by Simon Booker
‘What if he doesn’t come?’ I said.
He shrugged.
‘That’s the least of my worries.’
I frowned.
‘Is this about George? Or your father?’
He cocked his head to one side.
‘Define “father”.’
Before I had the chance to ask WTF he was talking about, footsteps announced the arrival of one of the barmen, who ushered in the first few members of the audience and OHMIGOD OHMIGOD OHMIGOD IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING? Tom and I made ourselves scarce, moving behind the bar area. Over the next few minutes, the room filled with a friendly-looking crowd, clutching drinks and chattering among themselves.
Before I knew it, it was time for the arrival of Paul Mendoza – the most handsome dude I’d ever seen – and his two female assistants, both in their twenties. After making the introductions, Tom went downstairs to fetch drinks for the new arrivals while I made small talk, fielding the producer’s enquiries about my acting credits and involvement in the show, all the while silently telling The Thoughts to fuckofffuckofffuckofffuckoffFUCKOFF! Paul’s easy-going manner helped. He said he was workshopping three plays, had two musicals in development and another set to open at the Sheffield Crucible in the new year.
‘To recoup its investment,’ he said, ‘a midscale musical needs to run for at least a year and sell half a million tickets. That’s a lot of bums on seats.’
‘So no pressure,’ said one of the assistants, giving me a smile that didn’t feel genuine. I wondered what her agenda was.
BITCH BITCH BITCH!
By the time Tom got back with the drinks he still looked washed-out but showed no sign of being drunk. One of the women – the nicer of the two – tapped her watch, a signal to Paul.
‘Okay, let’s see the magic,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
‘Don’t you want to wait for Richard?’ I asked Tom.
‘He’s not coming. Long story.’
Whatever that meant.
The bitchy assistant cleared her throat.
‘Paul has another appointment at ten so…’
She tailed off. It was now or never. The producer took a seat. His assistants followed suit, positioning themselves on either side of their boss. All three crossed their legs. The crowd fell quiet as a sense of anticipation filled the air.
‘So,’ said Paul, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Tell us about your show.’
Tom sat at the keyboard and cleared his throat. He took a deep breath then stared into the middle distance for what seemed like an age. I had the strangest feeling he was on the verge of tears. When he finally spoke, he did so fluently and eloquently, reciting the ‘elevator pitch’ we’d spent days perfecting, but his voice was unsteady, almost tremulous.
‘Thank you all for coming. You’re about to get a taste of an integrated musical in three acts called They F**k You Up, which, as I’m sure you know, comes from the Philip Larkin poem, ‘This Be The Verse’. The show is set partly in a prison, which serves as a metaphor for the way we’re all prisoners of our backgrounds – and that’s the core theme: family dysfunction and how we all need to break free from parental expectation and find fulfilment by living life on our own terms.’
Paul nodded, scribbling on a notepad as I took my opening position and fuck off fuck off FUCK OFF! and Tom picked out the first few notes of the opening song. He stopped playing and turned towards the door, frowning.
‘Is someone there?’
I followed his gaze. There was silence for a moment then a floorboard creaked and Richard stepped into the room, looking as if he’d been caught out.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt.’
I saw Tom clench his jaw, as though trying to keep a lid on his temper, then he gestured towards an empty chair.
‘Take a seat,’ he said.
I found it weird that he didn’t introduce his dad to Paul Mendoza. Nerves? Or had Richard lurking outside put him off his stride?
Moments of clarity are rare and tend to arrive without warning. Later, I would wonder what it was about seeing father and son together in that shabby room above the pub that brought a rush of emotion to the surface. Something about the expression on Tom’s face, the one that made him look five years old – lost and vulnerable? Or was it the sheepish way Richard shuffled in, avoiding his son’s eye, as though burdened by a need to make up for lost time, hoping this better-late-than-never appearance could atone for bedtime stories unread, school plays missed, sports days unattended? In that moment, I felt a surge of affection for both men.
