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

by Colleen Coleman

  I study the photo. There’s a fatherly, Churchillian air to this man’s kind, lined face. He is sitting in a large leather chair, a pile of heavy books at his side and a resting dog at his feet.

  ‘This picture was taken at that time; Charlie had just suffered a stroke and he needed some help. He offered me a job as his PA. It worked out like a dream. I got to bring my daughter Teagan to work with me, I got to spend time with my grandfather and learn all about his work in a way I never appreciated before. I look back and I think it may have been one of the happiest times of my life.’

  ‘I know Teagan from netball, she’s a great girl!’ I tell him, remembering the stark contrast between the pale, shy girl I met on the bus, the warrior I saw on the court and then the panic-stricken, hyperventilating teen I found in the changing rooms afterwards. So much internal angst; so many dimensions to the one character.

  ‘Ah, of course! You’re an Assassin!’ he says, recalling the connection.

  I nod proudly.

  ‘Yes, being part of that team has made the world of difference to Teagan. They let her be herself, you know? They’ve taken her into their bosom, and once you’re in, well, like any tribe, they treat each other like family. Very loyal.’ He sighs deeply. ‘She wouldn’t want you to know this, but she suffers terribly from anxiety. It’s getting better, but it’s still there. Very hard for a parent to know how to help. It breaks my heart to see her suffer. I just want to protect her.’

  I think back to her panic attack and the way she wanted me to keep it a secret from her dad – she wanted to protect him too.

  ‘If Teagan ever wants to talk, or text or email me, please let her know she’s welcome. I’m really fond of her, and if I can help, I’d love to.’

  ‘That’s really kind, Poppy. I’ll tell her.’

  He smiles and studies the tiny lettering engraved on a brass plate at the bottom of the photo frame. Forever in our hearts. I have a vague recollection of a news story from a few years ago reporting how Charlie Goldsmith had died in his sleep, surrounded by family.

  ‘You still miss him,’ I observe.

  ‘Every day. I learnt a lot from him. Charlie was a true people person, and if he couldn’t make it to them, my job was to ensure that they came to him. We brought all sorts of people to the house, at all hours. I’d greet them, fetch them whatever they needed and show them into Charlie’s room. Afterwards he’d say, “Do you know who that was?” I’d shake my head, and he’d say, “That was a man who forgave his wife’s murderer”, or “That was a girl who sailed around the world alone”, or “That was the Prime Minister’s mother.”’

  He wipes his face with his hand. ‘The point I’m making is that I started to change my expectations. Everyone I met, whether in Charlie’s house or not, I expected them to have something special, something unique or extraordinary about them. And I still do. And if you trust that people have that, and expect it, then it will happen and you’ll never have to feign interest, because real people and their stories are the most interesting, most extraordinary experiences we can share.’

  I think he may be right. Listening to him, I didn’t need to insert an encouraging grunt or empathetic head waggle once. I just listened. The way I felt Tom listened to me the other night – with an open mind and full attention.

  ‘Missing your notebook?’

  And I realise I’m not missing it at all. Not one bit. I’m not referencing or researching or footnoting or paraphrasing. I don’t feel like anyone is testing me or trying to catch me out or contradict me for the sake of argument. I used to be shy because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find the right words to describe what I wanted to say. That I’d be misunderstood. But the right words are there. And for the first time, I feel that I can find them. Express them. Hear them. Maybe they’ve been there all along but I didn’t trust them. I presumed other people knew better.

  ‘No, actually. I like this freestyling. It’s liberating,’ I admit.

  ‘Good. And fun?’

  ‘Very fun,’ I answer.

  He claps his hands together. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere … Let’s get this show on the road.’

  A girl with long wavy hair and a silver nose ring bursts through the double doors and blows us both a kiss. ‘Good morning, cosmonauts!’ she announces. She is the closest thing to magic I’ve ever seen. Her hair is literally other-worldly – a marbled blend of dark indigo, pale green and every other shade of galactic night sky you can imagine. How does she do that? Is brunette to aurora borealis a common colour change? I would pay to see my mum’s face if she was asked for this at her salon. It is mesmerising.

