‘I’m with you there,’ agrees Sandra, ‘sloppy passing, terrible shooting. Your new goal shooter’s attempts were quite frankly pathetic at times – no reach, poor angles. I thought to myself, where on earth did they get her from? And let’s hope they have a return address! But somehow you did it. Something changed and South London Assassins got their formation, their flow – you made your chances and look what happened! An absolutely nail-biting ending to a fantastic game.’ She raises Leanne’s hand into the air.
The crowds in the stand rise with a thunderous cheer and Leanne throws bright purple fridge magnets at them, each emblazoned with her swirly Gymbox logo.
Sandra is whispering into the ear of a tall, good-looking man with very dark hair standing next to Teagan. Maybe that’s her dad? He looks too young to have a teenage daughter, but then again, if he is mid-thirties and she’s seventeen, I guess it’s possible. He nods and smiles to Sandra and then types something into the media box computer. In an instant, Queen’s ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ is booming from the stadium speakers and the crowds in the stands go totally insane. Sandra gives the man a thumbs-up and starts a victory lap with Leanne, throwing goody bags, wristbands, stickers and even more fridge magnets into the sea of grabbing hands.
Just as the song reaches its final chorus, Teagan calls me over to where she is standing with the rest of our teammates. The man thrusts a microphone into my hand and counts me down: 3, 2, 1 …
‘Judging by the reaction of the spectators, this stadium has Assassins fever!’ he begins. ‘What a fantastic game, absolutely thrilling second half. So, as the newest member of the team, what do you say? Assassins against Team Oxbridge in the Superleague final: can they do it?’
I am lost for words. His eyes are the same deep chocolate brown as Teagan’s. And the way he is looking at me makes me feel like he’s asked me something really important.
‘I see I’ve stunned you into silence! And I understand – it’s a big question, a question that no doubt will be on everybody’s lips over the next few weeks as we wait to see the two strongest teams in British netball battle it out. One thing we do know is that it will be spectacular. So, I may try just one more time for an insider soundbite – Assassins as the Superleague winners, what are the chances?’
He smiles at me and I feel my cheeks flush with heat. I tear my eyes away from his so I can gather my thoughts and shake some words out of my mouth. And that’s when I see it, the plastic security card around his neck, and on it his name: Jake Jackson.
I look to Teagan and she mouths, ‘Absolutely fine.’ I take a deep breath and raise my microphone to my mouth.
‘Well, Jake, in netball, just as in life, you can’t wait for opportunities. You’ve got to create your chances and make things happen. Can Assassins make it happen?’ I turn to Teagan and the rest of the team. ‘Girls! Jake Jackson is asking if Assassins can make it happen? What do we want to tell him?’ I hold the microphone in the air for them to answer.
‘ASSASSINS ARE UNBEATABLE!’ they scream back.
The crowd surges one final time, and a Mexican wave ripples through the stands. Shanice runs on to the court, hands clapping over her head, and starts thousands of people chanting: ‘ASSA-SSINS ASSA-SSINS.’
I watch Jake cast a glance over to Teagan, who is clapping and chanting at the top of her lungs.
‘Great game,’ he says to me as he hands the microphone back to Sandra and pulls on his jacket. ‘Good luck in the final.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply. I can hear Jess calling me from the court, shouting that we need to go. I watch Jake walk away from me and I have a sick kind of feeling that something is supposed to happen now and I know what it is and I know who needs to do it, but I also know that there is every likelihood that it won’t happen. That I’ll stand here, thinking, watching, stalling, and then my chance will be gone; it will just pop and disappear into oblivion.
I need to make this happen. Have some presence. Project confidence. Show him what I can do, who I can be. I run after him through the rows of plastic seating and catch him by the shoulder. He turns around, mildly startled.
I swallow hard, smooth my hair behind my ears and try to keep my focus as he fixes his dark eyes on me again.
‘Really pleased to finally meet you, Jake Jackson.’ I put my hand out in front of me and offer it to him. ‘My name is Poppy Bloom. How do you feel about second chances?’
