Who is Tom Ditto?

by Danny Wallace

  ‘We usually take people to him,’ said the girl, and I could see an out here. ‘If they’re not members.’

  ‘Well, that would be very kind of you,’ said Pia.

  What?

  ‘Please do lead the way.’

  Inside the main bar, on our right, was the man we’d followed all the way from Stokey. His hat was off now, and his trench, too, revealing a jaunty yellow jacket and polka-dot tie. He’d opened his briefcase and pulled out sheet music … then moved to the piano, in the shadow of a Peter Blake original. Old Man Stokey was the resident pianist. And he was good. Pia shot me a look as we walked through and up the stairs, brushing past a rock star hand-in-hand with that-girl-from-that-thing.

  ‘This is better than Pizza Express,’ whispered Pia.

  ‘Pizza Express is highly underrated,’ I said.

  ‘Matthew always takes the upstairs bar,’ said the girl, smiling, and as Old Man Stokey hit his stride with ‘Paint It Black’, immediately I realised we were about to meet a man named Matthew who was not expecting us at all.

  ‘Hi Matthew!’ she said, brightly, flirtatiously, and a handsome man in a well-cut midnight blue suit put down his cocktail menu and looked up. ‘Your guests are here.’

  ‘Hi!’ said Pia, brightly.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, quite quietly.

  I thought about how we looked. A small girl in a big blue parka. A tall man with a now very swollen cheek who now realised he’d used far too much TCP.

  ‘Hello …?’ said Matthew, slender eyebrows arched over dark green eyes. He had a confident moustache; the type of moustache only the truly handsome or murderers of the nineteenth century could really pull off.

  ‘Hi!’ said Pia again, while the girl in black looked on, and then she sort of stooped, awkwardly, to kiss him on the cheek. ‘How are you, honey?’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ said the man, playing it off. ‘How have you been?’

  He was pretending he knew us.

  ‘Is everything okay, Matthew?’ said the girl in black, pretending she was asking about the drinks or the seat, but really saying, ‘Just checking these clowns are with you?’

  ‘Everything is fine, Berenice, thank you …’

  ‘I apologise for that smell,’ she said, sniffing around. ‘Someone must have been cleaning the tables.’

  She left, and Pia leaned towards Matthew and said, ‘Can I come clean?’

  God. This was quick.

  ‘We’re not your guests.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said the man, and I began to inch away.

  ‘We’re friends of Lucy,’ said Pia.

  ‘Oh! Ha!’ said Matthew. ‘Thank God, because I was struggling to recognise you. Which Lucy? Lucy Parker?’

  No!

  ‘Yes. Lucy Parker.’

  What was she doing?

  ‘How is Lucy?’ he said, reaching for a memory. ‘Is she still working at the Tate?’

  ‘You know Lucy,’ said Pia, who I was fairly certain didn’t. ‘Work work work. Tate Tate Tate.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her since Berlin. God, sorry, were you there too? Is that where we …’

  ‘In Berlin? No, we didn’t meet in Berlin. What was Berlin?’

  ‘Edgar’s thirtieth. Oh, I hope I haven’t put my foot in it …’

  Pia made a that’ll-explain-it face.

  ‘Ah, well, I don’t actually know Edgar all that well, so no, you haven’t!’ Then: ‘Sorry, I’m being so rude. This is Tom.’

  ‘Hello Tom.’

  ‘Hello Mister Channing.’

  Mister Channing?

  ‘Haha. It’s Matthew. So is Lucy here tonight?’

  He seemed familiar, suddenly, this Mister Channing.

  ‘She wanted to be. But no. So we’re just—’

  ‘Can I get you any drinks?’ said a girl in a tight skirt, smiling. She was holding a small tumbler of Twiglets, which I remember thinking was odd.

  ‘Yes, sit, sit,’ said Matthew. ‘Now it’s me being rude, not that you were being rude, please, join me for a drink, and then I’m off to dinner …’

  And suddenly I knew who this was. It was the way he made us sit. The flustered Brit, full of self-deprecation and generosity. Where had I seen it? Jonathan Ross? Graham Norton?

  ‘You’re an actor!’ I said, sitting, finding myself too-low in a surprisingly small chair. ‘You’re Matthew Channing the actor!’