But at the same time, perhaps it was the tang of ambition in the air that told me I wasn’t ready to give up on my dream of becoming a bona fide actress, and of finding someone I could love with every fibre of my being. For once, The Thoughts were silent as the realization hit home with the force of a punch: I could never commit to a happy-ever-after with Richard or Tom. Now I knew the truth – now I could name it – I must tell them how I felt. Not tonight but soon.
I watched as Tom reached into his rucksack and pulled out a red exercise book. He tossed it to Richard.
‘In case you get bored,’ he said.
Richard caught the book and frowned, clearly puzzled. As Tom turned to the keyboard and began to play I caught a glimpse of his father out of the corner of my eye. He was flicking urgently through the exercise book. I turned away, to avoid being distracted. Then I started to sing.
For the next twenty-five minutes, I did my best, despite my clammy palms, a galloping heart and The Thoughts swirling inside my head. YOU’RE UGLY AND TALENTLESS AND WHAT THE HELL MAKES YOU THINK ANYONE WANTS TO HEAR YOU SING? Somehow, I managed to keep going, song after song. I wouldn’t be so big-headed as to say I was on top form but the experience reminded me that there are times when giving a performance feels like you’re walking on air; this was one of those times. The audience helped. They’d been briefed that this was a try-out, so they knew what was at stake and were generous enough to applaud and whistle after every number, even when I hit a bum note in the middle of the title song. While Tom’s keyboard playing was full of passion and flair, his singing voice was no more than adequate, but that wasn’t a problem. Mendoza wouldn’t be expecting polished performances, just a flavour of the musical and a sense of whether or not it had ‘legs’. Was the story fresh? Did it have universal appeal? Were the melodies memorable? Did the lyrics have depth, wit and wisdom? Were the characters likeable, or at least relatable? Bottom line: was this a show that would persuade investors and punters alike to part with their hard-earned cash?
As we finished the final song, Paul led the applause (there were wolf whistles too) and Richard joined in with what looked like genuine enthusiasm. The Thoughts were still circulating inside my head THEY’RE JUST BEING NICE, CLAPPING FOR THE SHOW AND TOM, NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU, YOU TALENTLESS ARSE-WAZZOCK but they seemed more muted now and were rivalled by another voice competing for my attention YOU DID IT YOU DID IT YOU DID IT!
The audience filed out, chatting among themselves and heading back down to the bar, leaving just Mendoza and his assistants. If we’d been in one of Nan’s films this would have been the moment when the big-shot producer would have asked us both to sign on the dotted line, setting us on the road to fame and fortune – so it came as a blow when Paul delivered his judgement.
‘Thank you both,’ he said, pocketing his notebook. ‘It’s a good show – a nice idea, well executed – but I’m not looking for good, I’m looking for great.’
Tom’s face fell. Mendoza put a consoling hand on his shoulder.
‘You’ve got talent. Don’t waste it. Let me know if you have other ideas. If I have a criticism it’s that the show lacks heart.’
The assistants were already at the door. Mendoza crossed to join them.
‘Hold on,’ said Tom, ‘I do have another idea.’
The producer turned, hand on the door.
‘Sorry, I’m running late. But keep me posted, okay? I m
ean it.’
Then he and his entourage were gone. I heard a clatter of footsteps down the staircase. Silence descended on the room.
‘Jesus,’ said Richard softly.
I thought he was reacting to Mendoza’s verdict but no – he was still scanning the red exercise book. His face was pale and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.
‘Are you okay?’ I said.
He didn’t seem to hear. He and Tom stared at each other. They had the weirdest expressions on their faces. What was going on? When Tom finally spoke, his voice was almost a whisper.
‘I have no words.’
Richard said nothing. He stood and stretched out his arms. Tom took a step forward, into his father’s embrace. Richard lost his grip on the exercise book. It fell to the floor. As the men hugged, clutching each other for dear life, I picked up the book and scrutinized the old-fashioned handwriting. The first chapter had a heading in French. ‘Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner.’
