Three's a Crowd

by Simon Booker

  His father was another story: a career criminal, said to have been involved in the Mayfair safe deposit robbery, and to have been the only one who got away with his ill-gotten gains. His name was Jack Vance and Damian didn’t like talking about him, which was disappointing but no surprise. I’d often wondered if Jack’s ‘profession’ had helped set Damian on the straight and narrow, making him determined to do good in the world, if only to make up for his old man’s criminal career.

  As for Tom, I might never have taken that curry over to his place if it hadn’t been for an email pinging in as soon as the taxi dropped me back at Nan’s. At first, my mood soared at the sight of my agent’s name. Emailing on a Saturday. Interrupting his honeymoon in South America. This had to be big. How wrong can you be?

  Dear Harriet,

  I heard how things went with the Macbeth director then Sasha gave me your message about the Voice of London competition. I’ve been thinking for some time that we’re not the right fit for each other and this confirms my view. If you win the contest you will always be known as the ‘bus and tube girl’, not helpful for an actor, especially one suffering from the longest bout of stage fright known to mankind. I wish you every success in your career and in finding new representation.

  Shit.

  FUCK YOU, INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS!

  I felt like crying but managed to pull myself together and took Nan a cuppa. She was still in bed.

  ‘Nice lunch?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘So why the long face?’

  ‘I’ve been dumped by my agent.’

  ‘Oh. I thought it was something serious. Any Hobnobs?’

  Not long ago I’d have been straight on the phone to Cockweasel, angling for consolation and hoping he might finally say those three little words. But those days were gone. Even so, I felt an urge to hear his voice.

  It’ll be okay, babe… Everything will be okay…

  Phoning was out of the question, obvs. But would a text be so terrible? It was weeks since I’d found out about Wifey and chucked him. Not a peep since. And I’d been so good, sticking to Nan’s advice.

  Cold turkey, sweetheart – the only way.

  I made myself a cuppa and sat at the kitchen table, chewing on a hangnail while staring at my phone. Next thing I knew, it was dark and I’d not only sent Damian a ‘poor ickle me’ text, I’d been on tenterhooks waiting for a reply for two hours, which makes me A) pathetic B) an arse-womble and C) did I mention pathetic?

  Confession time: obviously I hadn’t deleted his number. Plus I was still reading his horoscope every day. We’ve all been there, right?

  Right?

  Nan was in bed, watching The Omen. I lay down next to her, glad of the company. She paused the DVD and fixed me with one of her looks.

  ‘Do I need to remind you?’ she said.

  ‘About?’

  ‘The best way to get over a bloke…’

  I finished the sentence for her.

  ‘… is to get under a bloke.’

  ‘So what are you waiting for?’

  Which is when I decided to text Tom.

  Don’t suppose you feel like company? xxx

  I regretted it as soon as I pressed send. Not because I don’t like him – I do – but I wasn’t in the mood for sex, no matter what Nan had to say. It was ages before he replied. He asked me to pick up a curry but by the time I got to his place I was feeling even sorrier for myself and had lost my appetite.

  When I arrived, he moved in for a kiss. I acted like we’d never had that snog in the rain. I steered the conversation to his musical – and that’s when the evening started to take off. His tunes were good – really good. I suggested a few changes to the lyrics, which he pretended to like.

  His flat’s nice. A bachelor pad, all IKEA stuff but cosy. What with the flowers on the table, the cat and his liking for musicals, if I hadn’t known better I’d have thought he was gay.

  I left before midnight. If he’d been hoping I’d stay, well, as Nan says, ‘if wishes were horses then beggars would ride’.

  * * *

  On Sunday morning I took her breakfast in bed – a bacon butty with HP sauce – then borrowed her Micra and drove to Mum and Dad’s to water the plants and IF I SWERVE ONTO THE PAVEMENT I COULD CRASH INTO THAT TREE. The house was cold so I climbed into bed and stayed there all day, necking Heinz tomato soup and watching YouTube. I was tempted to text Tom again, to keep things ticking over, but managed to resist despite a feeling of rising panic and a tsunami of Thoughts.

