by Simon Booker
‘Can I at least pay for breakfast?’ she said.
‘It’s a deal.’
She slipped the bracelet onto her wrist.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For everything.’
I reached into my pocket and drew out an envelope addressed to Harriet.
‘I meant to give you this earlier,’ I lied. ‘It’s from Tom. I recognize his handwriting.’ That part, at least, was true.
She opened the envelope. Inside was a Hallmark card. I took a sip of coffee and looked away as she read it. I knew precisely what my son had written because I’d steamed open the envelope the day before. (I know I should have felt ashamed but I didn’t – merely a frisson of triumph.) I did my best to strike a casual tone.
‘What does he say?’
‘ “Break a leg. I’ll be listening.” ’ She sighed. ‘Sweet.’
It seemed clear she was underwhelmed, which I found reassuring. I’d been right to give her the bracelet before handing over Tom’s card. The contrast between myself and the lad spoke for itself.
Our food arrived but we didn’t eat much. To tell you the truth, ever since Harriet Brown breezed into my life I seemed to have little appetite. Meanwhile, she was still on a post-show high, dissecting our debut in detail. Like any actress, she was eager to know what I thought of her performance. Had she been professional? Did she sound warm enough? Should she talk more slowly? Did our banter strike the right balance? Was her laugh infectious or annoying? I reassured her on all counts.
‘You did a brilliant job.’
She paid the bill then we walked towards Shaftesbury Avenue, taking the long way back to Silk FM through Soho Square. The rush hour was nearly over, the streets no longer seething with media types hurrying to work in the offices, studios and editing suites that had colonized the area. A couple of Japanese tourists pored over a map; a pale woman sat on a bench, offering her face to the autumnal sun; a busker strummed his guitar, playing an acoustic version of ‘Stairway to Heaven’.
‘God, I bloody love London,’ said Harriet, kicking through a pile of leaves.
She seemed in no hurry, even though the Transport for London PR woman had organized a ten-thirty photo-call at Tottenham Court Road tube station. Harriet was the star attraction. Her second debut of the day: the new Voice of London.
‘Will you come?’ she said.
I shook my head.
‘It’s your big day not mine.’
‘I wouldn’t be doing any of this without you.’
And there it was. The moment I’d been waiting for. I said nothing.
‘Are things okay?’ she said. ‘Between us?’
‘Why wouldn’t they be?’
She stopped and sat on a bench. Something on her mind. ‘Because I had… feelings for you.’ I wasn’t crazy about her use of the past tense but bided my time, waiting for her to finish her thought. ‘And I kissed Tom.’
‘You didn’t know he was my Tom,’ I said.
‘But you don’t mind?’
‘Of course not.’
Was she leading up to something? A declaration? Another kiss? I felt like a teenager on a first date. All that was missing was the awkwardness and acne.
‘I know you… like me,’ she said.
‘Of course I like you. I’d hardly have suggested you as my co-presenter if I didn’t.’
She turned to look at me. ‘I mean, you like me,’ she said. ‘And I like you.’
I played dumb. ‘So… what’s the problem?’
‘I like Tom too.’ She drew breath and launched into what felt like a torrent of pent-up emotions. ‘I could try and shut down how I feel about both of you and concentrate on all the amazing things that are happening – and I so don’t want you to think I’m a hustler, playing you off against each other, because that’s not how I am at all – but the truth is I’m confused and scared of messing up. Because that’s what I do whenever things go right – I mess up. And now, on top of everything else, Damian’s texting me a zillion times a day, saying he wants me back, so all things considered, I’m a bit of a fuck-up.’
I drew breath to reply but her mobile rang. She answered the call.
‘Hello?’ She listened. ‘Sorry… I’m two minutes away… I’ll be with you in a sec.’ She pocketed her phone and got to her feet. ‘See? I’m late for the photo-call. Day one of my new life and already I’m a diva.’ She broke into a run, calling over her shoulder. ‘Don’t forget yoga! Three o’clock. Wear something loose!’