The Thoughts were silent as I sat down and began to read.
TOM
I followed Dad out of the pub. We left Harriet inside, reading. Out on the street corner, the rain had stopped and the night air was cold but crisp. Dad stood under a street-lamp and lit a cigarette. His hands were trembling. I felt a surge of pity course through me, constricting my throat. He turned to face me.
‘Should I have told you?’
I searched for something to say. Finding my voice was hard, choosing the right words impossible.
‘I can’t see how there was a right thing to do.’
He managed half a smile.
‘That’s very gracious.’
‘I mean it, Dad.’
His voice grew hoarse. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For calling me Dad.’
I opened my mouth to speak but he held up a silencing finger. We stared at each other for a moment then he cleared his throat and drew on his cigarette, exhaling twin plumes of smoke.
‘You mustn’t blame your mother. She wasn’t well.’ He sighed. ‘As for George…’
He tailed off, allowing the sentence to finish itself. We let the silence stretch, the still of the night at odds with the emotions churning inside. Then he turned up his collar and donned his fedora.
‘Did I ever tell you I hate that hat?’ I said.
He smiled and took a final drag on his cigarette then flicked it into the gutter.
‘So now what?’
‘A walk?’ I said. ‘We could have a chat?’
‘About anything in particular?’
It was my turn to smile. ‘We’ll think of something.’
He nodded. To my surprise, he hooked his arm through mine. We began to walk along the rain-slicked pavement, saying nothing. Sometimes there is comfort in silence.
ONE YEAR LATER
RICHARD
The low winter sun was setting over Terminal 5 as the taxi pulled to a halt. I paid the driver and hurried into departures. No sign of Harriet at any of the check-in desks. My pulse quickened as I scanned the crowds in vain. Starting to panic, I turned and saw her walking towards me, wheeling the pushchair we’d chosen from Harrods a week after the baby was born. It had cost a lot of money, of course, but, like all the best things in life, babies don’t come cheap.
Harriet’s eyes lit up as she saw me.
‘Thank God. I thought you weren’t coming.’
‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away,’ I said. Lame, I know, but there are times when words are hard to come by. I crouched down to look at the baby. (Her name was Georgia; Harriet had insisted.) For once she was asleep, not staring in wide-eyed wonder at the world.
‘I assume you’ve knocked her out with Valium?’ I said.
Harriet nodded.
‘And a pint of brandy,’ she deadpanned.
I smiled.
‘Her first flight. Quite a milestone.’
Harriet smiled.
‘Nan’s all prepared.’
I looked up to see Nancy approaching with a small case on wheels.
‘Is that all you’re taking?’ I said. ‘For a whole year?’
She shook her head.
‘I’ve checked in my cases. This is hand luggage. Nappies, bottles and wet-wipes.’
You had to hand it to her – ever since George died she’d been a trouper. From suggesting Paddy might know someone who could discreetly launder the mountain of cash to encouraging her granddaughter to buy a flat with the proceeds then rent it out to fund a make-or-break bid to crack Hollywood, Nancy had been a cool head. She’d also encouraged Harriet to quit Silk FM in order to give her dreams a chance. Now, she was getting her reward: twelve months in a Malibu beach house, babysitting her great-grandchild while Harriet took on Tinseltown.
‘No sign of Tom?’ she said, scanning the crowd.
I followed her gaze. There he was, right on cue, hurrying towards us.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘The casting session overran.’
‘How’s it going?’ I said.
‘Good. Paul’s found a theatre in Nottingham. We open at the end of April. A three-week run to iron out the wrinkles. After that, who knows?’
I smiled.
‘Today Nottingham, tomorrow the world.’
‘Sorry to miss it,’ said Harriet. ‘You really don’t mind?’
Tom shook his head.
‘You’re doing the right thing.’
We said nothing for a moment then Harriet started what sounded like a prepared speech.
‘I only hope you and Richard can forgive me…’
She made it halfway through the first sentence before tailing off, too choked to speak. The awkward silence that followed was broken by Nancy. She pointed to a monitor.
