Without warning, he stiffens as if startled, then jolts upwards to sit at the edge of the bed with his back to me.
I place my hand on his shoulder. ‘Tom? Are you okay?’
He is rubbing his eyes, not quite yet awake, confused and disoriented.
‘Tom? Are you all right?’
He nods, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Yeah, God, that was vivid.’ He turns to me. ‘Just a bad dream.’
‘You’re as white as a ghost,’ I tell him and trace my finger down his cheek.
‘Night terror; it happens every time my mind is in overdrive. I dream that I’ve built a perfect house of cards and then people start opening and shutting doors all around me, letting great gusts of wind in that blow the house down, cards scattering everywhere. I scramble around to pick them up, but if I chase one, it means I lose another. And then I just stand still, unable to move. Because I can’t decide. How do you decide which to chase and which to let go?’ He rubs his neck and blinks in an effort to reorientate himself.
Issues around trust and control, I think to myself, then swiftly slap that thought out of my head. He’s not a client, he’s my boyfriend. He doesn’t need a therapy session; he needs a sympathetic ear, some TLC. I tilt my head and stroke his chest.
Why is his mind in overdrive? He hasn’t mentioned that anything is worrying him. Saying that, my own mind has been in overdrive since the awards were announced. It’s been non-stop: interviews, magazines, photo shoots and promotional events. Maybe he’s feeling this way because I’ve not been as attentive as I should be. Maybe I’ve been so caught up in everything that’s going on with me, I haven’t stopped to properly listen to what’s going on with him.
‘What do you think brought it on?’ I ask him.
‘This loan Leon convinced myself and Leanne to take out to buy new equipment is crippling us. I know he thought it was a good thing and all, but I really wish he’d just back off. He put so much pressure on us to snap it up, we got a crap rate and now that’s rising and rising. Leanne’s trying to sort it out by getting a new partner in so we can share the load; or get a sponsor, that’s another option. That would really help. Anyway …’ He wipes his face with his hands.
I drape my arms around him and kiss his ear. ‘You’ll figure it out, I know you will.’
He inhales deeply. ‘Yes, well, I’ve got my hopes pinned on you guys winning the Superleague. That will be a massive help; we’ll attract loads more clients and all the publicity means we can re-invest our advertising budget. So, bottom line, Assassins win, we all win.’
His phone beeps on the bedside locker. He squints at the screen with one eye. ‘Ha! You won’t believe this. It’s from Gav.’ He turns the little screen around to me, running his fingers through his hair. It’s a photo of a giant burger loaded with onion rings, bacon, eggs and about four different type of cheese, with the caption ‘My lunch #foodgasm’.
‘Ha! Missing Dirty Dicks then?’ Tom texts back.
The phone beeps again. ‘And there’s more, mate.’ A second photo comes through. This time it’s a beaming Gav standing on a beach with about twenty people running circuits. ‘Personal training is a gold mine here, Tom. I’m full up. Four beach sessions a day. And then I surf. Paradise, man. Get yourself out here; best country in the world. I mean it, AMAZING. Fitness opportunities are off the scale. I could get you set up straight away, sponsor you a visa and you could be personal training on Bondi Beach this time next month.’
I cast a sideways glance at Tom. He knits his eyebrows together. I know he misses Gav. He talks about him all the time. At one time he was thinking of emigrating to Oz too. I also know that he’d love to expand the gym, love to expand the business in general: nutrition, clothing, accessories and personal training. He has loads of ideas, loads of plans. I guess that’s another reason I admire him so much. But Australia? That’s too far away. He wouldn’t go. He’d never leave Leanne and the gym and … me?
He raises his phone in front of us and I cuddle into his chest for a selfie. ‘Cheers, Gav, but not on the cards. Got everything I need right here.’
He squeezes my hand.
‘Was that a hard choice?’ I ask him.
‘What?’
‘Not moving to Australia with Gav?’
He swallows hard and runs his fingers through his hair. ‘No. And yes.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I was the one who had the idea. I researched it, put the business plan together, just like I did for Gymbox.’