Chapter Sixteen
I lie in bed, my body now scrubbed, defuzzed, moisturised and beginning to succumb to that satisfying muscle ache that only comes from extreme physical exertion. A muscle ache that I haven’t felt in a long, long time. Once I got home, I decided that it was time I cleared out the old to make room for the new. I tore down the posters from my wall, chucked all the crap from my shelves and bedside locker. I stripped my bed and put on fresh white cotton sheets. If anyone burst in through the door now, I think I’d be ready. But most importantly, I certainly wouldn’t be ashamed. This room looks like it belongs to a young woman, not an overripe teenager. I put on some music, light a vanilla candle and watch the flame flit and flicker against the wall.
I think about what Leanne said on the minibus, about the glass-walled changing room. I’d totally forgotten about it until she mentioned the swimming gala. That brought it back.
I remember that we were both trying out for the school relay team. We’d lined up on the blocks. Fixed our hats and goggles and positioned ourselves, heads bowed, arms outstretched. Just as I bent my knees and arched my back to dive, I caught sight of my dad staggering into the poolside spectators’ area, lit cigarette between his lips, long skanky black hair, tight leather trousers and his hallmark heeled boots. I was mortified.
The starting trigger was pulled and I launched myself into the pool with the force of a sub torpedo. I willed the water to be fathomless, enough to envelop and conceal me. I wanted to dive as deep as I could, and then deeper again, far from this place with its spectator rows and echoed shouting and down to the cold, dark, silent depths of the sea floor. But of course that oceanic expanse I so craved was in reality a twenty-five-metre community pool, and no sooner had I enclosed myself in water and escaped Dad’s presence than it was time to come up again, to re-emerge and face the scrawny mess waiting for me at the poolside.
I broke the watery surface and felt grateful for the mask of my swimming hat and goggles. Not that it mattered much; he didn’t need to see me to embarrass me. He was already doing that. I could hear him shouting, ‘Kick harder! For God’s sake, Poppy, this is a competition! You can do better than that! And breathe! Why don’t you breathe?!’
I touched the white-tiled pool side. I’d come second; Leanne ahead of me by a hair’s breadth. The rest of the swim team were lined up behind the blocks.
One of the male lifeguards climbed down from his station. ‘Sir, there is no smoking allowed in the building.’ His voice was high-pitched and self-conscious. I doubt dealing with drunk and confrontational ageing rockers was a core element of his training.
Dad waved his hand dismissively, which threw him slightly off balance. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a bottle of beer. He won’t be able to open it, I thought. That’s good; he’ll leave to get a bottle opener and then he won’t bother coming back.
And that was what happened. He squinted upwards, swore loudly, turned on his heel and staggered out of the building.
I was absolutely mortified. I’d worked so hard at school to be exactly what the teachers wanted; I listened, I asked questions, I was never rude or troublesome. My plan was to keep my head down; if I didn’t court trouble, it wouldn’t court me. But then Dad showed up in full public view, drunk and dishevelled, shouting and staggering and yelling at me in front of my peers, in front of my teachers. In front of people I cared about and a future I was trying to build that was too fragile to support his mad, erratic outbursts.
Once I was certain that he was gone, I got out of the pool and went to the changing room with Leanne. I asked
her to help me fasten my bra – partly because it was twisted up and partly because my hands were still trembling.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. And that was when I told her about how I felt in my head; about the reflections and the distortions and the scrutiny. She went very quiet after that and I thought she didn’t get it or hadn’t listened or was a bit bored.
‘What does your dad do?’ she asked after a while.
‘He was a musician,’ I said. ‘A drummer. Used to be. He doesn’t do much any more, just some session work. He’s on his own, so he gets wasted a lot.’
She shrugged and continued getting changed.
She never brought my dad up after that. And neither did anyone else; either because they didn’t realise who he was or because Leanne scared them into silence. Either way, it was a huge relief. And I felt myself breathing again.
