by James Bailey
“Best of luck, Josh, not that you need it,” Pap says, patting me on the back.
As the makeup artist dabs my face with powder, I expect to be transformed into David Beckham, but I don’t notice much difference in my reflection in the mirror. Having been beautified, we are guided through to the studio, which looks smaller than I was expecting. And so too does the presenter. Shorter, fatter, balder. I recognize him, dressed in a navy suit, from the papers as a washed-up soap star who has courted his fair share of romantic controversies over recent years.
“How are we doing, guys? Excited for the show?” he says in the most unexcited tone as he comes and shakes our hands. His acting didn’t used to be this bad.
“Good luck to all of you.” You can see the resentment in his eyes that his career has dropped this far.
As I take my seat in between Jake and Jessie, I look around and spot everyone in the front row of the audience. Jake’s Jake is told off for trying to take an Instagram story of the set. Mum is tapping her head repeatedly—a technique her therapist taught her to invite good vibes. Nan is trying to get on TV herself, smiling at the camera, unaware that they haven’t started recording yet. Pap smiles at me encouragingly.
“Three, two, one . . .”
This is it.
The lights are both boiling and blinding. The nerves have kicked in. I can feel the cameras staring at me. There is a lot more pressure here than at Little D’s quiz. I am conscious of every movement I make. I sit up straight, unable to relax.
“Welcome to Unlock, the game show where knowledge is the key to winning.” The presenter has turned on his trademark smile now that the cameras are rolling.
“The game is simple. We will have three head-to-head trivia rounds, and the team that scores the most points will win a key. That key unlocks one of two doors. One of the doors contains the thousand-pound jackpot, the other contains nothing.” He turns to us. “Got it?” We all nod back.
“But before we start the first round, let’s meet the teams.”
WHEN YOU ARE sitting at home at 4 o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, flicking through the channels, you don’t consider how much time goes into making one of these awful quiz shows. We need to cut every time the host fluffs his lines, or the camera is not at the right angle, or someone coughs in the audience. By the time we eventually reach the final round we are remarkably only trailing 11–9.
“So today’s final round is on . . .” The presenter presses a fake button, and the screen, controlled by someone else, flashes up with: “Disney Movies.”
Jessie jumps up off her seat.
“Oh, I might actually know some of these,” she whispers.
“That’s what you always say,” I whisper back.
“No, I actually might this time.”
“Let’s play Unlock. . . .”
Dramatic music and flashing lights soak the studio before the timer starts ticking loudly.
“Who is the only Disney princess who was inspired by an actual person?” the host reads off his card.
Jessie buzzes in.
“Pocahontas.”
“Correct. In The Little Mermaid, what are the names of Ursula’s two pet eels?”
“Flotsam and Jetsam.” Jessie almost trips over her words in her excitement.
“Correct again.”
The screen flashes the updated score: 11–all.
“Which short film featured Mickey Mouse’s first appearance?”
Me and Jake look expectantly at Jessie, but she shakes her head apologetically.
The Quizlamic Extremists buzz in.
“Plane Crazy,” they say confidently.
“That’s right. You’re back in the lead.”
Crap.
12–11.
“Which real-life actress was the inspiration for Belle?”
“Katharine Hepburn.” Jessie beams with delight.
How does she know all of this?
12–all.
“Who is the only main character in a Disney movie who doesn’t talk throughout the entire film?”
I look at both Jake and Jessie, and across at the Quizlamic Extremists. Blank faces all around.
“I’m going to have to hurry you . . . Anyone want to buzz in?” The timer ticks down. Five, four, three . . .
Jessie hits the buzzer just in time.
“Is it Dumbo?”
“Correct!” The buzzer rings. “And that’s it, we’re out of time. What a finale!”
The Quizlamic Extremists look shell-shocked and slump back in their seats.
“Congratulations to the All-Jays, who have just edged this encounter, 13–12.”
Surely that didn’t happen?
I pinch myself as I look across at Jessie, ecstatic. I can’t believe we’ve won.
“So you have beaten the competition but you have one more challenge before you can take home today’s prize money. I’m going to give you this key, and you can unlock one of two doors. One door contains the jackpot, the other contains nothing.”
We are suddenly drenched in red spotlights. The sound effects start to crank up the pressure again.
“Which one shall we go for?” Jake asks.
We all look at each other.
I try to avoid the glares of Jake, Jessie, and the glaring lights and catch sight of Pap. As I look closer I can see he is gesturing to me to toss the coin.
Am I allowed to do that on TV?
It feels like déjà vu.
“Shall we flip the coin?” I say, probably too quietly for the microphones to pick up.
“It didn’t go very well when we tried it in the pub-quiz tiebreaker.”
“Maybe it might redeem itself today.”
“Chances are it will be right this time.”
I don’t think Jake understands probability.
“Sure, let’s let the coin decide.”
“Are we allowed to flip a coin?” I ask the presenter hesitantly.
“I’ve never seen a quiz team flip a coin to decide on an answer.” He looks around, unsure himself.
