Perfect on Paper

by Gillian Harvey

  ‘Right,’ she’d said, doubtfully.

  They’d run through their routine a few times, and Clare was fairly confident she could get through the three-minute slot unscathed.

  She looked over the piece of paper in her hand for the last time. She’d been reading it constantly ever since she finally managed to pen something in her lunch hour a couple of days beforehand. Dan had read it through and nodded. And the rest of the troupe had clapped when she’d rapped it out for the first time. She’d felt like a bit of an idiot, but at the same time, the applause had been quite gratifying.

  ‘Five minutes,’ said the man with the clipboard.

  A young girl flashed past her, blue hair tucked under a cap, face fixed with concentration.

  They were near the edge of the stage now, and she could see the presenters in their familiar get-up, laughing and joking as they did on TV. There was a screen displaying the footage, but there was no sound. She watched one of the judges wax lyrical about the guy on stage, an enormous smile on her face. Clearly he’d done well.

  Then there was momentum. The previous act – a magician who’d managed to make a dove appear out of his zipper – walked off and winked at them as he went past. She’d heard whispers that he was one of the hot favourites to win, and based on the audience reaction, was quite likely on track.

  ‘You’re on,’ hissed a runner and Clare found herself propelled forward onto a stage, the harsh lights making it difficult to see the audience beyond.

  The four judges sat in front of her, glossier and more groomed than she could have imagined.

  ‘OK, darling,’ said Steven Cruel, the main judge. ‘What’s your name and where do you come from?’

  ‘I’m, um, Martha, I’m 36 and I’m from … Hertfordshire,’ she said.

  ‘And the boys?’

  ‘These are Eezee Troupe,’ Dan said, stepping forward, with a small bow of deference. ‘Martha’s backing dancers.’

  ‘Great, great …’ Steven glanced at the other judges. ‘Well, best of luck.’

  ‘Just three minutes,’ she thought to herself. Three minutes of her life. Over in a flash.

  The music began to play and the boys bounced out and took their positions. A spotlight shone on the centre of the stage – her moment. Propelling herself forward on legs that felt like jelly, Clare stumbled to the front and raised the mic to her lips.

  ‘It’s Martha B., here, yeah and I’m livin’ it loud,

  I’m calling to the women – girls, you oughta be proud.

  Say what? You’re over thirty and you feel like you’ve had it,

  You’re just in the beginning, come on ladies let’s have it.

  We’re smashin’ the glass ceiling, showin’ that we’re contenders,

  It’s time we stopped taking shit just ’cos of our gender.

  Too right, we care for kids and yeah, we’re excellent mothers,

  But that’s just one small talent, there are plenty of others.

  We’re wasted in our offices, ignored in the board room,

  Well, tell the men to shift it, yeah, they need to make more room.

  We ain’t into knockin’ men, but there’s space for us all yeah,

  We’re not just into clothes, shoes, nails and styling our hair, yeah.

  So what? I’m pushin’ forty, but nah that shouldn’t bore you,

  I’m fit and bright and beautiful, and growin’ in value.

  My age ain’t just a number, it shows that I’ve lived, right?

  But if you say I’m past it, man you’re in for a fight, right?

  Here’s Eezee Troupe, my boys they’re here and backing me up,

  We women should be visible, I’ll tell you what’s up.

  This is a revolution, yeah all the women are risin’,

  You’ve kept us down for years, so this should not be surprisin’.

  Don’t take us for granted, yeah, the bar we are raisin’,

  Don’t try to beat us, join us and it could be amazin’.

  No more miss invisible – invincible more like,

  If you don’t like what you’re seein’ then just get on your bike, right?

  It’s Martha B. right here “mehtoo’ but yo I won’t accept it,

  So get on board, let’s change the world or man you’ll regret it.’

  As she fell into the agreed modified version of the splits (which basically involved her kneeling on one leg while sticking the other one out as straight as she could manage), the audience roared. Women stood up, waving #MehToo banners – one was wearing a T-shirt with a screenshot of Clare from the YouTube video. Another pair were wearing shirts that read ‘We’re Martha’s Crew’.

