Perfect Timing

by Owen Nicholls

  And when I started to bore on about how lonely I was out there, and how I was starting to doubt who I was, he listened. He actually listened, and at the right times he did the sympathetic head tilt and offered me a cigarette. I don’t usually smoke but I was at an invincible stage of drunkenness. Where cancer and falling downstairs couldn’t hurt me.

  “I’ve always felt like me on stage,” I told him. “But this new stuff, there’s all this distance between who I thought I was and who I’m presenting as. Christ, this is all sounding self-obsessed.”

  Despite his gin-soaked state, Chris took it all in. I could see the cogs whirring as he considered his response.

  “I get it. I’m always sure I’m gonna cark it on stage and so I do this thing where I detach from my body. Like, I’m watching myself from up here.” He held his hand up to the roof of the van.

  “So,” I continued as if he’d never spoken. “What you’re saying is, I am self-obsessed?”

  He smiled in a way that I was very comfortable with. He got my sense of humor. He knew when my tongue was firmly in my cheek and because of that I wanted mine to be firmly in his.

  “All right, Doctor. What’s the remedy?”

  He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Do you like sambuca?”

  The next day my head was fuzzy, but my memory was clear. Despite being presented with someone who—judging by the “talking and the necking and the inviting back to his van” part of the night that I do remember—made it clear she liked him, still had the wherewithal to stop himself overstepping a line. We had not had sex that first night. This was one of the first things I really liked about Chris. That he wasn’t the type of guy who would push the boundaries of consent. That I actually gave him points for this shows just how low the bar has been set.

  Weeks after our first night together, we started talking about me returning to the UK. My four weeks in Australia had turned into three months, but my time on the other side of the world was coming to an end.

  Chris talked about how he’d planned to visit England soon and that there was “no time like the present.” He carried my bags to the airport and boarded the plane with me. Two months home and here we are.

  Turns out it isn’t that hard to start a relationship after all.

  20

  No Biggie

  Tom

  D’Arblay Street, London

  December 10, 2016

  The last message Jess sent me was four and a half months ago. I still have it on my phone, for no reason other than to torture myself with it. The reply was a simple rejection to the offer (my third) of our meeting for a drink. I breezily followed it up with one that said it was “no biggie”—a phrase I’ve never used before or since—and that she should text me when she’s free. A hundred days later and it would appear she’s still busy. Then again, her career’s taken off in a way I don’t think either me or Julia expected.

  Watching bits of her shows online used to be fun. Painful because it was a four-inch-tall, 2D Jess, and not an in-the-flesh Jess, but I loved the stuff she did. Now? Now her new routines are just…they’ve got this real mean streak to them.

  One clip that’s had over a hundred thousand views has her laying into a woman in the front row for the sole crime of wearing a T-shirt of a band Jess doesn’t like. She’s punching down in a way that I wouldn’t have expected. And people are lapping it up. I know you should NEVER READ THE COMMENTS, so me scrolling down is a form of masochism worthy of the Marquis de Sade, but she is equally loved and loathed for what she’s doing now. Both the praisers and the haters are hard to read. When you care about someone (and despite her shutting me out, I do still care about her), people saying nasty things about them is the worst.

  This needs to stop. I switch off my laptop and get ready for the band meeting with the record label. Alan warned us on the phone, they have good news for us. And they have bad news for us.

  As they deliver both I know my mind will still be on Jess.

  Dyott Street, London

  That afternoon

  “That’s the way the industry is now. Record sales mean next to shit. You got great reviews, you’re the new critics’ darlings, but you’ve sold bupkes.” Mick delivers all this in a flat monotone. He’s probably repeated these sentences to every young band that’s entered his office, looking to understand why they’re not instant millionaires now they have sellout shows and a devoted fanbase.

  Alan sits next to the four of us, more than a little out of his depth. We’ll never lose him, though. It’s just not in our blood. He was there at the start, and he’ll take ten percent until we’re done.

