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

by Colleen Coleman

  Astral looks me in the eye. ‘Sometimes it happens that way. The right person says the right thing at the right time. It’s like they have an instinct, they can tell what the world needs to hear, what it needs to remember. And this, Poppy, this is one of those times. Sit down there, catch your breath, and pinch yourself back to reality while I go get you a coffee. What’re you having?’

  ‘Oh, a latte, please. And a purple macaron!’

  I clench my fists and wriggle in my seat. How? What? When? I am having such a good time. No question, I’m having a ball.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Maybe it’s this crisp wintry, fairy-tale weather, that snuggly, fire-crackling, cosy-pub time of year that makes me think that I’m in love. In love with my work and my boyfriend and my netball girls. We won the semi-final by the skin of our teeth, but nonetheless, we are through to the Superleague final. Which is immense. It even looks like we may win. And we are IN FIGHTING FORM. Everything is going so well that sometimes I get a bolt of fear. Last night I dreamt that I was in a casino and I was winning. All around me I’ve got people telling me how wonderful I am and we’re all drinking and laughing. I roll again, almost casually, but it lands on the wrong number and I lose the lot. The suited casino guy sweeps all my chips away from me, the crowd around me disperses and I’m left alone. With nothing. Hero to zero in the blink of an eye.

  I open my bedroom window wide and breathe in the crisp, cool air. This weather is perfect. This weather could make people fall in love. This is the kind of weather where the world looks happy and peaceful and glorious, and people look rosy-cheeked and fresh-faced, and waiters smile at you, and strangers open doors for you, and you catch snatches of upbeat music as you wander from shop to bar to restaurant to pub hand in hand with your gorgeous boyfriend.

  Tom and I have been together, practically inseparable, EVERY SINGLE DAY since the day he handed me the flowers on the steps of Brixton underground nearly a month ago. That qualifies as a serious relationship. Because of course we’re not just talking days. No, siree. We are also talking nights. AND OH MY GOD. I do not feel for any friend, colleague or acquaintance the way I feel for him, feel around him, feel at the mere thought of him or mention of his name.

  Yesterday, we bumped into a friend of Tom’s while we were ice-skating and he introduced me as his girlfriend. Forget the ice sculptures. I was fit to melt. So he is officially now my boyfriend Tom Jones. I swirl it around in my mouth like something sweet and cool and exquisite. I say it aloud, trying it out like a new signature. Written in a new gel pen. A glittery new gel pen. My boyfriend. Does it sound too teeny-bopper? Too flippant?

  I consider the word ‘partner’. My partner Tom Jones.

  It sounds like we’re going to rob a bank or open a legal firm. Nah, I’m sticking with boyfriend. Tom Jones, the funniest, sexiest, yummiest man I have EVER been close to, is my boyfriend. And I am enraptured. I can’t exactly narrow it down to one thing. He’s funny. He’s honest. He’s kind. He surprises me. He listens to me. He’s full of plans and projects and dreams and I feel utterly contented when we lie in silence reading magazines on a rug, or when he drags me out for a run through the park, or when I’m eating a big Dirty Dicks burger in front of him with a mess of mayo and mustard all over my face. I know I love him because he brings light into my life. He makes me feel like I’m enough. In the middle of the night he throws his arm around me and murmurs my name. In the morning he kisses me on my head despite my hair looking like it’s starched and my eyes two black holes of unremoved eyeliner.

  So yes … the weather. This weather is the perfect backdrop for us. It’s weather you want to snuggle up inside, weather for a beautiful man to suggest that you stay in bed extra late at the weekends because its too chilly to get up, and then you have licence to stay put, with your head on your lover’s chest and kiss him and stroke him and just basically adore him.

  I am in love with everything. I sit in my room, filling my lungs with the homely smell of bubble and squeak that Frank is frying up for himself in the kitchen. I trace my finger over the name I etched into my desk fifteen years ago. It appears that I am in love with Tom Jones AGAIN. If I ever really stopped being in love with him, that is.

  I hear Mum pounding up the stairs. Oops. This is a ‘storm brewing’ ascent.

