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

by Colleen Coleman

  I’m standing over her now, my face close to hers. I lower my voice to a whisper.

  ‘And no, I did not realise that for all the language we learn and all the talking we do, what I really needed to say was sorry and goodbye and thank you and I love you to all the people who matter to me, who are now my world.’

  I straighten up. Smooth my hair behind my ears and regain my composure. Harriet stays crouched against the wall, stiff with horror that I have dared to throw everything back in her face.

  ‘So, Harriet, let me summarise it for you, once and for all, so there’s no doubt about what I’m saying: I didn’t realise what I was doing. But now I do.’

  And then I turn on my heel and start to run. I run out of the pub and along the tree-lined avenue, past the redbrick dormitories and the bespectacled cyclists. I run past Ivy Court and the library and the chapel. I run past the manicured gardens and the low-trimmed hedges, and by the time I get to the station and take my seat, I barely have enough breath left to call Tom and tell him about my big, bright, bold idea. Which may be the biggest, brightest and boldest idea I’ve ever had.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘So like a talk show?’ Tom asks me.

  ‘Kind of …’ I need to help him see. If I can’t get Tom to see, then I won’t be able to get any agent or producer to see either. I’ve burnt my bridges with the management at 105 FM, so there isn’t any point writing to them. Carol King doesn’t want me and she’s taken Astral with her; Jake is gone. But I still have one media contact that I made along the way.

  Otis.

  He tells me to write a pitch for my idea and he’ll see what he can do. No promises, no guarantees. But still, it’s worth a try, so here I am, sitting at my kitchen counter with Tom, pen in hand, scraps of paper balled up on the ground as I try to explain my vision to him. In a way that makes as much sense to him as it does to me. But I’m not succeeding so far.

  ‘Is it the kind of thing that’s usually on the main channels at lunchtime?’ he asks earnestly, holding my hands in his.

  I swallow hard and start again. I need to make myself clearer. It’s not enough that I know what I want; I’ve got to communicate it effectively. Try and help him to understand why it’s so important to me.

  ‘A bit like your radio show but on television instead?’ he ventures again.

  ‘No. More than that. Much more. What I have in mind is more than a daytime talk show, more than just entertainment. Much more than anything we’ve had before, anything we’ve even seen before. I want this show to help people; give them something to think about, something to support them in whatever they’re going through. I want to talk to people who have hit rock bottom and managed to rise again. I want to hear about how people navigate their way through life; what makes them get up in the morning, what keeps them going. I want to showcase every sort of person: the ordinary, the famous, the struggling, the strong. This show will be their show, their stories and their voices. I want people to be more than simply entertained. I want them to be inspired, transformed. I want to get the top specialists on so that they can give solid support to ordinary people. I want them to tune in and laugh and cry and learn and feel like they are not alone.’

  Tom slides the pen and paper in front of me. ‘I think you’ve cracked your pitch. Go get ’em, Poppy.’

  I desperately hope that one of the agencies or production companies will like the idea so that I’ll at least get a response. But I prepare myself for the possibility that maybe no one will bite. There is a big chance that my time as a very public, accessible Dr Poppy is over. But this prospect, although it disappoints me, doesn’t hold the power to make my world feel like it’s imploding any more. Because I know I’ve got it in me to pull through, to get creative and work hard. I’ve got faith; as long as I’m doing those things, they’ll lead me to exactly where I am supposed to be. Even if I can’t see it at first.

  Eight solid days I linger by the door each time the postman calls. Eight solid days of hearing the clatter of the letter box with no invitation to pitch landing on the doormat, no offer of a meeting. Nothing but takeaway menus and the odd bill. Mounting bills.

  But today is the ninth day. And this time I am not breathing deeply and thinking about what the next unknown adventure will be and when it will decide to kick in.