  Jake gives her a big wave. ‘Astral, this is Poppy – remember, the one who sent Hilary packing on Friday’s show?’

  Astral, the galaxy girl, laughs out loud. ‘Oh my God! You killed the wicked old witch! How can we ever repay you?’ she says.

  I actually feel like Dorothy, tripping over my tongue to explain that I didn’t mean to, I’m really sorry.

  Astral presses her palms together. ‘We hated her.’ Then she throws back her head with a mock-sinister laugh and dances a little victory jig. ‘Ding-dong, the witch is dead! No more Hilary! Happy days! So I guess Carol, the other wicked old witch, will be lining up some airhead celebrities to take her spot?’

  Jake shrugs. ‘Let’s just wait and see.’

  He turns to me. ‘Poppy, this is Astral, our producer. She runs the show. Any time she makes a face or gives any kind of hand gesture, it’s best to just do what she wants or else she’ll ask the universe to thwart your abundance or something to that effect; I’m not brave enough to ask.’

  Astral gives me a massive wink. ‘Right, so agenda for today: music is all lined up, as is the news; competitions, some more phone-ins and stuff to give away. But this is the biggie. Later on this week, we’ve got Khloe Fox in for an exclusive about her new tell-all autobiography.’

  Jake twists his lips and draws his eyebrows together.

  Astral fills him in. ‘Khloe Fox is twenty years old and she’s famous for having sex on TV – and that’s it. That is the sum total of her contribution to the world.’

  She turns to me. ‘So, Poppy, I’ll introduce you to the behind the scenes crew; they’ll set you up with a log in and show you the ropes regarding social media, advertising, accounts all that stuff, and show you to the mail room. Then you’ll be ready to access the show’s email account and you can start weeding out our inbox. Sound okay?’

  I nod fervently.

  ‘Right, guys, nearly show time. Poppy, the next coffee run is at nine. Café Paul is in the market; he’ll be expecting you.’

  At 8.50, I make my way over to Café Paul, just a stone’s throw from the studio. It is the most gorgeous little coffee shop you have ever seen. Gingham tablecloths, fresh flowers, quirky French jazz playing softly in the background, along with the most scrumptious smell of freshly baked bread. The patisserie counter is a work of art: a glassy mosaic of fruit slices and choux spheres.

  ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle! Ça va?’ calls out the smiling moustached waiter behind the counter.

  ‘Ça va bien! Très bien!’ I tell him.

  This place is heaven. Why have I never been here before? It’s a short bus journey from my house and yet I never even knew it existed. I’ve spent so much time away from home that I’ve forgotten what amazing places exist on my own doorstep. From now on I’m going to rediscover my home city inch by inch, profiterole by profiterole, macaron by macaron … my favourites!

  As I push back through the double doors with our coffees, I can hear Astral’s voice booming from the glass-panelled sound box.

  ‘I for one can actually feel that today is going to be amazing!’ She glances up at the huge clock. ‘On air again in two minutes, Jake. Be ready to rock.’

  I can’t believe how quickly the days pass. By Thursday, I am fully at home at the FM105 studio. I feel part of the crew, part of the family. I look out the window to take in the sunrise, a glorious golden sym
metry breaks forth tinged with spectacular shades of pastel purple and pale pink stretching over the cityscape. I’m not religious so it’s hard to know who to thank, but gratitude is definitely due. So I thank my lucky stars, wherever they may be. Astral calls to me. ‘Poppy, you come this way.’ We sweep out of the studio, away from the panorama of the skyline, and she directs me to a tiny windowless mail room at the end of the hall. ‘Welcome to the mail room. You’re best tucked up in here away from all the drama, to be honest. Carol King is on her way in, and she’s in one of her moods.’ She rolls her eyes.

  ‘Who’s Carol King?’ I ask.