  The waitress cast him an awkward glance which he smiled away, a nod to say ‘it’s okay’.

  Matthew Channing wasn’t just an actor. Matthew Channing was one of the hottest young actors in the country. He’d been tipped to play Dr Who, he was a name that came up when they mentioned a future James Bond, he’d made his name leading The Valley of Fear at the National, been nominated for an Olivier but lost out to Colin Firth, made it onto the cover of Vanity Fair (inside flap). Now, Scarlett Johansson was said to have chosen him to be Mister Darcy in a more rock ’n’ roll adaption of Pride & Prejudice. He was on the cusp. He was that Matthew Channing.

  He looked mock-surprised, like I’d caught him. A weary smile, implying can’t-I-just-be-me?

  I kicked myself for playing his game. But Christ – why had Pia chosen his name? Why not someone innocuous? Someone with a normal name, like Bill Fletcher? Sally Pipe? If it had to be media in a place like this, why not just someone who worked at ITV2, or writes the back covers on DVDs?

  ‘I’m an actor, yes,’ he said. ‘But I’m also a drinker. I’ll have a negroni, please … God, I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten your name?’

  The waitress blushed, and broke into a huge smile, perhaps imagining this man below her, all but on his knees, was moments from proposing.

  ‘It’s Alice.’

  ‘A negroni please – Alice.’

  He shut his eyes as he said her name – showing he was committing it to the vast vault of women’s names in his mind, giving it a special shelf all of its own, giving her an I Know Who You Are. Her pen tapped her order pad, excitement finding a way out, the way bubbles of air find their way to the surface.

  ‘Well, I think I’ll follow suit,’ said Pia, raising her eyebrows at me, making sure I knew she was showing me how it was done. ‘I’ll have a negroni too. Tom?’

  ‘What’s a negroni?’

  ‘Three negronis then,’ she said.

  ‘Actually, it’s negroni,’ said Matthew, and though this was the kind of thing that I’m sure would normally have made her thump someone, Pia laughed and laughed … and it struck me how she’d changed since she’d walked in here. She was more confident, louder – maybe even posher. The voice. She was blending in. Aping. Following. Suddenly that parka didn’t look scruffy. It looked … creative.

  ‘What is a negroni, actually?’ I said. ‘Only I’m a bit allergic to gin.’

  I’m not allergic to gin. I was only trying to join in. Pia was a master at this. It was effortless. I couldn’t do it. I tried, and immediately started assigning myself fictional allergies.

  ‘Well, there is gin in it, I’m afraid,’ said Matthew, kindly, as if he was telling me that although it had put up a fight, it was time to put my puppy down. ‘In fact, it’s pretty much gin-based. Shall I cancel it?’

  ‘Nah,’ I said, waving his concern away. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  ‘So what are you working on?’ said Pia, leaning in, fascinated, and I looked around the room. I’d heard about the Randolph. It was always in the papers. I never thought it would look so much like a British Airways business class lounge, though. Carpeted floors, sleek bar, brass fittings. A splash of colour here and there, low lighting, with dark slats keeping Soho at bay. Around me, people sat – the dominant or more powerful of each group sitting with his back to the wall, facing the room, to see and be seen, eyes flicking up and over shoulders every time someone new walked in. Strange pauses in conversation whenever a story was interrupted by a new arrival, as the teller considered for a half-second whether it was worth ditching the thought to welcome the newcomer instead. Va
st canvases on the walls. A spot of neon. Denise Van Outen with a face on. Bloody hell! Brandon Flowers at the back, sitting back as a coked-up man in a suit (but no tie, so he’s cool, he’s basically one of The Killers) talked passionately and with constantly bobbing leg about something Brandon couldn’t seem to care less about.

  ‘Wow!’ said Matthew, and my head snapped back to the conversation. I had no idea what he was wowing about. ‘That must be so much fun. And what about you, Tom, what do you do?’

  I looked at Pia for clues. What had she said? Had she lied about what she did? Actually – what does she do?

  ‘I work in radio,’ I said, nodding my head to help his reaction along. ‘Yeah, I work in radio.’

  ‘Oh, what station?’

  ‘Talk London? I read the news on Talk London Breakfast. London Calling. Or it was. Now it’s not. Or, soon. Anyway.’

  ‘Talk London. What did I read about that recently?’

