‘Your current budget as is … well, it’s really the low end of the market.’
Really? My budget is HUGE! Well, I thought it was huge …
‘To be honest, if you were my sister or my friend, I’d advise against it. Not just from the aesthetic point of view, either; I think you know that bedsits and top-floor council flats are not pretty. But from a security point of view, a young woman living alone? There’s no two ways about it: you’re vulnerable. Do you watch Crimewatch?’
I shake my head. I watch Gilmore Girls.
He nods like it’s no surprise. ‘Was there much crime in your last area of residence?’
I shake my head. In my first year at Banbridge, someone tried to steal my bike from outside the pub but then returned it the next day with a ‘sorry’ note.
‘Not really,’ I tell him.
‘In that case, I’d recommend something a little more secure.’
I shift up in my seat. ‘Really? Is that what the stats and police figures actually say?’
He gives me a wry smile and puts his hand on his heart. ‘Not in their interests to reveal that kind of thing; feminists would call it scaremongering. Media would eat them alive. But I’m telling you what I know from experience. Trust me.’
Is he telling the truth and looking out for me, or is he just a bullshitting sales weasel? I don’t know. I just can’t tell. I flick through the pages on my lap and remind myself to stay open-minded and objective, not get glassy-eyed with sales patter. I lift out the first property profile in the pile. A tall seventies tower block that looks more like a cheap filing cabinet than a place to call home. I flick through to the next one; it’s on top of a kebab shop, which is simultaneously a pro and a con, so I investigate further. The second page shows the interior. And it’s grim; VERY grim. Looks like a squatters’ den, dirty blankets, cans and plastic bags strewn around. Disgusting. Not the right context for my salsa picante at all.
‘So, before we waste any of your precious time – is this what you really want? For me to drag you around and show you these dives? Let you see for yourself how low the lower end of the scale actually is?’
I think he’s playing me, trying to get me to spend more. I roll up the pages and wave them at him like a baton. ‘Hold up a second. This can’t be right. How does anyone live in London if this is what you get for hundreds of pounds’ rent every single week?’ I ask, like I’m Erin Brockovich blowing the lid on the whole rip-off rental operation.
‘They share,’ he answers baldly. ‘All those properties you’ve got there are single-occupant. If you want a better but not necessarily bigger place, you’ll have to compromise on space and privacy.’ He opens the glove compartment and hands me a new wedge of property profiles.
I flick through and my heart sinks even more. One tiny bathroom to share between four people. Bedrooms the size of my mum’s wardrobe. A kitchen that looks like it belongs in a caravan. And then there is the issue of living with strangers day to day. What if they are complete knobs? What if they are really messy or loud or work nights so I have to creep around all day? What if they eat smelly food like herring and keep it in the fridge uncovered beside all my food and then everything I eat and drink tastes like it’s been infused with a dirty, vinegary, fishy smell? I nearly make myself gag. I open the window and let the breeze cool me down. Maybe Mum was right: I should stay on at home for a bit longer. Living with my parents can be annoying, but is living with a motley crew of strangers really a forward step?
I lay the brochures down on my lap.
I think about Mum and Frank. It’s really not that bad at home. I’m safe and I’ve got my own room and there’s always fresh milk and bread and toilet paper. Nobody eats anything smelly and we’ve got extensive Tupperware to ensure clean and compact storage of all perishables. Hmmmm … It’s a lot to give up. Maybe I should knock this on the head now. It’s hard to leave behind a nice family home only to pitch up somewhere smaller, smellier, more crowded and more expensive.
But then I think of Tom.
It’s not just a space for me now, is it? It’s a space for my new life. For dinner parties and Netflix and Pimm’s in the garden and lazy broadsheet Sundays in bed. And an Italian coffee machine. And a cat. And a hammock. Somewhere I can call my own.
I turn to the agent. ‘Okay then, what are my options? Tell me what I can do.’