‘What was it? A Gymbox down under?’
He shakes his head, animated and bright. ‘No, it was different. Personal training to a new level. A full body-coaching programme tailored for the individual. And I know you’re probably thinking it’s been done before, but this was special. I created all the exercises from scratch, the nutritional plans, the playlists, the social media interaction. It looked amazing, and Australia was the perfect place to launch. Me and Gav were supposed to set it up together.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, we had a few unforeseen expenses at the gym – broken machines, leaks, that kind of thing. Wiped us out financially. Leon got involved and ballsed us up further, so I couldn’t leave Leanne. She’s not just my business partner, she’s my sister.’
I nod my understanding. ‘I’m sorry, Tom.’
He shrugs. ‘It’s all right. It’s all worked out okay. And now we’re here.’
‘So we are.’
And we dive back under the covers.
It’s nearly midday by the time we’re washed and dressed. I make coffee, because that’s really all I’ve got. My inner domestic goddess hasn’t exactly kicked in. Despite my best intentions, I’ve not yet managed to equip the apartment with the essentials. I’ve got all the cutesy soft furnishings and some drop-dead-gorgeous lingerie but keep forgetting things like milk. And bin bags. And washing-up liquid. And cutlery.
We drink our coffee black and try to decide what to do with the day – park or cinema or full English at a greasy spoon? My phone rings; it’s Astral. Ringing on a Sunday morning? This must be important. I walk over to the bay window to take the call. From her tone, I can tell she’s not in the best of moods.
‘Hi, Poppy, please forgive me ringing you on a Sunday. It’s just that there has been a fairly major misunderstanding …’
‘Is everything all right, Astral? You sound a bit stressed?’ I rest my hand on the window pane. She sounds hysterical.
‘A BIT stressed! Yeah, that’s an understatement and a half! It’s the awards ceremony. Change of plan. Major change of plan.’
I pull the phone away from my ear and take a deep breath.
‘They’ve decided against a live broadcast this year – there’s a security issue – and in their wisdom, they’re going to record on Saturday night and then televise for the public on Sunday.’
‘Don’t worry too much, Astral. I’m sure it’ll be just as good. And they can edit anything out if we trip over or commit some other kind of gaffe, right? It’ll work out just fine,’ I tell her.
I hear her exhale heavily. ‘It’s just that it’s my sister’s wedding on that Saturday and I’m going to have to miss it now as we’ll have to go to Edinburgh a day earlier than planned. Telling her is going be EXCRUCIATING. She has a terrible temper and a long memory – this is her third wedding for a reason – and I really wanted to be there. Anyway, these are the sacrifices we need to make, right? Okay, new and finalised details just in. Have you got a pen?’
I walk over to the calendar hanging in the kitchen and pick up a felt tip. Oh no. The realisation is just starting to sink in. We have to leave on the SATURDAY! This is a disaster.
‘Give me those dates again,’ I tell her, hoping I’ve got this wrong.
‘Good, okay, our flight leaves London City Airport on Saturday the twenty-second of November at 14.30. As in next week … Got it?’
I get it all right. I’m staring at Saturday twenty-second November on my calendar. It is already circled in r
ed felt tip. Anyone would think from the way it’s marked that it was the most important and urgent date on the calendar. I guess because twenty-second November is the day of the Superleague final.
‘Poppy, are you there? Read it back to me. We need to get this right once and for all.’
I look at Tom rooting through my cupboards, looking for something more nutritious than Coco Pops. This is a DISASTER. How am I supposed to choose between my netball girls and the station crew? How am I supposed to choose between the Superleague final and the awards show?
Don’t make me choose, God dammit!
Leanne will go crazy if I don’t show at the final. We’ve been training for months. She’s never won it before and she feels this may be her last season playing at this level. So if she doesn’t bring home the trophy this year, it’s unlikely she ever will.
I feel sick.
