by Simon Booker
‘You have to admit, it’s a weird situation.’
He nodded.
‘I hope it won’t be a problem.’
Which made two of us. I wasn’t going to say anything to jeopardize our professional relationship. Jennifer Ingham had phoned to talk money and I’d said ‘yes’ straightaway. To tell you the truth, it was a lot less than I was expecting but still pretty decent compared to what I was used to at the café. So here I was, drinking wine with my new colleague – a nice-looking bloke in a Paul Smith suit – and feeling good about things, which made a change from how I normally felt.
Bottom line: I’d waited years for a chance like this. Okay, so it wasn’t a movie or Lady Macbeth at the National or the lead in a TV series, but it beat serving skinny lattes ten hours a day. Best of all, it would give me a steady income, a profile and maybe lead to other stuff. All I had to do was not mess up with Richard.
So when Tom walked in, my face must have been a picture. I could see Richard was surprised, too.
‘Well, if it isn’t the Boy Wonder.’
Tom pulled up a chair and sat down. His face was red, his brow sweaty, as if he’d been cycling for miles.
‘Am I interrupting?’
‘Of course not.’ I hope I sounded genuine. The truth was, his showing up made me nervous. I felt as if I’d been caught out on an illicit rendezvous, which was absurd. ‘How did you find us?’
‘You said you were going to the pub. You can’t miss Dad’s car. Mum calls it a “midlife crisis on wheels”.’
Richard gave a tight smile.
‘Glass of wine?’
Tom ignored him, taking a swig from his water bottle.
‘We need a chat,’ he said, turning to me. ‘We can’t just pretend this is normal. I like you, Harriet – a lot. Dad likes you too and who can blame him? But the question is: what are we going to do about it?’
Talk about straight to the point. I’m not normally backwards in coming forwards but the question was directed at Richard so I waited for him to reply.
‘Harriet and I are going to be colleagues,’ he said. ‘Who knows how things will turn out?’
Tom turned to me. ‘Is that how you see it?’
I swallowed. It was time for some plain talking.
‘Look, I really like you both,’ I said. ‘But the truth is, I’m still getting over someone. I’m excited about the Silk FM job and that’s as far ahead as I want to look. I don’t see why things should get complicated. We’re all grown-ups.’
‘O-kay,’ said Tom. He sounded pissed off. ‘Good to know where we stand.’
Richard leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, this isn’t at all awkward.’
Tom wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
‘I had some news,’ he said. ‘About my musical. An email from a producer. He asked me to send some songs and he wants to see a showcase.’
‘Cool,’ I said. ‘Anyone I might know?’
‘His name’s Paul Mendoza. He’s done shows in the provinces and he’s looking for a new production for the West End.’
‘What’s involved in a “showcase”?’ said Richard.
‘A one-off performance in a small venue,’ said Tom. ‘Maybe a room above a pub. It’s so Paul can see if the show is worth investing in. It won’t put my name in lights but it’s a step in the right direction.’
‘Brilliant,’ I said. My grin was genuine. I love it when good things happen to good people. Tom returned my smile.
‘I told him about you,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘I said I’d ask if you’d consider playing Roxanne.’
I blinked.
‘You mean, the lead?’
He nodded.
‘There’s no dosh, I’m afraid, and there’ll be weeks of rehearsals plus lots more work getting the show into shape, but the great thing is you can fit it around Silk FM. Plus you get to perform in front of a producer. Like an audition, only better. Who knows where it could lead?’
WHICH WAS THE MOST EXCITING OFFER – A PROPER ACTING JOB WITH BIG POTENTIAL – AND YET THERE WAS NO WAY I COULD SAY YES BECAUSE THE THOUGHTS THE THOUGHTS THE FUCKING THOUGHTS!
‘Brilliant,’ I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. ‘Count me in.’
‘Cool,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘I’ll get you a glass,’ said Richard. He got to his feet. I could see Tom was pissed off but my heart was hammering like crazy and I was having trouble focusing on what they were saying.
‘You don’t seem happy about my news, Dad.’
