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

by Colleen Coleman

  ‘Your call is next in the queue,’ the automated voice tells me. Hurry up, queue, DO NOT end the segment just as I am about to give her a piece of my mind.

  ‘Hilary, you’ve caused quite a stir on social media. Texts and tweets are flooding in.’

  Oh, big surprise.

  ‘We know you’re straight-talking, but even by your standards this seems very harsh and damning advice this morning.’

  ‘I disagree. I am here to help; I am here to tell people what they need to hear not what they think they want to hear. I am proud of talking straight. Indeed, I’ll go so far as to say that if Joan had done a bit of straight talking with her daughter a few years back, she wouldn’t be in the sorry predicament that she finds herself in today.’

  ‘Your call is next in the queue. Please bear with us while we try to connect you …’

  Right, Hilary, self-professed relationships expert, I’m nearly there. I’m next in the queue and I’m in fighting form. Don’t you dare stop me now.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, my name’s Astral, associate producer here at 105 FM. Are you good to go on in sixty seconds?’

  ‘Yes, great, okay.’ I clear my throat.

  ‘Three, two, one …’ The phone line makes a clicking noise.

  ‘Welcome back, listeners, we have a caller on line four. You are live on air, caller. What’s your name, and where are you calling from this morning?’ It’s Jake Jackson. In my phone.

  I’m LIVE on air. Oh God, I didn’t really think this through properly. I can’t hang up, but I can’t let Hilary continue as she is.

  ‘Caller, are you there?’

  ‘Time-waster,’ I hear Hilary say.

  ‘Uh, yes. Yes! I am here. My name is Poppy and I’m a first-time listener to the show. I tuned in this morning to get the clue for “You Do the Maps”, but quite frankly, I am appalled at the vitriol Hilary is peddling as advice. I’d like to pick up on a couple of points, starting with Joan’s letter about her late-blooming daughter …’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got some opposition, Hilary,’ says Jake.

  ‘Let me get this straight, Poppy. You’ve called in with a problem and your problem is me? Let’s hear it then,’ says Hilary.

  ‘Exactly. I’m calling because I fail to see how anyone has put you in a position to help anyone, never mind the public. Your responses this morning have been unprofessional, insensitive and uninformed.’

  ‘Really,’ Hilary says, sounding as if she’s stifling a yawn. ‘How so?’

  ‘Misleading in terms of psychological evidence, for a start. People will be sitting at home this morning, listening to the radio, and if any of them are over thirty-five, they’ll probably feel that all their best moments are behind them. Yet extensive research proves otherwise.’

  ‘So, Poppy, you reject the idea that the decisions we make in our twenties and thirties profoundly influence our lives?’ she asks.

  ‘I believe that the decisions we make at every stage profoundly influence the lives of the people we are and the lives of the people we are to become. And sometimes we’re not thrilled with the decisions we make, especially if we are too time-pressured to make them properly. Why, for example, do people pay good money to get tattoos removed or covered up when teenagers are paying good money to get them in the first place? Why are middle-aged people divorcing partners that younger people are rushing to marry? Because we have a fundamentally flawed perception about the power of time and the way it changes what we may think we want.’

  Silence. I continue.

  ‘So, you may be thinking, when is this magical point in life where the pace of change suddenly goes from a crawl to a gallop? Which is the defining decade? The answer is not always twenty to thirty; the answer is now, wherever you happen to be. And Hilary – and this is what I take issue with – the idea that twenty to thirty is more pivotal in terms of permanent happiness than any other time in life is damaging. It is a dangerous illusion that our personal history comes to an end at this age and that unless we force ourselves to jump forward scrambling for the next monkey bars of family, money and career, we will fall into the void. This is wrong.’

  I pause for comeback. But there is nothing. Do I hear some shuffling papers? Not sure. I carry on.

