‘We should go to the pub,’ whispered Cass, mock-yawning, but moments later a barrel-chested Eastern European stooped by our table and whispered something in her ear. She smiled, then nodded.
‘You know that lad out of that band we saw on the way in?’ she said.
‘The fifteen-year-old?’ I said.
‘He’s just invited me to the after-party …’
The plan had been to go to these awards and then head home. That’s what I’d told Hayley. But I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want the cup of tea, the how-was-your-day, the awkward peck on the cheek, the lying in the dark in the silence. Plus, I couldn’t let Cass go on her own. What if that fifteen-year-old tried to kiss her? And at the heart of it all, the honest and true heart of it all – I was sick of always knowing what happens next. I wanted some of that not knowing back. I wanted to ditch the running order.
Behind two oak gates on an otherwise normal Camden street, the great and the good relaxed, laughed, snorted and quaffed, safe in the knowledge that the public was two gates and twenty guards away.
‘This is Damien Laskin’s house,’ said Cass.
‘The PR?’
It was huge, sprawling, modern. A central courtyard surrounded by folding glass, the whole house more a gallery than a home. I counted four Banksys, a couple of Damien Hirsts, and a truly awful painting of a cigarette carton with legs that probably cost close to a million.
Jesus Christ – there’s Axl Rose.
‘This place is amazing,’ I said, turning to Cass, but …
‘Cass!’ – a shrill voice and a middle-aged blonde woman thundering towards her, over the moon to have seen her. I was about to be left again. Cass shot me an apologetic glance and whispered, ‘I have literally no idea who this is,’ and then squealed and held out her arms to receive the approaching hug from whoever this was.
And then …
‘Bloody hell, you’re everywhere,’ said a voice. It was Matthew. Slightly dishevelled, but somehow the cooler for it. ‘Look, Tom, don’t take this the wrong way, but we probably shouldn’t be seen together …’
‘I’m not following you,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Just in case you genuinely thought I was following you.’
‘Oh. No, I did not think that,’ he said. ‘Why would I think that?’
I made a ‘no idea!’ face.
‘No, I just mean – look, it’s looking more and more likely that we’ll have to do this … “interview” …’
‘Ah. And you think if we look too chummy …’
‘Exactly. I mean, we are chums. We are. But my PRs are saying we should be doing this with a name journalist. You know – a Gordon Smart, a Clemmie Moodie, someone like that – but I’m trying to tell them that this way it’ll look better. It’ll look proper. Me and Tom, I keep saying. I tell them, look, this guy’s not a name, he’s a nobody, and that works for us …’
He stopped himself, put an embarrassed fist to his forehead. I smiled, shook away the insult.
‘I don’t mean a nobody. That’s not what I meant. You’re not a nobody. You’re just not part of …’
‘No, I get it.’
In fact, I’d been hearing this a lot lately.
‘I don’t mean you’re a nobody. I just mean we can control you more.’
We both knew that sounded worse.
‘By which I mean, you’re part of the team. Because we’re chums, like I said. Oh Christ, have I ballsed this up? Have I insulted you?’
But the truth was, he hadn’t. I knew what he meant. He meant he’d be the only focus. I wouldn’t have to prove anything. I didn’t have my own agenda. I had no editor to please, no readership who expected tougher questioning from me.
‘This will be good for both of us, is what I mean.’
He looked pained now, but it was acting, the same acting I’d seen as he accepted his award tonight. He was a charming actor, but he was an actor.
I didn’t think we were chums. I didn’t think that once we’d done this he’d ever call me again. I was cool with it. I’d have my name on something. A story. For once, I wouldn’t be taking stuff off the wires. I’d be at the heart of it. And besides – part of me just wanted to help him. He’d messed up. Badly, of course, but he’d still just messed up.
‘I didn’t mean you were a nobody,’ he said, again, much more sincerely this time. ‘I just mean … it’s very important to me to do this right. You met Olivia tonight, poor thing hates this stuff, had to go home, but you saw how …’
‘Pregnant she is?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have to stay likeable …’
‘Yes! Exactly! You remembered. You get it.’
His eyes landed on Cass, in the corner, now approached by the kid from the boyband.
‘You’ve done very well there, by the way,’ he said, and I felt uncomfortable as he took a long moment to take in every inch of her, then playfully punch me on the arm.
Cass beckoned me back over once she’d rid herself of the kid, and we both watched as a security guard gently persuaded a TV comedian it might be time he went home.
‘I might have a story coming up soon,’ I said, leaning against the wall. ‘A big one.’
‘About you?’
I laughed.
‘No, not about me.’
‘I only want to hear stories about you tonight,’ she said, and to anyone else that might have seemed flirtatious, but it was a sisterly look I saw, I think. ‘I wanted to say … I heard your girlfriend came back.’
I sighed, said, ‘Yep.’ Bedded in. This had clearly been coming.
‘That must be weird.’
‘Yep.’
‘So did she say why she left in the first place?’
I laughed, the vodka burning an empty stomach, now.
‘You would never, ever believe me if I told you.’
‘I’m supposed to say “try me” now, aren’t I?’
