To Be Someone (44 page)

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Authors: Louise Voss

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BOOK: To Be Someone

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My XD line flashed again, just after I’d cued up “Lovesong.” I answered, more cautiously this time.

“Hi, Helena, it’s Toby.”

I couldn’t speak. I was so surprised at how amazing it was to hear his voice again that it took my breath away.

“Helena? Are you there?”

I gulped. “Yes. Hello. Thanks for ringing me back.”

“I’ve been listening since the start, only I was in the loo when you rang and didn’t notice there was a message until just now. Are you okay? You sound fine on air, but … Oh, look, tell me I’m being daft, but I really am worried about you.”

I lowered the pre-fade volume on The Cure, realizing as I did so that I’d picked “Lovesong” because it celebrated the first time Toby and I ever met.

“You’re being daft. Honestly, I never felt better. Hey, this is the track that reminds me of you, you know. They were onstage at Brixton that time when you were interviewing us downstairs.”

“I know. I’d hoped that was why you were playing it. Does that mean I’m in the book that you’ve written?”

I grinned sheepishly. “It sure does. So, are
you
okay? I know I didn’t mention it when we were on the phone last time, but I couldn’t believe it when you said that Kate was cheating on you.”

Toby sighed.

“Yes, I’m fine now. Four days of being roaring drunk in Richmond helped get it out of my system. Except, once I recovered from the hangover, I thought I’d blown it completely with you. I was gutted when you didn’t call. And then when I talked to you at Lulu’s, you sounded so …
off
with me.”

“That was because Ruby had, just that second, informed me with total conviction that you and she were moving back in with Kate the next day, to play Happy Families again.”

Toby laughed. “Haven’t you ever heard of wish-fulfillment? You really don’t know much about kids, do you?”

I wasn’t even offended at the criticism. “I could learn.”

I could hear the grin in Toby’s voice. “I know a great little teacher—a bit of a bossy one, though.” He paused, and I was convinced that we were both sharing a mental image of Ruby wagging her finger sternly at me.

“So, you said in your message that you needed to tell me something. What is it?”

“Ummm …” The word dropped into an ever-deepening chasm of revelation somewhere down the phone line, like a pebble into a loch. I swiveled my chair around to face the wall, picked up the Ziploc bag of pills with my toes, and kicked it as hard as I could across the studio.

I’d wanted to say good-bye to him. What had I been thinking? Toby’s voice brought my complete idiocy even further home to me, right up the garden path, in fact, and into the attic. There were still people who loved me: Mum, Dad, Cynthia, Mary Ellen. Jus, David, Joe. And now it looked like Toby did, too.

“Oh, it was nothing really. I just wanted to say that … I’m really, really sorry about the way we left things at the hospital, and then not ringing you after that day in Richmond.… I’ve been sorting a lot of things out in my head.”

Toby laughed, in a relieved kind of way.

“I’m surprised you ever wanted to clap eyes on me again, after that day in Richmond. Anyway, stop apologizing. It’s all been my fault. I behaved really badly—I felt so guilty, leading you on. So, can we meet up soon?”

I looked at the crumpled sack of tablets, destined for the same U-bend as the contents of my stomach.

“Yes, please.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Yes, please—hang on a second.” I faded up “Kinky Afro,” and cued “I’ll Be Home.”

“Sorry, I’m back. Hey, guess what—I’ve already quit this job. That was quick, wasn’t it?”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story. Suffice it to say that I don’t want to be a DJ anymore, especially not at this godforsaken hour.”

“Excellent!” Toby said. “Perhaps that means that you and I could go away somewhere together, for a little holiday. What do you think?”

I wrapped the spiral lead of the telephone around my finger, feeling my own excitement coil up inside me in the same way.

“That would be lovely. Can Ruby come, too?”

“I hoped you’d say that, but I think we need some time on our own, don’t you? Perhaps we could have a weekend in a hotel in the U.K. first and then take her away somewhere warm afterwards. We could all do with a break. Oh, and one last thing before I leave you in peace to get on with your show: Can you play me a request, please?”

I laughed. “Didn’t I already say this isn’t a request show? Besides, I’m not sure that I can get access to the record library at this time of night. What is it?”

“Don’t worry if you can’t. I just had an urge to hear “Here’s Where the Story Ends” by The Sundays, because it reminds me of you.”

I was surprised. I couldn’t remember that song figuring in any of our previous exchanges. “Why?”

“It was after our first kiss, you know, outside the lifts that time. I was driving back to Fulham, and the day before I’d bought a load of albums that I’d never owned but always thought I ought to. The Sundays was one of them, so I bunged it on in the car and went straight for that track, track two, cranked it right up. All through the song, I couldn’t get you out of my head. I’d never felt so many different emotions: attraction, love, guilt, worry, euphoria, stress, grief.… It was terrible, but wonderful at the same time. And that song just seemed so perfect, even if I wasn’t listening to the words. It sounds daft, but I knew right then that whenever I heard it in the future, I’d think of your smile, and the smell of the hospital, and me rubbing your poor nose, and your arms around me, and I’d remember driving home wondering how it was all going to turn out.… Are you still there? I’ll stop now.”

