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

by Colleen Coleman

  I hate tents. How am I here?

  Something hits the fly sheet just by my arm. Someone outside is kicking a ball at me whilst I’m baking to death here in this sweaty little two-man oven.

  A second ball. This one hits the pointy roof bit and knocks the pole sideways.

  Why is someone attacking me with footballs?

  I hear a groan. There’s a body beside me. It mutters, ‘Go away,’ and shuffles deeper into its sleeping bag.

  The ball is kicked a third time; this time it’s a belter and within vicious short range, and it smashes against the back of my head, causing my teeth to rattle. Oh my poor, poor broken head.

  I can hear the voices of very young boys going ‘Whooaaa!’ and then breaking up into fits of laughter. But seriously, that really hurt. I think my brain is bleeding now. I shout out, ‘Leave us alone,’ but my voice is split and squawky. There is a very brief silence and then an eruption of giggling outside. I prod the polyester-bundled body beside me. It doesn’t move.

  This is hangover hell. I’m dry. I’m tired. I’m somewhere I definitely shouldn’t be. I’m going to have to move. I hate my life.

  I try to hydrate myself by licking my cracked, furry tongue across my cracked, sticky lips. A useless and disgusting experience. My immediate needs are water and toilet. Secondary needs will inevitably involve an intensive wash, clawing at my face with shame and self-loathing and then eating anything warm and cheesy and wrapped in pastry from Greggs. Come on, Poppy, it’s time to move; you need to get up off your fat ass or this situation runs the risk of getting a whole lot worse.

  I run my fingers through my hair and a huge black spider falls onto my forearm. I scream and scream and thump the living shit out of whoever the hell is in that sleeping bag beside me.

  ‘What? What do you … What is it? Just … what?’ says a topless Tom, sitting bolt upright, eyes squinted, hair standing on end.

  Tom? Oh, that’s a nice surprise. But still, why am I in a tent with Tom?

  ‘Spider! Get rid of it! I HATE spiders!’ I point at the crushed black knot that I’ve shaken off onto the sleeping mat underneath us. Tom picks it up in his fingers. I convulse in disgust.

  Need. To. Get. Out. NOW.

  He rubs his eyes and brings the creature up to his face. I peep through my parted fingers; it’s a weird-looking spider, with really dark thick legs … permed legs … way more than the standard eight as well. Tom sighs deeply, rolls his eyes and then flicks it back onto the ground.

  ‘Noo! Get rid of it!’ I scream. I scramble to the entrance, unzip the opening and dive out into the wet grass. Tom pokes his head out of the tent behind me, the spider in his fingers again.

  ‘It’s your fake eyelashes, you nutcase.’

  Oh. I swing between ‘Phew, it’s not a spider then’ and ‘Cringe – how did I sink so low?’

  But mostly phew.

  I am on all fours in the grassy back garden of a large detached suburban family home. I look down at myself. I’m wearing a skin-tight black leotard. O-kay, I’m starting to remember now.

  Izabel’s booze chest in the changing room, piss-up on bus, piss-up at Leanne’s, Leanne giving me a slutty makeover, putting my card behind the bar, dancing like a stripper, telling everyone how sorry I was and that I loved them, falling over, Leanne inviting us back to hers for more drink, Tom joining us. Oh, I remember now, The Jake and Poppy Morning Show won the People’s Choice Award! So we had to toast that, naturally, with Prosecco and tequila, I think … Uggh, the taste in my mouth is disgusting.

  And then … let me think. Oh, I can hardly remember. Then I think I told Tom I loved him and I think he said … I love you too? Then Leon came in and kicked us out to the tent because their kids were waking up … Ah. Kids.

  There are five kids staring at me. Each of them holding a football. They are not laughing now; they look scared, a bit disturbed. Like they’ve just walked into an unflushed service station toilet and the evidence suggests that there are people among us who look human but are not; and this is the kind of mess they make when you catch them off guard.

  I turn back to Tom. ‘Did we?’ It’s all I can manage.

  He shakes his head. ‘No, couldn’t work out your suit.’

  I trace my hand down the million tiny fasteners that run from my boobs to my belly button. They held fast all right. Okay, that’s one good thing. I’m still intact.

