by Holly Bourne
Just not today.
*
@TheRealTori Up at the sparrow’s fart to fly to Berlin for TED talk prep. OMFG WHAT IS MY ACTUAL LIFE?
@TheRealTori How many Imodiums do you need to take for an eighteen-minute TED talk? I’ve gone with four.
@TheRealTori Panicking now. Am going to try to buy prunes.
@TheRealTori OK, so, like it’s literally impossible to buy prunes in Berlin airport. Who knew?
@TheRealTori
Does my hotel room look big in this?
*
I see nothing of Berlin.
Travelling the world sounds so very glamorous but I’ve actually seen very little of it. I only see airport departure lounges and the inside of five-star hotels. But, before you even get jealous about those, I’m never actually inside them for very long. I never get any time to explore a city or figure out where the best places are to eat.
This trip is crazier than normal. I’m picked up at the airport by a friendly TED looker-afterer. They bleat enthusiasm at me. They ask me how my flight was. They ask me if I’m excited. They tell me it’s going to be ‘awesome’. I’m driven straight to the university venue. The building’s made of white stone that reflects the sun off it and stretches up into the piercingly blue sky. TED banners hang over the door. Important and busy people wander around with walkie-talkies and clipboards and shout instructions to one another.
I start to feel nervous.
‘Victoria, welcome.’ A man appears at reception after I’ve checked in my wheelie suitcase. He wears Converse but carries himself with importance. ‘I’m Brian, Event Co-ordinator. We’re so glad to have you here. Come, come. Meet the other speakers. We’ve got welcome drinks in the hall.’
I follow Brian nervously down corridors and around corners, trying to keep up with his pace in my heels. ‘Is Taylor Faithful here yet?’ I ask his back.
He turns and his smile shows he knows I’m a fan. ‘She’s not flying in until tomorrow, I’m afraid. We’re a bit worried about her doing it without a rehearsal, but she’s such a professional it should be OK. I mean, the woman’s a regular on Oprah.’
‘Oh.’ I continue to scurry after him and try to hide my disappointment. I did not want to meet her on the actual day of the talk. I’ll be terrified as it is.
We push through some double doors and emerge onto a stage in a giant, ornate hall bedecked with TED branding. Chairs spread up and out around me until the ones at the back are like dots. This must be the place. Oh God. I can’t even have a nervous breakdown because the other speakers are here already, milling around and chatting next to a table laden with flutes of orange juice, sandwiches and miniature German hot dogs.
I’m introduced to everyone. There’s a brain cancer doctor, and a neuroscientist. They bond over brains and MRI scans. Then there are two women – older, holding themselves with the puff of academic achievement. One is an expert in body language. The other is a historian who specialises in how language evolves.
I am a huge fat fraud and none of them have heard of my book.
‘What’s your speech about?’ The historian asks, after we’re all introduced and are sipping orange juice and sharing how nervous we are.
‘Umm, they’re calling it, Ripping Up the Rule Book.’ They all continue to peer at me, wanting more. I chug down my orange juice and wish it had vodka in it. ‘Umm, it’s about how, like, when I was twenty-five, I had, like, a nervous breakdown and went travelling for a year. But, like, umm, it was just a stereotypical gap year – you know? I did loads of chanting and yoga and it didn’t help and so I decided to just fuck everything.’ I throw my hands out and some orange juice slops over the rim of my glass. ‘And, yeah, I wrote a book about living the life you need to live, rather, than, like, the life you think you need to live … Oh God, I hope I’m more eloquent tomorrow.’
They all laugh politely.
‘What’s your talk on?’ I prompt.
The historian lady looks right at me. ‘Mine’s called, Can Words Stop This? It’s about the etymology of language in social resistance and whether stories can contribute to positive social change.’
‘Riiiight.’
I do not have time for a crisis of confidence though because the snacks are quickly taken away and Brian reappears to give us a long talk. I say ‘talk’ because he may as well be threatening to kill my family, he’s being so scary about tomorrow. About how big a deal it is, and about how famous previous contributors have been, and how it’s live and there is no room for fuck-ups. If I was nervous before, by the end of this pep talk I’m even more so. We’re allowed a loo break and then the training and rehearsals begin. We only have eighteen minutes to tell our story. A big red clock starts to count down the moment we start speaking. We are encouraged not to move on the stage if we can possibly help it. ‘Own your space, own your story.’
