by James Bailey
She knows she didn’t.
The last time I saw Elizabeth, we were seven years old, before she was shipped off to a boarding school on the other side of the country. Mum still gives me her life updates, and we exchange the annual happy birthday message on Facebook.
“Why didn’t you tell me? If you’re going to try and set me up with someone, then at least allow me to prepare properly. I look a mess,” I say as we get out of the car.
I remember playing here as a boy, and as I look up at the house and around at the shared private garden behind me, remarkably it is all as big as I remember. Mum locks the car door and walks around the front of the bonnet.
“First, I’m not trying to set you up, and second, you look very handsome,” she says as she licks her finger and rubs a Danish pastry crumb off my face.
“Mum, stop it.” I shoo her away. “You do know it’s not going to work, don’t you?”
“I remember when you wanted to marry her.”
“I was seven.”
“You two used to get on like a house on fire when you were younger, and she’s doing very well for herself now. And she’s from a good family.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize we were living in a Thomas Hardy novel.”
“I know you liked this mystery girl you met in London, but you might never see her again, so it doesn’t hurt to consider all the options, right?”
What happened to her belief in synchronicity?
We walk up the steps, decorated with potted plants, toward their large, imposing black front door. I half-expect a butler to greet us as the door swings open, but it is Mrs. O’Nion. She’s aged somewhat since I saw her last. Her blonde hair has turned to gray.
“Oh, hello, you two. It’s lovely to see you, Joshua. It’s been so long.”
I’ve not been Joshua since my birth certificate.
Inside the house, the decor is equally beautiful, in keeping with the age of the property. Portraits of noble-looking figures hang from the walls in golden frames.
“Elizabeth, look who it is,” Mrs. O’Nion calls out as a tall, thin woman with cropped dark hair strides down the imposing staircase. She looks good.
“Hello, Josh, how lovely to see you.” She kisses me on the cheek when she reaches us. Mum is unable to hide her delight.
“Shall we leave you two to catch up in the living room?” Mum asks, pushing us into the front room.
“Good idea, I’m going to put the kettle on. We’ll go and sit in the conservatory, join us whenever you like,” Mrs. O’Nion concurs.
If it didn’t feel like a setup before, it definitely does now.
I follow Elizabeth into the front room. It’s not like our lounge at home, it feels more like a National Trust property. I’m not sure if I should sit down for fear of damaging the antique furniture.
“It’s OK, you can take a seat,” Elizabeth says, beckoning to an armchair. Her voice is even more upper-class than I remember. I feel like I’ve won a prize to have dinner with a minor Royal.
“So what’s new with you?” I ask as I sit opposite her. The room is so large I almost have to shout to be heard.
“You mean in the last, what, twenty years?” She chuckles loudly.
It wasn’t that funny.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Well, where do I start? I’m sure you remember I went away to boarding school, and that was a hoot, I must say. I had such a wonderful time there, and although I obviously missed home and Mummy, I met the most lovely people, and it gave me such a good grounding for life. . . .”
I don’t need to know everything you’ve done in the last two decades.
“I then decided to take a year out to concentrate on my art before going to volunteer in Namibia. What can I say? Such a beautiful country, but the whole experience was so thought-provoking. Mummy then secured me an internship in the Houses of Parliament. . . .”
She really is going to tell me absolutely everything.
“After that, I went to Oxford to read Human Sciences. That was such a remarkable time, and awe-inspiring to learn from such incredible lecturers. Anyway, then, after finishing my undergraduate degree there, I decided I wanted to become a dentist, so I moved to the University of Manchester to study dentistry. . . . I graduated—what was it?—it must be two years ago now—can you believe that?—and I can now proudly say I’m a qualified dentist.”
“Yes, I think I saw. Congratulations,” I say, falling asleep listening to her.
I’m not sure I want her to ask me any questions, given my answers aren’t going to compare to hers, but I needn’t worry, as she doesn’t.