Okay, I definitely need to be at the Superleague final. But where does that leave my job? What do I tell Astral and Jake? I can’t simply not show up. I can’t just casually email them with a ‘sorry, can’t make it, already something booked’. Astral would laugh in my face! She’s missing her sister’s wedding for this! And then I’d probably be summoned to Carol King’s office to be ripped to shreds along with my contract. She already looks at me like I’m as welcome as a bad smell. Not attending the awards would give her exactly the kind of ammunition she needs to fire me. Or put me back in the mail room. And without my job, what am I? What have I got? Where else could I go? Back to Markus at the job centre? Back to borrowing money off Frank?
I look up at the calendar again. One day. Two cities. Might be an idea if the cities weren’t Edinburgh and London. Opposite ends of the country. Even Concorde couldn’t help me be at both.
I can’t keep everyone happy, which means I’m going to have to let somebody down. The question is, who?
I bite down on my bottom lip as Astral talks me through the itinerary, the hotel arrangements, the staging, the speeches … Tom emerges from the bathroom. I watch him pull on his shorts and slip into his sweatshirt; he gestures that he’s going for a run. I nod, and he kisses me on the cheek and flies out the door.
Astral is still talking at a million miles an hour.
‘So,’ I double-check with her, ‘so we leave for Edinburgh on the Saturday?’
‘Exactly.’
‘The twenty-second of November – you are absolutely sure?’
‘A thousand per cent. We are all going to be on red carpet on the twenty-second come hell or high water.’
Fuckety fuck.
This is my job at stake here. And this job is my future.
I stand in the bay window, shoving fistfuls of dry Coco Pops into my mouth, trying to think how I’m going to break it to Leanne and the Assassins that I won’t be there to play in the Superleague final.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Of course I’d rather email her, text her, leave a voicemail. Any kind of non-live, remote transaction is preferable to a face-to-face on why I won’t be able to play in the final. But I can’t do that to her. Anyway, she wouldn’t let me; she’d show up at my door for sure. With an axe and a cast-iron alibi.
I’ll have to visit her at the gym.
No excuses. No dilly-dallying. I put on my trainers, scrape back my hair and head to Gymbox to face the music. The godawful get-pumped, go-hard-or-go-home music.
Leanne is in the studio taking a Zumba class packed with rows of over-fifties dressed in jelly-baby colours swinging their hips and clapping their hands to what sounds like the Gloria Estefan Evangelical Church. It’s only just started, so I decide to go on the treadmill until she’s ready. I’m going to have to psyche myself up for this. Rehearse it in my mind …
I’ll begin by saying sorry … No. She’ll think it’s something I can change. That it’s under my control and I can actually do something about it.
I’ll begin by explaining the dilemma to her … No. She’ll keep interrupting me.
I’ll begin by saying ‘Okay, Leanne, I know you are going to hate me forever when I tell you this …’
Actually, I’m not going to rehearse this. Because the more I go over it, the more I feel the sting of guilt for having to say it to her in the first place.
I press the start button, add a few notches of incline and look up to the wall-size mural in front of me. It’s a fitspiration shot of Leanne lifting a tremendous weight, with the words Every step you take is a step closer to what you want and a step away from where you used to be.
I press the button and take my first slow steps.
When her class finishes, Leanne sidles up to me. ‘Hey, Pops, good to see you! Bit of extra training coming up to the final, that’s what I like to see.’ I go to press the off button but she beats me to it and ramps up the speed from seven to ten. ‘You need to push yourself if you want results. What you’re doing here is good but nowhere near your true capacity.’
‘What? Leanne, this will kill me.’
‘It only feels like you’re dying; in fact you’re getting stronger – weird, isn’t it?’ She switches it up one more notch to eleven. ‘Now that’s meaningful; expect to feel this.’
I can barely keep my breath.
‘Good work, Poppy, go at this for ten more minutes and then a five-minute cool-down. I’ve got another class now, so I’ll see you at training.’
She starts to walk away. I’ve got to tell her, but I don’t think I can manage to turn this treadmill off and turn around and speak to her without running the very high risk of losing my footing and falling flat on my face.
