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

by Colleen Coleman

  I can’t help it. I drunk-text Tom and then pass out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Okay, this is it. It is Monday. My first official show co-presenting with Jake. It’s been rebranded and launched as The Jake and Poppy Morning Show, and I’m beyond excited.

  When I woke up this morning, mum was already in the kitchen, fully dressed, with a full English breakfast on the table. ‘Big day needs a big fry-up,’ she said.

  ‘Mum, it’s crazy o’clock. Why are you up?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep. Too excited.’

  Yes. Excitement is a great euphemism for white-knuckle terror. I couldn’t actually sleep much either. So I went to my stash of Hilary’s unanswered letters and sat at my old school desk and penned answers to as many as I could until it was time to get ready for work. It was great. It helped me to get a handle on what kind of things are troubling people, and hopefully, when they get their reply, even if it’s way past the time when they can implement the advice, they’ll know someone at least read their letter. That someone actually gives a shit.

  When I arrive at the studio, Jake and Astral have arranged for a massive platter of macarons from Café Paul to be delivered, along with balloons and banners to celebrate the launch of the new-look show. I pay attention to my breathing. I want this to be a massive hit just as much as they do.

  I buckle in to my seat and brace myself for the morning ahead.

  I don’t understand what’s gone wrong. Two hours and nothing. Nada, zilch.

  ‘Wow, this morning sure is flying by – just a quick reminder that we have Dr Poppy here, live in the studio, ready, willing and waiting to take your calls and answer your emails or indeed your texts regarding any aspect of life that you need support with. Just an hour or so left to get those problems in to us at 105 FM.’ Jake plugs my unwanted presence for the fortieth time. I doodle dead horses being flogged.

  Nobody is calling in. Nobody is emailing. Not one of the four million 105 FM listening faithful wants to pick up the phone or tap out a message to me this morning. Not a single one. Anticlimactic doesn’t even begin to describe the extent of my stomach-hollowing disappointment. I find it very difficult to believe that the whole of London has woken up happy and problem-free. What has gone so wrong? Why is this happening to me? To make matters worse, I’ve told EVERYBODY to listen in. And everybody I know has told everybody else they know that I’m on the radio this morning. LIVE. So there are millions of listeners out there; it’s just that they are listening to me crash and burn. No, not even as dramatic or spectacular as that … they are listening to me flop and fizzle.

  Perhaps something miraculous has occurred. Perhaps a Pied Piper of psychological malaise rode into town late last night and drove out all modern social spectres of interpersonal conflict, self-doubt and existential despair. I doubt it. More like a good ole classic case of rejection. They don’t like me; perhaps Dr Winters was more perceptive than I gave her credit for. I lack charisma, the presence needed to draw people in. Yeah. I’ve heard that before. This was all a ridiculous idea, a ridiculous and highly mortifying idea.

  We are into the last stage of the show and it looks like it’s been a complete washout. Despite everyone thinking Hilary was such a monster, she was obviously much better at attracting listeners’ attention than I am. Not one listener has made contact. That is shockingly bad. I have sent the ratings graph on Astral’s screen spiralling downwards.

  And yet Jake seems completely unfazed by the lack of response. He reckons it’s just because this is a new segment; people take a while to warm up to changes to their established routine. ‘It’s nothing to be concerned about, Poppy. Give it time and the calls will come,’ he tells me. He can see I’m upset even though I’m trying to stay upbeat. In between segments, I ask him to show me how to play sound effects and pre-recorded advertisements; we choose some songs together; we create some new clues for ‘You Do the Maps’.

  As we’re eating the last of the macarons, Astral begins to rap frantically on the glass partition. She’s flapping. ‘Poppy, you have a problem!’

  Yes, I think I know that, Astral. I’m a doctor with no patients. I’m a presenter with no audience. I’m as useless as a bicycle with no wheels. I know I’ve got a problem. What’s weird is that she seems so freakin’ happy about it!

