‘Try me,’ I say in my best therapist voice.
‘Do you think I’m attractive?’ Colin suddenly blurts out.
Uh-oh!
‘Well…’ I begin wondering whether to say some cliché about inner beauty or beauty being in the eye of the beholder, but I don’t think this is the right time somehow. Everyone knows what you’re actually saying is, no, you’re a right ugly bastard.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not trying to chat you up. I just wondered, you know, if you were a woman…well I know you are a woman, but I mean, you know, a woman of a certain age – a lot older… whether you would think I was attractive?’ Colin explains.
I actually quite like Colin – not in that way I might add. I purposely went in early today so that I could pick up some tips from him about talking to people live on air and despite looking a cross between Jasper Carrot and Percy Thrower, he’s really very good and soon puts people at ease when they phone up worrying about problems such as white-fly on their vegetables. I do wonder how he would have handled some of the calls I took today, mind you. In particular the woman with the dead cat and the drug-addict murderer – all in a day’s work, hey?
‘Umm… Well I guess if I were a lot older, I would …’ Oh heck, I don’t know what to say to him. ‘Yes, I mean yes. I would say you were attractive to the old… um, more mature lady.’ I venture. My cheeks feel as red as Colin’s hair.
‘Really?’ Colin looks relieved.
‘Really.’ I smile, happy that I’ve just made his day. I just hope he doesn’t follow me home.
‘It’s just that I never feel as though I’ve connected with anyone before. You know on every level, I don’t just mean sexual…’
Ewww! I don’t think I want to hear any more, thank you very much.
‘But on an intellectual level. I’ve never met a woman as passionate as me about vegetables.’ Colin muses.
‘Ha, well you’ve never met my mother then!’
‘What your mum is a gardener?’ Colin asks. I’m sure there is a sparkle in his eyes.
‘Well, yes and no.’ I add, ‘she’s writing a book at the moment about how many miles our food travels to get to our plates, but yes, she is a qualified horticulturist too.’ – yep there’s definitely a spark there.
‘It must run in the blood.’ I add, ‘I chose to specialise in lachanophobia when I left uni, but I didn’t realise that there aren’t actually that many people who suffer from it.’ I say.
‘The fear of vegetables.’ Colin smiles.
‘Yay! You are the first person I have met besides my college tutor who actually knows what it is! You know there were only three people in my class at uni – me, the tutor, and some vegetarian girl who decided it was un-cool to be pale and became a carnivore and dropped out of class.’ I feel so relieved that for once I don’t have to explain what the word means.
‘It was rather embarrassing towards the end of my final year – there was only me and the tutor in the class.’ I add and it was. Just me, Professor John Summers and the galling fact that he was gay.
‘I have a cousin who suffers from it,’ Colin tells me. ‘His GP thinks it’s all nonsense though; basically told him to snap out of it.’
I feel quite excited that I have finally found a person who really does suffer from vegetable phobia!
‘Well I can tell you it is a real problem.’ I say, sounding most authoritative on the subject as well I might - I did study the subject for three bloody years! ‘You’ll have to put me in touch with your cousin.’ I add. It’s got to be better than talking to dead people.
‘And you will have to introduce me to your mum.’ Colin says in return.
Humm, now there’s an idea….
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The last time I visited London was over five years ago with Jack. We had heard on the grapevine that the over 60’s were planning a coach trip for the day. Jack had it in his head that we could borrow some clothes from his uncle, and dress up as pensioners in order to blag a free trip. I on the other hand, had a better idea and volunteered the two of us to help out – just in case anyone decided to have a turn outside Buckingham Palace and required CPR.
A lot has changed in five years. I’m sure there wasn’t this much traffic five years ago, you know. Jack and I got ourselves into a bit of bother the last time we were here, well I say Jack and I; it was actually Jack who got me into trouble. He dared me to go up to one of the sentries outside the Palace and kiss the Queen’s guard on the cheek. Always one to take up the challenge in those days, I applied a fresh coat of lip-gloss, practised my pucker and sidled up to the very handsome guard in his black fluffy busby. No sooner had I got within a metre of him than he raised his weapon to me – no, not that weapon – and shouted, ‘Step back!’