  No. Because today, on the ninth day, I am holding a letter in my trembling hand. I am slightly terrified of what is inside. It might be a rejection. And a rejection means that there may be more rejections; that my idea doesn’t stand up. That there is no place for it in today’s world. I look at the envelope. At least someone has gone to the trouble of replying to me. Even if it is a rejection, there may be some nuggets of wisdom, ideas to move forward with. But that doesn’t completely assuage my fear that it might be a ‘sorry but not for us’ outright rejection, or a ‘I don’t think you should waste any more time on this’ sympathetic rejection.

  But I need to know either way. And indeed, not waste any more time. So frantically I tear it open and with a pounding heart slide out the letter inside, holding it up to the sunlight.

  Dear Dr Bloom,

  You are invited to meet with Ms Fairchild at her London offices on Friday at midday to discuss your proposal.

  It is not a rejection. IT IS NOT A REJECTION! Ms Fairchild, whoever she is, wants to meet me!

  I run into the kitchen and quickly google her: Dame Vivienne Fairchild is the award-winning chief executive of the biggest telecommunications network in Britain …

  ‘And I am meeting her tomorrow at midday,’ I say out loud. Twice. And then again, for luck. And then one more time, just so I know I’m not dreaming.

  I call Otis. ‘I had no idea you were so well connected! I have a meeting with Vivienne Fairchild tomorrow,’ I tell him, surprise rippling through my voice.

  ‘Neither did I,’ he admits. ‘I gave your letter to her PA and next thing you’ve got a face-to-face appointment. That’s unheard of … She’s supposed to be a real dragon,’ he confides. ‘She rarely meets anybody these days, so this is one a hell of a chance. Best of luck, Poppy, we’re all behind you.’

  And I feel like they really are.

  My old self would have fled to the bookshelf, taken out a pen and started writing notes. But I know that notes aren’t much good to me now. I don’t need them any more. I’ve learned to live by trusting my instincts and having faith in my own ideas.

  I shut my eyes and press my hands to my chest to settle my thumping heart.

  ‘You feeling okay?’ Tom says, coming in to check on me.

  I wave the letter at him. ‘Yes. I am … well, I will be. Once I get my head around what’s actually happening.’

  ‘Once she hears your idea and how passionate you are, she’ll jump all over it.’

  ‘I don’t know, Tom. It’s going to be hard to win over someone so powerful. I mean, she might like the idea but want somebody else, or she might think, why take a chance on this?’

  Tom cups my cheeks in his hands and lifts my face to meet his eyes.

  ‘And that’s where you’re wrong, Poppy. This is why we do what we do. To take our chances, to take our place in the world. Why not you? Why not this? You can google a thousand famous writers who could put it way better than me, but my point is this: you don’t have to wait for someone else to write that amazing show that touches on everything you care about. You don’t have to wait for someone else to pitch your dream or nail your idea or capture your vision. You can do it, Poppy. I know you can. So don’t stop now. Follow it through. Bring it to life. Get to the best bit.’

  Oh God, I love this man. My stomach flips and I slap a big fat kiss on his lips.

  He is right. He is right and he makes me want to follow through. Makes me want to keep going, keep trying. Get to the best bit.

  So that’s what I’m going to do. Whatever happens, I’m going in to Vivienne Fairchild’s office tomorrow full of hope and confidence and I’m going to give it my very best shot. She won’t
be interested in how well I understand the ideas of experts and critics. She’ll be interested in how well I understand my own ideas. And like every challenge, this is daunting in one way, but exciting in every other way.

  But first things first. What am I going to wear?

  Hours later, just as I think I’ve got it, that I can’t go wrong with a simple black A-line dress, Mum knocks on the door and we go through everything again. And again.

  ‘What do you think they’re looking for?’ she asks as we survey the landslide of office wear slung on my bed. She answers herself. ‘I think they want professional but approachable, modern but timeless …’

  And that makes me think.

  Actually, they don’t know what they’re looking for. That’s why they’re looking in the first place. They’re looking for something new, for something they can’t quite define just yet. So there’s no point in trying to fit the mould. The mould is redundant. Besides, I’ve given up trying to second-guess what other people want from me.