The producer gives a thumbs-up and looks excited at the added tension as he instructs the camera operator to get a closeup of the coin toss.
“OK, let’s say door number one is heads, and door number two is tails. Happy?” I say.
Jake and Jessie both nod.
I flip the coin.
“It’s tails!”
“So you’re going for door number two?” the presenter asks.
“Yes, please.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, we’re sure.”
“Final answer?”
“Final answer.”
Get on with it.
“Let’s reveal what is behind door number two. . . .”
The music keeps beating steadily, as my heart rate soars. I can’t bear the tension. . . .
“You’ve won one thousand pounds!”
AS SOON AS the director calls “Cut,” we run over to the audience, where we’re submerged into a sea of congratulatory hugs and embraces.
“Congratulations!”
“Well done!”
“You did so well!”
I look back at the set and see the Quizlamic Extremists are still in their seats, engaged in a heated post-match debrief, trying to pinpoint where it went wrong.
“So what are you going to do with the thousand pounds? What’s that, £333 each?” Dad asks, probably about to encourage us to invest in one of his new schemes.
“I think Jake wants a holiday, and, well, Jessie, you can have a few haircuts now,” I say as they both join me. She looks at Jake, then back at me, smiling.
“Actually, Josh, we have decided that we want you to have the money. You can use it to find your Sunflower Girl.”
“Don’t be daft!”
“No, really, Josh, we’d like you to have it.”
“Are you sure? I can’t take all the money.”
“Yes, you can, and we’re not taking no for an answer.”
> “I’m swamped at the moment at work, so me and Jake probably won’t be able to get away for a while anyway. I think you need the money more than us,” Jake says.
“And it’s more important than me getting a haircut!”
“Thank you so much, that’s incredibly kind.” I am almost lost for words. “Honestly, guys, you are the best. I can’t believe I’m going to go and find her.”
I am close to tearing up.
As we all embrace, I catch Pap smiling at me from across the studio.
Autumn
19
We are standing in front of the departures board at Bristol Airport. A seemingly endless procession of holidaymakers passes by us, bundling through the revolving doors, as they trundle in from the airport Flyer bus parked outside in the rain to the check-in desks. People pulling, dragging, and carrying large suitcases, rushing and running, last-minute unpacking, repacking, and panicking. Holidays never seem to be very relaxing.
“Are you sure I should do this?”
“It’s not about whether we’re sure, it’s about whether you’re sure? You’re the one who is going!”
“I know, but I’m just thinking it’s a lot of money to spend on a potential wild goose chase. Do I want to spend all of my money looking for a random girl who I might not even find?”
“Our money, you mean,” Jake butts in. He doesn’t do mornings.
“Don’t think about the money,” Jessie says more supportively.
“I know, but now the summer is over, I’m jobless again. The prize money could tide me over for a while until I find something else. . . .”
“You were so sure that you wanted to do this. What’s changed?”
“I don’t know . . . Honestly, I guess I just started thinking what happens if I get my heart broken again. I’m not sure I can deal with that. Maybe it’s better not to know.”
“But you have to go and find her, and find out if there’s something. Otherwise you’re always going to wonder, and the not knowing will be worse in the long run. You can’t even go on a date right now without thinking about her.”
“That’s true.”
“And the coin said to go for it, and as you’ve been banging on all year, you’ve got to follow the coin’s decision.”
I nod. I know all of this, and deep down I want nothing more than to go.
“But equally we don’t mind if you get cold feet. We can just hop back on the bus and go back to town if you’re not one hundred percent,” Jessie continues.
“Not at £7.50 each on the bus, we are not. He’s going now he’s dragged us out here,” Jake interjects. He doesn’t do public transport either.
“No, you’re right. I really do want to find her. I’m just worried that I’m not going to. Or worse, that I do find her but she’s moved on, met someone else, or we just don’t click again, or, I don’t know, she has forgotten who I am.”
“But equally she may miraculously fall in love with you. . . .” Jake pipes up.
I feel miraculously is a bit harsh but I don’t comment.
“This is the last call for Flight EZY6025 to Barcelona,” the automated voice says in a firm tone, as if it has been programmed to be angry with latecomers.
“So, is it to be Munich or Amsterdam?” Jake asks, in between yawns, wanting to get back to the comfort of his bed. This is his day off from having to wake up at the crack of dawn. “I guess you need to flip your coin to decide where you’re going first.”
I’ve ruled out visiting Philadelphia or Tokyo, on the basis I can’t afford to go for now, so the two options are there illuminated in front of me:
8:50 BM1841 Munich
9:25 U26161 Amsterdam
I’ve always wanted to arrive at an airport and randomly decide where to go, but now the pressure is getting to me, and I’m not so sure.
I take the coin out of my pocket and toss it into the air.
“You are absolutely sure that you don’t mind me spending your money?”
Jake rolls his eyes.
“No, of course we don’t. We just want you to be happy. You deserve this,” Jessie says.
