by Andi Osho
‘Postscript,’ said Susan, appearing behind her. ‘If you do decide to relocate and you want something fun to do, Bradley said the Latter Days are always looking for more members. The LA chapter is super small, like, tiny.’
Susan moved off again, closing overhead bins as she went. The thing was, Jemima mused as she buckled her seatbelt, if she joined she too might get shipped out as a missionary to Vanuatu where there absolutely, definitely was no Miles. Exposure to four strains of malaria was a small price to pay for that.
Chapter 2
Meagan
Meagan snatched up the book of wallpaper samples, barely taking in one design before snapping to the next. Too flowery, too many patterns, too Liberal Democrats! She flung the swatches across the bed and flicked though the carpet samples instead. They were even worse.
‘Too pub-carpet, too corporate, too refurbished-council-building. No, no, NO.’
‘Trouble in paradise,’ Todd murmured into his pillow.
‘Sleep,’ said Meagan, brushing her hand over his face.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Todd as he snuggled closer.
Meagan rolled her eyes.
‘60 Minute Makeover has a lot to answer for,’ she scowled. ‘They make it look like a refurb can be knocked out in an afternoon.’
‘Maybe I can—’ Todd began.
‘I don’t need help, cheers,’ she said, wedging a pillow barrier between them.
How many times did Meagan have to tell him, she didn’t need assistance and certainly not from her ‘friend with benefits’. As with everything else, she would figure it out – somehow. She sighed wearily, as she leafed through a ceiling tile brochure. Three months back and Meagan had been delighted to sign the lease for her new West End office. After seven years of running her comedy talent agency from rented desks and her mum’s garage, it finally had a place to call home. In truth, she knew an agent didn’t need Soho premises. Nowadays, getting bookings for her comedians was all done via email. If she’d been willing to look outside of Central London, she could have acquired an office twice the size at half the price but what was exclusive and swish about that? Meagan was all about the look, and what a fabulous look a W1 postcode was. After months of searching she’d found the killer spot, sixty square metres of unloved office space at the back of a Soho Square building.
Now all Meagan had to do was refurb it to her exacting standards. And there was no way she would hand that task over to anyone else no matter how many times Jemima bleated ‘hire a project manager’. Meagan could handle this on her own. That’s what she did – handle things. And anyway, this job was just cosmetic. She was basically giving her office a boob job.
‘Shall I get the papers?’ Todd said propping himself up.
‘You want me to change your litter tray?’ said Meagan.
‘Only if you need me to top up your saucer of milk.’ Todd grinned, his hand snaking towards her under the duvet.
‘Top bants, Toddy, but I have to get this right. It has to say Meagan Leslie. Big, ballsy, brassy. Like, go big or go home,’ she said, dumping his hand back on his side of the bed.
The truth was, Meagan would have liked nothing more than to ride him like a ten-speed racer but she had to concentrate. Three months on and her refurb was not going to plan. She’d spent hours chasing suppliers and battling contractors, all while working off a desk made out of lever arch files. But she had to be strong. If she panicked as mere mortals would, she’d end up drafting in a stranger who would inflict all kinds of hotel-lobby awfulness on her and that would not do. When an act walked through her door, she wanted them practically licking her Louboutins desperate for her to represent them. She wanted them to believe only she could win them that career-defining, star-making TV panel show slot. She wanted them to leave her office convinced that Meagan Leslie and Partners was a top-flight agency and not the one-woman band it actually was. Of course, there were no partners. She didn’t need randoms screwing things up. Meagan had learned the hard way that the net result of letting people in was Bruce-Willis-in-Space levels of disaster. It left you exposed and, after Parker, Meagan was never going to let herself feel like that again.
Dating a comedian, it transpired, wasn’t as funny as she thought it would be, especially one who turned out to be married. It was a tough lesson but at least one good thing had come from it: Meagan’s meticulously thought-out life plan. While other women stumbled into domestic captivity, knee-deep in carrot and leek baby mush, yoking themselves to someone they barely knew, Meagan was patiently moving through her five-phase plan. The first phase, which she’d inventively titled Phase Fun was about exactly that. Parties, parties and more parties. But it had ended the minute she turned 20 and phase two had kicked in. The aim was simple: crush it at work. And the best – indeed only – true measure of her success was when all twenty-four of her clients were employed. Currently there was only one outstanding: Simi. Meagan smiled at the thought of her mate earnestly throwing everything into becoming an actor. If only she’d give stand-up a try. If she got good, Simi would fly off the shelves. Meagan just knew it, but that wasn’t what she wanted. Simi wanted pathos and dramatic pauses, mystery and suspense. However, with no agent, she was a million miles away from her dreams. Meagan often wondered if she’d done the right thing, taking Simi on as a client. Comedy was her wheelhouse, not acting. She preferred its immediacy and, frankly, straightforwardness. But if she hadn’t signed Simi, how else was she going to progress? All Meagan needed to do was find one great role for Simi and she’d be flying high just like her comedians. How hard could getting acting work be? Occasionally casting directors would enquire about her acts. One even auditioned to be the next Doctor Who. As long as Simi did everything Meagan told her to, her career would transform in no time, which meant Meagan could move on to phase three of her plan: a relationship. Everyone had her pegged as anti-love but she wasn’t. She was simply pro-chronology. And though she was deeply ensconced in phase two of her plan – getting it on at work – it didn’t mean she couldn’t get it on with Todd every now and then.