He makes a swift turn off the main road. ‘Well, there is a new development that’s just come on the market. I literally saw it two minutes before you arrived at the office. Highly desirable location, spacious layout, comes fully furnished with all modern conveniences and finished to a very high standard throughout. Ideal pad for successful young professionals.’
I like the sound of that; a new label. I’m not an old student but a young professional.
We drive through the secure gates. There are manicured lawns on each side, some vintage wooden benches, a communal barbecue area. It looks like it may have been an old schoolhouse in a former life; charming and whitewashed, perfect fusion of old and new. A girl, a woman, about my age cycles up beside us and parks her bike. She’s fit, tanned, smiling. She could be my neighbour. She could call around and we could chat and drink wine. When she has a party, she could invite me and I could make a whole new fleet of friends. We could go cycling together. I want this.
‘Excuse me,’ I say as she takes off her helmet.’ Do you live here?’
‘Yes,’ she says with a slight accent: Swedish? Norwegian? ‘Are you thinking of moving in?’
I nod.
‘It’s wonderful. Best place I’ve lived since arriving in London. Once I saw it, I thought to myself, I must have it, you know?’
‘Yes, I can imagine. It’s really lovely.’
She tilts her head at me. ‘Do I know you?’ she asks.
‘I don’t think so.’
She shakes her head as if trying to shake off a thought. ‘No, ignore me. It’s just the way you spoke, it was like I knew you. You must sound like a friend of mine or something.’
The agent’s phone rings. ‘Don’t mind if I take this, do you?’
‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘Take your time.’
‘Dr Poppy! From the radio! You sound just like Dr Poppy,’ she gasps. ‘I knew you reminded me of someone!’
‘Wow …’ I say. ‘Actually, I am Dr Poppy.’
She drops her water bottle and I bend down to pick it up. When I hand it back to her, she is beaming from ear to ear. ‘I love your show. I love love love it. I’ve even told my friends from Sweden to listen to your podcasts online! I love you! I’ve never met a celebrity before!’
‘Well, celebrity sounds a bit ambitious—’
She cuts me off in excitement. ‘And remember Benny! Aw, I can’t lie! I cried when he plucked up his courage. All for love!’
‘That’s amazing, thank you so much. I don’t know what to say.’
People in Sweden are listening to the podcasts? That’s insane! I never realised we had any listeners outside of the UK. Wait till I tell Astral. She’ll be chuffed. I certainly am. I’m merely a lucky fluke who stumbled into this gifted position, much more by accident than design. I’m a hopeful impostor awaiting exposure; half expecting Scooby and the gang to rip off my mask at any time and send me back to the mailing room.
The estate agent comes back, the keys in his hand.
‘Shall we?’ he asks.
‘Yes, nice meeting you …’ I say, shaking the woman’s hand.
‘Ingrid. My name is Ingrid. And you should definitely move in here. In short, you will regret absolutely nothing.’
I thank her and we mount the stairs to view the one-bed show apartment overlooking the garden. The agent turns the key in the door and it feels like I have arrived in heaven. Everything is white and pale gold. The bay window is enormous, the view perfectly divided into blue sky and green grass.
‘Every room is soundproofed, so you’ll find it very conducive to peace and quiet. As you can see, there is security on t
he door; your safety is a priority. Seems a nice community amongst the other residents. It’s ready to go, as it’s the show flat. I imagine it’ll be snapped up pretty quick.’
I’ve watched enough TV to know that only amateurs bite at the first property. So the next words out of my mouth are …
‘I’ll take it.’
In my mind’s eye, Mum and David Dickinson throw their hands over their faces despairingly.
‘Okay, well, that was quick! Congratulations,’ says the grinning agent. ‘Welcome to your new abode.’ He nods happily and fetches his briefcase.
This feels SO right. This is where I’m going to wake up in the arms of my gorgeous dimpled man, wrapped in white Egyptian cotton sheets, basking in the mixed aromas of fresh coffee and manly musk. And there’ll be croissants and pains au chocolat and the faint sound of a Chopin piano concerto playing softly in the background. Together we’ll stand at this large bay window overlooking the grounds and the distant city skyline, like captains of our own destiny at the helm of a huge ocean liner, steering the wheel of our shared future together. Full steam ahead.
