You, Me and Other People (18 page)

For the last ten days, I’ve been running to the office, changing when I get there and running home again. Ben can’t believe my times and tells me not to push myself too hard. All I need is to finish, he reminds me, not to finish in Olympic time.

This Monday morning, I meet Jen just outside the lift when I get there. She has a young girl with her, about Meg’s age, and introduces her to me as Matt’s niece Becky, the new intern. I nod, apologize for my sweaty hands and head to the Gents. After a quick shower, I knock on Matt’s door.

‘Becky?’ I ask him, my head craned around to see him.

‘My niece. We spoke about her?’

‘We did?’

‘She’s finished her History of Art degree; I thought she could help Will out with procurement.’

Wilhelm ‘Will’ Trask runs our small but elite Art department – so small, in fact, that it only has two people, him and now Becky. His role is to source art, ideally sought-after pieces that will likely increase in value, on behalf of mainly Russian and American clients.

‘She’s going to have to travel. With Will?’ I raise my eyebrows. Will, though single, has a reputation of being a ladies’ man.

‘Kettle and pot?’ Adam replies. ‘And hands off.’

I raise both my hands in protest. The thought of looking at a woman my daughter’s age is beyond even
my
wildest dreams.

‘Have you heard from New York?’ I ask Matt. ‘I’ve been in touch with Mark – he’s found the right office. We need to move quickly.’

‘He mailed me too. I’m just trying to sort out the final funds.’

I can’t help but think he looks worried rather than excited. Though we’ve both been involved, it’s really Matt’s dream being fulfilled with the setting up of a small New York office of Hall and Fry. ‘You going to go over and see it?’

‘Flight booked for Thursday. Don’t you ever look at our office diary?’ He shakes his head, holds a hand up to excuse the fact that he has to answer whatever call is coming through. I wave a goodbye and pass by Jen and Becky, which makes me think of Meg.

I try calling her again, walking back to my office. The results are due and I’ve left messages to let her know that – despite her hating me – I’m there for her, especially since Beth is away.

Surprisingly, she answers.

‘You’re there,’ I say.

‘What do you want?’

‘Just to know you’re all right.’

‘You can’t even be honest about that, can you? What you really want to know is if I’m a match for your bastard sprog.’

I’ve known what to expect, but still, her words make me wince.

‘Well, I am,’ she continues. ‘There you have it. He must be your son, eh? I must be his sister after all.’

I am stunned into silence. While I hoped and even prayed that a match would be found and while I knew Meg was probably the best hope, I was afraid to believe it might be possible.

‘I found out this morning. I’ve only answered the phone to tell you,’ she says curtly.

I can’t help but notice she hasn’t called me ‘Dad’ yet. I hang my suit jacket on the back of the chair at my desk, stare at the pale, twist-pile carpet under my feet.

‘What are you going to do?’ I ask her.

‘The right thing. I’ve got more blood tests tomorrow, to double, triple make sure, but they expect them to confirm everything. Then, I have hormone jabs four days before the procedure. That itself is apparently just like giving blood.’

‘Can I be there?’

‘I don’t need you there, nor do I want you there. Mum will be back.’

‘I’d like to.’

She interrupts me, laughing. ‘But this isn’t about what you’d like, is it, Dad?’ She ends the call.

I blink at the phone. The good news is that she called me Dad. The bad news is that, yet again, I sound like an uncaring bastard.

There is a knock on my door.

‘Come in.’

Becky comes through with a cardboard tray of coffees. ‘White latte with two?’ She hands me a large takeaway cup with a black ‘x’ across its plastic lid.

‘Thank you.’ I offer her my hand. ‘Sorry I couldn’t shake this morning. I’d run in from home.’

‘Yes, Jen told me you’re running a mini-marathon next week.’

The reality of someone telling me that it’s actually next week I’m running thirteen miles for the Anthony Nolan Bone Marrow Charity makes me feel the need to sit down.

‘Allegedly,’ I say.

‘I couldn’t run for a bus, me.’

I know she’s just trying to be friendly to the other partner in the business. I know she’s just being polite but, right now, I’m not in the mood for small talk with Becky or anyone else.

‘Thanks for the coffee.’ I raise the cup in acknowledgement and, at least – as she turns to leave – she has the grace to know she’s been dismissed.

I try to work. I have two meetings with clients this morning. One a family representative who is unhappy with the financial wrapper we’re offering his pension fund. I have agreed with Matt that he can do all the talking for this one and I can just sit. The second is a new client – a referral, ironically from the Grangers. Matt thinks that this is hilarious. But as the morning crawls by, I realize there’s very little that I find funny in the world nowadays.

