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

by Colleen Coleman

  ‘And we’ll throw in a little cryptic clue that may help you on your way to winning a really great ten thousand pounds! Only here on 105 FM – your station, your way.’

  He’s going to do it! Jake Jackson is going to give out the clue a second time. He must’ve heard my prayer. I press my palm to my heart. Everything is looking up. Everything is starting to co-operate. Thank God.

  I settle down with my fresh dark-roast coffee, pen and paper at the ready, and listen in as Jake introduces his first guest of the morning, renowned agony aunt, the ‘straight-up, no-nonsense’ Hilary Clive.

  Ugh. I curl my lip at the little transistor. This woman is vile, constantly courting controversy with hateful and divisive comments. I’ve seen her on chat shows calling women fat, making fun of children’s names and insisting that poverty is a lifestyle choice for the lazy. I can’t understand why she is allowed on air, cannot understand why such cruel and hurtful comments are casually pumped into the ears of the nation.

  I really don’t want to listen to her ruffle feathers for no good reason beyond her own vain self-advancement. But what can I do? I can’t turn her off or else I’ll miss Frank’s clue.

  ‘Hilary will be here for the next hour or so to help with any problems or issues you may be facing of an emotional or personal nature. She’s a self-professed relationship expert, with over twenty-five years of experience in dealing with the highs and lows between lovers, friends and families. So get in touch; our resident agony aunt is live and kicking here this morning to take your calls.’

  I bite my lip. One hour. One hour of listening before I can turn this rubbish off. At least I’m alone, that’s one small mercy. Imagine if anyone caught me listening to this trash. Imagine Dr Winters arrived unexpectedly to say that she’d made a horrible mistake and wanted me back, only to find me sitting here listening to the lowest form of populist media imaginable. Oh, the shame of it. I shiver with paranoia and pull my mum’s net curtains across, just in case anyone of note is prowling around and might expose my dirty little listening secret. I remind myself that once I’ve scribbled down the clue, I’ll be free of the aural torture that is Hilary Clive once and for all. I’ll let whatever crap she spouts roll off me, water off a duck’s back. No getting angry or riled or upset. I’m having a nice morning and I’m not about to let a snide old witch like her spoil it for me.

  I hear her voice cackle across the airways. ‘Good morning, Jake, lovely as always to be here. I understand that sometimes it can be difficult to share our intimate concerns with people close to us; we need a neutral pair of ears and an objective response. So feel free to reach out this morning, articulate your feelings, and we will try our best to ensure that you have some truthful, professional advice so that you are in better shape after your call than before.’

  Better shape? Yeah, right, complete emotional carnage more like.

  Jake chimes in. ‘So, London, Hilary is live in the studio and available to take on whatever you want to throw at her. You can email us, call us, get in touch on Facebook or Twitter – whatever is easiest for you. We look forward to hearing from you. But before that, what better way to start the day than with a bit of … uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh no no … I know it’s not very manly, or current, or acceptable in any measure, but you gotta love it. It’s “Crazy in Love” by Queen Bey herself. Let’s turn it up, people!’

  I do exactly as he says. Turn my favourite song from my favourite singer right up to full volume. Good move, Jake! A bit of Beyoncé always takes the edge off. The music, the cryptic clues and Jake himself are all really good; perfectly listenable. So why on earth do they want to be within spitting distance of Hilary Clive, never mind give her such a prime slot? Ratings, I guess. What is it they say? Even bad publicity is good publicity. And Hilary certainly knows how to cause a stir. She has carved out a niche as everyone’s favourite media villain, and even though I get that it’s show-business, she still makes my blood boil.

  I knock back the last dregs of my first cup of coffee and pour my second. Extra strong.