‘I’ll send you the contract and specifications and you can read over the details. There are some service charges, ground rent, communal extras and mandatory contributions, things like that.’
I wave my hands. You can stop the waffle now, agent-man, stop polluting the dream.
‘There’s no need. It’s perfect,’ I tell him. ‘Where do I sign and how soon can I move in?’
I sign everything, about ten documents written in a teensy font that I start to read and then give up on as it makes no sense anyway; an archaic medieval language of waivers and penalties and forfeits. Once that’s done, I write a cheque with so many zeros that I squidge my eyes shut as I sign it.
The agent hands me the keys. When he offers to shake my hand, I lunge forward and hug him tightly instead. He tries to wriggle away to protect his suit, but I just clasp him tighter.
And in short, I regret absolutely nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Every morning, Jake reverses through the double doors carrying two huge coffees. Every morning we drink them together in ritualistic silence and we prepare to usher in the day. To my tremendous shock and surprise, everyone loves the show. Frank has bought a loudspeaker so that he – and everyone else on Electric Avenue – can hear Jake and me over the din of market life. My mum texts in hourly requests from the ex-con girls, ranging from ABBA to Eminem, with coded messages like ‘Hope things stay good for you’ and ‘Haven’t seen much of you lately – where you hiding?’ We seem to be going from strength to strength.
Astral bursts through the doors with her graph and figures report. This morning is the best yet. So much so that she runs over to the open window, sticks her head out and bellows at the artists, mimers and musicians below, ‘Its official! We are back! 105 FM is back on top! In your face, City FM, in your FAY-CE.’ She needs to send out a press release and a shareholders’ briefing, so we’re in charge of ourselves this morning, but we’re a team now, rock solid, with everything under control.
Jake explains to me that 105 FM had been in the top spot since people called radio the ‘wireless’. Until this year, when rival station City FM started attracting listeners; marginal numbers at first, but more recently, stealing them away in tens of thousands every week. There were executive meetings, consultations, surveys, in-depth analysis; some key management staff were fired. 105 FM were forced to reassess what they were doing, what they were about and what was getting in the way of them being the top choice station for listeners across the capital.
‘So what was it?’ I ask.
Jake shuffles in his seat and strokes his chin pensively. ‘It’s a new age for radio. It’s tougher, more competitive than it’s ever been, so it’s easy to lose the vision. We stopped listening to our listeners, as dumb as that sounds. Audiences these days have more choices than ever before – we are up against not only limitless fleets of digital stations from all over the world, but also audio books, podcasts, playlists … There was a point when I thought to myself: radio is dead. It’s gone. There’s no place for it any more. What can it offer someone over and above their own customised channel of self-selected, free, instant music, features and interviews?’ He turns to me, an impassioned look on his face, beseeching me for an answer.
I don’t know what to say. I love what I do but I’m far from an expert; more wing it and hope for the best. What do I know about audiences and broadcasting predictions? My job is just to listen and try to come up with the best response for the person on the other end of the line. It’s as simple and uncomplicated as that. I bite my lip and offer a sympathetic smile.
‘You’re a listener, Poppy. That’s how you called into the show in the first place. Why did you choose to listen to us rather than find something on your phone?’
I take a moment to think. I can’t tell him it was because I fell asleep and missed Frank’s clue. But I do know why Frank and Mum and all the other listening faithful tune in. ‘Because it’s … alive. Radio is real life – unexpected, unscripted, unedited. And that’s something special. It’s exciting that people don’t know what guest you’ll have next, or what song you’re going to play, or whether there’ll be a breaking news story that they could miss if they were stuck in the loop of listening to stuff that is pre-packaged and polished. It’s fun and important to connect with others this way, hear their reactions, discover what’s important to them, and you just can’t call it; you never know what’s going to happen next.’