‘Leanne, I need to talk.’ Words are hard to catch. ‘About netball.’ No air.
She stops and leans in. ‘Always time to talk netball. What is it?’
‘I can’t. I can’t make the final. Work. I have a work thing.’ The sweat is pouring down my face, pooling into my eyelashes and stinging my eyes. ‘So sorry,’ I wheeze. ‘So so sorry.’
Her face darkens and she slams her hand down on the emergency stop button.
I watch it like it’s in slow motion. But then I feel it.
Bang! My legs give way and my face smacks the rubber conveyer belt underneath me. For a second, I’m actually glad to be lying flat, my body floppy and still. I groan face down on the belt.
‘I can’t believe you, Poppy! The girls trusted you. I told them to trust me, to give you a chance, to let you play. And for what? So you can bail on us when we need you most? The game is on Saturday. How the fuck am I supposed to find a replacement for you before then?’
‘I know. That’s why I wanted to tell you straight away! There was a mix-up. I just found out myself. If I had any choice at all …’
‘You always have a choice.’
I try to blink my eyes open through the stingy beads of sweat. She is a blur, standing above me like a neon impressionist painting. And I know she’s angry. I can feel her fury. It’s making my skin prickle.
‘Not this time, Leanne. I need to go to this awards ceremony. They expect it. Missing the game is a sacrifice I have to make. I’m sorry.’ The words dribble out of my mouth but I can’t get up yet. No bones, no breath, no energy.
‘Fine. I get it.’ She pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. Then she lifts her chin and takes a big breath. ‘But I really, REALLY hope you don’t drop Tom as quickly when a better offer comes along.’
And then she’s gone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The day has come. The day of the Superleague final that I won’t be playing in.
The day of the British Television and Radio Awards in Edinburgh, broadcast live across the nation on digital and online channels.
And not only will I be in attendance, I’m a nominee. It’ll be like Eurovision, our bonded 105 FM crew clenching teeth, crossing fingers and holding hands as we wait for the seasoned host to open the golden envelope and read out, ‘And the winner is …’ allowing a suspenseful pause, raising a playful eyebrow at the nervous titter from the back,
which unleashes more nervous titters, and then releasing the final judgement in a glittery storm of golden confetti, ‘105 FM, The Jake and Poppy Morning Show! Congratulations!’
We will gasp and scream and hug and cheer and then Jake will take my hand, leading me through the maze of round tables, up the side steps to the stage. We’ll swan over to the podium, accept our award and graciously thank all of our listeners for backing us, for giving us their support, for continuing to tune into 105 FM.
Oh what a night. What a night lies ahead. I place my hand on my stomach to settle it. In my current position, the last thing I need is a nervy bout of diarrhoea.
And by my current position, I mean that I am standing semi-naked in my mum’s kitchen, wrapped neck to ankle in cellophane. Apparently, this is a very effective DIY inch-loss treatment, courtesy of HMP Holloway’s beauty forum. My hair is stiffened into a bluish Marge Simpson peak with a silvering conditioning treatment. Tinfoil thimbles cover my nails, for some reason my mum explained, to do with gel polish and gravitational pull maybe? I don’t know. I’m beyond quizzing her. This morning I’m her living doll, her grown-up living doll resigned to letting her have her way in poking and prodding and preening me as she pleases.
‘So you’ve got your false eyelashes?’ asks Mum. ‘Make sure you have all your make-up in place and set before you do any gluing.’
Gluing my eyelids, like that’s what nature intended.
‘And then carefully use the slanted edge tweezers to apply.’
Sharp steel instrument to the eyeball: more sado-masochistic ex-con beauty tips. I need to review letting her do this to me. Or at least review the safety-consciousness of her sources.
‘Poppy, I’m serious. If you don’t apply them properly, it looks like you’re drugged.’ She is serious. I can tell by her pursed lips and heavy nose breathing. But it’s not the brutal method of application she’s worried about; just that I might look like I don’t know my way around false eyelashes and hence bring shame on the family.
Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 21