  Mick continues, “While you’re not making money from the record, you are earning on the road. My advice, and it’s the same advice I’d give to anyone from the Rolling Stones to Johnny and Jane up-and-comer, is get touring. Europe. The US. Canada. Your streaming numbers in Japan are big enough to get you slots there.”

  There’s a baby-shaped snafu in this plan. Scott’s partner, Holly, is ready to drop any day now and we’ve been gigging nonstop since the record came out. I promised Scott that he’d get a month off, no matter what, when the baby came. Their due date is Christmas Day and so I incorrectly assumed we’d all be off anyway. It’s a promise that, in hindsight, I shouldn’t have made. We share a look unseen by Mick, who appears to be coming to the end of his monologue.

  “And I know how media shy you are—that it adds to your mystique—but it doesn’t hurt to get a few interviews out there. Appear on a few radio shows. A podcast or two. Take a look at this and see if any would fit your sensibilities.”

  There’s derision in his voice as he says the word “sensibilities”—like we’re some spoiled brats, playing a role. He tosses a piece of paper to me with a host of different titles on it, next to names of presenters I’ve never heard of. I pocket it for reading later. Mick’s the sort of guy who doesn’t stand or acknowledge you as you leave. But he has a reputation for getting bands on bills that can’t be matched, so we just smile and nod as we slink out of his office.

  Ten minutes later, in a classic London pub, in the city we’re briefly calling home, we try and fail to dissect Mick’s words. Instead, we stare into our pints, unsure what to say next. Five months ago, we’d be chomping at the bit at the talk of a world tour. But after months on the road, I know the three of them are tired, homesick, and ready for a break. I go first.

  “Look, the priority remains making sure everyone gets some downtime over Christmas. We’ve earned it, and I know that Scott and Brandon want to get back to Holly and Carl.”

  Brandon and Scott both nod, appreciating the sentiment. Considering how I reacted to the pregnancy—what everyone is now, due to the due date, calling the Second Coming of Jesus—it’s the least I can do.

  “As for publicity, I’ll take a look at this list and see what we can set up before Christmas. I’m happy to go on some regional radio shows and offer monosyllabic answers to questions until they play our record. Then in the New Year, once our Lord and Savior has arrived, we’ll look at touring further afield.”

  I get more appreciative nods and with that a semblance of a plan is confirmed. Conversation quickly turns to what we’re most looking forward to when we get home. Family seems to be the top of everyone’s list. A sadness overtakes me as I realize every one of the people I care about—every one that cares about me, anyway—is already sitting around this table.

  Back in the flat I pour myself a drink and reflect on the feeling of loneliness that swamped me in the pub. I’ve met one person over the past two years who has made me feel anything like the level of comfort I feel with my friends. And somehow, in a five-minute conversation in an airport, I screwed it up beyond repair.

  So, what next? Pine and hide away, or face the world. You can start, I direct myself, with that list of radio shows and interview requests. No matter how painful they may
be, it’s time to put yourself out there. And then I see it. Of all the podcasts, in all the world. At the bottom of Mick’s list, beneath a show about someone’s dad writing erotica, I see her name.

  “Funny Stuff” with Jess Henson. Contact Julia Borne for details.

  21

  Puppy Dog Eyes

  Jess

  Mortimer Street, London

  December 17, 2016

  The podcast was Julia’s idea. About a month after I got back from Australia, she forcefully suggested I start one of my own. She’d come to a few of my shows and—while she didn’t turn her nose up at my new material as such—she wasn’t super enthusiastic about it either. I think the podcast was her not-so-subtle way of steering me away from my new direction.

  I’d explained how Chris and Dean both thought the “Give No Fucks” content was a good way forward, and she made some crack about how a new boyfriend and an agent’s judgment probably triumphs over an old best friend. I told her in no uncertain terms that it definitely did not. But then she just shrugged and said “You’ll figure it out” in a sort of Zen masterpiece of life advice.