  Clare also noticed a woman towards the back waving a small sign that said ‘Go for it!’ It was Ann, Clare realised. How on earth had she got hold of a ticket?

  She stumbled, slightly, as if in a dream. Then Dan was by her side, arm around her, holding her up.

  They faced the four judges, whose faces were giving nothing away. ‘Well, well, well,’ said the younger of the female judges. ‘I think you might have touched a nerve in here!’

  Steven Cruel was shaking his head and smiling in a way he clearly hoped said ‘I’m down with this female solidarity thing’ while keeping his masculinity intact. ‘It’s a “yes” from me,’ he said, leaning in to the microphone.

  The other male judge nodded. ‘What’s not to love? You’re keepin’ it real and livin’ it large, and you’ve certainly made an impression here!’ he said, turning to the audience who whooped in appreciation. ‘It’s a “yes” from me.’

  Three yesses would see them through. The crowd fell silent as the third judge – an actress and singer called Macey considered her verdict. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘I hear what you say, but is this the best way to reach your audience? Are women actually going to take notice of a rap artist?’

  She hesitated and in that moment Clare realised how much she actually wanted to get through, whatever the cost to her legal career. Was it all going to slip from her grasp; were they really going to get a ‘no’?

  After an almost unbearable silence, Macey suddenly burst into life. ‘I say, YES THEY WILL!’ she cried, standing up with a grin and pounding down on the gold buzzer. Confetti fell from above the stage and the boys began leaping and hugging each other.

  Clare felt Dan’s arms around her waist. ‘Golden buzzer!’ he said. ‘It means we’re fast-tracked to the live finals!’

  ‘It does?’ It had been a while since she’d watched the show.

  Feeling as if she was in a film about her life rather than actually on the stage being applauded for rapping in front of a live audience, Clare bowed and exited the stage waving with the boys.

  ‘Oh my god, this is IT!’ Dan was shouting. ‘Boys we’ve made it!’

  Backstage, sipping a glass of vinegary wine that a runner had shoved into her hand, Clare tried to call Toby back. There was no answer.

  ‘Call for Martha B.?’ one of the stage crew shouted, holding a phone aloft. ‘Martha B.?’

  ‘Here!’ she said, raising her hand. The runner appeared at her side. ‘Call for you,’ she said, shoving an enormous phone into Clare’s hand, then added, ‘loved the act by the way,’ before disappearing on her next errand.

  Who would actually call her at the theatre? Who would know how to call her here? And who would actually ask for her by her stage name? As Clare put the phone to her ear, she couldn’t imagine who it might be.

  ‘Hello? This is, erm, Martha speaking …’ she said, nervously.

  ‘Hello Mrs B.? Or may I call you Martha?’ The voice on the other end of the line sounded formal, but was somehow familiar.

  ‘Martha’s fine,’ she said. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Toby Bailey. From Woman’s World.’

  ‘Toby!’ she
gasped.

  ‘Er, yes. I … well, usually my producer makes these calls. But we’ve been having some trouble getting hold of you so I thought perhaps I would … I knew you’d be at the theatre so …’

  He doesn’t realise, she thought. He really thinks he’s talking to Martha.

  ‘So, you’re calling me, why?’ she said, cautiously, changing her tone a little to sound less like herself. Was this a joke? Had he seen through her cover and was trying to reel her in to some sort of confession?

  ‘Yes. I wanted to … well, arrange a meeting – an interview, perhaps?’ he continued.

  ‘An interview?’

  ‘Yes, you know, on Woman’s World? I’d love to, eh, pick your brain about the whole hashtag MehToo movement.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure I could …’

  ‘We’d … it’d be so great for the show,’ he said, almost pleadingly.

  She felt her sympathy well up. ‘Well, yeah, OK,’ she said, wondering what on earth she was getting herself into.