  I’VE LOST MY AGENT AND MY CAREER’S IN THE CRAPPER AND I’M GOING TO DIE ALONE IN A BEDSIT ABOVE A KEBAB SHOP. EVEN IF I HAD KIDS I’D BE A CRAP MUM BECAUSE ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT IS STANDING ON THE ROOF OF A HIGH RISE AND DROPPING MY BABY AND WATCHING HIM SPLATTER ON THE GROUND AND WHEN AM I GOING TO GET GOOD AT ADULTING?!

  Eventually, I managed to pull myself together and get on with what passes for my life, but there’s no doubt that The Thoughts are getting worse, not better.

  * * *

  As for hiding in the café loo and catching myself on the radio, the whole thing felt like a weird out of body experience, like I was listening to someone else. Nan phoned to say she’d voted for me twenty-five times. Bless.

  It turns out the Voice of London result will be announced at the end of the week. I had an email from Richard’s producer, Pam, asking me to come in on Friday lunchtime, along with the others on the shortlist. I said I’d be at work and could I do it by phone. She sounded pissed off and ended the call abruptly. Then Richard phoned while I was on the bus home.

  ‘You should come into the studio.’

  ‘Why? Have I won?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The listeners are still voting.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m in the lead?’

  Pause.

  ‘I’m just saying come in.’

  OMFG! Better pull a sickie!

  RICHARD

  So I had the locks changed then I sent Tom a text.

  He’s back. Don’t give him money.

  Five hours later, he replied.

  OK.

  That was all. I can’t blame him. Not after I’d frozen him out for a year. As for Bonnie, I should have seen the divorce coming but was it weird that I was already starting to adjust to the prospect of a life after marriage? I knew she’d been unhappy but things weren’t helped by her business going under. I also knew she was dreading turning fifty. The midlife crisis takes many forms. In her case, it’s an addiction to yoga and falling for a (younger) woman. Maybe the same goes for me, minus the yoga.

  Namaste.

  Thirty-second clips of the three Voice of London finalists had been airing all week, one per hour, on rotation. The idea was proving a hit with listeners, with tens of thousands texting votes for their favourite at a pound a pop. Last time I checked, the vote was a nail-biter, practically a tie for first place. Pam refused to tell me the name of the front-runner.

  ‘You need to sound as surprised as everyone else.’

  Transport for London had booked a studio for the winner to record the announcements for the transport network, a task scheduled to take three days.

  Mind the closing doors.

  Northern line to Morden.

  Please move down inside the carriage.

  Walking into town on that fateful Friday, I had a rare sense of wellbeing. Nothing to do with the antidepressants, I was actually happy. At first, I admonished myself. My wife wanted a divorce, my relationship with my son was a disaster and who knew what chaos ‘Gorgeous’ George was about to unleash? What was there to be happy about?

  I knew the answer, of course. Like the man said, ‘to be happy we need something to do, someone to love and something to hope for’. For once, I had all three. Okay, maybe I wasn’t in love with Harriet – not the full-blown can’t-live-without-you down-on-bended-knee – but I was smitten.

  No, more than smitten. Enchanted.

  Touch wood, I’ve been lucky with my health – ad
mitted to hospital just once, for appendicitis, and that’s pretty much it. On the rare occasions I fall ill I tend not to mess around. Norovirus twice. Flu three times – the real McCoy not just a heavy cold. Oh, and a rogue oyster almost saw me off during a holiday in Corsica. It’s the same with matters of the heart. When I fall, I fall big.

  I wasn’t kidding myself that Harriet felt the same way. I felt sure she wasn’t kicking through leaves in the park, unable to think of anything except those soft, tender kisses in the taxi, her brain fused by a cocktail of hormones and fizzing with every glorious cliché in the Great American Songbook, from ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’ to ‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered’. But she had kissed me.