  ‘Hilary, you have told Joan that doing things younger means doing them better, that it’s already too late for her daughter. This feeds into the toxic idea that everything younger is fresher, superior and more original, and that everything older is stale, jaded and washed up. Again, evidence does not concur. Let’s take Picasso and Cézanne as examples – two world-famous, celebrated artists with two very different back-stories. Picasso was deemed a prodigy, famous in very early life. A painting of his done in his twenties is worth four times as much as any he completed in his sixties. For Cézanne, a so-called “late bloomer”, the opposite is true. The paintings he created in his sixties are valued at more than fifteen times higher than those painted in his twenties.’

  ‘What on earth is your point, caller?’ asks Hilary.

  ‘My point is that Cézanne, like many late bloomers, recognised that he was on a journey, an adventure of possibility, open to what might surface, not stuck with fixed ideas about how life should be and by when and with whom.’

  ‘This is all very well, Poppy, but Joan did say that her daughter was on her phone all day and then partying by night. I don’t think Cézanne spent his time so frivolously, do you?’

  ‘Hilary, if she’s on her phone it’s probably because she’s trawling job sites. Career planning. If she’s going to parties, she’s open to meeting someone. Relationship planning. Joan’s daughter is doing things in her own way, at her own pace, not rushing into something that isn’t right for her. This process requires trial and error; it takes time to get things right.’

  I hear Jake’s voice. ‘Poppy, this is inspired stuff! You’ve really got me thinking here. I like it. I like this angle. And I agree with the time pressure thing. I’m only speaking from personal experience, but I know that any time I have had to work to a stopwatch or a deadline, I’ve panicked and messed up.’

  ‘Totally! And that’s well evidenced in studies, too: time pressure paralysis. The more time pressure a person perceives has been put upon them, the worse their performance and the more ill judged their decisions. Therefore our obsession with achieving marriage and career goals by thirty or whatever may be the very thing standing in the way of us getting these things.’

  ‘Okay, Poppy, we’ve got floods of callers, texts and social media messages coming in. Are you happy to stay on the line?’ asks Jake.

  ‘Yeah, no problem.’

  Floods of callers? Oh my God. People can hear me. People are responding. A short bark of laughter escapes my throat. I’m amazed and surprised and … well, delighted all at once.

  ‘Right, message from Sherelle in Shepherd’s Bush. “Thank God for this caller! I’m thirty-three and single so was very depressed after Hilary’s comments this morning but feeling much better now – gonna take out my crayons seeing as I’m such a Cézanne! Keep her on, she knows what she’s talking about.”’

  ‘Wow, thanks, Sherelle. That really means an awful lot to me. Thanks so much for emailing in.’

  ‘Another one here,’ says Jake. ‘Isabella from Camden. “Who is this caller? She needs her own show. As I was listening to her I kept nodding my head – she’s right, we are too obsessed with age and racing through life without stopping to think about what we really want. I never married or had kids and I am delighted with my lot in life – I’m doing it my way!”’

  ‘Ha ha! You go for it, Isabella! What you’re doing sounds awesome, real inspiration there. I wish you every success!’ I call down the phone.

  My skin is tingling. My voice has taken on a different energy, like I’ve unlocked something that has been stiff and closed for too long. I balance the receiver in the crook of my neck and go back to the fridge to slug some orange juice directly
from the carton. Hilary wouldn’t approve, of course. But Sherelle would. And Isabella, and all the rest of us who want to live the way we want to and make our own mistakes and our own discoveries in our own sweet time.

  ‘Wow, Poppy, the phones are hopping, the messages are pouring in – you’ve struck a chord. It might be worth mentioning that Hilary has had something crop up and has actually left the studio, so she won’t be available for comment. However, we do still have Poppy on the line. So can I ask you a little bit about yourself? Where are you from? What do you do? Fill us in.’

  ‘Well, I’m twenty-nine, from Brixton, just graduated as a psychologist, currently living at home and looking for a job, so I guess Joan’s letter struck a chord with me too.’

  ‘Okay, a trained psychologist, now things are starting to make sense. And you’re looking for work, did you say?’

  ‘Yep, I’ve been to the job centre but there’s nothing really suitable at the moment, so here I am, hanging around my mum’s kitchen, trying to get the clue that might win me ten grand! So come on, Jake Jackson, I’ve been waiting all morning!’