“So do you enjoy it, you know, looking at teeth?” I fill the silence, realizing I’ve started speaking in a faux posh accent.
“Oh, yes, it is such a marvelous career. I did have this one patient the other day . . .”
Elizabeth is beautiful and intelligent, from a nice family, and with a great career. But even with our childhood history, which should make for the perfect start to an adult romance, there is nothing there. I’d much prefer to be sitting opposite Sunflower Girl. As Elizabeth rambles on and on, I zone out and start thinking about her instead. I wonder if she’s going on other dates? Meeting other guys? I wonder if she’s forgotten me already?
“Shall we go and have some tea, Josh? . . . Josh?” Having been speaking about herself for the last twenty minutes, she takes me by surprise when she finally asks me a question.
“Oh, yes, sounds like a good idea,” I reply, smiling politely, pleased I don’t have to hear any more about her giving someone a filling.
It is ironic that the conversation has been as painful as pulling teeth.
She leads me along their hallway. I’d forgotten just how majestic it is. I feel like I should have picked up an audio guide at the entrance and be appreciating each of these museum pieces on display. Even their conservatory is decorated with plates, paintings, and portrait busts.
Mum, sitting on the cushioned settee, looks up expectantly when we walk in, as if we’re about to announce our engagement.
“That was quick. How have you two been getting on?”
“Good, thanks,” I exaggerate, taking a seat next to Mum.
Mrs. O’Nion is lounging opposite us on a beige chaiselongue, holding a cup of tea in her hand. I glance up and notice the portrait hanging above her head.
It’s a portrait of herself.
Naked.
And I mean completely naked.
Sitting in exactly the same seat she’s on now. In exactly the same position. Legs akimbo.
I desperately try and look anywhere else, but the portrait is right in front of me, and my eyes can’t avoid it.
Stop it, Josh.
I stare directly at Mrs. O’Nion. The clothed one.
“Do you like the paintings, Joshua? Elizabeth painted them all.”
You’ve got to be kidding.
“She’s very talented, isn’t she?”
I start looking around at the rest of the room. I notice the other paintings are all close-ups of intimate body parts and hope they’re not all of Mrs. O’Nion.
“Um, no, wow, yes, no, I think it . . . you’ve captured . . . you’re very talented . . .”
Where on earth has Mum brought me?
It is then that I decide I can’t wait any longer. Pap is right. I need to go and find Sunflower Girl.
18
Come on, guys, I’ve got a good feeling about today.”
“You seem to have changed your attitude. I thought you were against going on TV.”
It is the big day. Our TV appearance. Our fifteen minutes of fame. It’s 8.30 a.m., and we are in a taxi on the way to the studios, just outside Bristol city center. Jessie and I are sitting in the back, while Jake, the self-elected team captain for today, rides up front.
“I was never against it,” I lie. “OK, maybe I wasn’t the most keen before, but now I think this might be a good chance to help me find Sunflower Girl.”
“W
hat? You think she’s going to be watching this wherever she lives, spot you, and get in touch?” Jessie says doubtfully.
“Or she will see us embarrass ourselves and think, ‘Thank God I avoided that guy who knows nothing about anything!’” Jake turns around and jokes.
We both ignore him.
“No, I was thinking more that I need money to be able to afford to go and find her, and this is the best chance I have of getting enough money.”
“What? Go and try and find her in those cities?” Jessie seems surprised I’ve listened to her suggestion. “Do you actually think you’d be able to track her down?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to try.”
“I think that’s a great idea.” She smiles.
“Exactly. Just think it’s better to say ‘oops’ than ‘what if,’” Jake quotes.
“I didn’t realize you were a philosopher now. Where did you read that?”
“I saw it on a sign in a gay club the other night.”
“Of course you did.”
“Have you checked what the coin says? Surely you have to toss it for this?”
I’ve been hesitant about asking the coin, not wanting it to reject my idea.
“OK, here goes.”
