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

by Colleen Coleman

  I feel excited, nervous and guilty. I can’t help it. I know I’ve made the right choice; the grown-up, professional, responsible choice. But already, I can tell, it’s come at a cost. I’m missing the final. I’m missing the girls. I’m missing the excitement and the nerves we would be sharing together today. It was a hard call, but I thought once the decision was made and I’d broken the news, it would get easier. Surprisingly, it hasn’t. If anything, I feel worse with every passing hour.

  I check my phone. I scroll through literally hundreds of new messages and notifications. ‘Go for it, Poppy and Jake! From everyone at King’s College Hospital … from Arsenal FC … from the Minister for Education … from all the salon girls keeping the show on the road while Angela does some celebrating!’ The reach and response is overwhelming. But I’m scanning for something in particular. And I can’t find it. I sent Leanne a message for the team: ‘Go Assassins! You can do it!’ But she hasn’t responded. As far as I’m concerned, this is just a case of getting through a rough spot; in a few weeks’ time, when it’s all blown over, we’ll pick up again where we left off. But I have a nasty niggling feeling that Leanne doesn’t see it that way.

  Tom has sent me a lovely good-luck-and-knock-’em-dead message. And a reminder that he’s happy to receive drunk texts at any hour. He’s trying to keep out of this the best he can; he’s told both of us that he’s not going to act as a go-between. When I tried to talk to him about it, he said, ‘Leanne’s my sister, you’ll just have to work it out between the two of you.’ I told him I was sorry and that I’d had to choose and I felt like shit about it. And he said, ‘You’re doing it again, Poppy, trying to tell me the stuff you should really be telling Leanne directly. It’s not me you need speak to, it’s Leanne.’

  But I think Leanne will probably never speak to me again.

  I raise my fingers to my temples. Such a nagging ache; I’ve had it for days.

  I feel tears stacked in my throat. I fan my face and try not to cry, partly because I’ve had the eye-make-up warning, but mostly because if I do, I don’t think I’ll stop.

  Mum’s wrapped in the cellophane now too, and has a pillar-box-red dye in her hair. She’s having a little get-together this evening; invited all the neighbours around to watch the awards show. She’s made bunting and there’ll be platters of sandwiches and Ritz crackers and a choice of drinks: beer for the men and white wine for the ladies. Anyone fussier than that can have orange squash or bring their own.

  I so love that she’s excited; that she’s proud of me and wants to share it with her friends. I hear her on her phone again. She’s been campaigning tirelessly since the online voting opened at the beginning of the week. ‘Are you online yet, Jackie? Good girl. Now, I want you to click on the link I sent you. Won’t work? Okay, then google British Television and Radio Awards. Yes, you’ve got it now? Good. Right, do you see a box that says VOTE NOW, People’s Choice? Yes, it is yellow, that’s right. Now hover over the box beside 105 FM, The Jake and Poppy Morning Show. Yes! And click! Good work, Jackie! Now get up off your chair and show everyone else in the centre how to do the same. We need all the votes we can get!’

  I’m half an hour late leaving for the airport.

  ‘You’ve got absolutely everything you need? You’re a hundred per cent certain?’ Mum asks as she hooks her arm around my neck and kisses me goodbye.

  ‘Yes, everything! Now wish me luck and let me go.’

  I climb into the back of the cab, the driver honks his horn and we pull out.

  ‘Well if it’s not Dr Poppy! What a pleasure!’ he says through the mirror. ‘What’s the occasion? Going anywhere nice?’

  ‘Edinburgh,’ I tell him. ‘For the British Television and Radio Awards.’

  ‘Of course. Well, best of luck. You guys deserve it. I’d better put my foot down then, seeing as it’s your big day.’

  Yes, big day indeed. I turn to wave goodbye through the back window like I’m a lone bride setting off uncertainly on honeymoon all by myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Despite the cab driver’s best efforts, we end up having to take quite a lengthy – and bumpy – diversion due to unplanned roadworks. We arrive at the airport a little later than expected, but I feel I’m pretty punctual all things considered.