  ‘The big boss of the radio section, so we’ve got to toe the line. She’s a nightmare. She goes for style over substance at every opportunity – complete media vulture. If it attracts attention, good or bad, she jumps on it, regardless of anything else. Hence we have Khloe Fox in the studio today.’ Astral mimics putting her fingers down her throat. ‘So best leave you in here for now, okay? There are sackloads in here to clear. I’ll leave it totally to your discretion. Shred or burn the lot if you like: your call. Have fun!’ she hollers and disappears out of the door.

  I look around. Not so bad. About twelve big black sacks, a shredder, a filing cabinet, a laptop and a portable heater. Almost my natural habitat. I rip open my first bag.

  I don’t notice the time passing until Astral pokes her head around the door. ‘Wow, you’ve done well! Fast work, Poppy!’

  I’ve sifted, sorted and shredded most of it already; since ninety-five per cent of it was old competition entries, fan mail, postal requests for shout-outs, press releases for celebrity tour dates and a handful of bizarre complaints regarding satanic music, it was pretty straightforward. And what right do I have to complain? It certainly beats tarot reading.

  ‘Anything worth keeping?’ she asks, not looking especially hopeful.

  I shake my head and point to the last bag. ‘I haven’t opened that one yet, though, so who knows?’

  ‘Ooh, that one could be interesting. Everything in there is addressed to Hilary.’ She gives a dramatic shiver. ‘Anyway, leave that for now. I doubt there’s anything in there that needs your urgent attention. Khloe Fox is on her way in; could you meet her downstairs and escort her up, please? She’s due on air in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say as I shred my last page and brace myself to meet my first celebrity.

  Khloe Fox, nipped, tucked and sucked, is perched on the passenger seat of her car, splay-legged in a tiny miniskirt despite the freezing winter wind, facing a sea of paparazzi. I catch her eye and she nods blankly before dipping her chin coquettishly and widening her legs to the photographers a few inches more.

  She tries to haul herself up by gripping the frame of the car door but slides back down again, her heavily made-up face and bloated lips making her expression impossible to read. She tries again, slides again and swears loudly. I muscle through the crowd, secure my hand under her elbow and give it a one, two, three lift. She is on her feet but she is unsteady, teetering on skyscraper stilettos.

  ‘Where’s the studio?’ she asks.

  I nod to the top storey. ‘Up there,’ I tell her.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she mumbles, and we start tottering our way to reception, her tiny skirt inching its way up her thighs with every step. It takes me twenty minutes to escort her upstairs, then she stops to reapply her make-up despite the fact that she is already running late and it’s radio after all. Who is going to see her? But it’s clear that Khloe Fox does not take orders from anyone, especially a lowly intern like me.

  By the time we finally reach the studio, Astral is red-faced and flustered. She gives Jake an exasperated thumbs-up, and he nods and pulls the spongey microphone to his lips while Khloe Fox sits down and negotiates her headphones over her enormous rock-hard hair.

  ‘Welcome back, London! Happy Monday to all and sundry, and if you’ve just joined us, wow, have we got a smashing line-up for you here today on the 105 FM morning show with yours truly, Jake Jackson. All the usual antics, with something a little bit different coming up for you too – an exclusive with reality TV star and self-confessed gold-digger Khloe Fox, live in the studio right now. Khloe, lovely to have you. How are you this morning?’

  ‘Um … can I get a drink or something?’ she says. ‘I need a Diet Coke. Now.’

  Astral flashes me a look and I scramble to the drinks machine. Jake fills the dead airtime with snippets from Khloe’s file: her rise to fame, her future career plans. She remains silent until she has drained the last drop from her Coke, and then she appears to come to life.

  ‘So, I understand you’ve been keeping very busy lately,’ says Jake. ‘Your autobiography is out, a new TV series, even a new single. Can you tell us a little bit about that?’

  Sigh. Bu-rrrrrrrp. BUURRRPPPPPP. She is burping LIVE ON AIR.

  Astral press her palms into her face; Jake shuffles in his chair. Khloe Fox sits and belches into her mic and I decide it’s best that I do what Astral said and hide in the back, out of drama’s way.