  My heart sank.

  ‘What was it?’ he said, his arms now crossed, his brow furrowed, one finger tapping his lip. ‘It was something about …’

  ‘The Jam Nazis?’ asked Pia, helpfully.

  ‘YES!’ shouted Matthew. ‘The Jam Nazis! Oh, that was brilliant. The Jam Nazis. “No jam in the cupboards! But I want jam in the cupboards!” Oh, man.’

  ‘That was him!’ said Pia, pointing at me.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me—’

  ‘That was you?!’ he said, lurching forward, his hand on my knee, a look of unfeigned excitement across that face.

  ‘No, it was … it was me who left the fader up, and—’

  ‘HA!’ said Matthew. ‘A. MAZING. The guy sounded like a twat, was he a twat?’

  Pia looked delighted. Matthew was all over me.

  ‘Well, he’s … a little twat-like.’

  ‘Are you all pleased to see the back of him?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Genius. Genius. Wow. Have you seen the videos? The videos are brilliant. I forwarded one on to a guy I know in the States. A director, actually. Oliver Stone, as it happens. His reply was, “Fuck yeah!” He’s a man of few words, Oliver, but he’s able to convey the correct emotions through them.’

  Oliver Stone knew about Jam Nazis. He knew about the cupboard in our studio.

  ‘So, wow, here you are. Internet celebrity. I want a picture with you. We can’t take one in here, they won’t allow it, but outside, okay? I want a picture with you and I want to send it to Oliver Stone.’

  This was not a sentence I’d ever heard before.

  Outside, three negroni later, a flushed Matthew Channing burst through the doors of the Randolph with me in a headlock under his arm, manicured fingers ruffling my hair before I was free.

  ‘Why take a shitty photo on a phone when we can just do this?’ he said, and the paps went mad.

  He grabbed me again as they did their thing, lighting us up with a thousand flashes from a dozen cameras. On the other side of the street, by the Thai place, people stopped and stared and pointed. Now he span me round, pretended to dance with me, then held my arm aloft as photographers jostled and elbowed for space.

  ‘Just go online later and google my name,’ said Matthew. ‘You’ll find the pics, they’ll have ’em up in five minutes, I bet. And I’ve got your number, I’ll text you mine, right?’

  We watched him walk away, as Alice in the black skirt guided him to his Addison Lee, the paps following, still wanting one last shot, still not quite convinced that any of the previous million might suffice.

  I turned to Pia.

  ‘Well, that was—’

  ‘Fucking Jam Nazis!’ was the last thing we heard as he roared past, one clenched fist held from a straight arm salute from the open window of the car as it disappeared down Dean Street.

  ‘Who are you, mate?’ said a man, suddenly next to me, camera round his neck, piece of paper in hand.

  ‘Tom,’ I said, confused.

  ‘Tom Adoyo from Talk London,’ said Pia, and he scribbled it down and wandered off.

  ‘That was awesome,’ she said, digging in her pocket for a roll-up. ‘Where now?’

  ‘Ha!’ I said, booze in my veins. ‘I think I’m finally over my gin intolerance!’

  ‘You don’t drink much, do you?’

  ‘I don’t really drink,’ I said. ‘But I am currently experiencing an enormous sense of well-being.’

  ‘Ditto,’ she said. ‘Hey – I know who you are! I’ve got your name!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Tom Ditto!’ she laughed.

  ‘I do not want a nickname,’ I said.

  ‘Tom Ditto!’

  ‘I genuinely find it a bit sad,’ I said.

  And then, as a group of drunk Irish lads in rugby tops started playing up to the paps, ‘Who now? Where now?’ she said. It was kicking out time at the pubs. The lads were looking for a bar.

  ‘It’s … Christ, it’s 11.30,’ I said. ‘It’s so late, Pia, I need to—’

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘One more thing. Let’s do one more thing.’

  She was hailing a rickshaw.

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Look, we’ve …’

  ‘Where to?’ said the rider, all legs and backwards cap.

  She grabbed me, pulled me on board. Just ahead, a tall black guy I vaguely recognised – boyband? DJ? – was stepping into a cab, its yellow light flicking off as two girls in short skirts carrying bottles of something tailed behind him.

  ‘Follow that cab!’ yelled Pia.

