by Simon Booker
With route one sorted, I got a thumbs-up from Martyn and moved on.
Route two – to Marylebone station…
We took a break at 11.00, routes one to forty crossed off the list. Martyn seemed pleased we were on schedule. He treated himself to a Snickers from the vending machine while I nipped out for an espresso from Bar Italia.
I’d assumed Richard might have shown his face by now but there was no sign of him. Maybe he was deliberately keeping his distance. Given the bombshell that had just exploded, I can’t pretend I wasn’t apprehensive about seeing him but did my best to focus on the job at hand. After all, I was about to be the new Voice of London and being paid five thousand quid. I needed to do a decent job, not least because I’d be forced to listen to the sound of my own voice every time I boarded a bus or tube.
Back in the booth, I flicked through the routes, my spirits lifting at the sight of something more substantial than yet another bus route – something I could almost think of as a line of dialogue.
Revenue inspectors operate on this route. Please ensure you have touched in with your Oyster card, contactless payment card or mobile device.
Hardly Shakespeare but at least these were actual sentences, something to get my teeth into. I could bring some character definition to the lines. ‘Authoritative but not authoritarian’ – that was Martyn’s watchword.
I’d spent a lot of the weekend doing yoga in the whitewashed studio opposite the park in Stoke Newington, or slumped on Nan’s sofa watching rubbish telly. Not a peep from Tom or Richard. Just as well. I was still having trouble wrapping my head around the coincidence that had brought these two men into my life. I’d no idea what they were thinking, or if they’d talked to each other. If so, would either of them speak to me again?
* * *
Over cod and chips on Saturday night, I told Nan what had happened. As usual, she saw the funny side.
‘Take notes,’ she said. ‘It’ll be good for your autobiography.’
I said I was relieved that I hadn’t done the dirty deed with either of what she called my ‘suitors’.
‘If push came to shove,’ she said, ‘which would it be?’
Good question. Personality-wise, both ticked a lot of boxes: decent, clever, generous, kind. As for looks, Tom was definitely my type whereas Richard was more distinguished-looking. Older, of course, but in good shape for his age. Bottom line: I wouldn’t kick either out of bed.
‘This is better than EastEnders,’ said Nan. ‘So what are you going to do?’
The obvious answer was: do nothing. Let the whole thing fizzle out. Okay, so things had got a bit flirty and there had been a couple of snogs but that was it. Nothing to see here, move right along.
On the other hand, I’d made it to thirty-five without finding Mr Right. Was I seriously going to let two possible-maybes slip through my fingers?
I asked Nan for advice.
‘You don’t need advice, love. Just do the right thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘You’ll know. When the time comes.’
‘Great. Thanks, Nan.’
But once again, she was right. It was while I was brushing my teeth on Monday morning that I had a lightbulb moment. Like it or not, Richard was married. Okay, so Bonnie was having an affair, but that didn’t change the bottom line. He had a wife, end of. So on the bus into town (when I wasn’t trying to pay attention to the recorded announcements) I finally decided what to do.
To tell the truth, if it hadn’t been for the bombshell about Richard and Tom I’d probably have carried on seeing both of them until things sorted themselves out. Instead, I decided to tell Richard how grateful I was for everything he’d done for me, that I knew I’d been flirty over brunch (and while we were bantering on the radio) but that was as far as things would go and please could we just be mates.
It’s not that I’d committed to zero-ing in on Tom, or that I definitely preferred him – it wasn’t that simple – I just needed a clean slate, to see how, or if, things might pan out. The fact that Richard almost certainly didn’t want more children – not at his stage of the game – may have played a part in my thinking. Annie, Dot and Freddie were still a possibility.
I knew he was on-air between noon and 3 p.m. but after lunch the TfL recording session started to fall behind schedule and Martyn kept cracking the whip until gone five-thirty when he announced he had a train to catch and made a speedy exit. I’d assumed that Richard would be long gone so was surprised to see him emerging from the boss’s office and walking down the corridor. His expression gave nothing away.