  She raises her hand to her ear in a phone gesture and then mouths, ‘We’ve got a CALLER! A caller with a PROBLEM for YOU!’

  I straighten up in my chair, take a sip of water and lean in to the microphone.

  ‘Good morning, caller, this is Dr Poppy, tell me what’s on your mind.’

  There’s a hiss and a click. Caller one: Miss Demeanour from south London shows up on my display board.

  ‘Caller one, Miss Demeanour from south London, are you still on the line?’

  ‘Hi, yes, I’m on the line and I’ve got a question for Dr Poppy. Are you there, Poppy?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’

  ‘ARE YOU THERE, POPPY? Can you speak nice and loud? I’m hard of hearing so you’re going to have to speak up if you want me to hear you. Now tell me, ARE YOU THERE?’

  Omg. It’s Shanice. I’d recognise her sassy accent anywhere. She told me she’d have my back, and here she is. Rescuing me from obscurity. Oh Shanice, you diamond. I love you, girl.

  I stretch my arms above my head, sit up straight and shout into the microphone, loud and clear, ‘Yes, caller! I AM HERE!’

  ‘Well, good. Because I need your help. I know this girl, she’s fun, she’s smart, she’s strong, she’s beautiful. But she doesn’t know it. And I know you’re going to say well, isn’t that a good thing? Who wants to be around someone who is up themselves? But I mean, this girl, she REALLY doesn’t know it. And my problem is that she’s not the only one I know like that. I’m seeing these women everywhere, at work, among my friends and family. Why is it that these girls just don’t believe in themselves?’

  My heart swells in my chest. Shanice is making me think. Why don’t girls believe in themselves? Why don’t I believe in myself? How can I inspire anyone if I keep second-guessing my own abilities and believing in failure over success?

  ‘Thanks, caller, thanks for picking up the phone this morning and thanks for asking such a great question. What can I say? Show me a woman who doesn’t doubt herself and I’ll show you a rare specimen. Whether it’s our looks, our relationships or our performance at work, there’s always something we wish we could change. There’s always something we think we could do better, something we wish we had more of and something we wish we didn’t have at all. My big arms. That bump in my nose. The muffin top I can no longer pack in to Spanx and that won’t budge no matter how many sit-ups I do or how many carbs I give up.

  ‘Show me a gorgeous woman with the perfect family and a great position at work and I can bet you her high salary that there’s something about herself she wishes she could change. A study of the most influential women in the world has showed that all of them have one major thing in common. They all suffer, in one way or another, from an invisible symptom – lack of confidence.’

  I swallow hard. I’m going in. This is important.

  ‘And I know this to be true because I feel it myself. I was feeling it five minutes ago before you called in, Miss Demeanour. I thought I’d failed, that I was undeserving. That I wasn’t up to scratch.’

  Astral is nodding fervently behind the screen. She’s feeling it too. I know I’m not on my own here.

  ‘So are we born this way? Or did we learn it along the way? I believe it is learnt behaviour. And everything we learn, we can of course unlearn. So what can these women do for themselves? What can we do to grow in confidence? I would say do something that scares the crap out of you, and fail at it. And repeat. Repeat until you couldn’t care less who’s watching.’

  ‘I like it, Dr Poppy. I like it because it makes sense to me. But don’t you think there’s something we can do to show women and girls everywhere that they’ve got our support?’

&nb
sp; Ha! Shanice and her movements. She’s a bona fide social activist. But what can we do? Something visual, impactful, but simple enough that people will want to do it, will want to take part.

  I think of confident, strong women who support each other, who have supported me, and instantly the Assassins’ purple kit comes to mind.

  ‘Purple,’ I say. ‘Why don’t we all wear purple on Friday? Come on, people of London, stick a purple jumper on, or use your favourite purple umbrella. Let’s send the message out to our girls and women that it’s okay for them to be themselves. That we’ve got their backs.’