Jack practically wet himself laughing as I almost jumped out of my skin, tripped over my own feet and landed flat on my face. When I finally got up, Jack wet himself again when he noticed that the gravel from the parade forecourt had managed to stick itself to my Cheeky Cherry glossed lips. I looked as though I had been tarred and feathered. I was lucky to escape with just the humiliation and a pair of puffy lips, rather than being thrown into the Tower of London and fed to the ravens. I still shudder when I think about it.
Obviously one dare deserved another, so in return for my public shaming, I dared Jack to stand in the middle of Piccadilly and sing The Devil Went Down to Georgia in the style of Elvis Presley. Not one to face a double-dare Jack, who brought along his guitar to amuse the old folks on the coach, practised his pelvic thrust, much to the old dears’ approval, pushed up the collar of his polo shirt, made a funny shape with his lip and started belting out the great hillbilly folk song at the top of his voice. Being a musician, Jack is a naturally good singer, unlike me, who can’t carry a tune in a bucket. What I didn’t realise is that he is also a very good Elvis impersonator. Within seconds he had a Chinese tour group surrounding him, taking pictures on their digital cameras and encouraging him to do more – which, because Jack actually needs no encouragement to perform, he did. Jack made £253.28 that day, so I made him treat the 52 old aged pensioners to a punnet of strawberries with clotted cream on the way home. Well it was his own fault for being a show-off and giving me puffy lips.
I walk hastily past Buckingham Palace, shielding my face with my hand, just in case the guard in the box recognises me and decides to shoot first and ask questions later. I look at my I Love London pocket guide and wonder where on earth the Park Plaza Riverbank hotel is. I’m sure somewhere along the line from leaving Victoria Coach Station and here I’ve managed to take a wrong turning – it was probably when I was practising my Lambeth Walk.
Just as I am looking like a right bloody tourist and turning my map round in circles, my mobile rings into life. It’s my mother. Again.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say trying to sound ever so confident and not at all like a tourist lost in the middle of London.
‘Are you there yet, Sammy?’ she says with motherly worry in her tone.
‘Yes, Mum. I’m just at … well I’ve just gone past Buck Palace.’ – God, I wish I knew which way I was meant to go.
‘Ooo, have you seen the Queen yet?’
I squint up to the huge building I have just left behind.
‘No, I don’t think she’s in today. I’m just on my way to the hotel.’
‘I wish you’d have let me come with you, Sammy. I don’t like to think of you in the big city on your own. You know what you’re like with directions.’ I’m sure she thinks I’m still 10 years old sometimes. And it was only the once I took the wrong turning to the school disco and ended up at the local Greek restaurant, in a panic, thinking that they were going to use me in a kebab. By the time my mum and dad had figured out where I was, I was propped up on the bar tucking in to a plate of lachano carota salata and a glass of coke.
‘Remember what I said, don’t go getting into any taxis with foreigners in them, you don’t know how legal they are.’ Always politica
lly correct, eh, Mum?
‘Yes, OK. Look, I’ll call you when I get to the hotel,’ I say. I wish I hadn’t told her that I was going to London now, but then I had little choice because Mum wanted to know if Matt and I were going over to hers for Sunday tea, so I had to say something, and as we’ve already established, I am hopeless at lying.
‘Yes, you do that. Oh, Amy says to say hi and good luck.’
‘Amy? What’s she there?’
‘Oh, she had a bit of a ding-dong with Kenzie over him going to France to do some photo shoot. I think she was a bit lonely. She didn’t realise that you were going to London and thought you were home today. I told her all about you going to see this producer.’ My mum whispers into the phone.
Aww, poor Amy. I must call her when I get back. I was going to tell her about this trip, but I don’t want people to think I’m getting big headed and the fewer people who know about it the better because sure as eggs is eggs, it will all go horribly wrong. Oh I really hope that Kenzie isn’t going off Amy. Still, my mum will look after her. They have always got on well together and Mum has kind of become Amy’s surrogate mother since her own is never anywhere to be seen.
It’s always been the same; every school play, every karate grade, every parent/teacher evening, Amy’s mum would always have something else on that she just had to go to. It was always my mum, never Amy’s mum, Lorraine who would be there in the background clapping for her, cheering her on, or speaking to her teacher.