‘How’s it going?’ he said.
I tried to sound casual.
‘Slowly but surely.’ I cleared my throat. ‘I’m sorry about cancelling Friday. Things got weird.’
He smiled.
‘You can say that again. I had a visit from Tom.’
Oh.
‘And?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ he said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
I blinked, nonplussed. Should I leave it at that or launch into my spiel about wanting to be just good friends? Richard checked his watch.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got time for that drink?’ He saw my hesitation. ‘Just a quick one. I’ve got news.’
I grabbed my coat and followed him out of the door, into Shaftesbury Avenue. The evening rush hour was at its height, traffic choking the Soho streets. Rain was starting to fall. I’d assumed we were going to a pub but after half a block he stopped in a doorway and pressed a buzzer. The door opened. He led me upstairs to a private members’ club that occupied the entire building. Posh tuberose candles. Soft lighting. A hidden world. The receptionist was a stylish black woman, Eve, who could easily pass for a supermodel. Richard greeted her like an old friend and introduced me.
‘Hi, Harriet,’ she said. ‘Welcome.’
Eve said we’d find a table in the Shaftesbury Room so we headed up another flight of stairs. The dimly lit bar was packed with people chatting and drinking or tapping at laptops. The restaurant was full. I’d put the average age at thirty. Richard stood out – the oldest by a mile.
‘Glass of champagne?’ he said, settling me at a corner table. I was tempted (who wouldn’t be?) but this was not the moment to get sloshed so I asked for fizzy water. Richard smiled at the waiter who took our order then left.
‘I’m glad Tom’s cool about everything,’ I said, without specifying what everything meant. But Richard didn’t want to talk about his son.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ he said, failing to mask a flicker of impatience. ‘I need to talk to you about something else.’
‘Oh?’ I said.
‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘Try me.’
He leaned forward in his chair, keeping his voice low.
‘I’ve had a couple of meetings with the programme controller, Jennifer. She asked if I’d be interested in taking over the breakfast show.’
I must have winced. Judging by his face it wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.
‘Have I said something wrong?’ he said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But all those early mornings. What time would you need to get up?’
He shrugged. ‘Half-four, maybe five. But that’s not the point. It’s a big deal to do a breakfast show. It’s the flagship programme of any radio station and gets the biggest audience. If people listen first thing, they tend to stay tuned for the rest of the day. There’s a lot riding on it.’
‘So it’s a promotion?’
‘If you want to put it like that.’
Our drinks arrived: my water, Richard’s wine. He made a point of looking the waiter in the eye.
‘Thanks, Fredo.’
‘Enjoy,’ said the waiter, then he glided away.
I raised my glass in a toast. ‘Congratulations.’
We clinked glasses and drank.
‘Are you a morning person?’ I said.
Richard shrugged. ‘For the kind of money they’
d pay me, you bet. But the other consideration is this: the show’s over by nine a.m., which leaves the rest of the day free for additional work – or just having fun.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ he said. ‘Because there’s something else: the second banana. It’s what they call a sidekick on radio and TV.’
‘Like a double-act?’
He nodded. ‘Some shows have a zoo format – three or four people in the studio or on outside broadcasts, bantering, supporting the main DJ. Most have a single presenter.’ He leaned closer. ‘Some stations team the presenter with a “second banana”, someone to bounce off. He or she might do the traffic reports or weather, or both. They’re every bit as important as the DJ, crucial to the success of the show.’
It was clear where this was heading but I stuck to nodding as he continued.
‘Jennifer asked me how I’d like to play things – would I want to do it solo or would I prefer a “zoo” format or maybe a second banana? She’s given me carte blanche.’
‘And?’
He smiled and picked up his glass.
‘I thought you and I had fun the other day, when we did the Voice of London thing in the studio. You ad-lib like a natural.’
I couldn’t play dumb any longer, not without seeming like an idiot. I arched an eyebrow.
‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
He nodded and smiled.