‘Because it would be like congratulating you on buying a lottery ticket. Let’s celebrate when you sign a contract.’
‘Nice,’ said Tom. ‘Thanks a lot.’
His dad sighed, resumed his seat and ran his fingers through his hair and as I was watching the two of them, father and son, all I could think was I JUST SAID YES TO SOMETHING SOOO SCARY AND I’M GOING TO HAVE A PANIC ATTACK AND WHY IS RICHARD STILL TALKING?
But he showed no sign of stopping, leaning closer to Tom as he delivered a mini-lecture.
‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a musical put on in a crappy little theatre in the arse end of nowhere, let alone the West End or Broadway? For every Hamilton or West Side Story there are a thousand flops.’
Tom responded with a quote that sounded like Shakespeare.
‘ “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a heaven for?” Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?’
Richard spread his hands in an expression of defeat.
‘Good point, well made,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll fetch that glass.’
He left me alone with Tom and my heart was still hammering in my chest BECAUSE FUCK IT, IT’S NO GOOD, I CAN’T GO THROUGH WITH IT BECAUSE THE THOUGHTS THE THOUGHTS THE THOUGHTS…
‘Actually,’ I said, trying to ignore my sweaty palms, ‘I’m really sorry but I don’t think I can.’
He smiled, not understanding.
‘Sorry?’
‘I can’t play the lead. Or play anything for that matter.’
His brow creased into a frown.
‘But you said…’
DON’T MAKE THIS HARDER THAN IT IS, PLEASE.
‘I know what I said, Tom. But I wouldn’t want to let you down, so it’s best if I say no. I’ll still help out with lyrics and stuff, if you want me to, but I can’t perform in your show.’
He opened his mouth to protest but I got there first.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘No more questions.’
He sighed and shrugged his shoulders then lapsed into a puzzled silence. I took a gulp of wine to steady my nerves but couldn’t shake the feeling I’d messed up again because of The Thoughts. Which is when my phone beeped with a text from Damian, aka Cockweasel. I’m ashamed to admit it but the sight of his name made my heart soar. There were just three words.
I miss you x
Fucking arse-biscuit!
TOM
I admit it, I was talking bollocks. I hadn’t mentioned Harriet to Paul Mendoza. His email had said he’d attend a try-out of They F**k You Up, but only if I could pull it together before he set off on a forthcoming trip to America.
Still, as I cycled home from the pub, I congratulated myself on kiboshing Dad’s bid to keep Harriet all to himself. Giving her the Silk FM job was a clever move, but there was no way I was going to give him a clear run.
As for why Harriet wouldn’t star in the show, WTAF? Okay, so it was only a try-out but surely it was worth a shot, a chance to shine in front of a producer? Nope, she was adamant and there didn’t seem any point in trying to talk her round. I’d no choice but to settle for a creative collaboration. The important thing now was to make sure she felt properly invested in the show. I’d happily give her the percentage she deserved, anything to make sure Dad couldn’t monopolize her time.
It wasn’t bloody-mindedness. There comes a time when a bloke has to stand up for himself and that time was now. Plus, every man needs to beat his
father at something – and maybe my ‘something’ was winning Harriet’s heart. The more I thought about it, the more I saw of her, the more I felt sure she was Ms Right.
They say luck is when preparation meets opportunity. The truth was I was nowhere near ready to showcase They F**k You Up, with just four complete songs which had taken forever to write. I needed six more, at least, before I had anything approaching a proper show. But now I had a partner. And a plan.
RICHARD
Cheeky sod, waltzing into the pub like that. What was he up to? Trying to catch me holding hands with Harriet? To surprise us mid-snog, like drunken teenagers? Still, it took cojones to show up out of the blue, so I take my hat off to the lad: seven out of ten for chutzpah. (Speaking of hats, Harriet liked the fedora. I caught her looking at it out of the corner of her eye. I think she finds it stylish.)