‘Oh, OK. Must go, Mum. Tell Amy I’ll call her later.’ I say as I dodge a black cab driving past at a hundred miles an hour.
By the time I actually find the Plaza, it’s six o’clock and I am starving. I thought I would treat myself and book into somewhere a bit posh and the Plaza doesn’t disappoint. I’m sure I read somewhere that the Beckhams frequent it, so it must be OK.
First impressions are very good. A smartly dressed porter escorts me to the huge oak reception desk and despite my being dressed as though I’m about to go on an SAS operation – black combat trousers, black t-shirt and rucksack on my back – he doesn’t bat an eyelid. I must just look as though I can afford to stay here, I guess.
After checking in at reception I head off to room 181. My room, I hasten to add, not someone else’s. And my room is so much is more than I expect – it’s huge! I bet you could fit my entire flat into this room alone. The bed is the biggest I have ever had the pleasure to jump on. I throw myself down on the soft mattress. The view over the Thames is stunning, as the sun slowly sets and casts a red glow over the shimmering reflections from all the tall buildings surrounding it.
Having taken advantage of room service and ordered myself a dinner of smoked salmon in a dill sauce, followed by a chocolate orange mousse in cream (mmmmm), I take a very long and luxurious bath with the complimentary bath bombs and scented rose petals and settle on the bed wrapped up in one of the hotel’s fluffy bathrobes. I wonder whether I should phone Jack or just leave it. He texted me while I was on the coach to see how I was getting on. Apparently he had called round and Matt had told him where I had gone and told me to call him once I got to London.
I press the speed dial button on my phone.
‘Hi, smelly! How’s London?’ Jack answers.
‘It’s as busy, if not busier than the last time we came here.’ It’s nice to hear a familiar voice in this place where I know not a soul.
‘You should have let me come with you,’ he says.
‘Not bloody likely! I have an important meeting tomorrow and I don’t need any distractions.’
‘Moi? Distraction?’ Jack says in his best French accent.
‘Err, yes, you. So how are things there? What have you been up to?
‘Well I caught you on the radio at lunch-time – you were like a real pro. I especially liked the old woman and her pussy, was that for real?’
‘Oh yes, it was for real all right. Jeff couldn’t get her off the line quick enough. I hope my mum wasn’t listening.’
‘And who the hell was that weirdo woman – the one who called about her friend? She was well off the wall!’
‘Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. For every genuine caller there are fifty nutters,’ I say quickly. I daren’t tell Jack that the woman in question just so happened to have murdered her boyfriend. ‘So what else have you been up to?’
‘Well, Matt refused to make me lunch so I went and pestered your landlady instead.’ Jack says proudly. I don’t know how he does it, I really don’t.
‘I went to band practice and I’m now in the middle of watching Midsomer Murders and eating a pepperoni pizza,’ Jack informs me. ‘I’m sure it’s that Barnaby who does all these murders you know.’
‘He’s the bloody detective, you fool!’
‘Ah, that’s what they want you to think!’ Jack says, ‘how come he’s always the first at the scene of the crime then, eh?’
‘Because he’s the bloody detective!’
‘Well, I still think he’s the one that does it.’ Jack is not budging on this theory. ‘For starters, he’s always first there at the scene of the crime and secondly, he always looks shifty…’
‘Shifty?’
‘Yeah, as though he knows something we don’t know.’ Jack muses.
‘That’s because he’s a detective, Jack. He’s supposed to know something we don’t. He’s supposed to look shifty.’
‘Well, I don’t trust him.’ Jack says. I’ve figured that Jack has far too much time on his hands today.
‘So where’s what’s-her-name tonight then?’ I ask casually, if nothing else to shut Jack up about Midsomer Murders.
‘Jas? Oh she’s working tonight,’ Jack says matter-of-factly, giving me no clues as to whether this is going to be a long-term thing or not. Mind you, when people start shortening other people’s names it’s a sure sign that they’re getting on well. Damn I’m good; I should be partnered with Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.