I was beaming so widely that I dislodged my eye patch. “Sure, stop,” I said, readjusting it. “As long as you carry on again later.”

The next track was “Safe from Harm,” and now that I no longer wanted to kill myself, memories of Vinnie were the last thing I needed. I used the five minutes to rush down the corridor to the record library, discovering that I only needed to key in the code once more to open the door. To my joy, New World did own a copy of
Reading, Writing and Arithmetic
, and I seized it and ran back upstairs to the studio just in time to fade up “Nothing Compares 2 U.” Another “Vinnie song,” but to my surprise I had no trouble whatsoever about not even thinking about him. I was too busy daydreaming about splashing around in azure shallows somewhere with Ruby in a frilly swimsuit and water wings, and Toby snoozing on the beach behind us, worn out by our weekend of passion.…

The last two records were my difficult ones, my Starfruit Sam ones. “I Can’t Stand the Rain” and “This Is a Low.” It was impossible not to sob throughout those, as impossible as sneezing without blinking, or eating doughnuts without licking one’s lips. An involuntary, inevitable reaction.

But it felt different, better. Not agony, just a dull, sad ache.

I realized that the real catharsis throughout this whole exercise lay not in the songs, as I’d thought, but in the contents of a shiny purple folder on my dining-room table. All those months of writing it down had begun to heal me, and I was ready to start again. To add some new songs and new memories to my well-played collection.

Somewhat snotty and hiccuping from crying, I opened the mike for the last time as the final bars of “This Is a Low” faded out.

“So my time’s nearly up, folks. I hope you’ve enjoyed the show. I haven’t said as much as I intended to, but I wanted the music to speak for itself. Perhaps something momentous happened to you tonight, and you can claim one of these songs as your own. Be my guest—just because they belong to my memories doesn’t mean they can’t belong to yours, too. That’s the great thing about music, isn’t it? It’s for all of us. Anyway, this is probably the last time you’ll hear me on the radio, so, it’s been a pleasure. Have a great night, what’s left of it. I’m going to play you out with one final request: It’s The Sundays, ‘Here’s Where the Story Ends,’ for Toby Middleton. Good night, London.”

I packed up my CDs, Toby’s letter, the bag of pills, the cup and the bottle, and left the studio to the sound of jingly guitars and Harriet Wheeler’s sweet voice telling me that I had a future after all.

Just as I got to the end of the corridor, I heard the early breakfast-show DJ come into the lobby, and I nipped into the ladies’ to avoid him. My face was all puffy and tearstained, and I felt too wrung out to make small talk with a stranger. One step at a time on the sociability front, I thought.

The gin bottle nudged me in the side, reminding me of its existence. I took it out of my handbag and deposited it in the waste bin underneath the sink. Then I went into a cubicle, removed the Ziploc bag, unzipped it, and dumped its contents into the toilet bowl. Booze and pills—it had been a ridiculous idea, anyway. If I’d had the courage to blow my brains out all over the desk, then yes, that would have made headlines. But swallowing tablets was such an untidy ending, like a sheet of wrapping paper someone had tried to tear instead of cut, ripping a slash across it whose jaggedness defeated its original decorative purpose.

Besides, now that I thought about it, I had always hated making the headlines.

I had to flush the toilet three times to sluice away the tablets from the bottom of the porcelain.

I finally left the building, surprising the dour security guard with a half-friendly wave good-bye, and turned up my collar against the chill of the shut-down city. As I stepped toward my car, a figure wearing a Walkman and a big red puffa jacket startled me by walking out of the shadows toward me.

The figure removed his earphones, held out his arms to me, and hugged me hard. “Thanks for playing my record for me.”

I dropped my box of CDs, and they all spilled out on the pavement, jewel cases cracking like ice breaking as I hugged Toby back.

“You look beautiful,” he said, prising my face away from his neck and cupping it with his two cold hands. “You’ve been crying. No wonder. That can’t have been easy.”

I broke away from him and started picking up the bits of scattered CDs. “Sam was always telling me that I was a great big crybaby,” I said. “You’d better get used to it.”

Toby crouched down and helped me collect the pieces. “Fancy walking over to Soho, for a coffee at Bar Italia?”

I nodded, grinning. “Let me lock this lot in the boot first, then we can go.”

Ten minutes later the sound of our footsteps echoed down a sleeping Charlotte Street, drizzle giving the streetlights hazy golden haloes. Our arms were wrapped around each other and our feet easily in step.

I put my free hand in my coat pocket and pulled out the envelope containing the letters to Ron and my parents. I’d forgotten to post it

Author Note

Louise Voss has been in the music business for ten years, working for Virgin Records and EMI in the UK, and then as a label manager at Caroline Records in New York City. For the past two years she has been Director of Sandie Shaw’s company in London. She now lives in southwest London with her husband and three-year-old daughter.

Voss is British but has lived in the U.S.A. three times: for a summer nanny job in Miami in 1984; a year at Kansas University in 1986–87 (as part of her U.K. degree course); and in New York City from 1995–97, for the aforementioned job at Caroline Records.