  ‘We have loads of queries coming through via email, so let’s get stuck in. The first is from Melissa, thirty-four years old from Lewisham, who says, “Hi, Jake and Hilary. Two weeks after the love of my life and partner of ten years proposed, I found out he had been repeatedly unfaithful. Up to this point I thought things were great. Then I started to get anonymous emails claiming my boyfriend was a cheater. He denied there was any truth to it, but I started digging and discovered he was lying. He broke down and told me he suspected they were being sent by a girl he had been sleeping with on and off for quite a while. I’m just so crushed. I was genuinely blindsided, but I still can’t imagine my life without him. I’m really struggling with what to do next. I feel like he is serious about trying to fix this. I know that I still love him and I do think that I would be capable of forgiving him. I just worry that people who do these horrible things never really change and that maybe by staying with him I’m letting myself down. I’m not ready to leave him and move on, but am I crazy for wanting to try?” Ouch,’ Jake concludes, mirroring my own sentiments exactly.

  I place my coffee cup down on the table. I hadn’t realised how much my hand was shaking. Gregory dumped me and ran into Harriet’s arms. And that still hurts. It hurts that he doesn’t want to be with me any more. That she forgot about me and dismissed my feelings so quickly. But this letter. This is hell. Because Melissa loves her boyfriend and wants him back. I realise that I don’t want Gregory back. I don’t know if I even want Harriet back. None of this is easy. None of this is clear-cut. None of us knows what the best thing to do is. I hear you, Melissa!

  I listen to Jake as he clears his throat. ‘Thanks for getting in touch and being so open and honest, Melissa. I’ll pass this on to our in-house professional – my heart goes out to you, though.’

  Hear, hear! I take the radio down from the shelf and put it on the table beside me. I’m intrigued to hear what Hilary’s going to tell her. Stay or go? Return or cut free? How do we know when to turn back to what was, and when to move on to what will be? I need to hear the answer almost as much as Melissa does.

  I hear Hilary breathe loudly through her nose. ‘Well. You’ve got yourself into a right mess here, Melissa. You’re crazy for wanting to try, and to be truthful, I don’t know why you bothered writing at all, as it’s clear that you have already made up your mind to take him back. Perhaps you’re the reason for him doing this in the first place. He may never even have looked at another woman if he really thought you would ever leave him. And he’s been proved right, hasn’t he? Even after everything, here you are entertaining the idea of a happy-ever-after. Never in my twenty-five years have I seen a leopard change its spots, and that goes for your cheating fiancé and you as a spineless facilitator.’

  I spit my coffee back into my cup. Have I actually just HEARD that? Oh my God, Hilary Clive. I knew you could be a heartless witch, but this is another level entirely; this is beyond decent! Talk about kicking someone when they’re down! Poor Melissa. She wrote in for help and what has she got to show for it? A humiliating public whipping on air! Blamed for someone else’s actions!

  I am tempted to turn this toxic dragon off. Her poisonous claptrap is airing all over London. I know my mum listens with her girls in the salon in Holloway. I toy with the transistor, so close to just switching it off, but I need this bloody clue.

  As soon as Jake coughs it up, I’m tuning out. For ever. One hundred per cent, this will be my first and last morning associated with this station.

  ‘Whoa, Hilary, that sounds very harsh, and with all due respect, very unfair.’ Jake’s voice cuts in across her, snappy and urgent. It is clear that she has offended him too. ‘After all, it’s not Melissa that’s done the cheating. Let’s hear from our listeners; they’re usually a compassionate lot. Caller on line one. Hi, Peggy, you’re live on air.’

  Come on, Peggy, give it to her! Tell Hilary where to go! Demand she packs her bags, threaten to protest
or boycott, whatever, but let her know she’s not speaking for the masses. Make sure she understands that she is completely alone with her venomous opinions.

  ‘I don’t usually agree with Hilary on this show, but today I think she’s actually speaking sense.’

  I slam my hand down on the table. What are you talking about, Peggy? Don’t you fuel this! Think about Melissa! What do you think she needs to hear right now?

  Peggy sounds like she’s been smoking twenty Benson & Hedges a day since the end of the Second World War. ‘I took back a cheating husband and it was the worst mistake of my life. They’re hard-wired to do it; no amount of therapy or threats will change them. That girl needs to drop him now. And grow herself a brain in the meantime.’

  I can’t bear this. Since when did everyone decide that being cruel and judgemental and speaking your mind without any regard for other people’s feelings was the best way to live? I sincerely hope that no kids are listening in to this, because if they think Hilary is a role model, the next generation is stuffed.