‘Oh, right,’ I say, hoping that I sound as though I don’t care a jot. I don’t care, you know, it’s just I’m still smarting at the way people drop their nearest and dearest at the first sign of a big-nosed woman in a nurses uniform and besides, I have Liam now, don’t I?
‘You should see the hotel I’m staying in, Jack, it’s amazing,’ I say, quickly changing the subject. ‘It has its own pool, gym, sauna, and you should see the size of the bed I’m laying on – it’s massive!’ I spread myself out to see if I can touch the ends of the bed – I can’t.
‘I wish I was there…’ Jack says quietly and almost in a serious tone.
‘What?’
‘We could have a massive pillow fight and get pissed on the mini-bar.’ He adds quickly.
‘Yeah, me too.’ I’m a bit unsure what Jack meant there. ‘Look, I’d better go, got an early start tomorrow and I want to go through my notes before I go to bed. I’ll text you tomorrow and let you know how it goes.’
‘Cool. Catch you tomorrow!’ Jack says.
‘OK.’ I say and hang up. I just realised that for the first time since I met Jack he didn’t say ‘Loves ya!’
I suddenly feel very lonely and very far away from home. I do wish Jack were here, or even Amy; we would have such a laugh together. It’s all very well staying in a fancy hotel, but it you haven’t got someone to raid the mini-bar with, it doesn’t quite feel the same raiding it on your own somehow. I should have invited Liam to come with me, and I don’t know why I didn’t now I come to think of it. Oh well.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I slept like a baby – well, a good baby who sleeps for seven hours at a time, that is – and having had a hearty breakfast of French toast, something that resembled scrambled eggs but had a fancy name attached to it, and a cup of coffee, I feel ready to take on the world of visual broadcasting.
I have to admit I feel very nervous at the prospect of meeting and greeting producers and other TV people and in some respects I wonder if I’m doing the right thing here. I mean, this is all hap
pening so fast. One minute I’m so desperate for money that I will do anything - yes, including phoning up for a job as a psychic phone reader. The next, I’m appearing live on radio taking calls from all sorts of strange people and have even had the offer of being on the telly. I guess I must be doing something right otherwise people wouldn’t keep phoning up and asking for readings from me, but all the same, this telly business is a little too far outside of my comfort zone.
Despite never having met Miracle in the flesh, I instantly knew it was her waiting outside the studio for me. As soon as I saw the larger than life lady with long red hair, flowing down her back, dressed in a black and purple dress, with a matching shawl, I just knew it was her.
Miracle wanted to wish me luck before I headed off to London, just to assure me that it will all run smoothly, but I had the feeling that her mind is on other things, such as a certain estate agent by the name of Max, who keeps phoning her up to show her other properties.
‘Oh he is lovely, Sam,’ She gushed, as if she were in the first throws of love.
‘But?’
‘I just don’t want to get hurt again. When Roy left I felt as though my heart had been ripped out.’
‘I don’t think Max is going to do that to you.’ I assured her. That’s the problem; being a psychic you would think that you would know what’s going to happen in your life, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately it doesn’t appear to work like that. I tried to read my own cards once, but didn’t get anything from them that meant anything to me, and besides, sometimes I wonder if it’s best to not know what the future holds.
‘Well,’ Miracle said as she hugged me to her, ‘you just have a good time and enjoy yourself. This is your opportunity to shine, young lady, so take it. Now, I must get going, Max is taking me to Bath Spa for lunch and to look at some wonderful Georgian houses.’
‘But, you want to move by the sea. Bath is nowhere near the sea.’
‘Oh, I know that. I just wanted to be taken out somewhere nice for lunch and where better than Bath?’ Miracle laughed.
Having asked one of the hotel porters to call me a cab, I take the short ride to the BBC Television studio in Shepherds Bush and wait while a portly security guard checks my papers. I can’t help it, but ever since I’ve heard voices in my head, I have a bad habit of looking at people to see if I can get any messages for them – a habit I really must stop because if I don’t remember to keep my mouth shut, one of these days I’m going to say something and someone is going to either have me committed or punch my lights out.
Oh Great, Now I Can Hear Dead People: What Would You Do if You Could Suddenly Hear Real Dead People? Page 12