“It’s OK. You can pay me back when you discover she’s a millionaire.” Jake smiles for the first time this morning. “Good luck, tosser, go get her.”
“And Jessie, thanks for looking after Jeremy. Remember he likes kale, not carrots.”
“No worries, I’ll keep him safe for you.”
Jessie, looking like she’s about to cry, gives me a huge hug. Jake jokingly joins in, and before I know it we’re having a group hug in the middle of Bristol Airport.
“Thanks, guys, I will see you soon!”
I go to the check-in desk, praying the coin has made the right call.
20
So are you coming to Germany for holiday?”
I’ve reached the front of the queue at Passport Control and I’m presenting my passport to Andreas Keppler, as his name tag proudly states. The flight was uneventful. Apart from fearing I was about to plummet to my death when we hit turbulence. Twice.
Somehow, I’ve managed to pick the line with the scariest official. Andreas looks like the kind of person who doesn’t want anyone entering his country and he’s so fed up with his government’s immigration stance that he’s taken this job to personally prevent people from crossing onto German soil.
He asks the question in a stereotypically strong German accent and fails to make any eye contact with me as he asks it, choosing instead to pay extra close attention to my passport, which was analyzed just two hours previously at Bristol Airport, and I’m unsure what could have changed in it during that time.
How should I answer this question?
“Well, actually, I’m trying to find a girl who I think works in an English bookshop in Munich, and who I think I’m in love with.”
Probably not like that.
Andreas’s eyes immediately dart up from my passport to examine me in the flesh. I don’t think he likes my response.
I never know if the officers at Passport Control are interrogating you or simply making friendly chitchat. Does this stern-faced, tattooed German sitting inside a glass box want to know the intricacies of my planned visit to the German city or just that I’m not going to be importing and exporting massive qualities of illegal substances?
“How long will you be in Germany for?” he asks, now in a more serious tone, as if I’ve triggered an alarm.
“I guess as long as it takes for me to find her, or until my money runs out.”
My ears popped on the flight, so I struggle to hear what he is saying, and I shout my answers back.
“How much money do you have with you?”
Nosy.
“I’ve got one thousand pounds, which I won—well, actually, I didn’t win all of it; my friends gave me some.”
Too much information again, Josh. Too much.
Even if he was at the start, I really don’t think he’s making polite conversation anymore. I knew I should have gone to the electronic gates. They never work, but they would be preferable to this.
A queue is starting to form behind me, and the businessman after me is gesticulating and sighing so loudly that I can hear him over the loudspeaker announcements. It’s not like I’m deliberately holding him up and enjoying a good catch-up with my old mate Andreas.
“Where are you going to be staying?”
“I haven’t booked anywhere. I haven’t really had time to think about that. Probably just some hostel.”
He shakes his head. I start to panic. Are these the standard questions they ask everyone, or do they suspect me of something? The woman to my left who handed over her passport at the same time has been allowed through already. That can’t be a good sign.
Who does he think I am? A drug smuggler, a terrorist, an illegal immigrant, a spy? I remember reading at university that during the Second World War Germans would use the word squirrel to detect spies. I can’t pronounce it. And I certainly can’t pronounce the German Eichhörnche
n. If they’re still using it as a shibboleth, then I’m in trouble.
“What is your career?”
OK, I’ve got this one.
“I am a tour guide, I take people on walking tours and show them around the city,” I say clearly and succinctly, hoping that’s the last question and he lets me go.
“Where do you do these tours?”
Crap.
“Oh, sorry, well, I did them in Bristol but, well, it was really just for the summer actually.”
“So, you don’t have a career now?”
It looks as if Andreas doesn’t like liars. Or the unemployed. His face starts to fold up. The lines on his forehead bulge. His grasp on my passport is becoming firmer.
“Well, no, I suppose I don’t have a job, if you put it like that.”
It suddenly hits me. What have I done? What am I doing? Have I lost the plot? I’ve blown all my money on a girl. Again. Have I not learned from Jade?
He looks up at me, and then back down at my passport, and repeats this again on loop. I realize the photo of me taken nine years ago doesn’t bear much resemblance to the figure standing in front of him today. I try to pose in the same way, deliberately not smiling. I never understand why everyone has to look so unhappy in their passport photos.
“So, you have no job, nowhere to stay, and have come to Germany to find a mysterious girl you don’t know . . .”
I can feel sweat dripping from my brow, and if I can feel it, he can certainly see it. This makes me sweat even more.
I must look so guilty. He’s going to call Security to take me to some back room. I’ve seen this on those undercover airport reality shows. I look down nervously at my backpack and worry I accidentally packed a knife, or a bomb, or someone has slipped something into it when I wasn’t looking. The coin was in a lavish mood on the plane, so I ended up with a newspaper, a winless scratch card, and a muffin. What happens if the muffin has got drugs in it?
Here goes . . .
“Well . . . good luck, sir. I hope you find her.”
He hands me back my passport with a grin and a wink. I look back at him, confused.