  A little while later she bought me a microphone and some recording equipment and offered her services as a producer.

  “A podcast?” I asked with a little sass, believing—as its core is to sit in a room giving people unasked-for opinions about nothing in particular—that it was something mostly white men do.

  “To paraphrase the Cranberries, everyone else is doing it, so why can’t you? Patty has one. Melanie too.” She told me all this by way of a convincer.

  “But why do you think I should do one?”

  “You’re getting booked now. A lot. I think it’d be a good idea if you had a place where you could be more you. Y’know?”

  I did know. But I wasn’t in a mood to challenge it. And after all, she seemed really enthusiastic about learning how to produce and market it. As is Julia’s way, she managed to convince me that it was me doing her a favor and not the other way around.

  “You reckon people will listen to it?”

  “Hell, yeah. It might be slow going at first, but you know how much I believe you’re going to be the future Queen of Comedy. This is my way of coining in early.”

  If I wanted to be a world-class arsehole I could actually blame her for Tom coming on the show, but everyone in the room knows this is my doing. So I said Yes when his management asked. Despite Chris now being in my life. Despite the anger I still feel toward Tom—an anger which comes from so many places I don’t know where to start. But I’ll try anyway: that he made me feel I’d always be second fiddle to his career, that he convinced me he really liked me…Then there was that line about “having a little fun,” his stupid big coat…

  Goddammit, I hate this side of me.

  Because, despite all this, I wanted to see him again and so I helped orchestrate this farce. And now here he is, waiting on the other side of the clear door. In that fucking coat.

  He knocks on the glass and Julia opens it for him. As he enters the room, she looks for my reaction. I give nothing away, but I notice something shift in her. An uncomfortableness.

  “Hi,” Tom says meekly.

  Julia greets him pleasantly but apprehensively. “It’s good to see you again.”

  It takes me a second to remember that, yes, they have met. And no doubt talked about me. Is that the cause of this awkward air? I don’t have time to answer as his attention fixes squarely on me. His puppy dog eyes at their most baby canine, he asks how I’m doing.

  “I’m good,” I reply, busying myself with buttons and cables the purposes of which I will never know. Julia takes them off me and I smartly nip in the bud this idea of me and Tom having a quick catch-up. “Sorry, can we chat after? There’s just a fair bit to do to set it all up.”

  What is this I’m feeling? A mix of irritable and sad. Why do I want to punch his lights out? Am I hungry? I’m probably just hungry. Flashes of our final interaction at the airport come to mind and I know it isn’t the lack of food in my stomach that has me tetchy. I want to scream expletives in his face. Urgh. I’ve become the cliché of a woman scorned.

  As he sits down and puts his headphones on, sipping at the tiny glass of water we’ve left him, it dawns on me that inviting him here was a really, really, really bad idea.

  22

  Funny Stuff

  Jess and Tom

  Subject line: Transcript of “Funny Stuff” Episode 8—Guest Tom Delaney. Notes by Julia Borne. To be aired before Christmas.

  I just want to prefix this by saying we really don’t have to release this one, Jess. After all, I think we can both agree this is not your finest hour. Hope you’re OK. I’m here if you need me. J x

  Transcript not for distribution.

  JESS: We don’t do ads for Squarespace or for, for ads for…Shit…Sorry. Can we go again? From the top. We don’t do ads for Squarespace or for that weird food-delivery service where they send you the ingredients but you have to cook it yourself. I mean, what is the point of that? But if you like what you hear and you want to chuck us a few quid for this wonderful free content there’ll be a link in the show notes. OK. On with the show.

  Insert “Funny Stuff” podcast jingle. A mix of jazz piano and drums, culminating in a drumroll and a cymbal crash.