‘There’d be an audition process, to show the bosses what you’re made of. We’ve already identified the downside: the early starts can be a bitch. But let’s not forget the upsides: a regular gig that pays well…’ He paused for effect. ‘… and would leave the day free for whatever else comes your way. Jobs in theatre, film, TV, voice-overs…’
I could feel the blood thudding in my ears.
‘Are you making me an offer I can’t refuse?’
His smile turned into a grin.
‘I’m asking if you’d be my second banana.’
RICHARD
The affair between my wife and my father took place twenty-six years ago and lasted less than a fortnight, coinciding with one of her ‘episodes’. That’s what Bonnie told me and I see no reason to disbelieve her. I never heard George’s side of the story because I never gave him the opportunity to ‘explain’, because how could he?
The bottom line: the loathsome shit took advantage of a vulnerable woman at her lowest ebb. Bonnie is the kindest, smartest woman I know but she’s suffered from catastrophically low self-esteem all her life – a legacy of her relationship with her own sorry excuse for a father. I won’t go into gory details – it’s her story not mine – but take my word for it: the sick bastard was lucky to be killed by a reversing lorry before I had a chance to wring his miserable neck.
So not surprisingly, life isn’t easy for Bonnie. Never has been and never will be, whether she comes home or remains in the lotus position on a beach in Goa for the rest of her days. She’s also lived with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder since she was fifteen, and whether that’s down to nature or nurture is irrelevant – it just is. Naturally, I knew about it when I got down on one knee, at sunset on Waterloo Bridge, and popped the question all those years ago. Her eyes widened in surprise.
‘I have an illness,’ she said, as if I hadn’t noticed. ‘It’s part of me.’
‘I love all of you,’ I said.
Cheesy? So sue me. It’s how I felt.
In the years since, I’ve seen her stratospherically high and suicidally low. I’ve watched her order six £1,000 bottles of vintage champagne for a bar full of people then stand on a table and sing ‘God Save The Queen’; I’ve sat vigil during nights when she’s been unable to speak for weeping, or begged me for a razor blade so she can end it all. Thank God for modern meds, which keep her relatively ‘chilled’, at least most of the time.
My own dalliance with depression is nothing compared to the toll taken on Bonnie by her illness (because that’s what it is: an illness). Call me old-fashioned but I intend to stand by her to the end, divorce or no divorce. I’ve never told anyone about her affairs for the simple reason that I love her. I know she loves me, too, in spite of everything.
It’s not that I’m a henpecked pushover or a stickler for all that till death us do part wishful thinking, devised when life expectancy was thirty-five not eighty-five. No, it’s just that I’ve always hoped she and I might make it to the rose-covered cottage together, against the odds – like battle-scarred soldiers limping home from a combat zone then collapsing under a shady tree, relieved and bound together by shared experience, good and bad.
At the time of their fling, I was working for an oldies’ radio station – Strawberry Fields 94.9 FM. I presented the early-evening ‘Seventies Sounds’ show, from 6 to 9 p.m. on Monday to Friday, a regular commitment that allowed Bonnie and George to conduct their brief affair in the sure and certain knowledge that I was never going to show up unexpectedly. That’s the thing about being married to a DJ: if you want to check his whereabouts just turn on the radio.
I only found out by accident, years later. It was Tom’s sixth birthday, a day that coincided with one of Bonnie’s low episodes. She was in bed, with the curtains closed. I stayed downstairs, supervising the boisterous party – a horde of six-year-olds booing ‘Mister Bonkers’, the so-called entertainer. In need of a cigarette break, I crept up to the landing. Passing the bedroom door, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard, I could hear Bonnie on the phone, talking to someone about how the guilt was unbearable. I can almost hear her now, whispering between sobs.
‘I was ill… off my meds. You took advantage of me… Now I have to carry this secret for the rest of my life, and it’s killing me.’
I went downstairs and waited for the call to end. Then I picked up the receiver and pressed ‘redial’. My father answered. I’ve never spoken to him since.