She peeked over her pillow barrier. He was dozing, mouth open. She smiled despite herself then picked up the carpet swatches and started from the beginning. As wintery afternoon rays spilled in through the half-open curtains Todd draped his hairy arm across her waist and let out a contented sigh. Meagan looked down at him. Of late, he’d got a lot more… snuggly, which was absolutely not part of their deal. In fact, in the beginning, he’d been more vocal about the no-strings thing than she had.
Just then, Meagan’s phone rang. Her long chestnut weave tumbled over her shoulder as she grabbed for her phone. Todd reached over and began massaging her neck.
‘I’m on the phone, knobhead,’ she said, batting his hand away.
‘I should report you,’ he said as he lay back down.
Meagan kissed her teeth, the long, rasping sound letting Todd know to zip it.
‘Simi?’ she said, sitting up, phone to her ear.
To the uninitiated, Simi’s breathless sobs were unintelligible but, like the parent able to decipher their toddler’s every gurgle, Meagan was well versed in decoding Simi’s talk-crying.
‘Okay, so last night your tarot lady said Oscar doesn’t want kids… then this morning you had The Talk and now it’s over and – alright, darling. Okay, okay. Don’t worry, I’ll be there in an hour,’ Meagan said before hanging up.
Meagan knew the Simi-break-up drill well, and what emergency supplies were required – red wine, pizza and lots of tissues. Meagan pushed Todd’s hand off her curvy, mocha hips ignoring his tuts. Even when there wasn’t a crisis of the heart to deal with, she never hung around for more than an hour and he knew that.
‘What’s happened, Simi locked herself in her vestibule again?’ Todd quipped.
‘That could happen to anyone!’ Meagan said, her eyes narrowing.
No one mocked her friends. That was her job.
‘I thought we could have brunch or something,’ said Tod
d as he watched Meagan dress.
‘Brunch? This isn’t The Real Housewives, babes. Besides if we have brunch, next it’s dinner then I’m staying the night. Nah fam, this way we get the best of each other. I never have to watch you shave and you don’t have to see me take a shit.’
‘Lovely,’ Todd laughed as he tucked his hands under his head.
Meagan slipped on her skirt and silk blouse, her mind already on Operation: Love Fool. When Simi’s relationships ended she was by her side quicker than a first responder, but seeing Simi repeat the same pattern over and over again was becoming more frustrating for Meagan. She whipped open the curtains to let in some light.
‘Meagan!’ said Todd as he yanked the duvet over his naked body.
‘It’s the middle of the afternoon and I need to do my face,’ she said touching up her already flawless make-up.
Todd collapsed in on himself like a badly folded napkin, ‘You’d miss me if I wasn’t here.’
‘And where would you go?’ Meagan laughed leaning in to kiss him.
‘I might find myself a new friend, one who wants these benefits.’ He smiled, cupping his manhood in his hands.
Meagan stared down at him. Now he wasn’t excited, it looked like a clenched fist. Of course it wasn’t about size or aesthetics. She and Todd were a good fit and she wasn’t about to surrender access anytime soon.
Meagan patted his crotch and winked, ‘Just don’t let him get into any fights.’
‘He does not look like a clenched bloody fist! Stop saying that!’ Todd wailed after Meagan but she was gone.
Out in the corridor she let his door click closed behind her as she slipped on her coat and then, pulling out her phone, pinged a six-word text to Jemima.
They’ve split up. Get home now.
Chapter 3
Simi
‘But whhhhyyyyyyyy?’ wailed Simi as snot trickled onto Meagan’s designer mini-skirt.
She had been sobbing into Meagan’s lap since she’d arrived a few hours earlier and the tears showed no sign of abating. Occasionally she’d resurface like a blue whale rising to clear its blow hole. Then she’d emit another pitiful ‘whhhhhhyyyyyy?’ only to drop back down into the murky depths of her despair.
Two weeks into the new year and Simi was already experiencing her worst break-up ever. This was stare-at-his-Facebook-profile bad. This was Toni Braxton-on-repeat rotten. This was Jack-and-Rose-at-the-end-of-Titanic terrible. Except Simi wasn’t Rose shedding a single tear for the love she’d lost, no, Simi was the actual ship, a colossus sinking under the weight of all the tragedy. Another wave of grief hit her. Jack could totally have fit on that board! she whimpered as she imagined fighting tooth and nail to drag Oscar onto that much-discussed driftwood. Or perhaps Oscar was the iceberg, their paths destined to collide. She was always being told she was too dramatic. Her black friends said it was a black thing. Her actor friends said it was an actor thing and her mum said it was a black actor thing, but this situation was titanic. Her response was completely proportionate! Simi sniffled as she wrapped her arms around Meagan’s waist and quietly began warbling, ‘My Heart Will Go On’.
