‘But won’t you need me to – ’
‘I’m sure Julie will manage,’ he says firmly.
‘If you’re sure,’ I reply, feeling weird about the idea. To my knowledge there hasn’t been a single arrangement in Jonathan’s life that I haven’t had some part in organizing since I started at Red Brick eight years ago. However, if I’m about to move up the office ranks, I’ll have to get used to leaving Jonathan’s affairs up to someone else to organize and worry about.
‘Very sure,’ Jonathan says with a final wink before walking around me and opening his office door – letting me know he’s finished with me and that I can leave.
‘Thank you,’ I mutter, leaving the room feeling confused, excited and extremely nervous.
Julie greets me with a manic grin and a celebratory dance of the arms.
‘So exciting,’ she mouths.
10
I’m in a dingy hotel reception, waiting for the concierge to get off the phone so that he can hand me my room key. While standing there, I look around the small lobby. It feels more like a doctor’s waiting room than part of a guesthouse – chaotic from the toddlers and children running around, but with the thick lull that accompanies the sick, as strangers flick through out-of-date magazines, mindlessly hoping to be seen quickly.
There are several babies crying – full-on crying like they’re mid-meltdown. I look at their mothers but they aren’t doing anything, instead they sit with their eyes closed and arms folded, blocking out the relentless squawking coming from their young offspring.
‘Here you go, darling,’ says the concierge, pulling my focus back around to him. Although now the hotel staff member has been replaced with TV chef Jamie Oliver, who’s dressed in a lime green vest top, pink tutu, cream tights and brown cowboy boots with a Christmas hat on his head. He cheerily holds out a piece of celery for me to take. ‘I think this is what you’re after.’
‘Oh …’ I say, inspecting the celery stick with confusion.
‘Room 456,’ he nods with his famous cheeky grin as he flicks the white bobble of his red hat over his shoulder. ‘One of our best. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.’
Now, I don’t want to offend Jamie (it’s Jamie Oliver, no one would want to upset that lovely man), so I take the celery stick from his hand and start walking towards the lift, dubious that this stringy vegetable is going to help me get into my room, but willing to give it a try.
When the lift door opens there’s a black buggy inside, but no adult around to push or look after its occupant. I look back, but everyone has frozen into a tableau of what was there before: children mid-run, toys mid-movement, Jamie Oliver mid-making a cheese and truffle omelette. So I turn back to the buggy in the lift and get in with it, pressing the button to my floor.
At first I do my best to ignore the abandoned buggy – after all, if I don’t look then it’s not my responsibility – however, seeing as I’m in the slowest elevator ever, curiosity takes hold of me and I find myself side stepping over to it. It looks like a nice buggy – one of those posh designer types that all the mums use around the park while they jog or lunge along. Although this buggy hasn’t been anywhere – the wheels, bars, foot muff and carrycot are all pristine as though it’s never been used. Running my hands along the smooth metal handlebar, I feel my fingers graze over something rough.
It’s a word, written in a tiny font.
I bend over and squint my eyes to see it clearer.
Brett.
Now I’m really curious.
I’m about to push up its hood when the lift stops and the doors fly open – dozens of other women come streaming in, each pushing identical prams to mine. It’s a squeeze fitting everyone in but finally the doors close and we start moving again.
The other mums all gaze at the little babies sleeping peacefully as though nothing else exists – not this lift, not the other mums or babies, not me.
I look down at the pram I’ve now claimed as my own.
I wonder what’s in there.
I crouch down and lift the hood a fraction, peering into the dark space beneath, and see the silhouette of a baby. Relief floods through me, as I was sure it was going to be something sinister – a manky cat or rabid dog that would jump out and attack me.
The lift stops once more, this time it’s my floor. After some bashing of wheels and worried looks from the serene mums who fear I’ll wake their babies, I eventually exit the lift along with my buggy.
With the celery stick still in my hand I walk up to my hotel room door – which looks suspiciously like my bedroom door in the flat – and hold my vegetable key up to the lock. The door springs open and inside is my room – my actual bedroom, although slightly tidier.
I carefully manoeuvre the wheels through the doorframe and park the buggy in front of my window in the sunlight. Perching on the end of the bed, with my new four-wheeled carriage by my side, I take a deep breath.