  I go back to my wardrobe and spot a pale-blue shirt dress hanging in the corner. I’ve never worn it. It still has the tags on. I think it was the colour that caught my eye first, made me fall in love with it the moment I saw it draped in the shop window, despite the fact that I was feeling crap about myself; in the middle of exams, finding everything too hard and too long and too stressful. But as I stood and looked at myself in the mirror, the soft baby blue against my skin, it transported me to a time that hadn’t yet happened, a time when I imagined I would be in full control of my life. A time when I would be making exciting plans and brimming with hope and optimism for the future.

  I reach up for the pale blue dress and my mind is made up. I know what I’ll be wearing at my meeting tomorrow. And it’s exactly the impression I want to make, because it’s truly the me I want to be.

  I arrive at Vivienne Fairchild’s offices in Marylebone. There is a village feel to this area; cosy old-world pubs snuggled up against intimate little bookshops, family-owned patisseries alongside high-end boutiques. Rich red window frames contrast with regal white stone buildings. So this is where Ms Fairchild has chosen to spend her days. I can’t say I blame her; a beautiful yet understated corner of London.

  I climb the steps of a tall red-brick Victorian town house and rap the huge brass knocker against the glossy black door. A soft breeze brushes my face, a delicious, caressing sensation that makes me aware of every single breath I take. And for a moment, I am struck with gratitude. I have so much; I am surrounded by love. Whatever happens, I’ll keep moving forward, keep looking forward. Because I have so much to look forward to. And knowing this fills me with confidence, and dare I say it, joy.

  The door is opened by a smiling secretary. I follow her upstairs to a large open-plan office with double windows overlooking the park. There is a light, floral scent in the air. It reminds me of something that I can’t quite put my finger on. I stand at the threshold of Vivienne Fairchild’s office.

  ‘Shut the door behind you and have a seat,’ she says as she swirls around in her chair to meet me face to face. Her long dark hair is tied back in a loose ballerina bun. Her white linen dress touches the floor, soft and flowing.

  I sit down across the desk from her, smoothing my own dress over my knees. I take everything in. The room is astonishing in its bareness. It is almost like being inside a cloud. It is entirely white, every surface clear; everything seems so clean, so smooth. The only colour in the room bursts forth from a vase of lavender. It is so striking! Each little flower so dainty and elegant.

  On the desk by Ms Fairchild’s computer, I notice a mirrored photo frame. The black-and-white photo inside shows an elderly couple sitting proudly on a garden bench, beaming at the photographer as if caught unawares whilst laughing at the funniest joke ever told.

  ‘So,’ Ms Fairchild says as she settles behind her desk. Her focus settles on something above me, her startling grey eyes soft yet steely. ‘I gather from your letter that this is the first time you have ever pitched to a television company?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And what do you envisage as your next step?’

  I sense that minimalism is her preferred medium, so I don’t elaborate, I don’t pad. I just tell it as it is; bare bones.

  ‘I want to use my skills to make a difference in other people’s lives.’

  She gives me a slight nod and lowers her eyes to meet mine. ‘Good.’ This is the first time she has made direct eye contact, and it is piercing.

  I sit in silence. Good? That’s all? What now? Ms Fairchild is very hard to read. I’m trying to feel my way here as to what’s going on. I look around the room, but of course there are no clues. Just wide-open spaces, vast blank canvases. And the lavender. I take a sip of water.

  Ms Fairchild points to the couple in the photo frame. ‘Do you know who they are?’

  I shake my head. Is this a test? How would I know who they are? Maybe the owners of the TV company? The stars of a classic programme I’ve never watched? I’m out of my depth here for sure. But I’ll stay, see what I can do. The worst that can happen is that she asks me to leave. I relax with this thought. It’s not the end of the world if it doesn’t work out.