I have triple layers on leaving the office. It’s dark outside and I make sure the last layer I wear is the reflective one. My rucksack on my back, I exit the revolving doors at seven thirty-six p.m. I push a button on the stopwatch on my wrist and turn left up Embankment. When I reach the underpass, I head up the slip road alongside Blackfriars Bridge, then snake a route through narrow streets, back onto Upper Embankment Road. The incline, which only a week ago would have brought me to my knees, is not a problem. I run rhythmically, my heartbeat the louder background sound competing with the traffic.

At Tower Bridge, I stop, navigate the crossings at walking pace, then start to run up the Highway. At the Shell garage, I stop again, a sudden piercing pain in my chest almost felling me. I bend over, try to catch my breath. The pain radiates from my chest down my left arm. I grab it, squeeze it, to try and ease the discomfort. Fear grips me. Trying not to think about it, I walk into the garage, towards the double sliding doors. I see a man there, seated on a rug at the entrance, a cup between his knees. I remember thinking, ‘Poor bastard – it’s too bloody cold to have to be outside begging.’ And that is the last thing I remember …

I’m in my parents’ bedroom. It’s morning and I’ve only come upstairs to tell them I’m off to work. It’s August and I have a job at McDonald’s before heading back to university next month. They’re both normally up way before me, so I feel a little odd, knocking on their bedroom door, and even more strange when I enter without being told to. There is something off immediately. The air is stiflingly hot, the room is a sauna and needs the window opened.

‘Mum? Dad? I’m off to work.’

Nothing. I cross the room to the window, pull back one of the curtains. When I turn around, I know immediately. I’m shocked, I realize that. But somehow, I’m not remotely surprised.

‘Mr Hall?’

I open my eyes. There’s a tiny flashlight being moved up and down in a vertical line. I make a face.

‘Please,’ I say. ‘It hurts.’

‘Glad you’re back with us.’ The male voice with the torch speaks. ‘Can you hear me okay?’

I nod, barely, but he sees it.

‘Good. You passed out, had a minor heart attack, Mr Hall. Nothing to worry about. We got you here in time. You’re on the mend and you’ll make a full recovery – just a shot across the bows, eh?’

I’m trying to fathom the fact that I’m forty-three years old, fighting fit, and have had a heart attack, minor or otherwise.

‘Stress is often a factor. We’ll have to sit down in a day or two and work out the “why”. Maybe overdid the running, eh? But for now, you rest up. Let us take care of you. Is there anyone you’d like us to call? We’ve tried the ICE number on your mobile, but I’m not sure if we got anyone. Did we get anyone?’

I can make out his profile turning towards someone else to ask the question, but I have no idea what he’s talking about.

‘Ben.’ I manage to speak, my voice a weak whisper. ‘Call my brother Ben.’

Time passes. I awake to a gentle prodding on my hand and open my eyes, less painfully this time.

‘I told you not to try and beat Mo Farah.’ It’s Ben’s voice and I feel an overwhelming sense of relief.

‘Get me out of here,’ I whisper.

‘You’re not going anywhere.’ I hear a chair scrape along the floor and feel him sit beside me. ‘You’re in here for at least a few days and then you’re coming back with us.’

It is only then I notice Karen lurking behind him.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘You okay?’

‘Peachy,’ I tell her.

‘Good, I’m glad.’

A small laugh tries to escape me but ends up as a strangled cough. I am quite sure that, given our last meeting, Karen probably wished a heart attack on me. Ben pulls me up, bangs my back. ‘You’re all right’, he says. ‘You’re all right.’

‘What have they said?’ I ask him when I catch my breath. ‘The doctors.’

‘Minor heart attack. So small it barely registered. Nothing to worry about. Bed rest. You have raised cholesterol, but apparently that’s not uncommon in middle age.’

‘Watch it,’ I tell him.

‘They’re suggesting you cut back on the running for a while.’

This makes me feel sad. I have loved running, both the physical training and the working towards something where I might make a difference.

‘You won’t be taking part in the mini.’ He states the obvious and I nod.

‘Meg?’

‘I’ve told her. I’m sure she’ll be here …’

I want to tell him not to bet his flat on it, but I feel incredibly tired.

He seems to sense it. ‘We won’t stay. I’ve brought you some pyjamas.’ He points to a Marks and Spencer’s bag at the end of the bed as he stands. ‘When you come out you’ll come back to Karen’s for a few days, until you’ve got your strength back.’

