by Simon Booker
At least Harriet was keen to carry on working on the musical, which gave me an excuse to stay in touch on a regular basis. She’d suggested one of her friends from drama school, someone who would make a perfect Roxanne, so I met the woman. Her name was Zara. She was a primary school teacher with a nice smile and a lovely voice. When we started meeting for rehearsals she proved to be a great singer with terrific stage presence. For obvious reasons, I’d rather Harriet had taken the role, but if this was how she wanted things, I’d play along, glad she was keen to help make the show the best it could be. After one of our FaceTime sessions, during which she came up with a bunch of cracking ideas, I offered her a percentage of any profits but she wouldn’t hear of it.
I invited her out several times – a movie, a new musical, lunch, a trip to Tate Modern – but she was always ‘too tired’ or ‘too busy’. Sometimes, I could almost feel her slipping away – always ‘up to her eyes’ with the job at Silk FM or her Nan, or so she said. Of course, I knew exactly who she was really spending her time with, but had no idea how to turn things around.
And then George decided life wasn’t complicated enough and everything started to spiral out of control.
RICHARD
So now there were three of us. If Damian Vance had been a bog-standard high street dentist – scale and polish, crowns and implants – he might not have presented much in the way of competition. But it was clear from our encounter in the café that he did a lot of voluntary work (all credit to him) and wasn’t afraid to weaponize his noble heart.
All in all, Damian cut a heroic figure, which made him a more formidable adversary than my unemployed ‘son’ with his pie-in-the-sky dreams of becoming the next big thing on Broadway.
Nevertheless, Tom was still firmly in the picture, spending far too much time with Harriet as they continued to work on his so-called musical. With Damian in danger of crowding both of us out, it was clear that I needed to redouble my efforts and battle on two fronts simultaneously. At least my arsehole of a father hadn’t reared his ugly head again. Be thankful for small mercies, and all that.
Harriet was settling in at Silk FM. For three delicious hours every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I had her undivided attention and she had mine. The Harriet-less weekends were empty, passing in a blur of wine and old Seinfelds but I knew it wouldn’t be long before I could once again savour her company, bask in the radiance of her smile and breathe her perfume. For the first week or so, we’d breakfast together. Our café. Our table. Almond croissant for her, poached eggs for me.
Still, it was undeniably odd. On the one hand, our on-air relationship was public property, listened to by hundreds of thousands of Londoners. At the same time, when the microphones were off it was just the two of us in our little booth, with Billie Holiday or Nina Simone or Tony Bennett serenading us in the background. All well and good as far as it went, which wasn’t far enough.
And that’s when I started behaving badly.
* * *
The first time I followed Harriet Brown was one Friday morning, about a month after she’d started at Silk FM. I felt like someone who’d accidentally strayed into a spy movie or was playing at being a private detective. She’d started skipping our breakfasts, hurrying off as soon as the show ended. I tried to draw her out on the subject of her relationship with Damian but she shrugged and told me, ‘it’s complicated’ then changed the subject.
Why did I follow her that particular Friday? Some might put it down to jealousy. Nope. There was a world of difference between what I was doing and someone behaving like an unhinged stalker. My motivation was simple: part curiosity, part concern.
She’d acted strangely throughout that morning’s show, distracted verging on morose. While the microphones were off during an ad break I asked if she was okay. Her reply was instant. A flash of anger – something I’d never seen before.
‘Mind your own business.’
She apologized straightaway but it was clear something was wrong. I decided to find out what it was.
The show finished at 9 a.m. and she was out of the building by five past. Donning my overcoat, I followed at a discreet distance, joining the hordes of commuters heading for work. She walked up Shaftesbury Avenue, towards Tottenham Court Road. It was a bright, clear day in November and I could feel the beating of my heart. What if she turned and saw me? No matter. I would invent an errand: breakfast with a friend, an appointment with my accountant.
She paused at a bus stop and checked her phone, the way people do when they have two seconds to kill. I slowed to a halt, feigning interest in a shop window. The bus arrived. She boarded via the front entrance, tapping her Oyster card on the reader then taking a seat. I considered hailing a cab but there were none to be seen. Besides, the thought of telling the driver to ‘follow that bus’ was ludicrous. I joined the queue at the rear entrance, using my Oyster card to board the bus and keeping my face turned towards the rear. Harriet’s voice came on the tannoy.
Bus number ten to Hammersmith Broadway. Next stop… Great Titchfield Street.
I risked a glance in her direction but she was focused on her mobile and didn’t seem to be listening. I assumed she was used to hearing her own voice. Perhaps she no longer even registered it. The bus stopped for passengers then moved on.
Next stop… Oxford Circus.
A longer pause this time, to allow people on and off, then onwards with a lurch.
Next stop… Selfridges.
Harriet rose from her seat and rang the bell. As the bus drew to a halt, I waited until she’d stepped off then followed suit. She walked quickly, turning into North Audley Street, where the crowds had thinned. Halfway down the street, she stopped outside a black doorway and pressed a buzzer. The door opened. She went inside a redbrick apartment building, five storeys tall, and closed the door. I counted to ten then approached the doorway. Ten buzzers, ten flats. The array of foreign nameplates suggested the occupants were from all over the world, with the exception of the first-floor flat.