Reaching out with inquisitiveness, I lift the hood all the way back – so that a face is visible.
I gasp.
The face is adorable and gorgeous and soft and innocent and cute and beautiful.
The face is his.
I can’t contain my desire to hold him – even though I know I shouldn’t, even though I know he isn’t mine. Slowly, I pick him up, surprised by his lightness, and cradle him into me. It feels natural – natural to be spellbound by the stillness of his perfect face and the unevenness of his chest as it rises and falls.
I have no desire to be anywhere else, but in my room watching him, and hearing the squeak of his nose as he breathes in and out, in and out.
I close my eyes and enjoy the sensation of him.
Two dreams on consecutive nights that cause me to wake up with an overriding feeling of being maternal – if that’s not my body and subconscious telling me that my biological clock is ticking and to get a move on with finding my baby daddy sharpish, then I don’t know how else to interpret them.
It’s all very well my body having broody outbursts in my sleep state – but if the universe would like to take it upon itself to dish out the guy before hammering home my buried longing, that would be fab.
I decide not to focus on the fact that I’m twenty-nine and still trying to get a grip on life, and instead focus on the possible stepping stone at work which could be the start of a better me/future, dragging myself get out of bed and into the shower.
I leave the house nice and early again, as I have all week. The cold is really starting to set in now that it’s November, but thankfully the last few days have been full of sunshine first thing – I can cope with the frost that comes with winter, but not the rain. Therefore, having the sun grace me each day has been much appreciated. There’s nothing like waking up and getting out of the house early on a sunny day when the rest of Victoria Park is still fairly quiet and tranquil. Everything seems a little more magical – as though you’re on the cusp of something new and exciting … or maybe that’s just me this week now that I’ve started thinking about my career and what I want for myself.
Thanks to my being super organized, with plenty of time to get into work, I stop in on The Barge Café on the way. I’m just stepping back on to dry land with a green tea (super good) when my mum calls.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I answer chirpily. Clearly the early morning Vitamin D intake is working wonders and boosting my spirits.
‘Hello, darling. Any news?’ she asks, getting straight to the point without any trivial niceties.
It’s the first time she’s been in touch since the weekend. I’m surprised she’s managed to restrain herself from calling me every two seconds to see what progress I’ve made in bettering my prospects at husband catching – because everything in life is based on bagging yourself a man to take care of you. Clearly.
‘Not yet,’ I sigh.
‘Oh, didn’t you ask?’ she asks sadly, after a huge tut. Not sounding at all shocked at the little scenario she’s made up in her head where I disappoint her once m
ore by failing to follow through on my words.
‘No, I did,’ I say, proudly.
‘Oh.’
Now she’s really surprised.
‘And … ?’ she prompts.
‘And, well, Jonathan said he’ll think of me when the time comes to replace someone – but now one of the girls in Development has handed in her notice, so it looks like I’m in with a chance.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ she squeals.
Actually squeals.
I don’t think I’ve heard her squeal like that since I was a child and taking part in the egg and spoon race at school.
‘Yes. All I’ve got to do is go for an interview,’ I say enthusiastically, knowing that this is the real sting in the tail.
‘What?’
‘An interview,’ I confirm – knowing she heard me the first time.
‘But they know you, Sarah. What could they possibly find out from you in a ten-minute business interview that they don’t already know? You’ve granted them the longest-ever interview by staying there in such a low position for so long when you could’ve been snapped up by various other companies over the years.’
She doesn’t usually say nice things about me – and I’m sure I heard a few kind words in my favour within her rant, so I choose to focus on those and not let her panic worry me.
‘Mum, it’s just a formality,’ I sing, repeating the words Jonathan said to me while hoping I sound light and optimistic.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah – you know how PC everything is these days. Got to be seen giving everyone a fair chance.’
‘Sounds ridiculous to me.’
‘Yeah …’ I agree, trying not to let my mum rile me into a flap about the whole thing.
‘When will they be giving you this “interview”?’ she asks, really punching out each syllable as though the word disgusts her. I mean, how dare they subject her daughter to something as barbaric as an interview?! It’s clearly one step away from torture.
‘Next Monday.’
‘Hmmm … well, hopefully you’ll be fine.’
Hopefully.