  Stomp, stomp. Mutters, ‘Ridiculous.’

  Stomp, stomp. Mutters, ‘For God’s sake.’

  Stomp, stomp. Slaps hand down on the banister knob at the top of the stairs.

  Big exasperated sigh. Sharp rap on my bedroom door.

  Pop goes my love bubble.

  I open the door to find her standing with a washing basket on her hip.

  ‘I’ve got a question. How is it that I have become responsible for washing, drying and folding not one, not two, but seven netball kits every week?’

  ‘We are a team,’ I tell her. ‘Everyone does their bit. Leanne already does so much, so I thought I’d volunteer to sort the kit out.’

  ‘A-ha.’ Mum points a long-nailed finger in the air. ‘But YOU are not sorting it out, are you, Poppy? So, Missus Radio, you can talk the talk but you either can’t or won’t walk the walk.’ She throws the washing basket down at my feet. ‘If you said you’d sort the kit, then sort the kit. I have my own job to do and my own life to lead, thank you very much, without playing nursery nurse to a fully grown woman.’

  I look down at the jumble of balled-up purple vests. Shit. They are filthy. She has just left them downstairs in the basket in a stinky, sweaty, mouldy mess since last Thursday’s training. The least she could have done was wash them and then hand in her notice, or refuse to wash them straight away so I could sort something else out.

  ‘Aw, Mum, come on! You can’t be serious! I need these for this evening – I can’t get them washed and dried in time now, can I? What am I supposed to tell the girls? What will Leanne think?’

  She closes her eyes and shrugs her shoulder. ‘Not my problem.’ But I know she adores Leanne; there’s no way she’d let her down. If Mum could daughter-upgrade, she’d definitely upgrade to a Leanne.

  She huffs and then points down the stairs to the hall table, waggling her finger at the various envelopes spilling over onto the phone and propped up against the picture frames. ‘And what about this pile of letters addressed to you? I’ve been asking you to sort through them for weeks now. But you just leave them to pile up and wait for someone else to step in and do the stuff that’s too boring or too hard for you to manage yourself. Usually when you get a letter from the tax office or the bank it’s because they have something important to tell you. But if you can’t even be bothered to open the damn things, well, I’m certainly not going to do it for you.’

  She gives me a cold, steely stare and sets her jaw. It’s true. I’ve been so taken up with working through my sackful of Hilary’s old letters that I’ve neglected all other forms of post; quite conveniently, I may add. There do seem to be a lot of bank statements and credit card notices amongst that lot.

  ‘You better clean up your act, young lady. In and out all times of day and night, treating this house like a hotel …’

  ‘You’re right, Mum. I’m sorry, I’ve just been so busy lately, with work and Tom—’

  She holds up her hands. ‘I don’t care what you’re up to with Tom. That’s your business. But you come in at all hours, not the slightest bit of consideration; you wake us up in the middle of the night, turning on all the lights, television blaring, making toast or cooking a pizza, and then what happens? You go off to bed expecting some little fairies to come and clear up after you. But of course THEY DON’T and I’m the one who wakes up to a big mess in the morning – dirty cups in the sink, butter left out. You are an absolute nightmare, Poppy Bloom, and if you don’t watch yourself, you’ll be out on your ear. I mean it, out in the big bad world to find your own place to live.’

  I straighten up. I can’t resist her goading. I can’t let her have the last word. That is the last thing I could ever let h
appen. If she wins an inch, it won’t just lead to her taking a mile. She will draw in vast uncharted expanses of ground, claim and conquer it, stockpiling it until she is unassailable. It’s crucial that I wrangle this inch from her.

  ‘Funny you should say that. It’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

  Mum raises a sarcastic eyebrow. ‘Oh really? Planning on venturing into the big bad world on your own, cooking and cleaning and paying your own bills? Have I just interrupted you in your house hunting? I’m ever so sorry.’

  ‘In a way, yes, I was just about to confirm timings with my letting agent.’

  Mum stretches out a hand to lean on the banister. ‘What timings?’

  ‘This evening. I’m viewing a property this evening,’ I lie.