  When I walk into the VIP lounge, Jake is standing at the bar chatting intensely to Carol King, a glass of water in his hand. The first time I met Carol, she X-rayed me with a gaze that made me uncomfortable with its intensity. I remember watching her watching me – scanning, critiquing, evaluating, judging – and wondering what it was she saw in me. I asked Jake about it later, and he told me to just grin and ignore her; according to him, she only has time for celebs.

  ‘Hey, you two!’ I say, leaning in for a kiss. None comes, and I’m left hanging a moment, then Astral pops up behind me, grabbing my elbow and pulling me to the side. Her galaxy hair is twisted into rosebuds around her crown. I rub my eyes and blink twice; she’s wearing a Black Horn T-shirt.

  ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack? You are over an hour late, Poppy! We’re just about to head through to the gate.’ Her eyes are flitting across my hair, my face, my everything.

  Carol King glowers at me, pointing at her dainty silver watch. ‘Cutting it very fine, Poppy. We’d like to keep things professional around here.’

  Jake stands on tiptoes, waves one arm and shouts, ‘Okay, everyone, time to make a move. Make sure you’ve got your boarding passes and all your belongings, you know the drill. We want this to run as smoothly as possible – no hiccups if we can help it.’

  I take his abandoned glass of water from the bar, knock back the last slug a little too fast and hiccup loudly.

  A peal of laughter and the tension melts from Astral’s face. ‘Okay, 105 FM, let’s do this!’ she squeals. The crew clap and high-five and we all crowd together into the lift to make our way through to the departure gates.

  I end up in the line beside Carol King. ‘So, are you excited?’ I ask her, trying to make pleasant small talk as the queue inches its way to the boarding gate. She’s on her phone, texting frantically, and looks up at me, slightly bemused.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Excited? About the awards?’ It sounds a ridiculous question now that I’ve had to repeat it. Like an odd friend of your nan’s asking if you like sweets or if you’re looking forward to Christmas. She answers me with a tight ‘yes’, but it’s in a distracted way, like she’s already forgotten the question. Perhaps she’s nervous. All of us react to stress differently – some of us kick and scream, some of us cry and wail and some of us need to withdraw from everyone so they can focus on one thing at a time. I place my hand lightly on her jacket sleeve, which should translate into some kind of primal code for ‘it’s okay, I understand’. But she flashes me a look, and not a good one: classic hint of aggravation there around the eyes; a single flared nostril.

  Is she in a mood with me? I think she is. But why? What have I done? I’ve only been here five minutes, I haven’t even had a drink yet. I’ve given up something really, really bloody important to me in order to be here. I decide to leave it. Everyone hates her anyway, whatever her problem is.

  Astral turns around from the head of the queue, waves her phone in the air and shouts down to Jake, ‘It’s confirmed! It’s her. A hundred per cent it’s her.’

  I see Jake rub the bridge of his nose and clench his fingers around his phone. He turns to me. ‘I cannot believe this. This is INSANE.’

  ‘What? What’s insane?’

  A ripple is moving through the crew. Hands flying to faces, grown men with beards squealing and bouncing up and down.

  I turn to Carol. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’

  She raises her eyes to me, and the faintest smile plays along her lips.

  ‘Beyoncé.’

  Umm …

  ‘Beyoncé what, Carol?

  ‘Beyoncé is going to play at the awards tonight.’

  Om
fg. This is incredible. I find that I am on my knees, heaving to breathe.

  I overhear Carol explaining to Jake in the stratosphere above my head, ‘Yes, it was a big secret to keep. If it leaked at all, she was going to pull out, that was the deal.’

  Beyoncé and me in the same room, under the same roof, swaying to the same beat.

  ‘Please have your boarding cards and passports ready for inspection,’ announces the security guard. From my bended-knee position on the ground, I watch everyone pass me by – Carol, the sound guys, Astral in her Black Horn T-shirt – and I know what I’m going to do. It’s not a choice. It’s a no-brainer. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for Leanne whipping my arse into gear; I wouldn’t have a radio show if Shanice hadn’t called in as Miss Demeanour to kick off the calls. I watch my radio colleagues hand over their documents to the ground stewardess. I watch as she scans them routinely and everyone sails through, giddy, jumpy, elated. I feel the tension melt from my shoulders. I’m not walking away from what I really want. I’m actually about to walk towards it.