Then she was gone, running towards the gate and leaving me with only one thought.
Damian? Who the hell is Damian?
HARRIET
There must have been a dozen photographers on the platform, plus camera crews and reporters from local TV news. They crowded around me, barking questions: what was it like to be the new Voice of London? How did I feel about being on the radio? What time did I set my alarm for? Did I have a boyfriend? What did I think of Richard and OHMIGOD I COULD JUMP ON THE RAILS RIGHT NOW AND FRY MYSELF ALIVE!
It should have been exciting but I felt embarrassed and kept wondering what I’d let myself in for. Was this really what I’d wanted? Being well known for reciting a list of tube stops? For prattling about traffic on the radio? As doubts and The Thoughts competed for space inside my head and the paps snapped away, the trains came and went and my voice echoed over the tannoy.
The next train to Morden will arrive in two minutes.
The first time I heard myself I felt like crying. I sounded terrible.
Please stand back from the platform edge.
The second time was a bit less awful.
Please allow passengers off the train before boarding.
After fifteen minutes, I’d almost forgotten who the disembodied voice belonged to; she was simply That Woman.
Then it hit me. That text from Cockweasel was in danger of taking the shine off everything. I’d tried hard not to focus on it during the show but those three little words kept flashing into my mind’s eye.
I love you.
FFS!
I hadn’t replied. This was my morning – a moment in the limelight after years of rejection and failure. Today was proof that I wasn’t invisible and had been a long time coming. I tried not to let the message overshadow everything. At the same time, it’s hard to describe how much those three words meant. Two years of being in love with someone I’d believed to be wonderful. Of thinking I’d found The One. And what was the reality? Two years of being someone’s dirty little secret.
I tried to give sensible or funny answers to the reporters’ questions but one woman looked so bored I thought she was going to fall asleep and topple onto the track. Her lack of interest in my big day added to my growing sense of unease but I gave myself a stern talking-to: I was lucky not to be spending yet another morning cranking out cappuccinos and heating paninis filled with slimy cheese and ham. Just a month ago, I’d gladly have chewed off my own feet to have even one reporter show interest in my life – my ambitions, hopes, dreams – and now here I was, with half a dozen microphones in my face and a smiley TfL PR woman asking if I was okay and did I need anything? Bottle of water? Loo break? Diamonds on the soles of my shoes?
Okay, I made that last bit up but even this micro-taste of ‘slebrity’ was enough to help me understand why famous people can become gigantic cockwombles. It’s not as if I think I’ve suddenly become some kind of VIP – I’m still just me, obvs – yet the smiles came more quickly and for the first time in my life people were focused on me and wanted my opinion – on London, on public transport, on how it felt to be ‘an overnight success’.
The rest of the morning was a bit of an anti-climax, TBH. I went back to the greasy spoon for a break then wandered around Soho, trying to feel part of the ‘media village’ I’d fantasized about for so long. Walking along Shaftesbury Avenue, I took stock of the posters outside the theatres – all those talented actors, singers, musicians and dancers doing what I’d dreamed of doing since I was a kid.<
br />
One of Nan’s sayings came to mind. It’s better to travel hopefully than arrive. Not that I’d arrived anywhere. But being Richard’s second banana had at least put me in the fruit bowl. What happened next was up to me.
* * *
The yoga studio was airy and full of light. Richard was the only bloke amidst a dozen of Stoke Newington’s yummy mummies and me. As instructed, he wore a tracksuit and trainers. Both looked suspiciously new. He clipped a small wireless microphone to his top, and one to mine. Then he took a mat and sat cross-legged, copying the woman on his left. I nabbed the space behind him and unrolled my mat on the floor. The lack of sleep was catching up with me but I was determined to keep going till the evening and to keep The Thoughts at bay. An hour of yoga was just what I needed. Our instructor was Ayisha. Her slim figure and perfect posture spoke of years of practice. It was hard not to hate her and I’VE NEVER SNOGGED A WOMAN BUT IN YOUR CASE I COULD MAKE AN EXCEPTION.