I gazed up at the window and saw a For Sale sign on the wall. It advertised a ‘two-bedroom luxury apartment’. Walking to the café on the corner, I took a table outside and turned to look back along the street. Damian’s Porsche was parked opposite the building with the black door.
A waiter appeared. I ordered a double espresso and an ashtray. As I lit a cigarette, I could feel my stomach tightening, every instinct telling me my whole world was either about to change for the better or come crashing down around my ears.
HARRIET
In films, just when the hero and heroine are having a good time and relaxing, talking about how great life is, that’s when you know everything is about to turn into seven sacks of shit. As in movies, so in life.
Damian didn’t seem pleased to see me when I turned up in North Audley Street that morning, but I didn’t care. My heart was beating at twice its normal rate and I desperately needed to get the words out, into the world, where they belonged. He closed the door of his flat and beat me to it.
‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.
‘Um…’ I said, breathless from the stairs. ‘Well, okay, but…’
‘There’s no easy way to say this, Harriet, so I’m just going to say it.’ He took a breath. ‘I can’t do this any more. It’s not fair on my children. I’m going back to my wife.’
I blinked rapidly, hesitating before letting him have it.
‘I hate to spoil your big moment but this isn’t the best timing because I’M FUCKING PREGNANT!’
He blinked.
‘How is that even possible? We always used a condom.’
‘Except that time you didn’t.’
‘Which time?’
‘Our reunion? The day you met me in the park café after my first show? The day we came back here and couldn’t keep our hands off each other? The day we broke the lamp?’
His face crumpled, a picture of misery.
‘Oh. That day.’
I nodded
and tried to remain calm but IF I PUSHED YOU DOWN THE STAIRCASE YOU’D CRACK YOUR HEAD OPEN AND DIE!
I folded my arms across my chest. Pushing The Thoughts away, I started pacing back and forth on the parquet floor. (That’s the thing about being an actor: even in moments of real-life drama, part of you is always observing the scene – the way you speak, how you carry yourself – and thinking, ‘I must remember this. I can definitely use this.’)
‘I thought you’d sort out a morning-after pill,’ he said.
‘You didn’t think AT ALL, Damian. Because that’s who you are.’
Still, he had a point: he wasn’t the only one who had been careless.
‘I cannot believe I let this happen,’ I said, still pacing. ‘Or that I fell for you again, or ever believed a word you said.’
His shoulders slumped.
‘So… what will you do?’
I stared at him. In that instant, everything became clear. It was never going to be ‘What will we do?’; it would always be down to me. The man I loved with a tender, aching heart would walk away and leave me to clear up the situation. And the weirdest thing? I didn’t feel angry or vengeful, just sad. Gut-wrenchingly, heart-crushingly sad.
‘I’m keeping it,’ I said defiantly. ‘Will you help?’
He blinked again.
‘Financially?’
‘Yes.’
His jaw tightened. I knew what was coming.
‘This isn’t a good time, Harriet. She’s found a new house. Two houses, actually – one here, one in Tuscany. The mortgages will kill me for a thousand years but it’s a condition of my coming back.’ His eyes welled with tears. ‘And I must go back. I can’t mess up my kids’ lives. They don’t deserve it.’
I felt numb.
‘What about your father’s money?’
He gave a pained smile.
‘It’s… complicated.’
‘So explain it.’
A sigh.
‘There isn’t any actual money – not as such.’
‘Meaning?’
My blood was starting to boil, especially when he spoke very slowly, as if explaining to a child.
‘Dad was hardly the type to bother with wills and bank accounts and probate.’
‘So that’s it?’ I said. ‘I’m on my own? Me and a baby?’
He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. I felt a surge of white-hot rage. I needed to leave before things turned nasty. He reached out a perfectly manicured hand.
‘Can we talk about this?’
I looked into his eyes. I was livid with him, yes, but a thousand times angrier with myself. For going back. For believing a word he’d said. For hoping he would turn out to be the man I needed him to be. I stood on tiptoe and put my lips to his ear.
‘Fuck off, Damian. And keep fucking off. And when you think you can’t fuck off any more, keep fucking off till you come to a great big fuck-off sign that says, “No Fucking Off Allowed”, then fuck off some more, until the end of time.’
I opened the door and slipped out of his life forever.
And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything…
TOM
Harriet’s text came out of the blue, just after 11 a.m.
Lunch?
I was eating Coco Pops, sprawled on the sofa. I pecked out a one-word reply.
Today?
Yep. Got something to tell you.
I showered, shaved and biked into Soho. When I walked into the café I saw my father sitting alone at a table. He frowned.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Meeting Harriet,’ I said.
‘Oh. Me too.’ His frown deepened. ‘She invited you to lunch?’
I nodded. He gave a tight smile and nodded.
‘How cosy.’
