Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy

by Colleen Coleman

  Mum is painting something on to my hair that is very cold and so smelly it feels as though I’ve inhaled chlorine.

  ‘Mum, do you remember—’ I begin, but she grabs me by both shoulders.

  ‘Poppy, we’ve agreed – not a word until I finish, all right? It’s not just academics that need to concentrate on what they’re doing, you know.’

  Fair enough. I mumble a sorry and let the rhythmic sound of her brushstrokes on my harassed hair wash over me.

  My thoughts return to Gregory. He is the first thing I’ve got to file in the Shit Bits folder. We were together a year, but were we in love? Honestly, I just haven’t got a clue. My suspicion is that if I feel that way, then probably not. I have to admit, what Mum said makes sense. I did always feel terribly on guard around him; I definitely wanted to please him, to impress him. I was proud to be his girlfriend; I knew plenty of others deemed him boyfriend-worthy material, so who was I to contest that? But is that love? Even though Gregory wasn’t perfect, it was really nice having someone to call on, to message, to enter a room with, to stand beside, to kiss. It was so nice to hand over all the business of having a social life to him. For the year we were together, I never had to worry about what I was doing on a Saturday night or on New Year’s Eve or my birthday or Valentine’s Day. And that took a lot of pressure and mundane logistics out of my hands. I did love that. The trappings and convenience of a relationship. But maybe I didn’t love him.

  Perhaps when I return to Banbridge I’ll try to broaden out my circle a bit. Mix with people from different sectors, go to places a little off the beaten track where I can meet a more diverse crowd. And then perhaps I’ll find someone who will be the yin to my yang. Maybe someone like Tom, but who actually remembers me. That way, I can carry on my work within the university walls all day, but the rest of the time will be totally different. The best of both worlds. A better balance.

  Sitting here is relaxing and my eyes are getting heavy. I could definitely sleep now, just an hour of shut-eye to freshen me up before tonight. No sooner have I closed my eyes and started to forget about tonight, about Gregory, about my hair … than I hear the rattling of the front door lock.

  ‘Ange, its only me, everything okay?’

  ‘In the kitchen, Frank. We’re getting Poppy ready to go out with some old friends tonight. It’s with a TOM – he’s single. Sounds good, don’t you think?’

  Frank shuffles into the kitchen, his face smeared in grease, his dark blue overalls reeking of oil from the flower van.

  ‘Sounds lovely, Poppy, you enjoy yourself.’ He starts to root around in his jacket pocket. ‘Here you are, treat yourself.’ He places a fifty-pound note on the kitchen counter. ‘I can’t think of what you youngsters like, so spend it on whatever you fancy – cocktails or shots or God knows what else. Whatever it is, just promise me you’ll enjoy it.’

  I can’t get up from my seat to shove it back into his pocket, so I try to protest from my chair – ‘Frank, no, you don’t have to, honestly, that’s too much’ – but he’s already got a forkful of the mince and onions in his mouth and he’s waving me off.

  ‘Ange, I’m going up for a bath. If I put the radio on down here, will you listen out for today’s clue and scribble it down for me?’

  ‘No problem, love.’ Mum winks at him. ‘You have a good soak, and by the time you come down, we’ll be all cleaned up down here. Poppy will be off having a few drinks and we’ll have our tea then watch a bit of telly.’

  Frank pulls his aching body up the stairs and Mum turns on the small transistor radio, twisting the dial to 105 FM. Then she leans over and kisses me on the forehead.

  ‘I know you had it all worked out, sweetheart. I know you had dreams of where you were going to live and how you wanted things to be. But being back home isn’t the end of the world, is it? Surrounded by people who love the very bones of you. So it didn’t work out in Banbridge. Big shizzle. It’s only one place; there are plenty more, so who needs it? I know you better than you know yourself, Poppy Bloom, and I know that good things come to those who are kind and thoughtful and who work hard and try their best. So don’t you fret about today or tomorrow or the next day. You are exactly where you’re supposed to be, and I for one couldn’t be more pleased. Okay?’

  I nod my agreement. It is good to be home, although there is a funny tingle on my scalp, like my head’s been scrubbed raw with a Brillo pad. I slug back my drink and settle into the chair.