  I watch as Jake passes through the gate and then turns back in my direction on the other side.

  ‘Get a move on, Bloom! We’ve got a plane to catch!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jake, I can’t come. You pick up the award for both of us, okay?’

  He shakes his head at me in confusion. I give him a thumbs-up and signal for him to go. He shuffles on the spot, reluctant to leave without me.

  Final call for boarding.

  ‘I don’t understand, Pops. What’s going on?’

  I find my feet. I stand straight and shout over the crowds. ‘I’ll explain later. Go catch that flight, Jake. Beyoncé’s waiting!’

  The ground stewardess picks up her clipboard and ushers Jake towards the aircraft. Bound for Edinburgh and red carpets and champagne and a night of glitzy, starry-eyed mayhem. Along with everybody else.

  But I don’t mind. I don’t mind one bit. I sling my bag over my shoulder, sprint across the shiny airport floor, out through the rotating doors and straight into a cab.

  ‘Olympic Stadium,’ I tell the driver. ‘Fast as you can manage.’

  I grab my cheeks and shut my eyes. I did it! I can feel the adrenalin coursing through me. The taxi screeches out of the rank and we are on our way.

  As we speed along the motorway, I know that this is truly the first time in my life I’ve done exactly as I want. Not what I should do, or what’s expected, or what someone else wants me to do. I’ve done what my gut told me, even if it’s irrational, even if it’s unorthodox, even if it’s career suicide. I don’t care. I can deal with whatever comes next because I’ve got some good people around me. A team of really good people. And with that, I’m starting to believe I can handle anything.

  I wipe my lipstick off with the inside of my arm and pull the pins out of my hair.

  I’ve got a game to play.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘Welcome to Superleague Saturday! This is Sandra Skinner, broadcasting live from the Olympic Stadium in London. It’s a clash of the highest order today, folks; the question on everybody’s lips is whether South London Assassins have the team, the skills, the stamina to win this final. There’ve been rumours of trouble in the camp for the Assassins; issues around player commitment, team spirit and low morale that could have a devastating effect on their game. So is today the day they are finally in a position to clinch the title from reigning champions Team Oxbridge? Will the south London underdogs be able to turn the tide and seize a victory from the current titans of British netball? All remains to be seen, ladies and gentlemen, but one thing is for sure, there is no better way to spend a Saturday evening than watching the two best women’s teams in the country go head to head in this year’s Superleague final!’

  I stand in the stadium car park listening to Sandra’s voice boom through the massive speakers. She is certainly no passive pundit; she’s the perfect commentator to appreciate the guts and the glory involved in getting to this point. The grand final of the Superleague, the biggest showdown of its kind in the northern hemisphere. There’s a sell-out crowd; you know tickets are in high demand when the touts wait by the gate to offer fans triple the original ticket cost.

  I walk the length of the car park searching for the purple Assassins minibus. When I find it, it’s already empty, locked up with no kit or bags to be seen. I try to enter via the players’ entrance, but a security guard turns me away.

  ‘I need to get in – I’m the Assassins’ goal shooter, Poppy Bloom.’

  He checks his clipboard. I’m hoping that my name is still on the list from our last match, or that Leanne added me anyway, even as a substitute, holding out hope that I’d change my mind.

  He shakes his head gravely. ‘The teams have been warming up for the past hour; nobody reported any missing players.’

  ‘Can’t I go inside and double-check?’

  He looks bemused, like I’m a delusional fan faking my way on court. Which I suppose I kind of am. If I want to get in there, I’m going to have to buy a ticket, even at the extortionate rate they’re bound to be going for. I don’t care about the price; my priority now is to get into that stadium and let the girls know I’m here and that I’m ready to rip the opposition apart.

  Let’s do this, Assassins!

  I want to play, I want to score, I want to win, I want to high-five Nikki and get lifted off the ground by Shanice and be slapped so hard on the back by Leanne that it stings.

  I need to get in there. They need me to get in there.