‘I see we have a new face,’ she said.
All eyes turned to Richard. He gave a wave and cleared his throat.
‘Hello, my name’s Richard and I’m an alcoholic. Sorry… wrong meeting.’
I was the only one to laugh. The others seemed to take him seriously. Ayisha raised an eyebrow.
‘Any aches and pains or injuries?’
‘Am I that much of an old crock?’ said Richard.
‘Not at all,’ said Ayisha, smiling. ‘It’s a standard question.’
As the class began, the smell of burning incense filled the room, along with the sound of Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel. The simplicity of the piano and that sweet, soaring violin never fails to move me.
I could see Richard was having trouble following Ayisha’s instructions, especially when it came to sarvangasana, a pose that involves lying on your back with your legs upright and your hands supporting your lower back. Hats off to him for trying, though, especially on his first class.
‘May I make a request?’ he said.
‘Sure,’ said Ayisha, even though no one talks in yoga, ever.
‘If I die in this ridiculous posture will you pretend my last words were devastatingly witty?’
A couple of women giggled. I could see Ayisha smile but before she could reply the door opened. I was facing the other direction so couldn’t immediately see who had walked in but I heard the new arrival whispering.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
The man’s voice sounded familiar. I lowered my legs and came out of the pose then turned to face the door. It was Tom.
TOM
It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. The sight of Dad flat on his back, desperately trying to keep his legs in the air almost made me forgive him everything. For being a crap father. For refusing to back down over Harriet. For hurting Mum with his affairs (although if Gorgeous George was right I might have to re-think that particular source of resentment).
Harriet’s eyes widened in disbelief as I grabbed a mat and unrolled it at the front of the group, sitting on Dad’s left. At first, he didn’t notice me, too busy concentrating on maintaining his balance. But then he turned his head, saw me and immediately collapsed into a heap. His hair was a mess, his face ruddy – part exertion, part anger.
‘What are you playing at?’ he hissed.
Seeing the instructor’s disapproving glare, I frowned at my father and raised a finger to my lips.
‘Shhh.’
‘Don’t shush me,’ he said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Harriet’s raised eyebrow. The instructor cleared her throat and glared. Dad had little choice but to pipe down and continue with the class. Order restored, we shifted into bhujangasana, aka the cobra position. Craning my neck towards the ceiling and feeling my muscles stretch, I tried to imagine how hard this would be for a man twice my age. True, Dad was in decent shape – a regular tennis-player and walker – but yoga has a way of making you feel the burn in places you didn’t even know you had places.
Not that I was in any way trying to convey a subliminal message to Harriet – e.g., that a twenty-five-year-old might be, like, fitter than a fifty-year-old IN ALL KINDS OF WAYS. Perish the thought. As if I would stoop so low.
As we moved to a kneeling pose, I could hear Dad’s breathing becoming laboured as he did his best to keep up with a group of super-fit young women and me. Child’s pose followed – the one that always makes me think of nap time in kindergarten. I could almost feel my father’s relief. But then the instructor glided to the front of the room and adopted vrikasana, standing on one leg and raising the other, with her arms above her head and her palms together. She made it look easy but I knew it wasn’t, even for someone accustomed to yoga. Studiously avoiding looking in Dad’s direction, I tried to copy her, feeling my way into the pose. It’s the balance that’s tricky. As we get older, it becomes harder to stay steady – especially on one foot. I guess that’s why so many elderly people ‘have a fall’. Not that Dad is ancient (fifty is the new thirty and all that) but try as he might, he could not stand on one leg for more than a couple of seconds.
‘You okay?’ I whispered.
‘Great. Thanks for asking.’
Maybe I was wrong but Harriet didn’t seem to be taking any notice of us, totally focused on her own pose. I watched as Dad slowly raised his right foot, standing on his left leg for a couple of seconds before toppling over onto the mat.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, trying not to smirk. ‘Probably just an age thing.’