  I slap his arm gently. ‘No, silly, did we say … you know?’

  ‘Say what?’ He looks genuinely confused.

  ‘Ah, nothing,’ I say. ‘Probably just drunken mush talk.’

  He leans over and kisses me on the shoulder. ‘Congrats, Ms Award-Winning Presenter.’ He kisses me again. ‘I’m very proud of you.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yep. Not just for the award and the netball. But how you handled it all. I’m glad you and Leanne … you know. Top marks all round.’ He lurches backwards. ‘I feel awful. And I promised I’d help Leon fix his bloody bike.’

  ‘Dad! Dad!’ The children are shouting and pointing at me, and one of them is edging towards the house. I feel like I’m part of a Stephen King trailer.

  ‘I’m going back to sleep. Give the kids money and tell them to go away.’ Tom yawns and retreats back into the tent.

  I hear a window open, a man’s voice. ‘It’s nine o’clock on a Sunday morning – go and play! No Xbox until tonight. Now get your bikes and go!’ That’s Prawn’s voice; Leanne’s husband.

  I need to get out of here and back home so I can clean myself up and be sick in my own toilet and hung-over in my own non-shouty space. I crawl away from the tent and out of the boys’ view. Then I slide around by the garage and steal a pint of milk from the doorstep, glugging it back as I teeter in Leanne’s stiletto heels down her street to the bus stop. I’ll be fine. The worst is behind me. I’m safe – I’m in major pain but I’m not dying; it’s just a hangover. Everything will be fine again, as soon as I’m in my lovely flat in my lovely PJs, and I’ll sink into my lovely bed and sleep for the rest of the day.

  There’s nobody around at all. Everything seems eerily quiet, unusually peaceful. I flag down a taxi and give the driver directions to my apartment. My phone and all my money are stuffed into my bra, so I end up throwing three sweaty tenners at him and insisting he keeps the change. When I get to the communal door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored panel. I look like a Poundland Catwoman – tight black Lycra catsuit, spiky heels, hair backcombed to within an inch of its life, mascara smudged all over my face. Please let me not bump into Ingrid. This look would shatter any fragile illusion she might have that I am a hotshot who is professional at anything other than getting shitfaced.

  Last night was fantastic, but I’m paying for it now. Even my hair hurts. It’s clearly not a scaremongering myth that once you are staring down the barrel of thirty years old, hangovers hurt more, last longer and bring slightly more existential angst. I just need to lie down in a dark and silent room for, ooh, about ten hours and I should then feel marginally better.

  I take off my bra. Better. I get into my PJs. Better again. It’s my party and I’ll slob if I want to. I’ve already decided that today is a write-off. I bring the duvet over to the couch and get stuck into a two-litre bottle of Fanta and two bags of kettle crisps – simultaneously, I might add. That’s a hangover breakfast. This is now my girl cave and today there is only room for me.

  My phone beeps. Ugh. I’m trying to be alone here, people.

  It’s a text from Mum, from last night. ‘Isn’t it a gorgeous venue? Like a castle!’

  It is a castle. That’s what inspired the name ‘Edinburgh Castle’. I’m spent. I’m going to bed. I don’t want to know about everything I’m missed. I’m in recovery. Not able.

  Another text from Mum: ‘Yay! We knew you guys would win! Congratulations!!!’

  Another: ‘Why you not on camera? Haven’t seen you once. Eyelashes?’

  I also have three missed calls from Dad from just af
ter midnight – God knows what I was doing then, singing Spice Girls karaoke most probably. Or was I telling Tom I loved him? Did that happen? If only I could remember … if only I’d stayed clear of the Jägerbombs … if only I’d drunk water …

  There’s a text message from Dad too. How bizarre – someone’s made an emoji of him, unmistakably him, with his straggly black hair, middle finger up, tongue sticking out of a big satanic smile. And there’s a link to a song: ‘Baby, I Love You’ by the Ramones.

  I’ll ring him later. It’s been ages. Even ages by our low standards. I’ll just get rid of this hangover and I’ll call him tonight. Definitely.

