with Tom. Or Richard. Or both of them. Just as well I hadn’t taken Nan’s advice.
But A) I hadn’t done anything wrong and B) I genuinely liked them, both of them. Not just liked but really liked. Good company, fun, clever, kind, easy on the eye. If you’d met some of the knob-wazzocks I’ve known you’d understand. Blokes like these are few and far between. I’ve kissed more than my share of human arse-wipes so if I’d been lucky enough to finally meet a pair of princes I wasn’t going to just wave them goodbye, not without a seriously good reason.
I knew I’d see Richard next week. Transport for London had booked a studio at Silk FM to do the recording – assuming the café gave me time off. But I didn’t want to spoil stuff with Tom. He’s soooo lovely. We were having a laugh working on the musical. Felt like we were making real progress, too. So all in all, maybe it was a case of Keep Calm and Carry On. Yes, this was a weird, messed-up situation but that’s all it was.
(Okay – it was really weird. But at least it took my mind off Cockweasel.)
On second thoughts, I wondered if I should cancel the drink with Richard. I didn’t want to annoy him but like Nan says, ‘When a man invites you over for no reason, there’s a reason’.
I dialled his number and pictured my name flashing up. He answered immediately. Sounded like he was smiling.
‘Hello – is this the new Voice of London?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I can’t make tonight. Sorry.’
He sounded crestfallen.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Kinda,’ I said.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
So I took a deep breath.
Then I told him.
RICHARD
As l’enfant terrible of tennis John McEnroe used to say, you cannot be serious!
Harriet and Tom?
My Tom?
Had someone put all the crazy pills in all the water?
Reeling, I sat on the bed, trying to make sense of what was happening. Should I have known? Had I missed clues? The only thing that came to mind was the guy who’d sent her those photos from the Cat Café. How was I to know that her Tom was my Tom? The world is full of bloody Toms.
His text was short and to the point.
I’m coming to see you. It’s about Harriet.
I contemplated turning off the lights and pretending I was out. Then I pulled myself together, took a shower and swallowed a couple of extra pills. (Yes, I know that’s not how antidepressants work – they’re not like painkillers – but you try keeping it together when someone lobs a grenade into your life.)
By the time the doorbell rang I’d regained my composure and reached a decision. I would refuse to bow out gracefully. If it was finally my turn to enjoy some long overdue happiness, maybe even a new love, then he’d have to put up with it. He wasn’t a kid. Most importantly, Harriet wasn’t just any woman.
I buzzed him inside then went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of Chablis. I stood facing the window as I heard him climbing the stairs. He closed the front door and entered the room. Our first face-to-face encounter in more than a year.
‘You’ve put on weight,’ he said.
My back still to him, I waved the corkscrew towards the microwave.
‘It’s the ready meals,’ I said.
I picked up the M&S packet and read from the label. ‘Succulent roast salmon with a horseradish herb crust?’
‘Is that an invitation to dinner?’
I didn’t mention I’d planned on sharing it with Harriet.
‘Would you like it to be?’
‘Christ, Dad, why do you always answer a question with a question?’
‘I don’t know, why do I?’
Someone with a stopwatch would have judged our truce to have lasted precisely twenty seconds. I handed him a glass of wine and tried to sound casual.
‘Have you heard from her?’ I said.
‘You mean Mum?’
‘Who else?’
‘A few weeks ago. She sounded fine.’
‘Still taking her medication?’
‘I guess so,’ he said. ‘God knows how she gets it in Goa. Any sign of her coming home?’
I shook my head. There was no need for detail. Where would I begin? It seemed clear she’d said nothing about the divorce. He set his glass on the table.<
br />
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That’s the “happy family” stuff out of the way. What are we going to do about Harriet?’
I managed half a smile. It was clear he’d been working up to this.
‘Are you in love with her?’ I said.
‘Maybe.’
‘There’s no such thing as “maybe in love”. You are or you aren’t.’
He sat at the table and swirled his wine around the glass.
‘Suppose I am,’ he said. ‘Does that get us anywhere?’
‘It clarifies things.’