  We stand facing each other in silence.

  But it is a good idea. And something I could do. And the timing couldn’t be more perfect. At the moment I’m staying at Tom’s place for much of the time, and that’s fine short-term while his flatmate Gav is away, but he may be back soon or he’ll have to sub-let his room. So I’m going to go house hunting! I’m going to move out! I’m going to have my own place! I’ve got the money to do it; even though I’m only freelance, the show is going from strength to strength, so it looks like I’ve got a long and bright future with 105 FM.

  Mum is shuffling on the spot, rubbing her eye to disguise the nervous twitch she’s got going on. I nearly laugh out loud. I know she doesn’t really want me to leave. She loves knowing my every movement and being in a position to critique and comment on every aspect of my life. But the possibility is starting to take shape in my mind – my own place, my own actual flat. Just for me. A rush bolts through me. This is PERFECT!

  She taps her fingers on the banister knob and squints at me. ‘This evening, you say?’

  I nod.

  ‘I thought you had netball this evening.’

  ‘I do. I’m going to the viewing straight afterwards. Leanne is coming with me. She’s a good negotiator.’ More lies. Lying is so easy. People who say they can’t lie are liars.

  ‘How much is your budget?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Reasonable. Modest. Average,’ I say with the precision of an economist.

  ‘And you’ve factored in utilities, furnishings, insurance, council tax, service charges, and contingency in the case of flood, burglary or electrical damage?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And the landlord? They’ve carried out all the necessary safety checks? Has the boiler been tested, checked for faulty wiring? Pests, rodents, woodlice? What about carbon monoxide poisoning; does it have an alarm?’

  ‘Sorted, all in hand.’

  She takes a deep breath. She thought I would crack under her pressure. Mum, nil: me, one.

  My phone rings in my pocket. ‘That’s probably the agent now, just confirming.’

  She still looks a little sceptical. I take it out and glance at the caller ID. It’s my ex-dad. I’ve missed loads of his calls the last few days and just ignored the texts. I’ve been so busy with work and Tom and netball and hangovers. I block the call and stuff my phone back into my pocket.

  ‘And how are you going to pay for it?’ she asks.

  ‘Um, with my salary? I’m on good money, you know,’ I try to reassure her. ‘More than I ever expected. I can cover the rent.’

  ‘But it’s not a permanent contract, Poppy, that’s what I’m afraid of. It could all go belly-up and you’ll be stuck with this enormous expense. Why don’t you just stay on here until they make things more secure, less risky?’

  ‘Mum, I am almost thirty years old. Even if I wasn’t with Tom or if I had a less-well-paid job, it would still be the right thing to do. It’s time for me to move out and start to build my own life, separate from you and Frank and Dad.’ I turn in the door to my room. ‘All of this belongs to you. You should be so proud because you earned it, you worked for it, it’s yours. And I need to do that too.’

  She stares down at the basket of dirty kit. ‘As long as you’re sure.’

  ‘I am,’ I tell her. And I mean it.

  ‘How soon do you think it will be?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  She rubs both eyes this time and a look of resignation descends on her face. Then she picks up the basket of dirty kit, sniffs a stray vest and pulls a face. ‘So I suppose as this will be the last time, I’ll make an exception. I’ll leave it folded on the dining room table.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘But sort out your letters before I burn them all. They’re an eyesore.’

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  ‘And promise me, if you see any old washing machines, sofas or mattresses in the garden, you’ll walk away.’

  I nod reassuringly.

  ‘Any snakes or ferrets or growling dogs,’ she persists.

  I wrap my arms around her shoulders and pull her tight. ‘You don’t have to worry. I’ll choose somewhere perfect.’

  And I mean it. I cannot wait to find my perfect new place.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘I’m going to get my own place,’ I announce to Jess and Laura in the changing rooms before our training session.

  Jess nods her head and sighs. ‘Oh you are so, so lucky! I’d do anything to move out of my place. Believe me, house sharing is hell! It’s fine when you’re a student, because you want to stay up all hours and make a mess, but as an adult, it’s horrendous. Oh just imagine, space, quiet … cleanliness!’