I smiled, stared into my drink.
‘Come on. We’re not just colleagues. We’re mates.’
And so I told her.
I told her about the note. About the confusion, and the anger, and I tried not to scare her when I mentioned the dog. And then before I knew it, and after swearing her to secrecy, I told her something I hadn’t told anyone, because it had been too weird, too embarrassing, too difficult to explain:
I told her about turning up at CC, about making a scene, and about how I’d been followed by a girl.
At this, she cocked her head, sipped her drink, nodded me on.
So I told her about this absolute weirdo, this girl I found an annoyance until the night she saved me, this girl called Pia who made me angry and happy and curious and sad. How no one had ever brought out so many conflicting emotions in me. About how she said she was trying to protect me and despite all the evidence to the contrary I sort of believed her.
‘Tell me about her,’ said Cass, turning to catch a waiter’s eye, ordering more drinks. ‘What’s her story?’
I laughed, and shrugged.
‘I was never allowed to know,’ I said.
‘Well, where’s she from?’
‘Yorkshire maybe?’ I said.
That kid came back, leaned on one arm on the wall, smiled.
‘Definitely not now,’ said Cass, and he scowled and turned on his heel.
‘That’s what I’m saying,’ I said. ‘I have her name and I have her number. But that’s all she’d let me have.’
Cass thought about it.
‘Married? In a relationship?’
It had never once crossed my mind.
‘She’d been married. I think to some guy called Jeremy. Didn’t work out.’
‘Was she lying?’ she said. ‘What if she’s just not happy? What if she’s hiding all this from somebody? A lot of people aren’t happy in their relationships.’
The words hung in the air.
‘I don’t think she was lying.’
‘Why wouldn’t s
he tell you anything about herself?’
‘I tried. But she had rules. She asked me to respect them. She said this wasn’t about her, it was about me.’
Cass smiled.
‘Maybe she’s an angel.’
‘An angel in a parka who smokes roll-ups.’
‘A fallen angel, then.’
The drinks arrived. I took a long pull, and waited for the waiter to leave.
‘Sounds like she was looking out for you, anyway,’ said Cass.
‘She was, I think,’ I said, and then Cass tapped the table and looked me deep in the eye.
‘So who’s looking out for her?’
The words stayed with me.
I didn’t know. I had no idea who was looking out for her.
I texted Pia several times that night. I got no replies. I took another pill. I wanted the world to be more bland, more manageable.
I missed her, now. The vodka had helped with that, but I knew I’d missed her since the second I’d last seen her.
I’d been blind. I’d been mean.
I texted her again, standing at the edge of the party.
Pia. Please – text me back. I’d call you but I want you to want to speak with me. Text me back and I’ll call you straight away.
I stared at the phone, willing a reply, then it all got too much – the noise, the laughter, the music, the party, and I found myself leaving, walking, waving to Cass, her nodding her permission with kind and hopeful eyes.
And as I made it to the exit, a security guard eyeing my jacket to make sure I’d not nicked anything – I caught someone’s eye …
Felix.
‘Felix Echo!’ I thought, panicked. ‘Felix Echo is here!’
He was in full black tie. His jet black hair spiked straight up. His bright orange skin suddenly completely normal in an environment like this.
He looked great. He was holding a goodie bag.
‘What the—?’ I mouthed, eyes wide, and he smiled back.
He was talking to four men, one of whom was Justin Timberlake.
He made a little ‘walking’ gesture with his fingers.
He followed me in.
‘Yeah!’ he mouthed, seeing me realise.
‘Just here?’ I mouthed, confused, but impressed.
‘Yeah!’ he mouthed back, nodding furiously, and he did the little gesture again. He must’ve heard Cass talking about it on the radio. Been waiting in full black tie outside the awards. Snuck in straight after us. I smiled.
‘Are you having fun?’ I mouthed, doing a little mime for ‘fun’ at the same time, which appeared to be the twist.
He just pointed at Justin Timberlake. I remembered his ’N Sync t-shirt. Not so ironic after all.
I laughed as I walked out onto the street, but the night air hit me, and I wasn’t so much walking as staggering.
I could find a taxi on the high street, I thought, and a second later heard the putter and growl of a black cab, but as I turned I saw it was taken, no bright yellow light, just two figures in the back, close together, comforting …
And as they passed, I recognised them.
It was Matthew.
And next to him – it was Alice.
A text. Ding-ding.
Hayley.
Where are you?
I put the phone away.
Why hadn’t she just been straight with me?
Pia, I mean.
I stumbled. I wasn’t steady on my feet right now. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that pill. I definitely shouldn’t have had those drinks.
But would she have told me her story if I’d just insisted she did? Again, Pia, I mean. She’d always resisted, but I’d never pushed it. I convinced myself it was out of respect for her. But actually, wasn’t it just because I was self-obsessed? Didn’t I just want this to be about me? I’d needed someone to talk to and someone to distract me and there she’d been, this fallen angel, this oddball, and I’d taken advantage and selfishly dominated and what if she’d needed me?
Hang on – what was Alice doing in the car with Matthew?