Tom left shortly after she’d said ‘yes’ to helping write his, ahem, ‘musical’. The one he’s been working on since the dawn of time but which shows no sign of becoming a reality. Still, recruiting her was a canny move on his part, designed to neutralize my pre-emptive strike in signing her up for Silk FM. Whatever else the boy is, he’s no fool. Under normal circumstances, I’d say ‘the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’ but let’s face it, our family doesn’t count as normal.
After Tom left, Harriet and I didn’t stay long at the pub. She was distracted by a text – from her grandmother, or so she said. She dashed off a quick response, which was fine, but then her phone started pinging like a pinball machine. She began replying to message after bloody message. It wasn’t long before I got fed up and suggested calling it a night. I pretended I had a dinner date; she pretended not to mind.
As I dropped her outside her Nan’s house, we parted company with a quick peck on the cheek. I was careful not to say anything flirtatious. Play the long game – that’s the thing. A less experienced bloke might have kicked up a fuss about her texting marathon but wasn’t maturity the quality that gave me a crucial edge over Tom? He had youth on his side, and everything that goes with it. What could I offer? Some worldly wisdom and a few quid in the bank. Would it be enough to see off the competition? Time would tell.
For now, there was little point in pretending that maturity alone would make me irresistible, especially since I seemed to have developed some unfortunate tendencies, the kind that appear to be an inescapable part of the ageing process – and I’m not talking about physical decline. I play tennis, I walk a lot and I’m only forty-nine, so still a long way off being a grumpy old git (I hope!). However, the sight of people dropping litter makes me foam at the mouth, I can’t stand music leaking from earphones, or the stench of Big Macs and fried chicken (who eats food by the bucket?). As for those idiots who narrowly miss bumping into you on the pavement because they’re glued to their sodding iPhones – well, don’t get me started.
Back home in Belsize Park, I put a tray of M&S lemon sole goujons in the oven, opened a bottle of Pouilly Fuissé then sat in the Eames chair and watched two episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm with just one thought in my head. Softy softly catchee Harriet.
HARRIET
The next few weeks were a blur. Richard was still doing his daily lunchtime show so we got together for more dry runs in the late afternoons, one every day, until sitting at a microphone and doing traffic reports, weather forecasts and blethering for England started to feel like second nature. I got a particular kick out of reading the horoscopes but I’m sure Richard is a sceptic, like Tom. Fair enough, but no one could deny that I was on a roll, which was in line with the forecasts for Aquarius, so they can both put that in their pipe and smoke it. There were trailers to record, too, to promote the new show. I re-tuned Nan’s transistor from Radio 2 to Silk FM, so she could hear the clips of me and Richard doing our banter, giving listeners a taste of what to expect between 6 and 9 a.m. Monday to Friday.
‘Is he being a gentleman?’
‘So far, Nan.’
‘He sounds like trouble to me.’
I told her not to worry: Richard was fun, friendly and full of encouragement, but he was keeping things totally professional and showing no signs of being flirtatious. Our Piccadilly snog was ancient history, all the workplace boundaries seemed to be in place, and The Thoughts seemed to have receded, at least for now. Phew!
As for Tom, he was having a burst of creative energy that had prompted him to quit Double Glazing Monthly and kept him at home for days on end, living on pizza and working all hours. He FaceTimed me most days, playing me his latest songs and asking for my opinion. As with the first few I’d heard, the music was terrific (there was something Sondheim-esque about his melodies) but his lyrics needed work, which is where my strengths lie, so we made a good team. And he didn’t press me on my decision not to perform in the show, which helped me feel like I’d made a good decision for once in my life.
I was genuinely excited about the prospects for They F**k You Up but with so much else happening I had to put it out of my mind or risk freaking out at all the stuff coming my way – especially the build-up to the Voice of London launch.
It’s a funny thing – when change hits your life it feels like you’re walking a tightrope, between skyscrapers. The only way to keep your nerve is to keep putting one foot in front of the other and never ever look down.