‘Does it make a difference? To how you feel about her?’
I sat down and considered his question.
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Bullshit. I heard you on the radio. You’re smitten.’
‘Am I?’
He sighed.
‘Try and give a direct answer, please. Do you have feelings for Harriet Brown?’
‘ “Have feelings”,’ I said. ‘How quaint.’
‘The answer is…?’
I cleared my throat.
‘If I do, would it be such a crime?’
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Oh, wait – make that “no, apart from the fact you’re married and she’s half your age”.’
‘She’s thirty-five. Hardly Lolita. Correct me if I’m wrong but aren’t you too young for her?’
‘That’s not the same.’
‘Really? Or is Mr Holier-Than-Thou-Millennial being sexist?’
He sidestepped the question, posing his own.
‘Does she know how you feel?’
I thought back to The Wolseley. Her eyes dancing as I’d made my play.
I was wondering how you’re planning to spend the rest of the afternoon…
It hadn’t been wishful thinking – she’d held my gaze and allowed a lazy smile to spread across her face. My intention had been clear and she’d responded with a twinkle-eyed grin. No PC nonsense, no embarrassment. We’d kissed in the taxi all the way around Hyde Park Corner. If her grandmother hadn’t sent that SOS who knew how the afternoon might have turned out.
Tom tapped a finger on the table. A tic he’d had since he was a teenager.
‘Simple question, Dad. Does Harriet know how you feel?’
‘I believe she does.’
‘Does she feel the same?’
I gripped the stem of my glass. ‘You’d have to ask her.’
‘Maybe I will.’
‘Does she know how you feel?’ I said.
‘We haven’t discussed it. It’s just… there. In the air. Unspoken. But there.’
‘On both sides?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ I said.
Tom’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
‘I hate to be old-fashioned,’ he said, ‘but I’m young, free and single whereas you’re middle-aged and married.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘To my mother.’
I hesitated. Was this the moment for a heart-to-heart? Perhaps not. But in our family there’s no such thing as a good moment so what the hell.
‘Technically, you’re right,’ I said. ‘I am married.’
‘What does “technically” mean?’
‘I take it your mother hasn’t mentioned anything.’
‘About?’
‘Filing for divorce.’
He blinked twice in quick succession.
‘Seriously?’
‘It’s not the sort of thing people joke about.’
He sat back in his chair and blew out his cheeks.
‘Wow.’
‘Good point, well made,’ I said.
‘It’s hardly the shock of the century.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘It came as a surprise to me.’
‘After the way you’ve behaved?’
‘How have I behaved, Tom?’
‘You know very well.’
‘Do I?’
I was goading him, I admit.
‘Did you seriously think Mum was going to put up with you for the rest of her life? After all those other women?’
So there it was. Never before had he put ‘it’ into words but I knew what he thought he knew. I also had a shrewd idea how he felt about it. Yet again, I was the villain of the piece. I stood up and looked out of the window. This was not the moment to talk about Bonnie. Once we started, who knew where things would end.
‘Let’s stick to Harriet,’ I said. ‘Do you intend to carry on seeing her?’
‘Yes. Do you?’
‘Absolutely.’
He gave me a pitying look.
‘Because Mum wants a divorce?’
‘No, because I met a woman who makes me happy.’
He stood up, suddenly agitated, jostling the table. His glass toppled over, spilling its contents.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘We both know where we stand.’ He headed for the door then turned and fixed me with a stare.
‘Are you sleeping with her?’ he said.
‘Are you?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘May the best man win.’
Then he was gone.
I smoked three cigarettes in quick succession while staring at the spilled wine. Then I scraped the ready meal into the bin and took the bottle to bed.
At first, Tom’s departure was a relief, not least because it gave me a sense of occupying the moral high ground. God knows why, when the opposite was the case. What kind of father cock-blocks his own son? As so often, the answer was more complicated than it might have seemed.