‘No.’ It comes out more strongly than any other word today. ‘You haven’t got the room – you both work from that second bedroom. No … I’ll be fine. I’ll take the pills, watch crap telly, eat some soup and I’ll be fine. No, Ben. That’s final.’ I struggle to get the words out but they see I won’t be moved on it.

‘We’ll see,’ he says. ‘Maybe I’ll—’

‘You’re not coming back either. Karen, take him home, please.’

Karen nods to me. There was a time when a kiss would not have been awkward and would have been a given. ‘Take care,’ she says and, to be fair, it sounds like she means it.

After exchanging details and a kiss on the cheek with Pink, I collect my bag from the carousel. There is an enormous – I mean huge – grin on my face … I can’t actually believe I’m here. I take my bag to a nearby chair, open it up and put my coat and scarf in, removing a lighter denim jacket. My body clock is already skew-ways, having managed only five hours’ sleep on the plane. A glance at my wrist tells me it’s 10 p.m. locally, which means that as soon as I get to the hotel, I should really go to bed, try and get some more sleep. I hang my jacket over my arm, try to look ‘casual’ like I’m used to being in LA, and walk through customs.

There’s a driver outside in the arrivals hall with a sign that has BETH HALL on it and underneath it says the word PARAMOUNT. I remind myself to ask him for it – a keepsake, to tell myself in two weeks’ time that I didn’t dream this. The car he directs me to is in fact a white limousine. In America, I’m quite sure it’s a smallish one. In the UK, it would be known as stretched. In the back of the limo, big enough to carry eight people comfortably, there is more champagne. I debate, just for one moment, having a glass. I’m out of harm’s way. Pink has gone in another direction and I’m just here with Boyd, who is apparently ‘my driver’ while I’m in LA. I resist temptation, as I pass the huge LAX letters on the opposite side of the road, and instead jot some notes in my iPhone as I chat with Boyd about the real places to see in Hollywood. I immediately text it to Meg, attached to the simple words: ‘Arrived safely. Love you x’.

The time passes so quickly that it seems only minutes before we are on Rodeo Drive. I’ve only ever seen Rodeo Drive in the movies and am trying not to gasp. Despite the contract terms Josh has negotiated for me on this deal, I’m not so sure I’ll be spending too much time in
these
shops. Real money, potentially life-changing money, will only be made when the film is released and it’s been a success. Boyd turns a few corners and, within seconds, we’re parking outside the most gorgeous hotel I’ve ever seen. Its sandy stucco frontage is lit up by tiny nocturnal spotlights and, unlike some of the larger high-rise hotels, it looks just like someone’s house. I look back over my shoulder in the direction we came from and realize it’s so close to Rodeo that a talented spit would reach it. Maybe I’ll have to have a splurge or two after all …

Boyd takes my bag from the ‘trunk’ and walks up the six steps of the hotel, where a young man takes the bag and greets me by name.

‘I’ll pick you up at ten thirty tomorrow, ma’am,’ Boyd says.

‘You will?’

‘To take you to the studios for your appointment, ma’am.’

‘Lovely,’ I tell Boyd, in a new-found tone that indicates I’m used to addressing chauffeurs. ‘You have yourself a good night, Boyd.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

No sooner has Boyd left than Carl takes over. Carl takes my bag through to reception where they confirm my ‘Brighton Street-facing room’. Apparently, it catches the sun for most of the day.

I’m asked if I’d like a complimentary drink at the bar before going to my room and I think: why the hell not?

It’s a Sunday night in LA and, though the bar is busy, it’s not heaving, which suits me fine. I’m steered towards a barstool where a man by the name of Toots asks me what my poison is.

‘A gin and tonic, please.’ I hoist myself up onto the barstool, hopeful that the G&T might make me sleepy.

‘Hendrick’s, Tanqueray?’

‘You choose. Make me one that I’ll want every evening.’

Toots smiles. ‘I’ll make you one that you’ll want at least two of every evening.’

I watch him use Tanqueray gin, Fever-Tree tonic and garnish the tall glass with lemon and lime wheels and a few juniper berries. As I take a sip, I try not to wonder why I asked for a G&T. It’s Adam’s favourite tipple, not mine. I immediately banish him from my brain, telling myself he doesn’t deserve head-space. Apart from the fact he’s a two-timing sleaze with another family, his name I decide is far too ordinary. In the last twelve hours, I have met men called Pink, Boyd, Carl and Toots. I raise my glass to Toots the bartender and, after the first taste, nod at him. I suspect he’s right. I’ll be ordering at least two of these when I’m back.