  ‘Caller two, Daryl on the line. Have you got any CONSTRUCTIVE advice for Melissa?’ Jake asks.

  Come on, Daryl, we need you. As a member of the listening public, we need an ambassador, a hero, somebody to say that this isn’t what we want to hear!

  ‘I think the poor girl is being very wise in her approach here – she is treating the cheating like an addiction, and that’s exactly what it is.’ Daryl has a very gentle speaking voice, like he’s reading the shipping forecast. ‘We are taught to hate the sin but love the sinner, and that is what Melissa is trying to do – separate the bad actions from the individual. If her fiancé can cure himself of his cheating, then they have a real chance. I wish you well, Melissa.’

  Okay, that’s better. That’s more like it. A bit of humanity, at least.

  ‘Oh please, spare us the sermon.’ Hilary is back on the mic. ‘Peggy gets it; she knows what it’s like to throw good time after bad. The only thing I can think of that could explain such an idiotic position, Daryl, is that you are a serial cheater yourself: separating the deed from the doer, a victim rather than a victor – we’re not having it. It just doesn’t wash. So before you call in here again encouraging people to throw their lives down the pan for laughable attempts at morality, remember, I’m on to you and I’m well aware that the devil can cite scripture for his purpose.’

  My head falls into my hands. This woman is evil.

  ‘So, as you can tell if you’ve been tuned in, we have had some rather savage exchanges already on the show today. Let’s hope our next email holds something a little less explosive; fingers crossed we get a good old-fashioned blind-date dilemma or a nice mother-in-law issue – anything along these lines would see me right and might keep Hilary’s blood pressure at an acceptable level, am I right there, Hilary?’

  I can hear Hilary guffawing in the background.

  No wonder this woman is so divisive. I’ve heard people describe her as Marmite; love or hate, but no room for any middle ground or grey area. I can firmly say that I hate her. She and her ilk draw their listenership from those who already feel angry and isolated and betrayed, but rather than help them, these people are prodding and provoking them further, throwing salt on their wounds, encouraging them to lash out and be spiteful, causing even more misery and division.

  ‘As time is always of the essence here on the morning show,’ Jake continues, resignation mingled with frustration in his voice, ‘I’ll move on swiftly to our second emailer: Joan, a retired nurse from Stockwell. “Dear Jake and Hilary,” she writes, “I am so very worried about my twenty-nine-year-old daughter. She is a boomerang baby, as they call it, flew the nest for a few years but is now back at home and working in a dead-end job collecting glasses at the local pub. Sometimes she appears depressed about the whole set-up, throwing tantrums, blaming the government or rocketing house prices or a lack of graduate-level jobs, but other times she seems to revel in her predicament, spending beyond her means on clothes, make-up, parties, festivals and even holidays. My husband and I never went on holiday until our fifties and always played it safe with money. She is always on her phone. We can’t understand our daughter’s lackadaisical attitude to her own future. I don’t want to hurt her or lose her or withdraw our support, but she’s always been a late bloomer and I think now is the time she needs to be given a firm but fair push. It feels like she’s in a game of musical chairs and very soon everybody else will grab their place but she will be left standing. I am interested in any advice or guidance you can provide.”’

  Um … Strumming my pain with her fingers? Singing my life with her words? You are killing me softly here, Joan from Stockwell.

  It’s as if my own mother wrote this one. Although at least Joan’s daughter has a job. That’s what Mum would be thinking to herself. And is going on holidays. And did she say festivals and parties too? You know, just hook me up. I’m a few steps behind here.

  Jake’s voice continues over the airwaves. ‘A very thoughtful letter there from a concerned mum,’ he says. ‘What kind of advice could you offer Joan in her situation? She does say that she doesn’t want to hurt or lose her daughter, just encourage her to make some steps that will help with her future. But what do I know? Over to the professional; what do you think, Hilary?’

  I hear Hilary sigh heavily into her microphone. This is not going to be good. Sorry, Jake; I can already tell that your subtle request for positive, professional guidance is never going to bear fruit. Joan, I hope your blood pressure can take whatever she’s about to serve up to you.