Within twenty minutes, my mood had plummeted from righteous indignation to despair – and not just because of the bombshell about Harriet. The truth was, I’d been worn down by shouldering the burden of our family’s very own skeleton-in-the-closet. It was a twenty-year-old secret which, according to my ex-shrink, explained a lot about my reliance on pills, my aloofness towards Tom and my inability to show him the affection he had every right to expect. Had he stayed that night, things would have become heated. I might have blurted the truth about secrets that must stay buried. Secrets about Bonnie’s ‘adventures’ during our marriage. About her tendency to fall for people of either sex. About the crippling insecurity that had given rise to her childlike inability to resist flattery, especially from older men.
Above all, I might have broken the omertà that had blighted three lives – mine, Bonnie’s and Tom’s – since his sixth birthday when a bombshell had destroyed all hope of normality let alone happy-ever-after.
Lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, I reflected that had Tom not walked out I might have worked myself into a fury and blurted the truth about his mother’s affair with my father – the devastating ‘I-couldn’t-help-myself-please-forgive-me’ fling that had resulted in the birth of the boy I had done my imperfect best to think of as ‘my’ son.
TOM
It was a miracle I didn’t punch him. I’m not even convinced he was serious about having fallen for Harriet, he just didn’t want me to have her.
Well, okay, ‘Daddy Dearest’. Game on.
Option one: love-bomb her. Flowers, candlelit meals, country walks and every other cliché in the WLTM-swipe-right-GSOH book.
Option two: take a ‘softly softly’ approach.
Yes.
Better.
Not because Harriet was immune to romance but because I didn’t want to scare her off by coming on too strong. ‘Keep it real’ seemed the way to go. And let’s face it, I may have had youth on my side but I couldn’t compete with Dad when it came to flashing the cash and making grandiose romantic gestures. Harriet wouldn’t have been human if she didn’t like nice restaurants, glamorous holidays and the other perks of dating an older, richer dude. (I’d add ‘wiser’ but if he was so smart how come Mum wanted a divorce? She was, like, the best thing that had ever happened to him. If he lost her, he was a bigger fool than I thought.)
He was right about one thing: I was younger than Harriet. But since when had that counted as a negative? It’s not as if I was some spott
y adolescent.
Forget father versus son, this was metrosexual versus millennial, smug Belsize Park versus edgy Dalston, experience versus energy.
Of course, I knew women found Dad attractive. All my life, I’d seen their faces when he walked into a room, the warmth of their smiles as he showed genuine interest in what they had to say, the way he paid attention – proper attention – when they talked. No mansplaining, no hectoring, no patronizing put-downs. I was forced to admit it: his charm wasn’t superficial, it was the real McCoy. Women liked him because he liked them. And despite the chilliness that had blighted our relationship, maybe I’d learned something from him. Perhaps I’d picked up a few ideas about how to capture a woman’s heart. After all, I was my father’s son.
HARRIET
Still stunned by the revelation about Tom and Richard, I started recording the Transport for London announcements just after nine o’clock on Monday morning. I was glad of the distraction. I’d done enough voice-overs not to be fazed by the studio process, and The Thoughts weren’t coming thick and fast, threatening to sabotage everything, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous. In the control room, on the other side of the glass, sat a barrel-chested technician, Sadiq. Next to him was Martyn, the TfL Marketing Manager.
There was no sign of Richard. I’d had no contact with him since cancelling our date. Maybe my nerves were more to do with the prospect of bumping into him in the corridors of Silk FM. I did my best to put him out of my mind. Fat chance.
Sitting in the soundproof booth, I swigged from my bottle of water, opened the file of bus routes and set to work. We kicked off with (surprise!) route number one. After testing the mic for level, and a bit of discussion about how to put a smile in my voice without sounding like I was actually cracking a joke, I started to work my way through the stops.
Route one – to Tottenham Court Road
Rotherhithe police station
Surrey Quays shopping centre
Surrey Quays station
Warndon Street
Corbetts Lane
Rotherhithe New Road
Lynton Road
Etc… etc.
By the time we got to the final stops in the West End…
Drury Lane
Tottenham Court Road
… I was sneaking a look ahead to check how many sodding bus routes there are in London. Answer: 722 – and counting.