I people-watch for about half an hour. The buzz of the bar and the lure of another Tanqueray make me want to stay, but my eyes are beginning to close. From the reception area, I’m shown up the wide staircase to my first-floor room. It’s small but perfectly formed with a huge bed. As soon as Carl has shown me the ropes and left, I jump on the bed, face down. Turning over on my back, I give a little squeal. I’m in LA. I’m really here, and tomorrow morning, after my meeting with the producers, hopefully I’ll have some time to kill before I see some musicians the producers want me to meet. Then, Rodeo Drive, here I come.

It’s six a.m. and I’ve been awake since four when Meg texted. She is, it seems, a suitable donor for stem cells to her half-brother. They want to do the procedure as soon as possible and it’s scheduled for next week, just after I get back. Part of me feels sick, anxious for my only child being embroiled in her father’s mess. But, strangely, a bigger part of me is relieved for another, innocent, sick child. I text her back: ‘You’re a star. I’ll be there with you. Thank you for being a young woman I’m so proud of … xx’.

By seven, I’m showered and dressed in what Karen refers to as my nun’s clothes – white shirt, black Capri pants and my Converse trainers. Mya, the hotel receptionist this morning, has given me a map, marked out a diner for breakfast and a nail salon that opens at eight. I put my denim jacket on. It’s warm, certainly warmer than a UK December, but I still need a jacket in the shade. I check the map, cross over to the sunnier side of the street and walk for about five minutes.

The diner is quiet, but open. I sit myself down in a red pleather booth and, as soon as I scan the menu, it’s clear I’m in LA.

‘I’ll have a skinny latte and an egg-white omelette with mushrooms.’

No wonder everyone I’ve met looks like they need a good cheese sandwich.

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. I’m really here. I take a photo of the diner, and text it to Meg and Karen, knowing by the time I get a reply, I’ll be sitting in an office somewhere on the Paramount lot.

Having had my fat-free breakfast, I head around the corner to the nail salon. True to Mya’s word, they open early and it looks busy. Their receptionist fits me in and I feel relief that I’ll see the back of the disastrous treble clef on my thumb.

‘Oh my,’ the technician allocated to me says.

‘My mother,’ I tell her. ‘Not me … Even I couldn’t make that bad a job of it.’

‘You’re English,’ she practically sings. ‘I just love the English accent, it’s so cute.’

For the next hour, I listen to Ava tell me about her life. Anything I ask her about LA, she either ignores or doesn’t really give me an answer. I get details about her boyfriend, about the fact that his mother is living with them, about the fact that she works twelve-hour days to support all three of them. I guess she’s not really the person to ask about the best points of interest for an English songwriter with a few days to fill. To Ava, LA is the place she happens to live: nothing more, nothing less.

She does, however, after giving me the best French manicure I’ve ever had, refer me to her colleague Maria, who is apparently the greatest ‘waxer’ around. It was when I was talking to Ava, I thought, why the hell not? I have the time. It would be silly not to. When in Hollywood, have a Hollywood …

Boyd is at the hotel just before ten thirty. He hands me a lanyard, which somehow already has my photo on a VIP pass. I am now a very important person, I tell myself. Lucy, who has been very quiet since I got to LA, giggles out loud. I silence her immediately with an imaginary scarf covered in skulls, the sort they only sell in Rodeo Drive.

The sun is now scorching and I’m glad of the air conditioning on the way to the meeting. It’s a five-minute car ride and, when Boyd flashes his pass, he glances at me in the rear-view mirror, indicates that I should do the same. I wave my lanyard at the security guards and, before long, having passed by what appears to be the more touristy part of Paramount, we arrive at what looks like a small business park of various offices. Boyd opens the door of the car for me outside an impressive revolving door. ‘I’ll wait here for you, ma’am,’ he says. It sounds like a promise, but I just nod.

Having had to wait in reception for ten minutes, counting to one hundred in Spanish, German and French, I am ushered into an office, where two men sit opposite a coffee table. Part of me zones out and I struggle to bring myself back to the moment, to convince myself that this is really real and that I need to listen, to be present.

Jonas, the main man is, in fact, the movie’s director. His handshake is vigorous and double-handed, one hand shaking mine with the other covering it. I am again fascinated by the names of people in Hollywood when Jackson, the movie’s head honcho producer, introduces himself. I smile what I hope is an engaging smile. His is the only name I’ve heard of via Josh and he is apparently the man I need to impress.