It’s beyond dark when I’m finally driven, exhausted, to my hotel. They drilled us so hard that I’m feeling less stressed about tomorrow. My talk fits well within the time. Even the brain surgeon laughed at the jokes in it. I had five seamless run-throughs. I think I’ve got this.
I’m too tired to go down to the hotel restaurant, so I order room service. I eat it on the window ledge, overlooking the city, and allow myself a moment to marvel at the sometimes-beautiful state of my life.
Tom and I manage to Skype one another. His little hung-over face appears on my screen, making me smile. The miles that separate us kick my heart back into action.
‘Everything hurts,’ he announces, his hangover evident in every sallow inch of his skin. His voice is gruff and I can almost smell the sweetness of his breath, even though he’s thousands of miles away. ‘I hate Vegas.’
I laugh and try not to get distracted by myself in the corner of the screen.
‘Hung-over?’
‘Hung-over. Jet-lagged. Broken.’
I laugh again and pretend I don’t find him kind of gross. We take it in turns to hold our iPads up to the hotel window to see who has got the best view. He wins as he’s in the Bellagio and has a view of the fountains.
‘My red-eye’s in a few hours, so I’m going to try to have a nap before then. How you feeling about tomorrow, gorgeous?’
I sigh. ‘I’m the stupidest person on the line-up, but other than that, I’m feeling OK.’
He shakes his head. ‘You’re not stupid, Tor.’ He doesn’t deny that I’m the stupidest person on the line-up though, or maybe that’s just me being picky. ‘You want to rehearse it on me?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ve done it to death today. Thanks, though.’
‘You’ll smash it, gorgeous. You always do.’
We dither and dance around our previous argument. I do not bring up strip clubs, or ask if he went to one. It’s in my head the whole time though. Did you go? Did you? Did you go when you knew it would bother me? But tomorrow is an important day, and, if I bring it up, somehow I know Tom will twist everything so it’s my fault. I just don’t have the energy to go there and feel worse and be too upset afterwards. So I ask him about the conference, and he asks me what the other speakers are like. He remembers that I’m meeting Taylor and expresses a vague amount of excitement on my behalf. The sun still shines through his hotel window, but it’s gone midnight here now and I need to be up at six. Not that I’ll sleep, but I guess just lying and staring at the ceiling and freaking out is better than doing that while sitting upright.
‘I should sleep,’ I say. ‘Have a safe flight.’
‘Good luck again for tomorrow.’ Tom puts his face right into the camera so all I can see are his nostrils. He starts flaring them for comic value and I do laugh and feel a swell of affection.
‘Night then,’ I say.
‘Night.’
I’m smiling and I’m just about to turn the conversation off, when he says, ‘Oh, and Tor? Be careful not to talk too fast. You always talk too fast when you’re nervous. But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be amazing.’
*
It is not yet 8a.m. and I’ve just told Taylor Faithful that I’m in love with her.
‘Oh my God, sorry. I’ve not scared you, have I?’
She laughs. She is smaller in real life. ‘Not at all. I’m pleased you like my books so much.’
‘Like them? Like them? You don’t get it.’ My hands fly through the air as I try to get her to understand. ‘Your first book CHANGED MY LIFE. Seriously. It’s what made me quit my internship and go travelling, and then it was while I was travelling that I had my own eureka moment and wrote my own book and, I mean, I can’t believe we’re here. Together. Doing a TED talk on the same stage, on the same day. I mean, I even mention your book in my book. I feel like I should pay you some of my royalties. Oh God, I’m babbling, aren’t I? You promise I’m not scaring you?’
She laughs again. She gives me her time. Even though she has just arrived from the airport. Even though she’s not had her coffee yet, and Brian’s twitching because she needs to rehearse before the doors open.
I still can’t believe she’s here. Everything is so surreal. And everything was surreal enough already. I’m about to do a TED talk. It will be put on YouTube and will be watched millions of times, even if I’m not very good, because this is TED and these things get views. And now my own guru is here. My very own! And she’s behaving exactly how I behave when fans get a bit too intense. She’s scanning the room for her publicist; she is not making eye contact; she is laughing, but it’s a little bit high-pitched.