Jake slaps his hand down on his knee. ‘Exactly! The CEO, Carol King, she was doubtful, she told me that she was scrutinising the ratings carefully and that she wanted to see a ten per cent increase by the end of the month.’
I gasp. ‘Ten per cent! That’s harsh, that’s like four hundred thousand people. How are you supposed to make that happen?’
‘I didn’t. We did.’
I’m confused. What’s he telling me? What is it we did together exactly?
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m rambling; the corporate side of things is dull and hard to grasp. Ignore me. I’m just a little overwhelmed myself.’
He opens the mini fridge and takes out a bottle of champagne, just as the crew flood in through the double doors with glasses and balloons and party poppers and streamers.
‘Right, before Astral brings Carol over here, I’ve got some news to tell you. We received an email this morning. It’s official: 105 FM is not only back on top, but we have exceeded our listenership for the first time in three years. We’ve been nominated for the People’s Choice Award at the British Television and Radio Awards!’ Jake stops to wipe his hand over his face. ‘It’s the highest accolade in the business because it’s chosen by the public – it’s a biggie. For me, it’s the ultimate, because it means we are at the heart of what our listeners want; we’re real people connecting with real people.’
He shakes the bottle of bubbly up and down.
‘So all I really want to say is thank you. Let’s get this party started!’
I am gobsmacked. I’ve watched the British Television and Radio Awards on TV ever since I was a little girl. It’s one of those family things that everyone loves and looks forward to, where you are allowed to stay up late. It merits bowls of popcorn and fizzy drinks and going to bed without brushing your teeth. It’s more than a programme or an awards ceremony; it’s a national event! And Jake is spot on. What makes it special is that it brings all your favourite household names and faces together in one place: actors and sports commentators and soap stars and comedians and, of course, radio presenters.
Astral returns with a typically stony-faced Carol King at her side. Jake turns to the crew. ‘Block your diaries, people – we’re going to Edinburgh Castle!’
There is a confused murmur amongst the techies and researchers. Then a voice from the back shouts across, ‘What, all of us?’
‘You bet. We’re a team. And this is a team effort.’
I glance around the room. This is going to be incredible. The energy! The excitement!
Astral widens her eyes and blows out her cheeks. I think this is the first she’s heard of the arrangement. But she doesn’t let it throw her, and goes into full project-manager mode. ‘Right, let’s get this straight, guys. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, is allowed to get ill, injured or die until this awards ceremony is over with. Understand?’
We nod as an obedient, beaming collective.
‘Poppy, start browsing some hot new British designers; we need to think about who you’ll be wearing. We want to make a statement, show them that we’re a hot ticket right now, ready to take on the world.’
She pauses to take a deep breath and closes her eyes. Then she screams at the top of her lungs, ‘THIS IS OUR YEAR!’
And I believe it. I top up my champagne and take stock of what we have achieved in this tiny studio. It’s been hectic, crazy, exhausting, nerve-racking, tear-wrenching, overwhelming and exhilarating all at once. It wakes me up in the middle of the night and drives me to write letters to complete strangers who have poured their hearts onto A4 paper, and causes me to collapse on the couch in the middle of the afternoon with no energy to even take off my shoes. But I love it. It’s completely different to anything I ever dreamt I would be doing at this stage of my life, and I’m having a ball. So I can’t help but wonder why I keep on having that casino dream …
Chapter Twenty-Four
I roll over and he is beside me. The hazy late morning light streams through the bay window, gilding the golden blonde strands of his hair, which fan out on the Egyptian cotton pillow. I am the luckiest girl in the world. I want things to be like this forever. To stay exactly as they are now. Me and him, naked and side by side, bathed in light. He moves beside me. I slink in, manoeuvre myself even closer behind him. It’s Sunday. We’ve got nowhere to be, no work, no netball, no meetings, no family stuff. Just us and an open run on the day.
Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 20