  Shanice whoops down the phone. ‘Now you’re talking! Great show, Dr Poppy – and you keep that voice nice and loud so that I can hear you!’

  ‘Well thank you, Miss Demeanour. I sure will.’

  Astral points to the clock: nearly time for the ten o’clock news.

  ‘I just got one last thing I need to ask you. Just a quick one.’

  ‘Very quickly, Miss Demeanour, fire away.’

  ‘Friend of mine, Tom, he got a message late at night from this girl, but it’s made him confused. He doesn’t know if it was an accident or a joke or if it’s serious … because he thought she was quite shy so he doesn’t know how to play it now. What do you suggest, Dr Poppy?’

  I flare red. ‘I see. Maybe tell Tom that if he doesn’t want anything more to happen, delete the message, pretend it never happened and move on. But if he does want more—’

  ‘Oh, I think he wants more!’ giggles Shanice down the line.

  ‘Well in that case, he should call her, text her, show up on her doorstep … anything, just let her know.’

  The midday news cuts over us and I slump back in my chair, my stomach in shreds. ‘Why do I feel like I’ve just come off a roller-coaster?’ I ask Jake.

  ‘Ha! That’s live radio for you. Just when you think you know what’s coming next, bam! it takes you on a completely new ride. Purple Day, eh? Well, that’s one I didn’t see coming. Go home and get some rest. I think we’re going to have a pretty interesting time this week. Oh, and I’ve got a little something for you.’

  Jake hands me a flimsy handwritten envelope. I recognise the careful penmanship instantly. Would I be right to guess that there is a slightly higher lift to the curves and sweeps of the letters? Are things looking up for Benny, or am I just imagining it? I open it up and begin to read.

  Dear Poppy,

  It worked!

  I’m so pleased to be in a position to write you this letter, to give you this update. I’m indebted to you for your help.

  I followed your advice and met with my lady friend at her cottage, and she asked me to join her for tea in the garden, which I promptly accepted. She chatted gaily about the lavender beds, the weather, the new kitten I had brought her the previous week – how she was settling in, the unusual colouring of her eyes and various aspects of feline psychology. All very pleasant indeed.

  However, I was aware that I had a mission to complete and by passively basking in this wonderful lady’s charm I was not quite pulling my weight. So I steeled myself, your encouragement and guidance ringing in my ears, and told myself, ‘Come on, man! You can do it!’ With that, I took a deep breath and came out with it!

  I may have startled her; the suggestion to choose a pot together might have been a little unexpected. Unfortunately, she was in the middle of pouring a second cup of tea and she jumped in surprise, causing her to drop the teapot. It crashed to the ground and, being delicate fine bone china, shattered into pieces.

  But who could have guessed that this would be so serendipitous! We both flew to the ground to pick up the scattered shards. I commented that it was a beautiful teapot and that it was a shame to discard it even though it was now broken. She thought for a moment, then smiled in her gracious way and said, ‘I have had this tea set for over half my life. It was a gift from my daughter. I have sipped tea from it with my mother, my sisters, my friends. Its value is beyond its function to me. This old china has found its way deep into the creases of my heart. I can’t discard something that’s served me so well; it would feel disloyal.’

  And then it struck me! There is more than one way to choose a pot!

  I suggested that we use the shards of china as mosaic tiles and set them into a wet clay pot so that she can keep her beloved teapot and create a much-loved piece for her garden at the same time.

  Poppy, the idea brought tears to her violet eyes. She clapped her hands together and thanked me and called me ‘a treasure’, and then she kissed me on the cheek. I said to her, ‘We’ve only just begun,’ and she laughed and laughed.

  Today has been the most wonderful day. Thank you, Poppy, for attending to my letter, and thank you for sharing your gift for making lives such as mine shine with hope and promise.

  Yours in gratitude,

  Benny, aka the Smitten Gardener

  My heart pounds in my chest. Oh Benny! We did it! We both did it! And I can tell you, you spurred me on as much as I did you! Marvellous. Blooming marvellous.