  ‘Great. Great. May I take a number? I’ll get my secretary to …’

  ‘Sure.’ Clare gave him Nadia’s number. ‘That’s Nadia, she’s, um, my stylist I suppose. Well, you can get a message to me through her.’

  ‘Right. Don’t want to expose your secret identity!’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Well, you know. The mysterious Martha B. Who is she? Where does she come from?’ Toby said.

  ‘Yeah, ha!’ Had Toby always been this abysmal on the phone? Or was it just when he was speaking to inspirational feminist middle-aged rap sensations? It was an unanswerable question.

  ‘Right. Bye then,’ she said, feeling slightly sick.

  ‘Bye – and thank you.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  As Clare walked up to the front door late that evening, she felt a little like a teenage version of herself coming home too late from the pub on a Friday – nervous about inserting the key then finding her mother with a face like thunder on the other side of the door.

  The curtain upstairs flickered as she opened the door and she heard Katie call Toby. ‘Mum’s here!’

  Then Toby was standing there in the hall, not looking as different from her mother as she might have liked, hands on hips, mouth in a straight line. All he needed was an apron, a pair of slippers and a roll-up to complete the picture. ‘Hi, Clare,’ he said, as if he had caught her out, instead of simply found her arriving home at more or less exactly the time she’d said she would be there.

  ‘Hi!’ she said.

  ‘Hi, Mum!’ Katie said, bouncing into the hall like a puppy and giving Clare a squeeze.

  ‘What’s that in aid of?’ Clare said, grinning at the unusual level of attention. ‘And what are you doing up?’

  ‘She couldn’t sleep,’ Toby said. ‘Thought it wouldn’t hurt if she waited up.’

  ‘Aww, that’s sweet,’ Clare said, giving Katie a squeeze.

  ‘She’s been online. Reading that hashtag MehToo stuff,’ Toby said.

  ‘Yeah, do you feel like that, Mum?’ Katie asked, head tilted to one side. ‘You know, like we take you for granted?’

  ‘Maybe a bit,’ Clare admitted. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Katie said, hugging her again. ‘Because, you know, we do all appreciate you, Mum.’

  ‘Of course we do,’ Toby said, joining in after his daughter gave him a look.

  ‘Good,’ she said, frowning.

  ‘Come on, put your mother down and I’ll make her a cup of tea,’ Toby said, taking Clare’s bag as if caring for someone who was completely incapable of looking after herself. ‘And get yourself to bed.’

  ‘OK,’ Katie said, working hard to appear reluctant. She was clearly exhausted.

  ‘So,’ Clare said, as Toby set down a cup of steaming tea in front of her on the breakfast bar.

  They sipped in silence, before he spoke.

  ‘How was it?’ he asked, guardedly.

  ‘What? Oh! The lecture? Pretty boring,’ she lied.

  ‘Pretty long too?’

  ‘Well … yeah …’ she felt a shiver of nausea. It was pretty obvious she was lying about something.

  ‘You know, I do miss you,’ he said.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yeah. We’re barely in the same room for five minutes these days.’

  ‘I know.’

  He moved his hand along the counter to cover hers for a second. ‘Things are a bit … well, things seem a bit weird at the moment, don’t they?’

  ‘Maybe just a bit.’

  ‘I’ve got … I dunno. My head, it’s all over the place,’ he said. ‘I am trying you know. Katie’s been lecturing me about hashtag MehToo and it’s clear she thinks I’m pretty crap.’

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘Well, not in so many words … I guess we’ve both been a bit preoccupied recently.’

  ‘I know,’ Clare said. She thought about the applause she and the troupe had received when the confetti had rained down. The flash of the cameras. The fact that the footage would be aired on ITV in the week leading up to the live final.

  So, tell him! her mind urged. After all, Steph and Ann had taken it well. And he was her husband; they’d drifted a bit recently but he still had her back. But it wasn’t so much what she was doing, but how much she’d already hidden from him. How could he trust her once she revealed all of this was going on? And how could she explain why she hadn’t confided in him in the first place?