I sat opposite him and scrutinized his appearance.
‘Cool haircut,’ I said. ‘Takes years off.’
‘If you say so.’
I narrowed my eyes.
‘Have you had work, Dad?’
‘Define “work”.’
‘Your face looks different.’
He shifted in his chair.
‘Probably the hair. Something about the way it frames my—’
‘Is it Botox?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Yes, it is. The lines on your forehead are different – thinner, smoother.’
He leaned forward in his chair.
‘If you must know, I had a facial.’
‘Looks like Botox to me.’
‘It’s a skin peel. It’s no big deal. People have them all the time.’
‘If they’re trying to look younger.’
‘If they take pride in their appearance.’
He cast a disdainful look at a thread trailing from the sleeve of my fleece and a grease spot on my jeans.
‘It’s a matter of self-respect,’ he said.
‘And trying to look younger.’
‘Don’t be boring, Tom.’
I swallowed a smile.
‘Any particular reason for the makeover?’
‘Such as?’
‘Come off it, Dad – this is me you’re talking to.’
I never got to hear his rationale because Harriet bustled in and took the seat next to him. She looked as if she’d been crying.
‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
‘Not really.’ She blew her nose on a tissue, flagged down the waiter and ordered tea.
‘Nothing to eat?’ he said.
She shook her head. I followed her lead. My father did the same, ignoring the waiter’s disapproving glare.
‘I’ve got some news,’ said Harriet, her face deadly serious.
My stomach gave a lurch. Was she ill?
‘I’m pregnant.’
From Dad’s reaction – a glare at me – it was clear we were both having the same thought. You bastard! Harriet caught the look that passed between us.
‘Will you get over yourselves?’ she said. ‘The father is Damian. But he doesn’t want to know. In fact, he’s going back to his wife – surprise, surprise – but I’m keeping the baby. I wanted to tell you both as soon as possible because, well, you know…’
She tailed off, leaving her thought unfinished but the meaning clear. The three of us hadn’t known each other long but already there was history and baggage – above all, a bond about to be tested to the limit.
* * *
When I was eleven I fell for the girl next door, Elaine Buttrose. She only had eyes for Christopher Morris. Try as I might, I couldn’t get her to pay me any attention – until the glorious day when Christopher was sent away to boarding school. Elaine moped around for a week or so then seemed to notice me for the first time. We began walking to and from school together and my heart skipped every time she smiled in my direction. It was the first time I was conscious of feeling truly happy. One summer afternoon – bright sunshine, blue skies – we were walking up Haverstock Hill, eating ice creams. A bus crawled past. Framed in the window was the last face I wanted to see: Christopher Morris’s. He hammered on the window and I can still remember the sound of his voice above the noise of the traffic.
‘Elaine! I’ve run away from school!’
I’ve never forgotten the expression on her face – one of utter joy – nor the way my stomach plummeted as I realized her heart belonged to my rival, and that life would never be the same again.
* * *
Now, sitting in the café, looking at Harriet’s lovely face and listening to her talk about being pregnant with another man’s child, I felt every bit as broken.
‘Congratulations,’ I said quietly.
It was the best I could do. Christ knows what my father was feeling…
RICHARD
Pregnant?
PREGNANT?!
TOM
… but judging by the expression on his face we were as stunned as each other. I knew the next few moments might well determine how my relationship
with Harriet panned out and was determined to rise to the occasion.
Her eyes glazed with tears.
‘ “Congratulations?” ’ she said. ‘Really?’
I nodded, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
‘Absolutely. You’ll be a brilliant mum.’
‘No doubt about it,’ said Dad, doing his best not to put a foot wrong. He looked around for the waiter. ‘Do you think they have champagne in this dismal place?’
A tear travelled down Harriet’s cheek.
‘It never occurred to me to celebrate. I only found out last night. I’m still in shock.’
I reached out and took her hand. Dad took her other hand.
‘It’s going to be fine,’ he said.
‘You think?’ said Harriet.
‘I don’t think, I know.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Has he told his wife?’
‘He’s not going to tell her,’ said Harriet. ‘Neither am I.’
‘But surely he’ll be involved with the baby?’ I said.
She looked stricken. Tears were not far away.
‘Nope.’
Dad blinked several times, pausing before speaking.
‘And you still don’t want to tell his wife?’
Harriet gave another shake of her head. Her face filled with determination.
‘He’s got two kids. The boy’s four, the girl’s five. I don’t want their unhappiness on my conscience and…’
She broke off and we all fell silent as the waiter arrived with tea. When he’d gone, Harriet spooned sugar into her cup.
‘Everything became clear last night, after I did the pregnancy test. I knew what he was like when I went back to him. I knew he was still married. I knew there was a chance he’d go back to her.’ She took a breath, steadying herself. ‘And yes, we were careless, but I could have taken the morning-after pill, so maybe on some subconscious level I was trying to get pregnant. Either way, it’s my fault as much as his. I’ve made my bed, now I’ve got to lie in it and put up with the shitty crumbs and tangled sheets.’