Oh no. I am one of them.
I step back. ‘Anyway, sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ll let you have some breakfast.’
My mortification at least distracts from my nerves. I sit in the corner, blushing, as I watch Taylor introduce herself to the other speakers, who all behave appropriately. I message Dee, even though she’ll get mad at me for how much it will cost her to reply.
Tori: OMFG I JUST MET TAYLOR FAITHFUL AND I BEHAVED LIKE A FUCKING IDIOT FROM HIGH HELL
Taylor’s ushered away into rehearsal and I’m ushered away into hair and make-up. They shovel four layers of foundation on, outline my eyes and scrape my long bob into this professional bun that makes me look like I own my shit.
My phone beeps.
Dee: You finally met her!? Is she nice!? Are you OK!? I mean, you’re like OBSESSED with her, Tor. OBSESSED.
Dee: PS: You’re totally paying for this message.
Dee: And this one.
Dee: And this one.
Dee: Play hard to get btw. Win her over the old-fashioned way.
It’s not bad advice actually. I smile at Taylor when she returns from make-up but I don’t go over. I chat to the other speakers instead. They’re such an amazing group of people and we’re already so bonded by shared nervousness. I film a video of all our hands held out to show how much we’re shaking. I post it to my fan page.
‘The doors have opened, guys,’ Brian claps his hands as he arrives into the greenroom. ‘The first talk will be in about forty minutes. Forty minutes.’ He vanishes again.
I turn to Body Language Lady, who is going on first. ‘You OK?’
She is green. I didn’t know it was possible to actually turn green, but she has managed it. ‘I’ve been sick,’ she whispers back. ‘What if I’m sick again?’
‘Have you eaten?’
She shakes her head.
‘Then you have nothing left to sick up. You’re empty. It’s good.’ I have no idea if that’s scientifically valid but it seems to calm her. I ask her about her children, to get her mind off the nerves. She has a girl and a boy. The girl is very clever and the boy is very caring. They play so nicely together. She misses them and cannot wait to get back to Arizona after this whole thing is over. Brain Surgeon joins in. He takes out his phone and shows us his toddler. We say the toddler is cute, we say doesn’t he look like you. Taylor Faithful looks over, like she’s feeling left out. I want her to come over. I want her to come over so much.
Brian appears again and points at Body Language. ‘Lorali, time.’
She stands. Her knees sink towards the floor and it takes visible effort to straighten them again.
‘See you on the other side,’ I say kindly.
She brushes nothing off her business suit, an outfit that makes it clear she obviously knows what she’s talking about. ‘See you on the other side,’ she smiles back. I don’t need to be a body-language expert to know she likes me. We all clap and cheer and I make us form an arch for her to walk through as she leaves. Taylor perks up. Taylor joins in. Taylor is the other side of my arch. We touch hands. I cannot believe we are touching hands. Taylor. Taylor Faithful!
Then she walks with me back to my chair. ‘So, you like my books, huh?’ she starts.
There is the distant sound of applause. Lorali has taken to the stage. My stomach flips, knowing it will be my turn soon. There’s a small TV set up in the corner, so we can see how the others are doing. I’m too nervous to look at it, so I just tilt my head at her.
‘I really gave myself away, didn’t I? I promise you I’m usually cooler than that.’
She laughs and it’s filled with warmth. I cannot believe I am here, next to Taylor Faithful. I have so many thoughts. Most of them involve wanting her to really, really like me and for us to really, really connect.
‘I hope I wasn’t abrupt earlier,’ she says. ‘I hadn’t had any caffeine yet.’
‘Oh no, not at all.’
‘I was reading your event blurb during my sound check,’ she says. ‘It sounds like you’ve been through a lot. Like you’ve achieved a lot too.’
I wipe my palms against each other, they are sweaty. My armpits also gush out sweat, despite nine layers of deodorant. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ I say. ‘I mean, being around all these other amazing people today is kind of making me think I haven’t done much at all …’ I trail off. Why am I saying this to her? Why does she care?
But, oh, she cares. Of course she does.