  ‘Now, I need to ring Roberta about how long to leave the colour so I get the tone just right. You listen out for this clue Frank’s on about. They only announce it once a week on a Thursday and he’s obsessed.’’ She hands me a pen and paper. ‘It’s for a competition called “You Do the Maps”. Ten weeks, ten clues and the winner gets ten grand.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say, taking the pen and paper in my lap, ready to scribble down the clue as soon as it’s aired. They’re playing ‘Unchained Melody’, which is a ridiculously long song, and it’s making me sleepy. So I’m just going to listen with my eyes closed, and as soon as I hear the DJ speak, I’ll grab the pen and paper and write down the clue. It’s no problem at all. And the least I can do for Frank considering he just gave me fifty pounds. I’ll just close my eyes until the end of this song …

  Chapter Six

  ‘What’s the clue then, love?’

  ‘Hmm?’ I open one eye to see Frank standing in front of me in a fluffy white bathrobe, looking like a bald polar bear. He leans in to read the piece of paper on my lap.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, reorientating myself.

  ‘The clue? Pass it over and I’ll get my thinking cap on. I’ve got every single one worked out so far, so I’m in with a great chance for the ten grand prize.’

  Mum brushes in beside him, and pats him lightly on the bum.

  ‘Not just a pretty face, me,’ he says. ‘I love getting stuck in to a puzzle. Find it quite therapeutic, solving puzzles. I’ve been looking forward to it all day, truth be told. Actually, don’t tell me yet; wait till I get my glasses, sort myself with a beer and put my feet up. Then I’ll be in the zone to tackle it.’

  I glance up at the clock. It’s six o’clock. I’ve been asleep nearly an hour. I look down at the piece of paper, which is blank.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  I am livid with myself. How could I have drifted off? I’ve not got the clue! Oh, this is a disaster. How could I do this to Frank! I just love him; he always sticks up for me, always softens Mum up when she’s angry with me. He never asks me to do anything and the one little favour he does ask I’ve completely messed up. Please let this not be happening. Frank is rubbing his eyes and circling the middle of the kitchen trying to locate his glasses.

  My mother drags me over to the sink and rinses the last of the foul-smelling dye out. She then ushers me back over to the table where she begins hacking off great lengths with an over-zealousness that makes the blood drain from my face. If this hair thing is a total horrific disaster, I’m just going to change my name and pretend my whole awful life is happening to somebody else. I try to ignore the snip-snip of the scissors by my ears but fail abysmally. It’s only been a few minutes and already my head feels so much lighter, probably because fifty per cent of my hair is now in furry little mounds all over the kitchen floor.

  ‘What was last week’s clue?’ I ask Frank.

  He’s rooting in the cutlery drawer, still looking for his glasses. ‘“Crispy coated salt water” – Battersea. Get it?’

  Ooh, a word puzzle. I love those. I used to do them for fun in between lessons. I could do word puzzles all day. ‘Give me another one,’ I say.

  ‘Right, before that, it was “murky pond”.’

  ‘Blackpool?’ I suggest.

  Frank claps his hands together. ‘You got it! I’ll give you a hard one, Poppy, came out a few weeks back. I couldn’t get it, asked the fruit sellers down Electric Avenue, the tube drivers, the girls behind the counter at Starbucks. Not one of us could get it
. Nearly kicked ourselves when it was called out. A-ha, here they are!’ Yes, right in there with the forks.

  ‘What was it, then?’ I ask.

  ‘“Writing tools next to insects”.’ He hooks his glasses behind his ears and shakes his head. ‘You’ll never get it.’

  ‘Let me think about it for a minute …’ Writing tools … Rulers? Pencils? Pens? Next to insects … Bugs? Roaches? Bees? Ants? ‘Okay, got it! Penzance,’ I say.

  Frank is looking at me open-mouthed. ‘That’s right. You’re spot on … Just like that, you got it.’

  ‘Give me another one,’ I say. If I keep this up, he might forget about tonight’s clue, or at least forget about it until I leave here to meet Tom and Leanne.

  ‘“Female member of religious order cannot stop consuming”?’

  ‘Nuneaton.’ These are quite fun.

  He’s scratching his head. ‘“Monarch’s girl”?’

  ‘King’s Lynn.’

  ‘“Where ethnic music meets hard rock”?’

  ‘Folkestone.’

  Frank is smiling from ear to ear. He sticks out his hand to shake mine. ‘Poppy, you are officially invited to join Team Frank. If we win this competition, I will give you half the money. Now how does that sound as an offer?’