  ‘You get what you raise. You reap what you sow. Joan, your daughter didn’t become a spoilt, unmotivated princess by herself. You have effectively disabled her. And it’s all very well you having your light-bulb moment, but it’s too little, too late. You are a casualty of believing that thirty is the new twenty, and frankly, as a trained nurse you should know better. Just because she’s still wearing Converse and eating straight from the fridge …’

  A bolt of fear shoots through me. What dark powers do you have, Hilary Clive? No word of a lie, the words emanate from the radio at the exact moment that I am standing inside the fridge door scooping Philadelphia into my mouth with my finger. I turn to my right to see my oldest pair of Converse drying upside down on the radiator courtesy of my mum, who thought they could do with freshening up.

  She’s not finished yet. Oh Joan, I bet you wish you’d never asked. I know I wish you’d never asked.

  ‘Yes, people settle down later than they used to, but that is no excuse to waste a decade faffing around pretending to be a teenager with a bit more freedom. This is a real problem, Joan, and not just for you; I see it everywhere. Sadly, it is only the beginning of more problems for you and your daughter and all of society. The real consequences will become apparent over the next five to ten years. Mark my words, the worst is yet to come.’

  Oh my GOD. Jake, DO something! You can’t let her say this stuff! I clasp my hands around my ears. I can’t listen. This is my life she’s talking about.

  Jake butts in. ‘Hilary, surely we’re not saying that the poor kid’s life is ruined? She’s only twenty-nine, for goodness’ sake.’

  Exactly. I loosen my hands. That’s exactly right. Who panics at twenty-nine? It’s ridiculous. Tell her, Jake. Then put on some Beyoncé and give me the clue and I can get on with my life and we need never cross paths again.

  There is a sneer in Hilary’s voice this time. ‘Jake Jackson, you are as bad as the rest. All you media types referring to twenty-somethings as “kids” and “boomerang babies” and such; it’s wrong. They are not kids or babies. You are letting them believe they have all the time in the world and that resting on your laurels in terms of career and family is living your life to the full because the only thing you place value on is fun. And this notion of fun is rubbish – worse than rubbish, it is benign sabotage.’

  ‘Come on now, Hilary, you can’t seriously—’ I can tell that Jake is trying to cut
her off more forcefully, but he’s too polite, too professional. Hilary bulldozes on through.

  ‘This is not my opinion. These are the facts. We know that eighty per cent of life’s defining moments take place by the age of thirty-five. That means that eight out of ten of the decisions and experiences and life-changing events that make existence worthwhile will happen by your mid-thirties. So sitting around stuck to your phone all day only to collect glasses by night doesn’t exactly set you up for a great adulthood or a stable society, now does it?’

  I hear Jake sigh. I’m sighing too. He has not successfully killed this and he’s the only one in a position to. Play some music, Jake, go to an ad break. Get her in a headlock. I press my palms into my eyes. It’s audio car crash; I want to stop listening but I can’t quite bring myself to do so.

  ‘We also know that female fertility peaks at age twenty-eight, and that things get tricky after age thirty-five …’

  Stop. Stop. STOP! I have got to make this stop! If I had internet connection, I’d email in right this second, but that’s out of the question in this bandwidth dead zone, so I have no choice but to consider plan B, which will mean dealing with her head-to-head; real time and direct.

  I pick up the transistor and rush into the hallway to the portable landline phone, punching in the studio number. It rings and rings and rings and an automated voice tells me that my call is very valuable, so much so that I am going to be put into a caller queue right away. A ukulele version of Take That’s ‘Patience’ is piped down the line.

  Jake is trying to take charge but he’s just not cutting it. ‘Okay, Hilary, is there anything constructive you think you can offer Joan in terms of how she can improve the situation – POSITIVE things that she can do to help her daughter?’

  It’s okay, Jake, just keep her talking. I’m coming. I’m in the queue.

  ‘Well, I know you like to be the bearer of good news and maintain the status quo by spouting platitudes, but I can’t do that. In Joan’s case, there’s no good news. The best she can hope for is to serve as a warning to other parents who are babying their adult offspring, resulting in perpetual dependence, financial instability and lifelong unfulfilment. It’s a sad but self-inflicted case of closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.’