  Laura shakes her head. ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve lived by myself now for three years and it can be very lonely, believe me. The evenings drag, every sound in the house makes you jump. I hate living by myself: too many rooms, too much void.’

  I look to Laura. And then to Jess. And then back to Laura.

  ‘Where do you live Jess?’ I ask.

  ‘Kennington.’

  ‘And where do you live, Laura?’

  ‘Camberwell.’

  ‘Guys, you are practically neighbours! You could hang out! Jess, you could get your peace and cleanliness at Laura’s house; and Laura, Jess can come and keep you company!’

  Laura’s face flushes red. ‘Only if you wanted to, Jess. I wouldn’t like to intrude on your plans.’

  ‘Are you crazy! I would love to. I never knew we were so close. My geography of London is based on the tube map. Once I’m overground, I haven’t a clue where anywhere is. Oh Laura, let’s do it! I’ll bring a bottle of some gorgeous Aussie white wine I’ve been keeping for a special occasion.’

  For the first time, I see Laura’s face break out into a huge smile.

  ‘And I’ll cook. I love to cook. I’ll make my risotto. I haven’t done that in ever such a long time,’ she says.

  Leanne pops her head around the corner. ‘Enough gabbing, get on the court. We’ve got a game to play.’

  As I warm up, running the laps of the indoor court, I think about how Jake said that the Assassins had changed Teagan’s life. I feel that too. We look out for each other. We belong together somehow, despite our differences, and eccentricities and backgrounds. We fit. And we fit tight. Three times a week I come here to train with these girls. We get together rain or shine, knackered, broke, angry or covered in baby sick. We come straight from the office, straight from cooking dinner, straight from a fifteen-hour shift, straight from being fired or turned down for a bank loan. But we come. We gather here. Same place, same time, every other day. It’s a commitment to the game, sure. But it’s more of a commitment to each other. And when you invest so much in something, it’s worth fighting for.

  Two hours later, I’m at the letting agent’s office, still in my netball gear, sweaty and red-faced. Leanne had childcare issues so couldn’t come with me, but she did clap me on the back and wish me luck and invited everybody to my prospective housewarming.

  ‘But not till after the final,’ piped up Nikki, and the rest of the team nodded emphatically. We’ve got our date for the Superleague final against Team Oxbrid
ge, two weeks Sunday. We’re looking good for it: great rapport, tight passes, mean defence, two strong shooters. Well, one strong shooter, as Teagan’s mother has pulled her from the team to ensure that she’s not distracted from her scholarship application to a sports academy in the US. Izabel, the new cross-fit instructor from Leanne’s gym will join Assassins to make up our numbers She used to be the number-one MMA fighter in her native Poland. I’m glad she’s on our side.

  As the reality of what I’m doing sinks in, I start to feel very excited. My own place. To do as I please. To invite people in and share my space with them. I love Leanne’s idea of a housewarming party in my new flat, with my netball girls and Tom and Jake and the radio gang. There’ll be music, drinks, fairy lights, nibbles. It won’t be like a student party, with people mixing out-of-date drinks with forks in plastic cups, leading to dry-humping on the sofa and culminating in retching in the loo.

  No, that’s behind me now.

  This will be a classy party, grown-up, elegant but without formality; simplicity with sophistication. Everyone will rave about the limoncello and the rhubarb gin and how amazing cucumber ribbons are. There will be laughter. There will be love. There will be Kettle Chips with home-made salsa picante so good it’ll bring people together, nodding enthusiastically with mouths crammed with chips and dips.

  The letting agent seems nice. He’s about my age, wearing a blue designer suit that complements his gelled wavy hair and dark threaded eyebrows. His smile is curt, very busy, very businesslike. He hands me a wad of stapled property pages, complete with photos, inventories and floor plans, and we climb into the car.

  ‘I’m going to be straight with you, Miss Bloom,’ he tells me as he shifts gear and reverses out into the road. ‘What you’re saying you want and what your budget is saying you can afford are two completely different things.’ He skids into traffic and talks to me through the wing mirror.