In the run-up to the big day, Transport for London’s publicity department kept me busy doing interviews for local radio stations, websites and papers. The bosses at Silk FM weren’t thrilled about me appearing on rivals, like Capital and Heart, but Richard managed to convince Jennifer Ingham that it was all good publicity for our new show, so I carried on regardless. After the first couple of days, I began to understand what it must be like to be one of those mega movie stars doing a publicity junket, with zillions of journalists wheeled in for fifteen-minute slots and asking the same questions over and over again and sometimes it got a bit stressful and I WANTED TO BURST OUT LAUGHING AND STRIP NAKED but mostly it was fine.
So what with one thing and another, I barely had time to think about Cockweasel. Okay, that’s not strictly true. I thought about him a lot but was too busy to obsess over his texts and dissect every syllable, the way I used to before I discovered he was a total meat-muppet.
A married meat-muppet.
With kids.
I miss you x
That was the message that had kicked it off – the one he’d sent while I was in the pub with Richard. I’d fired off a quick response.
Tough!
He came back straightaway…
Don’t be like that babe xxx
And before I knew it, we were texting like school kids on a sugar rush. He told me his dad had died so he was sad. I remembered him talking about his father – the famous bank robber – so I said I was sorry and hoped he was okay, which he took as a green light to send a bunch of messages about how depressed he was, even though Jack had left him a shedload of dosh. He even sent a photo of the Porsche he’d bought to cheer himself up.
Fancy a ride?
I didn’t hesitate.
No.
Richard pretended not to mind all the texting but I could see he was annoyed, and who can blame him? After a while, he said he had a dinner date and dropped me back at Nan’s. I sat on her sofa and carried on texting Cockweasel till he pissed me off by asking if he could come over ‘for a chat’. I tapped out my reply.
No way!
I turned off my phone and went upstairs to watch The Omen II with Nan.
Honestly – blokes! They’re like buses: you wait ages then three come along at once.
* * *
I didn’t sleep the night before the Big Day. Not a wink. Mum and Dad sent a good luck email from Hong Kong and Nan insisted I wake her before leaving the house so I took her a cup of tea just before 5 a.m.
‘Good luck, darlin’.’
‘They don’t say “good luck”, Nan.’
‘Who don’t?’
‘Showbiz people. They say “brea
k a leg”.’
‘Tossers.’
I was halfway out of the door when her voice made me turn.
‘Harriet?’
‘Yes, Nan.’
‘I’m proud of you. Your sod of a granddad would have been proud, too.’
‘Thanks, Nan.’
She sipped her tea and frowned. ‘You all right, love?’
‘Fine, thanks. Just something in my eye.’
* * *
There was no traffic so the Uber to Shaftesbury Avenue took less than twenty minutes. Although I was nervous, sitting in the cab after being skint for so long felt good. The sun was rising and the streets were almost deserted, just a handful of early birds heading into tube stations or boarding buses. If everything was going according to plan, Transport for London would have switched the tannoy system to the new recordings. It was weird, thinking of my disembodied voice echoing along platforms around the network, from Morden to High Barnet, from Cockfosters to Heathrow. As we reached the West End I was tempted to dash into Oxford Circus station and listen to myself telling people to please move right down inside the carriage, but I was scared I’d be late getting to Silk FM so I put it off till later. It may not have been the bright lights of Broadway or the red carpet in Leicester Square but it was a big day in the life of Harriet Brown.
Richard was already in when I arrived, just after five-thirty, looking cool in one of his posh suits. He was talking to Pam. She’d brought flowers to wish me luck (bless!).
Jennifer was in early, too, her high heels clacking down the corridor as she arrived with coffee and muffins. Raising the latte to my lips, I spared a thought for whichever early-shift barista had frothed the milk and sprinkled the cinnamon. Then, sitting at the mic, heart galloping, I thought briefly of Tom and wondered if he was tuning in to my debut.
The clock ticked towards the top of the hour.
‘Mobile off?’ said Richard, donning his headphones.
I reached for my phone. It pinged with a text. From Cockweasel. SERIOUSLY? NOW? JUST BEFORE I WENT LIVE ON-AIR FOR THE FIRST TIME?