  ‘Who are you?’ I said, as the rickshaw lurched forward.

  fifteen

  ‘… and the traffic on that route, as usual – stacked back to Clackets … highs of nineteen in the city today, which means, at 6.31 on Monday morning – now you’re up to date.’

  First show with Cass. I felt energised by it. There was something in the air. A new start. The clouds were clearing.

  Dad had emailed. A round-robin. Pictures of the family on a trip to Dunedin, the kids dancing round an extinct volcano. I replied and he wrote straight back, asked me how I was, how Hayley was doing.

  I said fine.

  ‘Thanks, Tom!’ said Cass, hitting the music bed.

  I silently wondered if Leslie would be listening.

  ‘So good morning London, such a pleasure to be with you, you’re with the all-new London Calling with me, Cass Tailor … coming up …’

  Big, dramatic music. The show sounded important.

  ‘Mayor Anthony Jackson joins us by phone …’

  I gathered my papers together and got ready to go. It had been quite a weekend, in all sorts of unusual ways, but now I had the next bulletin to prep, and also I fancied a—

  ‘Tom, before you go …’

  —coffee. Hang on.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’

  The dramatic music had stopped, cut short.

  I stood, confused by the silence. What was happening here? My eyes shot to the On Air light. Yes. We were On Air.

  ‘No. What? Nothing,’ I said. I was startled to be spoken to. ‘Sorry, what did you—’

  ‘Your face, mate. What’s going on with your face?’

  Silence. Dead air. Awkward.

  What was I supposed to say? Fell down the stairs? Walked into a cupboard? I had to speak. Six seconds of silence and the emergency tape would get ready to kick in. London would inexplicably start listening to Elton John instead of topical debate.

  ‘I … my face. Yes. It’s …’

  ‘Have you been beaten up?’

  I looked at Janice, through the glass. Was this okay to talk about? Or should I laugh it off?

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I, um … I got mugged.’

  I expected the music to come back up. Maybe she’d hit a sting, or a stab, all of which now sounded a little too violent. Maybe just a glib remark and a let’s-move-on.

  ‘Where?’ she asked, leaning back in her chair, no urgency to move the show on, sounding genuinely concerned, the only thing that didn’t make her pryin
g a little offensive. ‘Did they take anything?’

  Suddenly I could feel the weight of my words. London was listening. Focus on me. Normally I’m a voice but right now I’m a person.

  Through the glass I could sense Work Experience Paul, sitting down with nothing to do except stare at me.

  ‘My … iPod,’ I said, nodding, the unwilling centre of attention, still trying to keep things a little bright, a little breezy, a little breakfast. ‘Though of course other MP3 players are available.’

  ‘Scumbags,’ she said. ‘Proper scumbags. Maybe they’re listening. And if you’re listening …’

  Dramatic music back, now.

  ‘You’re a scumbag. What is going in London that this can happen? Have you been the victim of crime in the capital? Or have you been a witness? This is something we should raise with Mayor Jackson when he’s on the show after eight this morning. That’s what we’ll do. That this can happen in a—’

  And suddenly, she wasn’t talking to me any more.

  I moved to leave, but she put her hand up to stop me and smiled.

  ‘And we’re going to talk more with Tom about what happened, too … morning London, this is Talk London Breakfast with me, Cass Tailor – and scumbags ain’t welcome …’

  Swoosh. Ads. Done.

  She turned to me, concerned.

  ‘I’m amazed you’re in today,’ she said, concern on her face.

  ‘Couldn’t miss the first show,’ I said. ‘Anyway, it was Friday.’

  ‘Friday after you saw me? God, you poor thing. Did you report it? What did you do after?’

  ‘After the mugging?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, her face now maternal, now comforting. ‘Did you call someone? You could’ve called me. What did you do?’

  I thought about how to phrase it.

  ‘I got on a rickshaw and went to Chinawhite.’

  Pippy grabbed me as I left the studio for the newsroom.

  ‘You’re in the paper,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re in the newspaper! How the hell do you know Matthew Channing?’

  She held out a copy of The Londoner. There we were, look. The lads. In the Wild Weekend section.

  The caption: ‘On triumphant form after his win at the Oliviers last week, actor Matthew Channing celebrates with friend Tim Adoyo in central London.’