I toss it up in the air, nearly hitting the roof of the taxi. The driver looks in his rearview mirror, wondering what we’re on about.
“The coin says yes,” I am pleased to announce after it lands safely in my palm.
I stare out of the window, picturing my reunion with her.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, Josh, but you do know we actually have to win first in order to get the prize money,” Jessie whispers reluctantly, tapping me on the shoulder.
“When we win,” Jake far too confidently declares, “at least you will actually be able to pay for her dinner on a date.”
“Yeah, yeah, very funny.”
“He could even pay for his own dinner on a date,” Jessie blurts out. “Sorry, I had to.” She sympathetically puts her hand on mine.
They are both still ribbing me about that incident.
“What do you think you’d both do with the money if we won?” I ask.
“I’ve not really thought about it. I need a haircut, though,” Jessie says, with her dark locks almost down to her waist.
I’m not sure that a haircut is the most exciting thing to spend our winnings on, and it strikes me as strange that Jessie wants her hair cut after rather than before her national TV appearance.
“It’s got to be a holiday. Me and Jake both want to go to Berlin, so I think we’d go there for a few days.”
The taxi pulls up outside the entrance to the Bottle Yard Studios. The former winery and bottling plant is now home to some of the world’s leading TV shows, as the sign tells us, but it still looks like an old industrial estate from the outside.
“Not quite Hollywood, hey,” I say, looking out the window.
“OK, GUYS, YOU’RE going to be the second episode filmed today, so I’m afraid there will be a bit of waiting around. I’ll take you through to Wardrobe first, and then to the greenroom, where you can prep for the show,” the runner, a spotty girl of about eighteen, says as she marches us along a maze of corridors armed with a clipboard.
The walls are lined with framed photographs of other programs filmed in these studios. Jake gets excited that he is following in the footsteps of Michael Sheen, Aidan Turner, and Benedict Cumberbatch.
“I’m going to leave you with Sharon here. She’s going to help you with your outfits. Can I get you all something to eat? We have bacon sandwiches. Or there are vegetarian options.”
“Bacon sandwiches sound great, thanks.” We all nod in unison.
“I thought you were vegan now?” I turn to Jake.
His face sinks, having become vegan in solidarity with the other Jake.
“OK, I’ll have the vegan option, I suppose. Thank you.”
Sharon is a woman in her fifties with a dark bob and a questionable sense of style herself.
“Have you all brought a few different plain tops?” she asks. We were each instructed to bring a suitcase of outfits so the stylists can pick what we wear. No branded clothing, no slogans. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She turns to me, making me try on each of my selections, before finally settling on a plain white top.
Sharon then takes one look at Jessie’s multicolored options and recoils in horror.
“Sorry, none of these are going to be suitable. Can you try on this top instead?” She lends Jessie a plain navy top to try on and pushes her into a changing room. “Make sure you give it back after filming,” she says curtly, as if Jessie has decided to spend a whole day sitting around in an out-of-town TV studio just to steal a Primark T-shirt.
As Jake tries on his options, the runner returns with our bacon butties. I take one bite and ketchup spurts onto my white top. I swing around checking to see if Sharon saw and frantically dab away the stain before she makes me change again.
We are eventually led into the greenroom with our new outfits. It is a far cry from the mythical greenrooms of showbiz columns. There are no luxuries—just a few leather sofas and copies of today’s papers, which we flick through in case they remarkably help with a question. As Jessie and I sit down, Jake limbers up by practicing tongue twisters while pacing around the small room. “Irish wristwatch, Swiss wristwatch, Irish wrishtwash, swish wristrosh.”
As I continue trying to get my ketchup stain out, making it worse in the process, the door swings open again. The runner returns, out of breath. She seems to be justifying her job title.
“Sorry to interrupt. These are your opponents for today’s show. Be nice to each other!” she jokes as she leads the other team into the room.
I do a double take as I see them.
It can’t be.