‘Shhh,’ said Harriet.
‘Sorry.’
Dad got to his feet and glared in my direction. ‘I’m so glad you came.’
I swallowed a smile, watching as he attempted the pose once again. He stood upright, raised his left leg and lifted his arms above his head. Then he slowly placed his palms together. I held my breath. Three seconds. Five.
Seven…
Ten…
‘Okay,’ said Ayisha. ‘And come down onto your mats and into downward-facing dog.’
The class did as instructed. With one exception. Guess who. Yes, my father was now into his fifteenth second standing on one leg, arms raised above his head, palms together.
Twenty seconds and counting…
I raised my head from my mat and stole a glance in his direction. He was staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the bowl of burning incense.
Harriet didn’t seem to have noticed his marathon effort to impress her with his display of virility and strength. As the rest of the group followed Ayisha’s instructions, my father held his pose for a full thirty seconds before slowly bringing his arms down by his side, lowering his left leg and bringing his feet together.
He looked at me and smiled.
‘Namaste.’
RICHARD
Holding that bloody pose for a full thirty seconds nearly killed me but the effort was worth it, just to see the look on Tom’s face.
From the moment Harriet issued her on-air challenge, drastic action was required. Yoga has never been my thing – even less so since Bonnie started going to classes every night, ‘perfecting her practice’, or so she said.
Fortunately, Pam was an aficionado so I asked for help. I needed to learn a single pose – something a beginner could manage, the trickier the better. She suggested something called vrikasana, a ludicrous posture that involves standing on one leg with your raised foot resting on your inner thigh, hands above your head and palms together. Not surprisingly, I kept toppling over, much to the amusement of everyone who passed the office, but after forty-five minutes of sweating and swearing I’d more or less got the hang of it – enough to maintain it for the half-minute needed to do the job.
I hadn’t reckoned on Tom showing up. At first, I couldn’t work out what he was playing at, then the penny dropped. He wanted to show me up in front of Harriet. Well, sod that for a game of soldiers.
During the class, I knew the lapel mic was capturing my every grunt and groan but that didn’t matter – the gruntier and gr
oanier the better. The plan was to play a couple of clips on Tuesday’s show – a laugh at my expense, all good fun, new girl Harriet winding up good old Richard, ha ha, what a sport. This was in keeping with the way our double act was shaping up, which was fine by me and exactly what Jennifer and Pam had always had in mind for the tone of the show.
After what seemed like an eternity of stretching and aching, the yoga class drew to a merciful close. I saw Tom settling up with Ayisha. Then he came over to join me and Harriet.
‘Hope you don’t mind me dropping in,’ he said. ‘I heard you on-air and thought, “Dad doing a yoga class? Not to be missed!” ’
Harriet grinned, taking him at face value. ‘He did brilliantly.’
I swallowed a small smile of satisfaction and tried to sound nonchalant.
‘Thirsty work. Who’s for a cup of tea? The Milky Bars are on me.’
They both stared blankly, the reference to my favourite old TV ad wasted. Sometimes I hate young people.
* * *
The café in the park was almost empty, just a couple of school kids and an elderly man reading a paper. The three of us sat at a corner table, drinking tea and making small talk. Harriet kept checking her phone and replying to texts. I wondered if these were from the mysterious ‘Damian’ but decided not to ask.
‘How’s the musical coming along?’
‘You always ask that,’ grumbled Tom. ‘Every time I see you. Like it’s the only thing you can find to talk about.’
Not only was he testy, he looked pale and washed-out, as though he hadn’t slept in a week. I wondered if he’d been taking drugs.
‘I ask because I’m interested.’
He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘It’s going well. Harriet’s helping me put together the showcase.’
‘Am I allowed to come?’
‘Would you like to?’
‘Am I invited?’
‘Would you like an invitation?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