Coffee is brought through and they get right down to business. While Jonas is busy sizing me up, Jackson is busy talking facts. I think they’re both wondering what I’m like. Am I funny, reliable, talented – is their risk a risk worth taking, gambling on a relative unknown for a big-dollar movie?

Jonas is telling me they love the song. It will take pride of place in the story’s timeline. While I’m here, he’d like me to meet with some musicians to discuss a slight change musically. Lyrics are all the same, just this small hike in the crescendo of the middle eight. Would I be happy with that? I don’t say what I’m thinking. I don’t tell them that a small or large hike in the middle eight is fine. I want this song in the movie – whatever … I do tell them that I’ll be happy to meet with the musicians later on and see what they have in mind. This I say with a smile mainly directed at Jackson.

Two hours later, after more posturing by the big boys, I have left Paramount, fairly certain that they’re also looking at another song of mine called ‘Echoes’ for a different project. It’s a song I wrote years ago, but I keep this to myself. Hell, it’s about heartache – a timeless theme. Their parting words to me indicated they would be talking to Josh later today.

My head is reeling with such extreme excitement that I have to use some of the breathing techniques Caroline taught me to calm down. I fill my lungs as quietly as possible and exhale slowly. Right now, I’m sitting in a music studio in downtown LA. It is so ‘state of the art’ that I can’t help touching it, stroking the sound keys, staring at the screens. It makes the double Apple Mac screens in my attic look Jurassic. Peter, who appears in front of me, explains that they’re ready. Within seconds, the session musicians they’ve booked start to play from behind a glass screen. They’re good, very good and I’m captivated, lost in the music –
my
music. I pinch myself, not once, or twice but three times. I only stop for fear of bruising.

They run through it a few times until we all agree it’s pitch perfect. Having said my goodbyes, I’m on my way out to meet Boyd thinking life can’t get much better when my phone vibrates and I open a text from Pink. ‘Dinner tonight? I know an amazing steakhouse in Santa Monica …’ And in that moment I’m introduced to a whole new world. I can nearly hear Aladdin in the background. Except this has nothing to do with romance. This is lust. Pure and simple. I reply immediately telling him I’d love dinner, hoping that despite my insistence when we met that dinner would mean dinner, that it might in fact mean sex. Not really caring how lovely or not this man might be, I now know it’s possible to just want to shag someone. I smile at Boyd as he opens the car door for me. Who knew?

Boyd drops me outside Manolo Blahnik’s. Although I feel the lure of his shoes like a magnetic pull, I resist and head towards a lingerie store I spotted from the car. The area is busy and I suddenly feel very self-conscious, as though everyone’s staring at me. Surely they know I’m about to buy shagging underwear? Surely they know that under my black Capri pants I’ve been defuzzed. The people, mostly women, chatter as they walk along and I try, head held high, to blend in, ignoring their yappy, rat-like dogs on bling-ridden dog leads.

Stopping to take the street in, I look right and left. I tell myself to take a moment. Breathe – to savour the fact that I’m in Rodeo Drive. It’s much narrower than I’d thought it would be. There are two lanes of traffic on each side of a central reservation, but somehow it still feels smaller than I’d expected. Flowers are planted the full length of the central part of the street. Tall palm trees are spaced about three metres apart. Surroundings duly noted, like any good tourist, I enter the shop hating myself for not really caring. I just want some gorgeous underwear. And I want Pink to take his time removing it from me sometime soon.

I’m at a steakhouse facing Santa Monica Beach. The setting is too beautiful. The man opposite me is too beautiful. Any moment now, someone will tap my shoulder and tell me to read the small print but, until then … I’m wearing the dress that Karen insisted I pack. Thank you, Karen. Thank you, hotel, for ironing it.

We order steaks and salad and a bottle of red. He doesn’t say a lot, but what he does say is almost all complimentary. How beautiful I am, how sexy I look in my dress … It’s then I realize that he wants to bed me as much as I do him. After teasing my beef with a steak knife for a while and double checking that any wives in his life are definitely exes, I find myself suggesting that we go back to my hotel room. Adam crosses my mind, a tiny flash, too small to notice. I think about Meg and remind myself that Karen is right. There’s nothing I can do until I’m back. I miss her; she’d love it over here and, someday soon, I’ll take her back with me and we’ll take Rodeo Drive by storm. In the meantime, I’m in LA about to do something I’ve never done. Just relax, I tell myself. Try and relax.

Pink calls for the ‘check’, and before I know it we’re in a cab heading back to the hotel. He is holding my hand, rubbing the top of my thumb with his and, fuck me, I can’t bear it. It has been a long time and this man is likely to be the beneficiary of many months of frustration.