  I put my hand in his. ‘Deal,’ I say, and he looks pleased as Punch.

  ‘So now I’m ready as I’ll ever be. What’s today’s clue?’

  I open my mouth to explain, but he shoves his hand up in front of me.

  ‘And make an old man happy, Poppy – don’t tell me the answer. I know you’re a clever clogs, and I’m proud of you, you know that. But I love the chase, so just tell me the clue but not the answer.’

  He’s sitting in front of me, elbows on his knees, eyes closed like he’s waiting to be anointed. I just can’t tell him I have no clue.

  ‘“Depressed dogs”.’

  His head tilts to the side, his tongue runs over his top lip.

  ‘“Depressed dogs”, you say? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘I am a hundred per cent sure. And I think I know the answer, too …’

  His eyes spring open and he stands bolt upright. ‘No, that’s fine, I just want the clue, no answers.’ He grabs his beer and shuffles out of the kitchen into the lounge. ‘Have a good night,’ he calls out to me, and that’s it. I’m off the hook for now. While he’s mulling over this made-up clue, I’ll pop down to Electric Avenue and ask the fruit sellers for the real one. Tomorrow I’ll just tell Frank that I misheard it but I know the correct version now so no harm done. Phew. Depressed dogs? Where on earth did that come from? Sometimes I think the psyche is one hot mess that should be left well alone.

  Mum takes a hairdryer with a very elaborate nozzle and begins blow-drying separate sections of my hair. She’s already plugged in a wand, tongs and a set of hot rollers. The kitchen counter is covered in serums, heat protectors, leave-in conditioners and, of course, cans upon cans of hairspray. My ‘wash and go’ days are well and truly over.

  ‘Okay, now I’m going to let you into my thinking before we do the big reveal,’ she says. ‘You wanted sophisticated – you got it. You wanted more grown up – you got it. You wanted change – well, you certainly got that. The key thing with this look is that it is high-maintenance, and that is exactly what you need. If you don’t get up in the morning to wash and style this baby, it’s going to look like a rat’s nest.’ Yes, exactly what you want to hear from your hairdresser. ‘But once it’s done, even in your raggedy T-shirt and jeans, you’ll look gorgeous, real old-school glamour. And you’re going to be turning some heads, Poppy, so get used of it.’

  She fans through my fringe with her fingers, sprays an ozone-destroying amount of hairspray at every angle and swings me around to the mirror.

  HOLY SHIT. I am thoroughly not myself.

  I am blonde.

  The blondest shade of blonde I have ever seen!

  I touch my face. I touch my hair. What’s left of it. I lean in for a closer look, smoothing the long, tapered fringe down the right side of my face. It doesn’t look like me, but I know it is, it has to be … I can see myself doing these things, but it does not feel normal.

  ‘I had to take a lot off, to clear all that bulk – it was detracting from you.’ Mum traces a finger down my cheekbone. ‘You have a beautiful face, Poppy, look at that skin, those eyes.’ She stands back with a hand on her hip. ‘Dare I say you look a lot like I did at your age!’

  I run my fingers over my neck and shake my swingy layers from side to side. They glisten with health and shine, the icy Scandinavian blonde making my skin appear more tanned and my eyes pop light blue.

  How did she do this? Maybe Mum’s ex-con crew look more like supermodels these days. Gun-toting, money-laundering, bad-ass hit women with smooth, glossy waves and indefatigable volume. I want to meet these women who have to make clean breaks and reinvent themselves again and again and again. Once everything settles, I’m going to take a trip to Mum’s salon and pick up some tips.

  I look to my mum’s face in the background of the mirror.

  ‘I love it. I absolutely LOVE it! Honestly, Mum, how did you even know this would work?’

  There is a tear in her eye. I can feel a little tear in my own.

  She fans herself with a tea towel. ‘Job done. Nothing more rewarding than making people feel good about themselves. Best feeling in the world,’ she says before she flops down on the chair and takes the remainder of the cava by the neck. ‘Hardest bloody job I’ve ever done, though. Getting that colour just so … Anyway, it was worth it. You look stunning, sweetheart. Now go on upstairs and get yourself ready. It’s Thursday night; as good as the weekend! Go and enjoy yourself!’