  Her rivals, Samira Khan and Andy Smith, arrived at the studios at the same time. Harriet was late, to Pam’s obvious irritation. I pretended not to mind her cutting it fine but my stomach clenched every time the door opened. The Transport for London PR arrived half an hour before the show began, accompanied by their Head of Marketing. We made small talk over coffee and pastries. As the clock ticked towards midday I assembled my clutch of emails and notes then made my way to studio B. It was only as I sat at the mic that I saw Pam through the glass giving a thumbs-up: Harriet was here.

  The news came to an end. I tapped the screen and played the jingle.

  The Richard Young SHOW!

  I introduced the first song of the day (‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’) then took off my headphones as Pam ushered in the three finalists and settled them at the guest mics. She handed me the envelope containing the winner’s name, prompting nervous laughter from the three contenders. I was careful not to show favouritism but I’d already chatted to Andy and Samira, so I asked Harriet if she was feeling okay.

  ‘Terrified.’ She looked it, too. ‘How many people are listening?’

  ‘Try not to think about it,’ I said. ‘Just picture one person and talk to them.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Okay, I’ll talk to Nan but I’ll probably babble nonsense. I always do when I get nervous.’

  She poured water from the cooler, handing paper cups to her fellow finalists.

  Andy made a toast. ‘Cheers. May the best man win.’

  Samira gave a thin-lipped smile.

  ‘Or woman.’

  The song ended and we were live on air. Switching on the mic, I introduced the guests in alphabetical order.

  ‘Harriet Brown, Samira Khan, Andy Smith – thank you for coming in. And this is it – the moment of truth. We’re about to find out which of you will be the new Voice of London, heard every day by millions of commuters on buses, trains and tubes all over the capital. There’s a cash prize of five thousand pounds for the winner and a thousand each for the runners-up.’

  Harriet took me by surprise, leaning in to her mic.

  ‘Sorry I was late, Richard. The bus broke down. Funny, really. Today of all days.’

  I glanced into the control room, seeking out the PR woman. She was smiling. Harriet continued.

  ‘By the way, your listeners should know something: you’re taller than you sound on the radio.’

  I laughed, thrown by the non sequitur.

  ‘How tall do I sound?’

  ‘Five-foot-two. Your nose sounds bigger too – massive, in fact – but it’s totally normal. Weird.’

  Andy and Samira exchanged a glance. Were they supposed to join in?

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I said before turning to Andy. ‘Andy Smith, tell us why you’d like to be the Voice of London.’

  His answer was on the banal side – something about it being an honour to have been born in the best city in the world – but his voice was rich and deep, it compelled you to pay attention. I posed the same question to Samira. She responded in her lilting tone with an over-rehearsed response about how public transport in the world’s greatest city deserved a distinctive voice reflecting London’s diverse population.

  ‘Finally, Harriet Brown – why would you like to be the Voice of London?’

  She smiled.

  ‘Okay, it’s confession time: the truth is, I like bossing people about. If I win I can ride the buses all day, and the tube, watching people do as I say.’

  I smiled back.

  ‘Are you a control freak?’

  ‘So my last boyfriend said. Maybe that’s why I’m single.’

  She held my gaze. Was this flirty banter or anxious chatter?

  The three of us carried on talking for a few more minutes then I flourished the envelope.

  ‘We’ve had thousands of votes from all over London and we’re about to find out who they’ve chosen to be… the new voice of London.’

  A tap on the screen produced a drum-roll. I opened the envelope.

  ‘In third place…’ I paused, allowing the tension to build. ‘In third place… Samira Khan.’ Another tap on the screen triggered canned applause. ‘In second place… Andy Smith… Which means the winner – and the new Voice of London is… Harriet Brown!’

  There was a split-second of disbelief then her smile lit up her lovely face. And lo! – it was a wonder to behold.

  HARRIET

  OMG!

  I won!

  TOM

  He’s back. Don’t give him money.