  I skip up the steps of the tube station. At the top, facing into the crowd, stands Tom, the fading sunlight against his back. I catch his eye and take the slow final steps towards him. He hands me a bunch of Frank’s flowers. ‘Returning my call?’ I ask, and then, before I even realise what I’m doing, I’ve wrapped my arms around his neck and my cheek is pressed up against his.

  But we stay there a beat too long. I’m not sure how to go forward, but I’m certain that I don’t want to step back. I want to stay. I want more. I want to be enveloped by him.

  I feel him shift his weight ever so slightly forward and then take a deep breath that presses me closer to his chest. I do the same; like a silent dancer taking slow, deliberate steps, I mirror his every move. My hips slip closer to his. My skin feels fluid. He lowers his head just as I raise mine, and we are so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my lips. He brushes his mouth against mine. My fingers slide upwards, over his neck, across his jaw, to lightly hold both sides of his beautiful, beautiful face. And then it happens. I taste him and I realise that I have been starving. My heart rises in my swelled chest and my hands can’t bring him close enough to me. I hold my breath. He kisses me again, fully, breathlessly, wildly. And the space between us explodes.

  I have kissed men before, but it did not feel like this. I have looked into their eyes, but they did not burn me alive. Whether it lasts a few seconds or a few minutes, I don’t know. All I know is that I have been waiting for this person since always. I have been waiting for Tom since always.

  I can feel his eyes on mine. Then on my lips. And down towards my neck. He blinks and nods his head. I thread my fingers through his, and we take our first steps together.

  Chapter Twenty

  As I wait for the bus to work on Friday morning, I take a moment to consider how lucky I am. I’m lucky that people have invested in me and lifted me when I was low. And now, look … I’ve got an amazing job and what looks like the beginnings of an amazing relationship, and I feel there’s so much more to look forward to. So much more to come. And I don’t want to keep this to myself. I don’t want to stop now, at this level; I want to make as much of a noise as possible. I want the world to know how with the right support and a little bit of faith and a good dose of feel-the-fear-but-do-it-anyway, you can actually transform your life.

  If only I could get that message out there. I know I can say it, but how do I know if anyone is really listening beyond the individuals themselves? How do I know, at grass-roots level, that we are in fact making some kind of wider positive change?

  I board the bus, and something strikes me as unusual … cool but unusual. My Sikh bus driver is wearing a purple turban. I watch a gaggle of uniformed air stewardesses chattering at the back of the bus; all of them have purple ribbons in their hair. I look out the window, where a businessman is sporting a purple tie, a runner with her dog is wearing a purple fleece and leggings, and the display in the Body Shop window is c
ompletely purple – little bottles, pots and potions in every shade of purple, lavender to mulberry, with a poster in the middle reading: The Body Shop supports 105 FM Wear it Purple Day. #girlpride Let’s hear it for our girls! I am overwhelmed by the moving purple landscape before me. It’s like the city has been Photoshopped. There is purple EVERYWHERE.

  I arrive at the doors of the studio. Even the security guards have purple gloves on. Tariq and Lee are here every morning, either side of the doorway, rain or shine. Tariq curls a lip at me and holds up his purple hand. ‘Hey, where’s your purple, Poppy? This was your idea, right?’

  I smile, pull off my bobble hat and shake out my swingy purple hair that my mum dyed for me last night. They bend over laughing and take out their phones for a selfie: #girlpride #purpleday105 FM.

  Astral rushes to me at the door of the studio. She is head to toe in a sequinned purple jumpsuit. ‘Oh Poppy, we’ve got a REVOLUTION on our hands … come over here, wait till you see this.’ She brings me into her office; every screen is showing the same image: Buckingham Palace, draped in purple bunting.

  I look at her, paralysed with disbelief.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. It doesn’t get more real than this. The internet has gone INSANE!’

  ‘Oh my God, what have I done? I thought it would just be … Well, I never really thought.’