  JESS: Welcome. Welcome. Welcome to this, the eighth episode in our quite probably short-lived podcast “Funny Stuff” in which I talk to…relatively…famous people about things they find funny. I’ve run out of comedians who are willing to talk to me, so please welcome musician Tom Delaney of The Friedmann Equation.

  TOM: Hi.

  JESS: Good start, Tom. Hope you’ll be this eloquent throughout. Some background on The Friedmann Equation if you haven’t heard of them. They’re sort of old-sad-bastard music, but with an up-tempo thing. Is that a fair description, Tom?

  TOM: I don’t think you have to be an old sad bastard to listen to our music—

  JESS: But it helps, right. So, your first full album, Sarah Isn’t Real, is out now. And you’re touring to promote it?

  TOM: That’s right. We’re playing the KOKO tomorrow and the day after. Then we head back up north for a few dates at the end of the month.

  JESS: Busy, busy. I’m glad you’re not letting anything get in the way of your music.

  TOM: Sorry?

  JESS: Don’t mention it. First up, we’ve got to talk about these names. The Friedmann Equation? What the holy hell balloon is that all about?

  TOM: Erm. Yeah. So. Alexander Friedmann was a Soviet mathematician and physicist who—

  JESS: Sounds boring. No, I’m kidding. Carry on.

  TOM: So, he was one of the first people to consider the possibility that the universe might be both expanding and contracting. His equation—

  JESS: Sorry, got to stop you there. Turns out I was right. That is incredibly boring. Let’s move on to the album title, Sarah Isn’t Real. You’re going to give a lot of girls called Sarah an identity complex.

  TOM: I didn’t think about that. The title was a recommendation—

  JESS: By a friend? A lover? Your mum?

  TOM: Somebody I used to know.

  JESS: He’s so mysterious, isn’t he? I heard the album was named after a girlfriend you invented. Who does that?

  TOM: It was a long time ago.

  JESS: I’m teasing, Tom, and, dear listener, he is blushing now. Should I tell them you and I have a history?

  TOM: Do we? Er, yes. I suppose we do. But is it something either of us wants to talk about on a podcast?

  JESS: I don’t mind. I’m in a relationship now—

  TOM: You’re seeing someone?

  JESS: That’s what I meant by “in a relationship.” And if he has an issue with me discussing my past, I’ll happily consign
him to mine. Anyway, the reason Tom is blushing now is because I used to fancy him. I say used to, because, like we just mentioned, I have a boyfriend now. Depending on when this airs. Am I right?

  TOM: Did you just make a joke about splitting with your boyfriend and then say “Am I right?”

  JESS: Says the man who invents women. When did you become catty?

  TOM: I wasn’t meaning to be catty. It’s just I’ve never heard you say “Am I right?” before. It’s like I’m on a shock-jock radio station.

  JESS: Please continue (far too long a pause, edit point JB). Great dead airtime, Tom. It’s like the end of one of your gigs, where everyone slopes off to kill themselves. Let’s talk about how we know each other?

  TOM: Like I said, I don’t really want to discuss that here and now.

  JESS: Ah, come on, wee laddie. What better way to fill an hour of chat?

  TOM: Seriously, though. Can we stop this for a second and just talk?

  JESS: No way! This doesn’t have a pause. Think of it as live radio. If I start stopping and starting, my producer will have to edit it and I can’t be buggered to put up with her grief. Only about twenty people listen to this show anyway. And they’re all contractually obligated to as relatives and friends.

  TOM: In that case, why are we bothering to do this at all?

  JESS: Well, this took a sour turn pretty quickly, didn’t it? Let’s dip into our Bucketful of Klostermans and see if we can’t make things a little more fun. For those new to the show, Chuck Klosterman is an American writer who has a line in hypotheticals. In this bit—A Bucketful of Klostermans—we ask listeners to write in with their own. So, Tom Delaney of The Friedmann Equation, this one is from Rob in Norfolk. Rob asks, would you rather have fingers as long as your legs, or legs as long as your fingers?

  TOM: What?