Anyone but them.
The Quizlamic Extremists march into the room, as if preparing for battle.
“Hey, guys,” they say in unison, finding the coincidence more hilarious than us.
My plan to find Sunflower Girl is crumbling already.
“Do you know each other?” the runner asks.
“Yes, unfortunately,” I mutter under my breath.
“We actually go to the same pub quiz,” Jessie responds.
“Ah, that’s funny. Who usually wins?”
“They do. Every time,” I say, frustrated.
“Well, good luck to both of you. If anyone needs anything, give me a shout.” With that, she turns around, closes the door, and leaves us in awkward silence.
At least they acknowledged us for once.
“Where did you hear about this quiz?” I whisper to Jake as they take their seats at the other end of the greenroom, which is no more than a few meters long.
“At the pub.”
“From who?”
“Well, now you mention it, it may well have been from one of their team. I was waiting to get a drink, and Big D was talking to them about their application. . . .”
“So when you told us at least we wouldn’t be facing the Quizlamic Extremists . . . ?”
“I didn’t know we’d end up playing them, did I?”
“Well, we’ve got no chance now.”
“I don’t think we had much of a chance before, to be fair,” Jessie jumps in.
“Don’t be like that.” I can feel Jake’s Churchillian speech coming on. “Today is the day when we finally beat them, when we make history, when we topple the Quizlamic Extremists. Yes, we may be the underdogs, but every dog has its day, and today is ours.”
“Jake, you do know they can hear every word you’re saying?” Jessie glances over at them still staring at us.
“Well, we need to concentrate on the game, not our opponent. Let’s run through some more questions. . . .”
Jessie and I look at each other despairingly.
Jake flicks open his trivia book again.
“Oh, I don’t think we’ve done these for a few weeks. What yea
r was the first model of the iPhone released?” Jake asks.
“2008?” I guess.
“No, Josh! That’s wrong. It was 2007. What is the Greek word for fire?”
I look at Jessie, nonplussed, and then across the room at the Quizlamic Extremists, who are listening in and clearly know the answer.
“We don’t know,” I whisper.
“Pyro.”
“Oh yeah, that makes sense.” Jessie nods.
“Which Apollo 11 astronaut did not set foot on the moon?”
Jessie jumps up in excitement.
“I know this one . . . it’s . . . it’s . . . no, I can’t remember.”
“Michael Collins.” Jake sighs.
“Yep, I knew that.”
“Really, what are the chances of these questions coming up in the show?” I say miserably, deflated now that I know our chances of victory have deteriorated.
“You never know, and it’s good to get your brain in gear.” Jake’s enthusiasm for his moment in the limelight has still not dwindled.
“They’re not practicing.” I point my head in the direction of the Quizlamic Extremists.
“They don’t need any practice,” Jessie says.
The producer interrupts us to quickly explain the rules and then runs off, shouting into his mouthpiece, before our friends and family stream into the room.
We were each allowed four tickets, so Mum, Dad, Nan, and Pap have come to cheer us on, and I’m anxious about how they can most embarrass me in this situation. Mum is dressed up to the nines, Nan is trying to steal Jake away from Jake to dance with him, and Dad is helping himself to free food. The families of the Quizlamic Extremists are all dressed smartly, looking equally as serious.
I notice Pap is missing so I slowly back out of the chaos to the doorway and find him sitting on a seat in the hallway.
“Are you OK, Pap?”
“Hello, Josh. Yes, it’s just a bit crowded in there. What do you think about it all, then?” He slowly gets to his feet and puts his arm around me.
“If we didn’t have much chance of winning before, we’ve got even less now. That is the team we always lose to at our normal pub quiz.”
“Come on, have some faith. You know we’re proud of you whatever happens.”
“Sorry to interrupt, guys, but you’re going to be on in ten so you need to come and get your makeup done now,” the runner shouts over the greenroom hubbub and beckons us to the adjoining mirrored room.