‘Simi… Simi?’
Simi blinked her eyes open just as she was about to launch into the big middle eight.
‘Why don’t you have a shower, babes? You’ll feel better,’ Meagan offered.
‘I don’t want to take my pyjamas off. He bought me them for Christmaaaaas,’ Simi grizzled.
Suddenly she understood why Jackie Kennedy had kept on her infamous pink Chanel suit that fateful day. She decided, however, to keep the macabre revelation to herself. If people thought she was dramatic before, then comparing her break-up to a presidential assassination might tip the scales against her.
Simi whimpered as she looked down at her Cat in the Hat pyjamas wishing she hadn’t been wearing them that morning when she and Oscar had had The Talk.
With her revolving-door romantic life, she’d grown wearily accustomed to that conversation.
Granted, The Talk wasn’t always a bad thing. Simi smiled wistfully as she remembered The Talk she’d had with Jason. They’d gone from dating to boyfriend and girlfriend over pizza and beers while watching Rent! in his dad’s basement. Next came Ade, who she’d ended up living with after an argument about filling the dishwasher turned into The Talk. However, overwhelmingly, The Talks consisted of a lot more ‘it’s not you’s than ‘I do’s.
Since turning 30, five short years ago, Simi totted up that she’d fallen stomach-churningly head-over-heels in love four times! She’d thought he’s the one four times and every relationship had gone soul-crushingly wrong.
‘I tell you what, Meagan,’ she sniffled, ‘Gabrielle got it wrong in that flipping song of hers. Dreams don’t come true. Where’s my happy ever after? The BAFTA, the husband, the kids, the overweight chocolate Labradors?’
‘You want fat dogs?’ Meagan asked looking down at her.
‘My tarot lady was riiiiiight. Oscar never wanted children. She saw it all,’ sobbed Simi.
‘You can’t let some Sideshow Sally tell you what’s what in your life,’ said Meagan.
‘But she was right! She’s always right,’ said Simi before slumping back into Meagan’s lap.
This was pointless. Her need for spiritual guidance was one thing neither Meagan nor Jemima understood. They’d stopped coming to Simi’s tarot nights years ago probably because they already had everything figured out. Jemima was a successful author and Meagan had her ten thousand phase plan but Simi still felt lost. Her acting career was so tenuous it required inverted commas and though she had adored Oscar, something had been off. Even she couldn’t ignore the way he stalled or changed the subject whenever their future came up in conversation. So she’d decided to get answers from the only thing she trusted, a spread of randomly selected occult cards. When would they marry and how many children would they have? She hoped for three but would settle for twins and those chocolate Labs. The only thing Simi wanted as much was a BAFTA… and to be met at the airport by a driver with a nameboard.
The night of the reading Oscar had politely made his excuses, leaving Simi and her actor chums to eat a little, drink some more and have their fortunes read by Rosalie. But when Rosalie had laid out Simi’s cards, there’d been no sign of children with Oscar – at all. Simi had laughed, mainly out of shock. Next door, she could hear the others giggling and chatting whilst, here in the back bedroom, her life was imploding.
‘So he only wants one child?’ Simi had asked as she stared at a card showing a crumbling tower.
Rosalie had smiled sadly. ‘Let’s see what the next card says.’
She turned it over revealing a skeleton on a black horse… holding a scythe.
‘Oh,’ she’d said.
Afterwards, numb from the reading, Simi had returned to the living room and chatted with her friends as though none of this had happened. She oohed and aahed as one shared Rosalie’s prediction of a forthcoming work opportunity involving buffalo. She clapped excitedly for her acting chum Alice who had received a message from the other side saying not to worry about her teeth. Who knew the spirit realm could be so specific? And when they’d all asked about her reading, Simi had slapped on a grin, said it was all about change then changed the subject.
The following morning in bed Simi had turned to Oscar. She’d mustered all the courage she could to ask the one person who actually had the answers she sought.
‘Do you want children… with me?’
The plainness of his ‘no’ had shocked her.
And so there and then, in bed, just that morning, wearing Dr Seuss jammies, Simi and Oscar had broken up. Oscar had gone to his friend’s place to give Simi room to pack and Simi had wallowed in misery until Meagan had run to her rescue as she always did. Simi stared at the pile of collapsed cardboard boxes propped up against the living-room door that Meagan had arrived with. That’s how together she was. She had turned up with boxes. Even Amazon couldn’t have got them to her
quicker. But how was Simi supposed to pack when her entire world had fallen apart? How could she start folding T-shirts when her life was in tatters? She closed her eyes and clung even tighter to Meagan who’d been stroking her hair while checking emails on her phone. Simi took a breath and launched into the middle eight of ‘My Heart Will Go On’. It was time.
As she was about to hit a high note, another email alert beeped on Meagan’s phone above Simi’s head, ‘Interesting…’ murmured Meagan.
Simi stopped and looked up.
‘No, babes, it’s not Oscar but if you have a shower I will tell you what it is,’ said Meagan.