‘That’s insane,’ she screws up her face ‘You can’t compare stories and achievements.’ She reaches over and takes a glass of water, sipping it with a straw so the red lipstick she is famous for wearing doesn’t smudge. ‘You could argue I don’t help people because all I did was write a book about my own life.’
‘But it’s so much more than that!’ I interrupt. ‘I mean, your books … they helped me hugely.’
‘Well, you see! People could say the same about you. It’s not what you go through, it’s what you do with it. You were honest about something people needed more honesty about. There’s courage in that. That really does help people.’
God, I love her. I love her I love her I love her.
We start chatting like equals, almost like friends. Maybe that’s just my projection, but it feels real. My nerves shrivel up, this moment is so good. She asks about Who The F*ck Am I? and I tell her my story. Not the polished one that I’m about to go out onto a darkened stage to tell – with punctuated pauses for maximum effect, and jokes I’ve told a million times over but have to pretend I’m telling afresh. I just garble it all out to her. About how I found travelling so lonely. How I hated most people I met because they kept boasting about how enlightened they were. I tell her how I always thought something was wrong with me – that I was difficult and spiky and unlikeable – until I read her book and realised, no, I was fine, it’s just that my boundaries were always being crossed.
‘I’d never thought about it that way before,’ I gurgle at her. Wanting to ask for a photo, but not wanting to be that dick who asks her for photos when she’s trying to relax in the greenroom.
‘As I say in the book,’ she repeats. ‘Anger is neither a positive or negative emotion. It’s just a signal that a boundary of yours is being crossed.’
‘Exactly!’
We can’t have spoken for more than eighteen minutes because we can hear applause. Body Language must be finished. She arrives five minutes later, seeping with relief and glowing with it having gone well.
&n
bsp; ‘I can’t feel my face,’ she announces as we all stand to clap. Brain Surgeon is up next. I am after him.
‘Victoria?’ A man dressed in black comes in. ‘You ready to be miked up?’
I gulp. I remember. Why I am here. What the hell I need to do in the next hour. The nerves rush back in. I shake. Saliva wells in my mouth. I may very well be sick.
‘OK, I’m ready. Hang on.’ I turn back to Taylor but she’s not there. She’s congratulating Body Language. She is giving Brain Surgeon a pep-talk about nerves. There’s so much I still want to ask her: Does she ever feel like a fraud? If you tell the truth at the time, but realise later you were wrong, is it still the truth? Does she ever have days when she wishes she could just not be perfect? Although, maybe, she is just perfect. But I’m being called. I need to get miked up. I need to swallow this all down and stand on stage in front of thousands and not show even the slightest quiver of self-doubt.
I have to tell my story and it has to be the truth.
‘Victoria?’ The man calls again.
‘I’m coming.’
I ask if I can go to the bathroom. And then, once I’m miked up, I ask if I can go to the bathroom again. This gets all the tech people worried because it means I have to take off my microphone and put it back on again.
‘Two minutes,’ Brian says. I’m worried he’s irritated, but he smiles. ‘Happens all the time.’
I hear the huge applause for Brain Surgeon, littered with cheers and whistles. He’s nailed it.
I check my bladder is as totally empty as it can be. Thirty seconds. I wash and dry my hands. Thirty seconds. I lean my head against the mirror and take several calming breaths. Thirty seconds. I look up at myself. My face is polished, poised. My lipstick is on point. I really do look like I know what the fuck I’m talking about. ‘Because you do,’ I tell my reflection. ‘Tori, just tell it how it is.’
Time is up.
I emerge into a packed corridor and reassure everyone that I’m fine. They put my microphone back on. They usher me past leads and cables and television monitors and people talking quietly into walkie-talkies. I also can’t feel my face, but I’m somehow putting one foot in front of another, even in these heels. Brian walks me all the way to the edge of the stage. He tells me ‘you got this’. I get a glimpse of the audience. There are so many of them. I think about how much they must’ve spent on their tickets; I think about how much they loved Body Language, with her years of experience and her graphs and her facts. All I have are my feelings, and how I made them into a story. The audience hushes, like they know I am there. I am not introduced – that’s part of the deal. I just need to walk out into that spotlight and own it.