  I approach a cluster of stubble-faced touts. ‘Can I buy a ticket, please?’ I ask, reconciled to the fact that I’ll be eating cereal for the rest of the month to make up for this.

  A synchronised shrug, then the middle one breaks the silence. ‘No tickets, no tickets for love nor money.’

  ‘But I really need to get in, I’m happy to pay; I’ll pay whatever you’re asking.’

  He blows a smoke ring in my direction and scratches his neck. ‘No tickets means no tickets. Can’t spell it out any clearer, lady. You’d have to be media or royalty to get through those doors now.’ He throws his cigarette butt down and grinds it into the gravel.

  ‘Thank you very, very much!’ I chirp as I reach into my bag for my lanyard and hook my 105 FM ID around my neck. I flash it at my old friend Mr Security and am promptly directed to the media box.

  I find my way to the Assassins’ dressing room by following the sound of Leanne’s voice. Pep talk. I rest my ear against the door. I’ll go in once she’s finished; interrupting Leanne’s team talk would be a very, very bad idea. They need to hear it. I need to hear it.

  ‘I know you’re worried,’ she’s saying. ‘I know you’re scared. I know you think we’re going to walk out there and get battered to a pulp. And I can’t guarantee that’s not going to happen. They’re tough. They’re determined. They are here to defend their title. This is Team Oxbridge and they don’t mess about.’

  I raise myself on my tiptoes and peep through the small square panel window. I see them all, all my girls, Jess, Nikki, Shanice, Laura, Leanne, lined up on the bench, kitted out and ready to go. I spot a bona fide powerhouse of a woman with a platinum mohican and tattooed eyebrows who must be Teagan’s replacement, Izabel. And what about me? Who will take my place? Maybe they weren’t able to find anyone. Maybe they do need me to step in right this moment! Just as I’m pondering this thought, I feel someone walk up behind me. I spin around.

  ‘Are you looking for something?’ asks a tall, tracksuited girl, a wary look on her face.

  She’s caught me peering suspiciously into the girls’ changing room, bouncing a little with excitement and basically looking like a pervert. I can see that she’s a bit freaked. She’s angling around for help. She looks familiar; she definitely reminds me of someone. Something about the shape of her nose and the way she holds herself with an easy confidence. But that might just be her age; she looks early twenties at the very most.

&
nbsp; The dressing room door swings opens, nearly knocking me out. Leanne is standing right in front of me. Her face darkens.

  ‘Yeah, this is exactly what we need right now. What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to my senses. I’m so sorry for everything. I want to play.’

  ‘Oh, you want to play now, do you?’ Shanice steps forward to stand by Leanne’s right shoulder. ‘And what about your awards show? Isn’t that where you’re supposed to be? Was it cancelled? I don’t get it. One minute you can’t come; the next, here you are.’ She raises her chin.

  I watch Jess and Laura exchange disappointed looks. ‘I know, and I’m sorry … I made the wrong choice. But I’m here now. They can do the awards show without me.’

  Shanice folds her arms. ‘So you decided to ditch the awards at the last minute and come play with us instead.’

  ‘Come on, you need me. I’m here, use me – we can sort out all the other crap later.’ I look at the team in front of me. Only six players. ‘You’re a player down. You need a goal shooter.’

  The girl behind me taps me on the shoulder, then unzips her tracksuit top to reveal a hot-purple Assassins vest. ‘I’m the goal shooter.’

  Leanne raises her eyes to mine. ‘Meet Emily Skinner. Daughter of former England captain Sandra Skinner. Amazing, isn’t it? It’s like fate brought her to us in our hour of need! Just back as a medical student from her gap-year overseas and shopping around for a team. I can’t tell you how happy I was to be able to offer her a position. Twenty-two years old and queen of the long bomb. Shooting prowess second to none, silky shots from as far back as mid-court. Great jump, great flexibility, great timing.’

  ‘Okay, so I guess you don’t need me after all.’

  Leanne shakes her head at the ceiling. She looks conflicted. I take a step to stand directly in front of her so that she has to meet my eyes. So she has to hear my words.

  ‘Leanne, you were my best friend growing up. You made me realise how important having a best friend can be. So, it’s my turn to be a best friend to you. Right now.’