  ‘Fair enough, you’ve earned it. Yesterday’s clue for “You Do the Maps” is …’ He’s cut to an ad. What is going on here?

  I hear a click on the phone. ‘Hi, Poppy, this is Jake – private line, we’re not on air.’

  ‘O-kay?’

  ‘We have an internship programme here at the station. I can’t guarantee that it would lead anywhere and I don’t know anything about pay and conditions and all that malarkey, but one thing I can say is I think you would be a fantastic asset to the show.’

  ‘Um, really?’ My cheeks throb with surprise and embarrassment. Maybe he’s joking? It’s been a long time since anybody thought I was a fantastic asset to anything.

  ‘Yes. Really,’ he tells me firmly.

  ‘Well, that’s a lovely thing to hear, Jake, and I’ve got to admit that I am absolutely buzzing right now.’ I blow out my cheeks and hold my jumping stomach. ‘That was an amazing feeling. I’m quite overwhelmed by it all.’

  ‘Excellent. So you’ll join us? Come to the South Bank Studio, I’ll tell reception to expect you.’

  No, this is moving too quickly. I can’t commit. I’m not going to be around for very long. What if Dr Burley gets back to me and I’m stuck up a transmission tower. No. This isn’t for me. Well, not right now, anyway.

  ‘But I haven’t got any training or experience in media. I really haven’t a clue about it.’

  ‘All the more reason to come and learn on the job,’ says Jake. ‘Poppy, you’re a natural.’

  I feel pressure mounting in my chest. That was just one time. Just a fluke. The stabbing memory of losing the fellowship returns: getting my hopes up, but then everything vanishing from under my feet. No, I’ve been here before. Not worth the heartache.

  ‘I’m not a natural, believe me. I’m just a listener with a bee in my bonnet. I’m not usually so outspoken; it’s just that Hilary really wound me up,’ I explain.

  ‘Yes, but that’s exactly why it was so good. You said what we were feeling. You cared enough to pick up the phone. You had the language and the skills and the confidence to help people, to sort the truth from the lies, and you didn’t hold back. Nice to see that from the good guys for a change, eh?’

  I run my fingers through my hair. This is crazy. I came down here to make a coffee and listen to the radio, and now I’m being offered a chance to come work with them.

  A flash of Harriet snickering at the idea pops into my head.

  I definitely don’t want to tell Jake that my professors, my peers, even my dad would laugh me out of town if they heard that this was what my very expensive, highly selective first-class education had resulted in – a pop psychology slot on a morning radio show, squeezed in somewhere between the traffic report and the horoscope reader; an agony aunt. Nope. It is certainly not my thing.

  ‘Poppy, you clearly know what you’re talking about and you’re not hell-bent on kicking people when they’re down, so you’re already halfway there. Media experience is something you can gain along the way. Learn on the job.’

  Learn on the job. South Bank Studio. Floods of callers. I rub my hand up and down my arm. I’ve got goose bumps. Hand on heart, that was one of the best experiences of my life. The exchange, the urgency, the unpredictability. The callers flooding in with virtual high-fives. It was immediate and intense and so, so exciting. I lick my lips. Is this really happening? Could I actually do this?

  ‘You’d be in a position to help lots of listeners with their issues. I’ve got to go now, but why don’t you come in after the show today? I’ll be here until midday. Have a look around. I’ll buy you lunch. What do you say?’

  ‘How about you give me the clue now, and you’ve got a deal.’ I can hear by the way Jake is breathing that he is smiling into the phone.

  ‘Great! Really great. You are exactly what we need around here, Poppy, someone fresh and smart and kind. All the rest will follow. So here’s your clue …’

  I scribble it down and thank him one last time as I hang up the phone.

  Poppy Bloom, radio intern. Who’d have guessed? I get a fit of giggles. I can’t stop laughing. Laughing at the way this morning has unfolded. How everything has unfolded. I grip my cheeks. How did this happen? I feel light and giddy and bursting with hope. And I know it’s not specifically about the radio or about meeting Leanne again or Tom or any of the other singular things that have happened over the last few days.