  In the mailroom, I tear open the final bin bag. Hilary’s mail. It’s clear how much she valued her listeners by the way she ignored every piece of mail addressed to her. I pick some out at random. The postmarks show them to date back more than three years. I think it’s dreadful that she hasn’t at least acknowledged those who asked her for help. I grab a handful and stuff them into my bag for later. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can help even if Hilary won’t. My heart twitches when I think of the care and courage it takes to pick up a pen and share your innermost struggles with somebody else. I can’t shred anything in this bag. It would be wrong. Sacrilegious. So I start to file them in order of newest to oldest. Something needs to be done with them, and I’m now in a position to see that it is. Like an unfinished sentence or a lingering question, these people need a response.

  Then I find a flimsy airmail envelope and open it to find a handwritten letter.

  I brush the soft, tissue-thin paper between my fingers. The letter is written in old-fashioned blue fountain pen ink by a very light hand, the pressure virtually feather-light yet the characters perfectly formed, a smooth, quaint cursive with a slight quiver that could indicate an elderly hand or perhaps someone trembling with nerves. All the sentences in the body of the letter slant rather extremely to the left, which almost always means an introverted or reluctant character in terms of self-expression. A graphologist might claim that this is a classic marker of someone holding themselves back or fearful about pushing themselves forward in life. I could happily take myself off into a quiet corner somewhere and feed on the rich interpretative quality of this delicately penned letter right now.

  I open out the folded paper to discover a tiny bouquet of dried lavender, delicate purple florets taped to the bottom corner. I raise it to my nose and fill my senses with the gentle scent of it; a sweet floral perfume mingled with fresh air and rich earth. It smells wonderful. What a darling little letter, and I haven’t even read one word of it yet.

  My heart jumps with fright as out of the blue Astral bursts into the mailroom. Is it a fire? Has somebody collapsed? I leap to my feet. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Find something, anything!’ She points to the little stacks of letters I’ve made on the desk. She has an eye-popping, hysterical expression on her face. ‘It’s a car crash out there. Khloe Fox … Khloe Fox is just HORRENDOUS! Help me! Help us! Find something, something nice and normal and, well, miraculous. You have two minutes. Don’t let me down, Poppy.’

  I scan the room for a moment and then my eyes settle on the flimsy airmail letter. I think it’s just the thing Astral is looking for. I hand it to her and she scans through it, then presses her palms together as if in prayer and mouths, ‘Thank you thank you thank you.’

  Back in the studio, she raps her knuckles against the glass partition that separates her and Jake. ‘Right, we’re going to go with this.’ She glances at me. ‘Poppy, in there beside Jake. Take
Khloe Fox’s seat. Jake, have a quick read-through and be ready when I signal you.’

  What do you mean, sit in there beside Jake? I’m the intern. My place is way out the back. You asked me to FIND something; I didn’t realise that meant becoming an emergency presenter.

  Jake pushes the microphone away, takes off his earphones and tries to catch my eye. ‘You okay? You’re looking very pale.’

  ‘I feel sick,’ I say.

  ‘Nonsense. You can do this, Poppy. Get that down you.’ He pours a splash of his coffee into an empty cup and I take a massive gulp.

  I seriously don’t think I can do this LIVE, without preparation. Before, I was just a listener; I could hang up or go silent any time I wanted. Being a presenter means taking charge, being responsive. Handling shit as it emerges. And who knows what’s going to emerge? I feel my internal organs convulse with fear and nerves and utter fucking horror at the idea that four million people are going to hear me blabber LIVE ON AIR across the capital. Four million people! I can’t even quantify that, I can’t imagine it. I’ve never seen four million anything – it’s unfathomably huge. I take off my headphones. I’m not ready to do this. I want to go back to the mailroom.

  Astral is dizzied by the flashing updates on her many screens. ‘Poppy, we need you on air. Khloe Fox has caused uproar. We need to pull this back quickly, or we’re all finished.’

  Jake nods in my direction. ‘No pressure, then.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Jake,’ I say. ‘I know I came to you and asked you for this chance, but actually, I don’t think I can do it. It’s just overwhelming. I can’t make stuff up on the spot and casually dish out advice when I know that millions of people are listening.’