  That’s all the text said. After a year of silence. I took a while to calm down then responded with a terse ‘OK’. It was all I could muster. Just after midday, I took my phone into the loo at work and listened to Silk FM to see how Dad was sounding. He was chatting to some guests, something about a competition to be the new voice spouting travel info on buses and tubes. I was on the verge of switching off when I heard a name that made my heart leap in my chest.

  ‘… Finally, Harriet Brown – why would you like to be the Voice of London?’

  It felt as if my brain was blowing a fuse. My mind did cartwheels, settling on the obvious explanation. Just a coincidence…

  Then I heard her voice.

  ‘Okay, confession time: I like bossing people about. If I win I can ride the tube all day, watching people do as I say.’

  ‘Are you a control freak?’

  ‘So my last boyfriend said. Maybe that’s why I’m single.’

  I sat on the toilet seat.

  So many questions.

  Did she know he was my father?

  If so, why hadn’t she told me?

  Could this really be a coincidence or was something weird going on?

  I glared at my phone, as if staring hard would make sense of what I was hearing. My father was saying something.

  ‘We’ve had thousands of votes from all over London and we’re about to find out who they’ve chosen to be… the new voice of London.’

  A drum roll…

  An envelope being ripped open…

  ‘In third place…’ He paused. ‘… Samira Khan.’

  Canned applause.

  ‘In second place… Andy Smith… Which means the winner – and the new Transport for London Voice of London is… Harriet Brown!’

  I carried on listening but I couldn’t tell you what was said.

  Dad?

  And Harriet?

  On the radio?

  Bantering like old pals?

  Not bantering, flirting.

  Was this actually happening? FML!

  Back in the office, I tried to concentrate on finishing the copy for a piece about self-cleaning glass but my mind seemed to have shut down. I walked into the kitchen. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I composed a text to Harriet. I tried to appear calm.

  Heard u on radio. Congrats! Why didn’t u say u knew my dad?

  I pressed ‘send’ then took a deep breath, bracing myself for her reply. Colin walked in and gave me a sideways look.

  ‘You okay, mate?’

  ‘Fine. Why?’

  ‘You look weird.’

  ‘Define “weird”.’

  ‘White. Pasty. If you’re coming down with something do us all a favour and go home before everyone catches it.�
�

  I didn’t need telling twice.

  ‘Great advice,’ I said. ‘Cheers.’

  In case he had second thoughts, I was out on the street in, like, less than a minute. Before mounting my bike, I checked my mobile. No response from Harriet.

  As I began to weave my way through the rush-hour traffic, a song was playing inside my head. ‘Eleanor Rigby’ by the Beatles. However hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the tune. It took a moment to work out the connection – a magazine article I’d read about coincidences. Apparently Paul McCartney chose the name Eleanor after working with Eleanor Bron during the filming of Help! The name Rigby came from a sign above a wine merchant’s, Rigby and Evans. In the 1980s an old gravestone was discovered in the cemetery of St Peter’s Parish Church in Woolton, Liverpool, which is where Paul first met John Lennon at a 1957 summer fete. The name on the headstone was, you’ve guessed it, Eleanor Rigby.

  Then there’s the fact that the grave of the first British soldier to die in the First World War is just seven yards from that of the last Brit to die in the same war. Totally unplanned. Just coincidence. There are tons more and they prove nothing, of course, except what we all already know: coincidences happen every day. Nothing weird or supernatural going on, they’re just part of life.

  All the same, what the actual fuck!?

  It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I felt the phone vibrate. I took the call but carried on cycling. Harriet got straight to the point.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Richard, of course. He’s your father?’

  ‘Has been for as long as I can remember.’ A feeble attempt at keeping things light. ‘Are you still at the studio?’

  ‘No, I’m on the bus, going home. But I don’t get it – you have different surnames.’

  ‘Dad changed his when he became a DJ. No one was going to hire a guy with a name like Dick Brocklebank.’

  ‘Oh my God… this is so weird.’