‘Our flight’s on schedule.’
Tom did his best to make his smile convincing.
‘Give my love to La-La Land.’
For a moment, I thought Harriet was about to burst into tears.
‘You’ll come?’ she said. ‘Christmas?’
‘Of course,’ said Tom. He turned to me. ‘What about you?’
I considered my options: Belsize Park or Malibu.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, taking a step towards Harriet and kissing her cheek. Tom followed suit then stood at my side, watching Harriet and Nancy walk away, steering the pushchair towards departures. I thought I heard a buzzing coming from Nancy’s case but perhaps it was my imagination. They disappeared from view, leaving a chill in the air. I cleared my throat.
‘I’ll take a taxi back to town. Can I give you a lift?’
Tom shook his head.
‘It’s quicker by tube.’
‘Suit yourself.’
I watched as he walked away, following signs for the tube.
‘Tom?’
He stopped and turned.
‘Break a leg,’ I said.
He smiled.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
Then he was gone.
HARRIET
I changed Georgia’s nappy in the departures lounge loo. When I emerged I found Nan in Costa Coffee, talking to a man in a suit. Mid-forties, sharp suit, black hair.
‘This is my granddaughter,’ she told him. ‘And her little one. Aren’t they gorgeous?’
The man’s handshake was firm, his eyes ice blue.
‘Pleasure to meet you,’ he said. His accent was American, west coast.
‘His name’s William Morris,’ said Nan. ‘He’s on our flight. He’s an agent.’
‘William Morris is the name of the agency,’ said the man. ‘Well, sorta. My name’s Jake.’
OHMIGOD HE’S GORGEOUS!
‘I’ll leave you to get acquainted,’ said Nan. ‘If you need me I’ll be in Duty Free. I need more batteries.’
We watched her go. Jake sipped his coffee.
‘First time to LA?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excited?’
‘Terrified.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
‘How do you know?’
He grinned.
‘Trust me. I’m an agent.’
OHMIGOD OHMIGOD OHMIGOD…
TOM
The tube train was waiting at the platform. I settled into an empty carriage and leafed through a discarded Evening Standard but the words swam before my eyes. As the doors closed I was aware of someone boarding the train. I looked up.
‘You’re right,’ said Dad. ‘This is quicker.’
He sat next to me. I put down the paper.
‘So,’ he said, ‘remind me what your new show is about?’
I’d told him already, of course, but he liked hearing my elevator pitch, the one that had received the thumbs-up from Paul.
‘An estranged father and son who unwittingly fall in love with the same woman.’
His lips twitched into a smile.
‘As if that would ever happen.’
I returned the smile but said nothing.
‘Hungry?’ he said. ‘I’ve made coq au vin.’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘Made or bought?’
‘Made.’
‘I’m impressed,’ I said.
‘That makes two of us.’
We smiled then lapsed into silence, listening to Harriet on the tannoy as the train started to move and the journey began.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Sara-Jade Virtue, Paul Simpson, Pip Watkins, Alice Rodgers and the rest of the wonderful team at Simon & Schuster. Thanks also to Annabel Merullo and Daisy Chandley at Peters Fraser and Dunlop, and to all the readers and bloggers whose enthusiasm is such a tonic. May the bluebird of happiness fly up your nose!
About the Author
Author and screenwriter Simon Booker writes crime novels and prime time TV drama for the BBC, ITV and US TV. He is also Writer in Residence at HMP Grendon. His TV credits include BBC1’s Inspector Lynley Mysteries, Holby City and The Mrs Bradley Mysteries; ITV thrillers The Stepfather and The Blind Date; and Perfect Strangers, the CBS romantic comedy starring Rob Lowe and Anna Friel. Simon lives in London and Deal. His partner is fellow crime writer and Killer Women co-founder Mel McGrath. They often discuss murder methods over breakfast. Three’s a Crowd is his first contemporary fiction novel.