Long story short: four days later (by which time Bonnie was back on an even keel), I told her what I’d overheard and asked, ‘so what was the “secret”?’ Which is when she broke down and told me: Tom was George’s son, ‘but only biologically speaking’.
Once the shock had worn off (which took a year, a year during which I’m ashamed to say I could hardly bring myself to speak to Tom, let alone his mother) there was no question of my leaving Bonnie or abandoning the boy she and my father had brought into the world – not least because of her two suicide bids. Triggered by guilt, one was an overdose, the other a botched attempt to slash her wrists. To call these desperate efforts ‘emotional blackmail’ is to over-simplify what happened, as well as to misunderstand mental illness, but if her behaviour was tactical, it worked. Rightly or wrongly, I’d found it impossible to stop myself withdrawing from Tom, almost to the point where he had no father, at least none worthy of the name. To risk depriving him of a mother too would have been unthinkable. So I stiffened my spine and Bonnie and I somehow managed to stay together – for better, for worse… blah, blah, blah.
A week after the bomb dropped, I discovered a series of sketches of her, hidden under the mattress. Drawn by George, they showed my wife in a variety of poses, naked. In a fit of blind rage, I dragged the mattress downstairs, onto the pavement, dumped the sketches on top and set fire to the lot. And they all lived unhappily ever after.
* * *
Harriet told me she needed to think about the job at Silk FM. In fact, she seemed scared by the prospect. Fair enough. It’s a big commitment and a big decision. Was I trying to steal a march on Tom? Maybe. Would I have made the offer had I not been smitten? Perhaps not. But I was sure of one thing: Harriet was up to the task. I may be a fool when it comes to affairs of the heart but I had no intention of committing professional suicide. I told her not to take too long to decide. Once change is in the air at Silk FM things tend to move fast. And they did.
Within twenty-four hours of my conversation with Jennifer, the current breakfast show presenter (Chris, nice chap, lousy ratings) had been informed of w
hat was diplomatically termed ‘a reshuffle’. Which meant the cat was not only out of the bag but hissing and clawing. Hell hath no fury like a DJ saddled with the 2–6 a.m. graveyard shift.
On Tuesday evening, as soon as Harriet had finished her Voice of London recording session, I introduced her to Jennifer over a drink at the club on Shaftesbury Avenue.
‘I gather Richard has told you what we’re thinking.’
The ‘we’ was a good sign. I knew Jennifer had eavesdropped on Harriet’s recording sessions.
‘I’m flattered to be considered,’ said Harriet.
Correct answer.
‘He says you’re an actress.’
‘When I’m not frothing cappuccinos for Hackney hipsters.’
Jennifer smiled. The woman was ambition on legs and extremely smart. I could see her brain whirring, doing lightning calculations. Harriet was down on her luck. She wouldn’t expect big money. And there was another plus. Piggy-backing on the Voice of London launch would provide a perfect publicity angle, ideal for cross-promotion. If a fraction of the capital’s commuting millions tuned in to the breakfast show because they liked Harriet’s voice on the buses and tubes, ratings would soar.
They chatted for a while. Harriet didn’t bother to pretend she was a Silk FM fan, which was another clever move. In the radio business, Jennifer Ingham is famous for two things: her bullshit detector and her ability to sack people without losing sleep.
‘Do you like the music we play?’
Harriet shrugged.
‘The all-time greats. What’s not to like?’
‘Hardly your age group,’ said Jennifer.
‘Or yours,’ said Harriet.
Another canny answer. They were the same age. They talked some more. On the surface, it was idle chit-chat but we all knew the game that was being played: two clever women sizing each other up.
Do I like you?
Can I trust you?
I barely said a word. First impressions are everything and Harriet was doing fine. I hadn’t told her that Jennifer’s brief from head office was to broaden the Silk FM demographic and cultivate a younger audience without alienating our existing listener base. At thirty-five, Harriet skewed a little young but still fitted the bill. I’d pitched her as old enough to sound like a grown-up but not so young as to annoy the baby boomers.