  She rises from her seat, walks around the desk and perches on the chair beside me, holding the picture frame lovingly in her lap. ‘This was taken a few weeks ago. It is my mother. On her wedding day.’ She is clearly moved by the image of her mother’s laughing face. The boundless joy captured in a snapshot.

  ‘That’s so lovely,’ I tell her. And it is. I remember my own mother’s wedding day, when she married Frank and announced to the world that it was the happiest day of her life. And she was right. Who knew the happiness that lay ahead?

  ‘If you wait a long time for love, it’s a big deal when it happens,’ Ms Fairchild continues, almost to herself.

  ‘And so it should be,’ I agree. I think of Tom. How his love has changed my life, my world.

  She nods and taps her finger fondly on the faces in the frame. ‘Love is worth celebrating, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, it certainly is,’ I say, and I feel my heart twitch. It is worth it. It is a risk, but a worthwhile risk. And it dawns on me, for perhaps the very first time that that is what we are here to do. The realisation sends a rush of heat to my neck. How did it take me so long to understand? Gosh, for a smart girl I can be very slow …

  She casts her eyes out of the window for a moment, lost in thought, and then looks back at me. ‘I owe you a tremendous debt, Poppy. I’m not one for expressing emotion, but this is different.’

  I sit up in my chair. Her tone has changed. It is softer, lighter than before. She’s no dragon, that’s for sure. I’m confused. I don’t know what to make of Ms Fairchild.

  ‘My mother married the most wonderful, kind-hearted, gentle man in the world and he has made her so, so happy.’ She smiles at me and hands me the photo frame. ‘His name is Benny; you may remember him.’

  I study the faces in the photograph. Oh my God. Benny? Benny married Ms Fairchild’s mother? I think back to his beautiful handwritten letter. Yes! He did say that his lady friend was well-to-do and from the city, a retired florist who loved … I glance over to the vase.

  ‘She loved lavender!’ I whisper, the realisation dawning on me. ‘Really? Married?’ I blush at the emotion in my voice. Oh Benny, I am so, so happy for you! My heart nearly explodes at the thought of him summoning up the courage to put pen to paper in the first place, to take that initial daunting step, and yet look! Look where his courage has led! Look at the brave new world that has opened up for him. And the ripple effect of this courage for his new wife. And for Ms Fairchild. And for me.

  She breaks into a smile. ‘Yes, Poppy. They are a wonderful couple. And so I’ve felt the benefit of your work first hand. It has transformed not only my mother’s life but mine too.’

  My hands fly to my face. I cannot believe it has come round like this, almost full circle. What a terrif
ic revolution Benny and I have had! Both happy and in love and living our best lives. I swallow the tears rising in my throat.

  Her eyes turn from grey to a glimmering silver ‘When you love somebody, you want them to have everything they need. And now, as a result of your help, my mother has everything she needs. And that makes me so very happy.’ She places her hand on mine. ‘So, here is my proposal to you. Let me be the one who brings you and your show to the screens of millions of people. Every weekday, the nation will turn on their televisions and tune in to The Dr Poppy Show.’

  Um, have I got this right? Is Ms Fairchild pitching to me?

  ‘You have my word that it will be life-changing. And not just for you. But for as many people as we can reach.’

  I hold out my hand and we shake on the spot.

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  Epilogue

  ‘Welcome, everyone, to The Dr Poppy Show!’

  The live studio audience erupts.

  I take a breath and raise my voice a pitch higher. Wow, they are already an excitable bunch. Wait till I tell them what we’ve got in store.

  ‘Have we got a special show lined up for you today, folks. And not just because it’s Friday! Not just because you are the most wonderful audience we could wish for! But we because today it is our BIRTHDAY! The Dr Poppy Show turns one today!’

  The cheering and clapping and whooping raises the roof. Everyone is standing in their seats, streamers, balloons and confetti firing from cannons either end of the stage. It certainly is a full house today, and from my position on stage, I see all my netball girls, my mum and Frank and Tom laughing and joking around in the front row.