  I’ve got twenty minutes to put on my face, slip into a simple black skater dress and slick some siren-red lipstick on. I’m ready for Leanne and for Tom, and I daresay, I’m ready for whatever else is thrown at me.

  As long as it’s good stuff. I’m definitely ready for some good stuff.

  Chapter Seven

  I am standing across from the Ritzy cinema. Couples drinking mulled wine and air-kissing friends are huddled together under outdoor heaters. This is our meeting point. The place I’ll catch up with Leanne and Tom after nearly fifteen years of separate but parallel life paths. I wait on my tiptoes at the kerb. The pedestrian light is green but I won’t venture over by myself until Leanne arrives. Obviously. I shudder at the idea of standing around like a random loner in full view of the Friday-night revellers. And what if Leanne is delayed? I’d have to shuffle around on the spot and pretend to talk on my phone. No thanks. I’ll wait here, out of the way of the human traffic but with a perfect spy view of the Ritzy, shielded by the transient commuter mob.

  Swingy-blonde-bob me. Red-lipstick-and-LBD me. Looking around Brixton, it’s quite dazzling to take in the array of hair and fashion and body size and skin colour and tattoos and facial piercings. And the thing is, they all look so different, and extraordinary, amazingly artistic and individual in their own ways. Brixton has often been declared the melting pot within the melting pot that is multicultural London. But wow, this is really spectacular. The colours and patterns of the fabrics, the angles and cut of the clothes, the eye-popping make-up and jewellery make me feel like I’m watching a human gallery; a celebration of our species expressed in the most colourful and rich and eccentric way. And you know the best bit? It’s unapologetic. It’s unashamed. Everyone looks upbeat and unscripted because clearly they feel that way. They feel it from the inside out and they are not afraid to show it.

  My phone rings. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi. It’s Leanne. Where are you?’

  ‘Just at the lights. I’ll be there in ten seconds.’ I glance over to the Ritzy, but still I can’t see Leanne. I hope she hasn’t been waiting ages for me to arrive.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Poppy, but Leon’s working late, the babysitter’s not shown up and the owner of the pub next to the gym has just given me an earful a
bout the alarm going off again, so I’m going to have to bail on you. I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘Not a problem! Don’t worry at all, Leanne. We will definitely catch up again.’

  ‘How much longer are you around for?’ she asks me.

  ‘Not sure really. I can pop into the gym sometime and we’ll sort something out, okay?’

  Ah well, it was good while it lasted. The thought of going out and having a laugh and showing off my new hair and gazing at Tom Jones with unclean thoughts was a nice idea. A great idea, even, but alas, not to be. So I guess it’s back home for me to pack my ‘Shit Bits’ folder with a few more latent disappointments and unrealised dreams.

  I hear a child’s voice yelling in the background. ‘That sounds like a really busy day you’re having, Leanne. Are you okay? Can I do anything for you?’ I offer.

  ‘Cheers, but it’ll be all right. Normal for this house.’

  ‘Well, if you think of anything … I can come over and give you a hand if you like.’

  ‘Ha! Thanks so much, Poppy, but honestly, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. I’ll save it for Leon when he gets home! But now that you mention it, there is something that would really help me out.’

  ‘Yes, of course, anything at all.’

  ‘Great. Can you go to the gym and tell Tom to charge up his phone and stop messing me about, and that the security alarm manual is in the bottom of the filing cabinet. He’ll know what I mean.’

  ‘Sure, no problem. Will do. See you soon, Leanne, and take care of yourself.’

  As I hang up, I can hear at least three crying voices shrieking, ‘Muuuummmm!’ I didn’t quite appreciate how much she had on her plate. My problems are minuscule in comparison. I’ve got no kids to feed or big bills to pay or employees to support. How does she keep going? I used to look up to Dr Winters and all her achievements and accolades, but really, I’m overcome with admiration for Leanne. I’ve probably focused too much on measuring success in terms of intellectual achievement through exams and grades and honours and awards. I’ve been applauded and celebrated and hailed by all sorts and I’ve enjoyed it, been proud of it, but … look at everything Leanne is doing, keeping so many things afloat, putting others before herself, taking charge and staying strong without a hint of recognition, without anyone giving her a medal or a title or a scholarship. And by the sound of it, this isn’t a one-off event but an act of endurance, of stamina, of consistent effort and grit. Bloody hell, Leanne, I’ve got to hand it to you. You are SOME woman.