  My head feels light all of a sudden. A piercing cramp stabs at my stomach and I feel a seismic churn. I try to swallow, but it is no use – it’s coming. A few dry retches, and then I heave a surge of curdled milk rippled with acid bile, which gushes all over my hands and my gorgeous cream carpet. I now see that colour-wise, Fanta was a really, really bad choice. I raise my head, a white beard of vomit dripping from my chin, only to see Ingrid peering in whilst unchaining her bike outside my window. I muster a wave. She pulls her sunglasses down and rides off. Thank God. Probably not exactly what she was expecting from her classy celebrity neighbour.

  I shut my eyes really, really tight and concentrate on expelling this convulsive poison from my body. I manage to crawl to the bathroom and hang my head over the toilet. Once the puking subsides, I lie down in the bath, fully clothed but just relieved to be out of sight, to be alone, so I can be gross and immobile without apology or explanation for a little while. The past week has been hectic, physically and emotionally, and I feel like I need a break; just a little break with no alarms and no surprises.

  My phone rings out from where I tossed it in an armchair … all the way back in the living room. I can’t do it. Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait.

  I wake hours later, still in the bath. Freezing but feeling a damn sight better. I give myself a good ole scrub, change into fresh fluffy pyjamas.

  I’m on my way back. Feeling good.

  Feeling very, very good. So, Assassins won the Superleague. Our radio show won the People’s Choice Award. Leanne and I are friends again. And maybe Tom loves me. That’s pretty good going, I’d say. Almost as good as it gets.

  I pick up my phone and check my missed calls. Mostly Mum, but two from an unknown number. And lots of texts, too.

  Mum: ‘Call me.’

  Mum: ‘Emergency, call me.’

  Mum: ‘Where are you? Call me.’

  Mum: ‘This is urgent – I need to talk to you.’

  Mum: ‘Your dad not well – SERIOUS. URGENT. CALL ME!’

  I call her immediately; she answers on the first ring.

  ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day!’

  ‘Mum – tell me, what is it?’

  There’s a long pause.

  ‘He’s gone, Poppy. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’

  ‘He died about an hour ago. Carlos rang from the hospital.’

  She starts to explain things, but her words are garbled in my ear … interview, documentary, massive heart attack, ambulance, resuscitation … I can’t string them together properly. I slide the phone away from me across the coffee table, my mother’s voice tinny and incoherent in the distance, and I run to the bathroom to be sick all over again.

  But this time it’s different. It’s not hangover sick. It’s empty and angry and confused. It’s almost like I can’t physically digest this news, like my body’s refusing to accept it, to let it in.

  Where were you, Dad? Did you know? Were you frightened? Did you try and call me in your final moments? Is that why you sent me the song? Was it a message? I slump against the wall and stare at my phone, at my dad’s missed call and his last message to me. What did you want to say, Dad? But there is only one answer and that is that I’ll never know. Because I didn’t take his call.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I arrange to meet Carlos and the journalist, Otis, at the hospital. Well, the hospital mortuary, to be exact. As Dad’s only living next of kin, I’m going to have to identify the body.

  Mum said she’d come if I wanted her to, to support me, though she’s not religious and she’s not into forgiveness so she feels it would be hypocritical to act like the mourning widow.

  Or even a slightly compassionate acquaintance.

  Her stance is more the scorned, retributive ex-wife, tag line: That’s what you get for being such a self-indulgent bastard. Like death only happens to people who deserve it.

  But actually, I get it to a degree. He wasn’t easy. Definitely wasn’t easy.

  Tom makes me a cup of tea and we sit together at the kitchen table as I try to process the news. To work out if it is good news or bad news. And then try to face what that says about me.

  If I think about him as Ray Bloom, the man who screwed up my mother’s life, then it’s good news, I guess. I love my mum and I hate that he treated her so badly, gave her no choice but to leave with a small baby and then carried on with the drink and the drugs and the other women like she was nothing.

  But.

  If I think about him as my father – as the man who read to me, perched on his knee at his drum kit; as the dad who was cut out of our lives overnight, who said that we deserted him, taking all the love with us and abandoning him to his demons; as the single most heartbreaking relationship I’ve ever known and that I will now never get the chance to put right – then it feels like it’s very bad news. Very, very bad and sad news indeed.