But if Pia had needed me, wouldn’t that explain why she’d followed me that day?
I’m not texting Hayley – where were you, love, never mind where I am?
I steadied myself against a tree.
So was Matthew still seeing Alice?
And was he right – was I a nobody?
Pia was always there for me. She didn’t think that about me. She was just a phone call away from me.
I found a cab, I was woozy, immediately pulling one window down, a fresh bag of chips in my hand from God knows where, and fifteen minutes later I was approaching Stoke Newington.
I wouldn’t be able to do this inside.
Sod it.
I dialled the number.
Come on, Pia.
A memory. ‘Wow – that’s my favourite number!’
The thing is, for the first time ever – I think it actually was.
I waited.
A flat tone.
This number is no longer in service.
[10]
‘The problem with having what others have,’ says Cockroft, ‘is that you no longer covet what was already yours.’
We had begun to talk of Cockroft’s daughter. What he had left behind.
‘It wasn’t for want of love,’ he says. ‘I changed after her mother … after I discovered the choices her mother had made. She didn’t approve of my ideas, the way I lived. I had never lived that way with her mother. I suppose you could call my behavior at that stage – after I moved to Berlin, after I taught there a while – I suppose you could call it a breakdown of sorts. She was just a child. My sister took her in. I continued to develop my theories.’
‘Do you ever see her?’
‘I do not,’ he says, softly. ‘But I tell you this: she is a beautiful girl with beautiful hair and a beautiful smile and eyes that could light up the sky.’
‘There must have been others,’ I say. ‘That doubted you?’
‘There were many that doubted me,’ he says. ‘Who saw my ideas as a freak show. And of course that is to be respected. I had to detach and I think they accept that.’
‘You mention detaching a lot.’
‘Detachment is a necessary part of the human experience.’
‘You detached from your daughter.’
‘And she detached from me.’
‘You detached from Andreas.’
‘Not by choice.’
I say nothing.
‘What,’ he says. ‘You think that every person you meet you must be tied to forever? That every person you went to school with, or happened to be born near, or happened to be related to, you have to stick with for life?’
He seems angry now, and there is a darkness that cloaks his face, as he delivers an argument that seems forced and rehearsed.
‘Connection is random. You live next door to whomever you live next door to. You sit on the bus with whomever you sit on the bus with. You think you have to like them? Of course not. You must choose to detach. You must choose to make choices.’
‘But you advocate making other people’s choices. You advocate obeying the choices of others.’
‘Yes, but only when it hurts, son,’ he says, his head shaking, and his voice softer now. ‘But only when it hurts.’
twenty-nine
I woke up on the sofa.
Christ, my head.
It was bright, and I squinted, held my hand up to shield myself from the light.
Wait.
The light? I don’t get up in the light. I live in the dark.
What time was it? Am I late? Shit, I must be late. It’s light. Usually it’s a good thing, isn’t it, to see the light? But in my profession it’s a very, very bad thing indeed.
Jesus. Oh, no. The sweat started. I felt flushed. Sick. It’s 9.03.
My phone. 1 per cent battery. On all night. Three texts. Six missed calls. Two voicemails. All unknown numbers. The studio.
; I scrabbled to my feet, bundled over to the kitchen, flipped the radio on.
‘… and the world of theatre is mourning the passing of West End actor Stephen Langbridge this morning … ‘He was a one-off. There will never be another Stephen Langbridge,’ said the late actor’s son, Stephen.’
Who was this?
‘… highs of nineteen in our capitals today – and now you are, you’re, updated.’
Bron! Bron was doing the news herself. She sounded terrible, and oh, God, if she sounded terrible I could imagine the texts flying in, appearing in real-time right in front of her nose on the screen: ‘Who’s this? SACK HER! Why can’t she read properly? Where’s Tom?’, as people so used to one thing inexplicably get another.
This was all bad news. She can’t have been able to find cover. My boss had had to do it herself. What time had she been woken?
‘Morning!’ said Hayley, brightly, spilling out of the shower with a towel round her head. ‘You didn’t say you had the morning off.’
I hardly heard her. I read my texts. A rising tide of fear in Cass’s writing.
Just checking you’re on your way.
Tried your phone, it’s on – where are you?
Are you close?
Shit, are you still asleep?
Have you got Kate Mann’s number?
Christ, Bron’s come in early to do it herself! I’ll cover for you! If they call you say you had a dodgy curry!
A heartbeat later the phone rang.
I answered.
‘Well, good morning, sunshine,’ said a voice, but one without the warmth you might expect of such a sentence.
‘Bron, I had a bad curry,’ I said, before the battery went dead, making it sound for all the world like I’d simply decided to tell her what I had for my tea last night and then hang up.
I lay back on the sofa. She’d be ringing me again now. Getting my voicemail. I wondered how many swearwords she’d be using. Whether she’d get out her OFCOM file and just read aloud from that.
‘I thought you were coming straight back after the awards?’ said Hayley, in that innocent but frosty way people do when they’re actually pretty angry. ‘I was worried when you didn’t come back. I texted you and you ignored it. And to be honest I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t do that to me again.’
Who is Tom Ditto? Page 24