  She felt almost sick with nerves as they climbed into bed and Toby switched out the light. It was ridiculous. A few hours ago she’d been rapping on stage and now she was scared to speak the truth to her husband.

  ‘Toby?’ she said, in the darkness.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think … I think I’m ready to tell you …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look,’ she said, feeling his arm snake around her back and pull her in for a spoon. ‘I … well, you know something’s going on, right?’

  ‘Mmm hmmm,’ he said, sleepily.

  ‘Well, a few weeks ago, I took a day off work …’ she said.

  ‘Hmm?’

  As she related the story to her husband she could feel the weight of her own subterfuge drifting away. She’d been ridiculous, she thought. She’d been so convinced that Toby didn’t really care what was going on in her life that she’d underestimated him. And here he was, lying silent in the darkness listening to her every word.

  ‘And guess what?’ she finished. ‘We’re in the live final!’

  Silence.

  ‘Toby?’

  Silence.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Her husband, whom she’d assumed had been listening intently all that time, let out a tiny snore in her ear.

  ‘Toby!’ she said, poking him harder in the ribs than she’d intended. ‘Toby – what do you think?’

  ‘Mmm?’ he said. ‘It’s OK. Shhh …’

  She lay awake for almost an hour, feeling a mixture of disappointment and anger. Because if Toby couldn’t even stay awake when she’d make it obvious she’d be revealing something important, then he didn’t care about her at all.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The phone rang at 9.30 a.m., meaning it was either a sales call, an emergency, or someone without the social grace to realise that it was FAR TOO EARLY to call someone on a Saturday.

  Clare padded down the stairs, feeling groggy. Her muscles ached from the enthusiastic dancing last night and she could barely make it to the hallway. ‘Someone had better be dead,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Or at least seriously injured.’

  ‘Hello?’ she said, trying to sound bright and upbeat. She sounded more like an eighty-year-old man.

  ‘Oh, hello, is that Toby?’

&n
bsp; It was Hatty.

  ‘No,’ she cleared her throat. ‘No, it’s Clare.’

  ‘Ah, sorry didn’t recognise you there!’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Well look, Bill and I have to pop down to Hatfield this morning – his tailor lives there. And I thought it might be fun to meet for coffee. Or even pop round, if that would be OK?’

  ‘Oh. Of course,’ Clare said, glancing frantically at the mess around her. ‘What … what sort of time?’

  ‘I think we’ll probably be with you in about an hour. That’s lovely! Toodle pip!’

  ‘Oh! That’s a bit …’

  But the phone was dead.

  In her foggy, sleep-addled brain, Clare had assumed Hatty would be suggesting two or three o’clock in the afternoon at the least. Were they seriously going to drop in on them in just an hour?

  ‘Kids! Toby!’ Clare yelled. ‘Come here!’

  To get things anywhere near straight enough, they were going to have to work as a team.

  An hour later, exhausted but triumphant, Clare opened the door to Hatty and Bill with a smile. The hall behind her was spotless. The coffee was brewing. The kids were making themselves scarce. And as long as nobody opened the cupboard under the stairs she was pretty sure they could pull off the illusion of being enviably clutter and mess free.

  ‘I didn’t realise,’ Alfie had panted at one point, ‘how difficult it is to clean up.’

  Clare had nodded, although in truth this was a particularly epic tidying up session, bearing in mind nobody had cleaned up properly for about ten days and the rot was definitely setting in.

  ‘Sorry,’ he’d added. ‘I’m crap, aren’t I?’

  ‘You’ll learn,’ she’d replied, ruffling his hair and realising that what she’d thought was a messy mop was actually carefully coiffed and covered in product.

  ‘Hatty! Bill!’ she said, now, taking their coats. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Oh, just a coffee. Smells lovely.’

  ‘Ah, Toby!’ Hatty added, as she entered the kitchen. ‘How are you? Awful business yesterday.’

  He shrugged.