  I squeeze my eyes tight. Is it really over? Is this really how it ends? Will there never be a reconciliation, a … closure, a healing, a completion to this?

  ‘Awkward, belligerent, stubborn, selfish.’ I bang my teaspoon around the cup. ‘Always criticising me and my mum. We never thought we were up to scratch, always felt we were such failures in his eyes.’

  Tom looks up at me. ‘So your mum tried to protect you?’

  I raise my teaspoon in the air like it’s a tiny silver staff. But then I stop a moment. I stop and think.

  ‘Yeah, I think she was. He was an addict. Addicted to lots of things. He couldn’t really help himself.’ My voice softens a little and I take a slow mouthful of tea. ‘As much as I couldn’t stand my father, mostly, as I get older, I realise I pitied him.’

  We raise our mugs and look to the ceiling.

  ‘To Ray. You were your own worst enemy, but you were my father and so for that I say rest in peace. And genuinely, Ray, I hope you find it. I hope you find rest. And I hope you find peace.’

  We observe a moment’s silence.

  And as much as I tried to think of him as my ex-dad in the same way my mum could call him her ex-husband, it’s not the same, not so easy. There’s all that ancestral blood and DNA and shared genetic bonds that tethers us, never mind the seeds of unconditional love that daughters clutch in the deepest cracks of their hearts, ever hopeful for the day when they will receive a little bit of light, a sprinkle of love to help them grow.

  The next morning, the full force of Dad’s death hits the world. Clips of songs, live sessions, interviews – some good and some utter cringe – are posted all over social media: #legend #nomoreheroes #daythemusicdied #endofanera. I watch the news: a flurry of journalists outside my mum’s house in Brixton; Frank waving them off from the front-room window. There are floral tributes mounting up on the platform at King’s Cross station, where the band famously played. The evening news is more in-depth; Black Horn’s music and the persona of Ray Bloom described as a reluctant, accidental zeitgeist successfully defining the restless and uncertain spirit of a period of history that none else quite knew how to express.

  Tom and I take the train to Whitstable, the small seaside town in Kent that dad retreated to about ten years ago. He sold his house and moved into a little coastal cottage, with the idea that the fresh sea air and long, deserted beach would clear his mind and wash aw
ay his demons. But that didn’t really work. When he did venture out of the cottage, it was into town, where he might play a short session with a young up-and-coming band and then hold court at the bar with free drinks and old-school tales of Black Horn.

  I text Otis. ‘We’re in the taxi now, be there in five minutes; wearing jeans and red T-shirt’, I add bizarrely, just so he knows it’s me and doesn’t confuse me with the throngs of other estranged daughters lining up to identify one-time rock stars.

  He spots us straight away and opens the door of the cab. I put out my hand to shake his, but he just wraps his arms around me and gives me a huge bear hug. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, but he’s smiling widely. He rubs his hand down his face. ‘Let me start again – today has melted my head.’ He swallows and straightens his features.

  ‘I’m really pleased to meet you. I’m Otis Clarke, Legends of Rock music journalist and Black Horn biographer. I’ve been with your dad almost every day over the past few months.’ He raises his hand to his chest. ‘Hand on heart, I’m not just saying this because it’s you or because of today; it’s been the most amazing and intense experience of my life. I kind of feel like I already know you – he talked about you non-stop. Could probably write your biography now, to be honest.’ The corners of his mouth turn up again. ‘Right, so that was why I was smiling; I don’t want you to think I’m a heartless bastard, but I really am happy to finally meet you.’ He hugs me again, more carefully this time, then steps back, eyes lowered. ‘Though obviously I am really, really, really sorry to meet you in these sad, awful circumstances. I loved the man so I can only imagine what you’re going through. I know you didn’t always see eye to eye, but God, did he love you.’

  I nod, a bit embarrassed. I’m used to the formula of ‘Ray – bad father’ not ‘Poppy –bad daughter’.

  I introduce him to Tom and we walk through the hospital corridors. I keep my eyes fixed to the floor and try to concentrate on the squeakiness of my trainers on the polished lino. We get to the mortuary door and I recognise Carlos’s signature black cowboy hat straight away. Despite not having seen me since I was a little girl, he wraps his arms around me and then holds me at arm’s length.