  It’s the fact that they’ve happened of their own accord, as natural consequences of other events. Both my hands fly to my breastbone and I exhale deeply. Even though I never predicted or orchestrated it, stuff still happened. Good stuff. Wonderful stuff. And because of these wonderful happenings, I’ve realised something important: that mercifully, not every detail of my life is under my control. And it’s glorious.

  Chapter Eleven

  I stare at my phone.

  Everything had been going swimmingly, almost the perfect morning. But now there’s this. It’s been ringing now for three minutes non-stop. I know who it is. My ex-dad. Or real dad. Or biological father. Or compulsive gambler. Or drug-addled has-been rock drumming legend Mr Ray Bloom. Whatever you want to call him, he is now calling me. I let it ring some more. And then it stops. Thank God.

  I will have to face up to this conversation soon, but not right this very minute. I push my empty coffee cup to the middle of the table, press my hands against the arms of the kitchen chair and lever myself up. I’ll just leave it till after the weekend and call him on Monday morning. It’s a universal rule of interactive human behaviour. Leave it till after the weekend was probably carved into one of the stone tablets that Moses most regrets leaving out in squaring off the commandments to a snappy ten. See, Moses, you shouldn’t have rushed that rule-picking business.

  The landline starts to ring. O-kay. He wants to talk. I’m going to have to take this. If he rings the landline, it means he is seriously pissed off and is even prepared to run the risk of having my mum answer the phone. This makes matters exponentially worse as then she turns on me and says that I should answer my mobile when my father rings me, that there is absolutely no need for him to have to contact me through her/she is not my personal secretary/she can really do without this type of bullshit after a hard day at work, etc.

  It’s ringing out and it’s not going away. If I don’t take this call right now, he could get in his car and drive over here. That’s happened twice before; really not good. I pick up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Finally, Poppy. What do I have to do to get hold of you these days? I’ve called, sent messages, left voicemails. What the hell is going on?’ my father asks. He sounds even more puffed than normal.

  ‘Sorry, it’s been kind of crazy. It should all settle down now, though. How are you?’ I never ask this. It will arouse suspicion.

  ‘Fine. I’m fine. I’m a lot better now that I’ve pinned you d
own. Obviously I didn’t see you at the graduation, but …’ a heavy sigh, ‘let’s not get into that now.’ He coughs a very wheezy cough to clear his throat. It doesn’t work. His voice still sounds raspy and hoarse, like it’s wrapped with barbed wire.

  Uh-oh. I sit on the bottom stair in my mum’s hallway. I’m glad this isn’t face to face. My father is going to go even more insane than I did.

  ‘They didn’t offer me the fellowship.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They didn’t offer it to me. So despite me getting the highest marks in the class, the final decision was made by Dr Winters and she turned me down. She chose Gregory and Harriet instead.’

  ‘I don’t understand this; on what basis could she possibly turn you down?’ He swallows the words in a breathy way, like he’s trying to talk whilst being punched in the stomach.

  ‘She didn’t like my thesis, she doesn’t like me, she doesn’t think I’m mature enough for the role, lacking experience …’

  More coughing. ‘Harriet’s father is a politician, that’s why they chose her. Probably fixed it so that they’ll secure extra funding or building permission or some other scam along those lines.’ Here he goes with the conspiracy theories. Always someone else’s fault, always a big national plot working against the little guy.

  ‘Dad, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. But don’t worry too much, okay? Something may still come up. I’ve contacted my professor, Dr Burley, and asked him to see if there are any other vacancies. I’m going to get back there; I’m sure I’ll be back in no time at all.’ I try to close down the conversation, but no chance.

  ‘… thousands of pounds we have paid in fees. Tens of thousands of pounds. I remortgaged my house. I traded in my car so you could do your PhD. And let me see if I have this straight? She turns you down because she doesn’t like you?’ He tears himself away from the receiver and I can hear the huge, laboured gulps of air he is trying to take in to calm himself down, but I can still feel the heat of his wrath from the phone line. I wrap my arms around my knees.