Chapter Seventeen
On Monday morning, I find the studio in a converted Victorian warehouse nestled between the Tate Modern and Shakespeare’s Globe, slap bang in the middle of the South Bank. It’s so early it still feels like it’s night-time, silent and dark with nothing but the clanging of bin men and a handful of revellers trying to flag down taxis. The security guard waves me through the big glass doors and directs me up to the fourth floor, to the 105 FM studio.
I stand by the huge ceiling-to-floor windows watching the first orange-hued rays of sunrise bleed across the sky and following the Thames as it winds gently through the city, neither blue nor brown but a glittering metallic grey, glistening as an occasional spear of light pierces the clouds and dances over its rippling surface. Breathtaking. It actually feels as if I am on top of the world.
I blink back a prickle of tearfulness. I feel like I’m on the cusp of something big, like I’m about to set sail to a new and foreign land, and I’m a mess of nerves and excitement. Or maybe I’m just super-tired. Despite my very best intentions, I didn’t sleep a wink. My pained nocturnal activity consisted of turning my pillow over every five seconds, kicking my duvet about, counting sheep and visualising white sands and turquoise beaches in an effort to turn my mind off and sink into a peaceful slumber, but alas, it never happened.
Now I feel dog-tired. And hypersensitive, like all my feelings and nerve endings are prickly and razor sharp and just a tad too close to the surface of my skin. I have been known to get weepy and sensitive and irrational when sleep-deprived, even succumbing to the odd temper tantrum. Keep it together, Poppy. Please, please do not mess up today.
My phone beeps; a text from an unknown number. Who on earth could this be? And why would they be up at this crazy hour texting me?
‘Hi, Tom here. Got your number from Leanne, been thinking about you. Good luck with the new job. You’ll smash it. T x’
My heart swells in my chest and I text back my thanks. Tom. Thinking about me? Wishing me luck? Kiss at the end? As there is still nobody else here yet in the studio but me, I twirl around in one of the three swingy chairs lined up by the desk and survey my surroundings. There is a gigantic clock face fixed to the back wall of the studio. Above it hangs a glass panel with the lettering ON AIR illuminated in red. It will turn amber when on a ten-second countdown and then green when we are actually live broadcasting. The distressed red-brick wall showcases row upon row of framed autographed prints of guests who have visited over the decades. The most famous and celebrated singers, bands, sports stars, politicians, comedians and actors posing cordially by this desk, in this spot, this very studio. I’m drawn to the older sepia prints, which are flecked with age and sun damage, showing gel-coiffed, dickie-bowed presenters stiffly shaking hands with toothy crooners and beehived backing singers.
I squint forward to get a better look at a very familiar-looking photo in the top right-hand corner. Black Horn, from the late seventies. A long-haired, leather-clad group of three, the lead singer, Jonnie-O, snarling close up into the camera; Cowboy Carlos the guitarist clutching his instrument tight against his bony body like a low-slung sword; and my dad draped over the drum kit in a torn T-shirt, thumb and pinkie posed in his iconic devil-horn pose. It’s weird seeing him so young, trying to look grizzled and hard with such soft, fresh features and bright eyes. What happened to you, Ray? How did it all go so wrong?
I swing around to the window again. I’m not thinking about him today. Too busy. Too excited. I clap my hands together. Come on, today, I’m ready for you.
At six o’clock on the dot, Jake Jackson pushes through the double doors in reverse. ‘You’re here! I knew you would be!’ he says. His hands are full with two large takeaway coffees. He sets one in front of me. ‘For you. Early starts are inhumane. This part never gets easier. But it’ll pass, trust me.’
I breathe in the warm, rich scent. Colombian triple roast. My all-time favourite coffee blend. And it’s extra-large, the kind of large that most people think is obscene and which contains at least four times the recommended daily allowance of caffeine. We sip in ceremonial silence until the caffeine trickles its way into our systems, the joyous hum of functionality kicks in and we start to light up.
‘So what are you expecting?’ Jake asks. His resemblance to his daughter is striking. They are the spitting image of each other, which relaxes me and makes me feel like I kind of know Jake already through Teagan.
‘Um, some filing, I guess. I’m pretty good at general admin; I can take messages, answer emails, fetch coffees, snacks. I can … Just give me a minute.’ I start groping around in my bag for my notebook. I find it, pull it out and flick through the coloured index tabs on the side.
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ he asks.
‘Oh, just some notes I wrote up. I did a little research last night – how to succeed in radio, five key ways to thrive in broadcasting, how to be the perfect intern in eighty-six simple steps, that type of thing. This is really new to me, I’ve never even been inside a studio before, so …’ I cough into my hand simply to stop involuntary words gushing from my mouth. Sure, this is just an internship, but there’s a host of other graduates who would bite Jake Jackson’s hand off, so the more I keep my cluelessness to myself, the better. ‘I’m really grateful and excited to be here. Anything you want me to do, just shout. I’m a fast learner.’
He laughs and holds out his hand. ‘May I?’
I pass him the notebook and he thumbs through my handwritten, dog-eared, multicoloured pages of notes, highlighted extracts and summarised key points. Actually, I’d started researching other fellowships and university posts outside of Banbridge last night but found myself googling radio FAQs at every opportunity. Maybe the prospect of this stint at FM105 is drawing me in more and more. Could it be that there is actually life and hope and a place for me outside of academia?
‘Very impressive. You didn’t do a little research; you did a lot of research.’
I shrug, delighted with being star student. ‘I like to be prepared.’
‘Sure, I understand.’ He licks his lips and leans forward in his chair so that his elbows rest on his knees. He looks conflicted.
Oh my God, he’s going to send me home! Say that it’s all a big mistake and I should probably leave now before we waste any more time …
‘How can I put this?’ He taps his fingers on the notebook. ‘I’m afraid all this research you did was a complete waste of your time.’ He flicks to a random page and traces his finger across it. ‘The majority of advice that you’ve got in here, things like “think of interesting questions to ask in advance, vary the tone of your voice and make encouraging noises to show that you’re paying attention, repeat back what you just heard or summarise it” – I really want you to forget all that.’ He closes my notebook. ‘It’s crap.’
He places my notebook in a drawer behind him and shuts it. I kind of squirm in my seat, not because I don’t like what I’m hearing but … I really like having a notebook. I lace my hands together nervously. Today could be long; very, very long.
‘Come here a sec, I want to show you something.’ He
swings around in his chair and walks over to the gallery wall at the back of the studio. I follow, pulling my fringe down over my right eye so that a thin veil of hair shields me against the looming presence of Dad’s photo in the top corner.
Jake waves a hand across the gallery of photos. ‘I make my living talking to people: I’ve been lucky enough to meet Olympians, billionaires, Nobel Prize winners and well-known people from every area. I talk to people I like. I talk to people I don’t like, and sometimes I have to talk to people I disagree with deeply on a personal level.’
I survey all the different characters from different eras and disciplines with this in mind. It is impressive. I think of my dad being here back in the day. Before Jake’s time of course but probably qualifying as one of the more tricky or obnoxious guests.
‘And it can be challenging. But the reason I think I can do it is because it all boils down to the same basic concept: be interested in other people. Simple as that. There is no reason to research or theorise or try to prove that you are paying attention in a fake way if you are in fact paying attention for real.’
He points to a large photo in the centre of the wall. ‘See that picture there? That’s my grandfather.’
Holy shit, I recognise this person; he’s super-famous, like best-friends-with-the-Queen famous. What’s his name? Ooh, this is the kind of question you get in round one of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? I should know it, don’t tell me …
‘Charlie Goldsmith!’ I squeal. ‘The journalist!’
Jake breaks into a smile. ‘You know him, cool. Well, I was really close to him. I never really cared about his work or anything the whole time I was growing up, but when I turned twenty, my girlfriend at the time and I found ourselves expecting a baby – quite a shock to us, even more so to our parents. I had to drop out of drama school, try and find a job, a place to live, learn to be a dad, how to feed, change, cope with sleeplessness … It was a steep learning curve. We had to grow up fast and at times it was hard.’
Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 15