Don’t most mums cheer on their kids and offer them unwavering support even if they don’t have the slightest chance of getting what they’re reaching for in life? Take all those nutters on The X Factor and their mums who storm in to the audition rooms to tell Simon Cowell that he’s making the biggest mistake of his life by not taking their tone-deaf child through to boot camp, before hurling a load of abuse at him when their passionate plea doesn’t work. Not that I’m suggesting for a second that that’s good parenting – it’s simply embarrassing and I would be mortified if my mum were to do something like that – but just a little bit of belief in me and encouragement without any cynicism would be amazing. I bet it would feel incredible.
Instead, I get ‘hopefully’.
Her tone doesn’t quite fill me with confidence and once the call ends I’m left feeling bemused and miffed.
Taking a sip of my hot drink, I spot the café’s logo on the polystyrene cup and breathe a little sigh.
I block out my mum and all uncertain work issues for a moment and instead console myself with thoughts of Brett and wonder when our next dream date is going to be. Is it slightly worrying to admit that I’ve been looking forward to going to sleep at night? I mean, there’s been some quirky shit going on in some of my dreams, but amongst that – there’s been enough to make me wake with a smile. I’ve no doubt he’s part of the reason I’ve got such a spring in my step …
11
With my eyes closed, I sway to the most beautiful and heartfelt jazz music I’ve ever heard. The raspiness grips me, carrying me by the throat on a journey of grit and truth.
I’m lost in it.
Nothing else exists.
Just me and the music.
My eyes open and I see the saxophone in my hands. It’s me delivering those licks, that soul. My body ducks and swoops as I hit the top notes and shimmies down for the low ones – an extension of the instrument I’m holding.
The brassy sound echoes down the tiled tunnel, giving commuters a beat to walk to as they invariably avoid eye contact with me, even if I’ve seen them clicking their fingers along to the soulful melodies I’m creating as they power walk past like a herd of cattle.
Trains to catch, people to see.
No time to stop.
No time to enjoy.
They can’t free themselves until they reach their destinations, no matter how much their fingers and toes want them to get lost in my delectable tones. They do not want to live in the present, even though the music coming from my hands and body excites and tempts them.
Those feelings must be oppressed.
They must keep their stony faces looking forward and not deviate from their normal routine.
What a shame, I think, that this freedom of expression is only being enjoyed by me …
I close my eyes and swing to the beat for another moment, getting lost in the world of the music.
When I open my eyes again, he’s there. Standing across from me in the tunnel, while commuters continue to stream between us in their lifeless fashion.
Brett has arrived.
He stands still, legs apart, arms by his side, and watches me.
My fingers dance around quicker and slicker than before now that I have an audience to impress – now that he’s here. I riff and lick up and down the instrument with speed and ease – going wherever the music wants me to with no limitations or restrictions. I’m free and calm.
I’m pretty brilliant.
I really am.
He thinks so too.
I can tell by the way his eyes flicker as they watch me, the way his mouth twinges, wanting to smile, and the way his muscular chest is moving up and down more than ever as his breathing quickens.
He is frozen to the spot.
He’s fascinated by me.
I am fascinated by him.
He wants me.
I want him.
I look to the ground to see his toe starting to tap to the rhythm I’m creating. Gently at first, as though it’s not even moving, but then the music takes over his being and he’s full on stomping the ground with his foot. His shoulder gets involved then, popping forwards – the force driving him to pivot round in a circle. His arms rising up and joining the rest of his body in its carefree abandon.
In a place full of people adhering to the monotonous drone of rush hour on the tube, he is free. He is alive. Unashamedly enjoying me in the moment without a care for who is watching or what they might be thinking.
The energy pouring out of him is exciting and intoxicating.
I want him.
He wants me.
A brutal honking sound blasts along the tunnel as a huge red cross lights up above my head.
Looking back to where Brett was dancing seconds before, I find he’s disappeared and been replaced with Simon Cowell and David Walliams – sat behind a desk, in front of a scary-looking studio audience.
I’m auditioning for them.
Crap.
I continue playing, willing my fingers to cooperate and continue with their fluid movements, but it’s no use. I can’t play. Not just because Simon makes me feel nervous, but because I can’t actually play. I’ve never had a saxophone lesson in my life. I can’t even blow into the fucking thing.
And so I pretend I’m playing along to the backing track, hoping they won’t notice.
They do.
I hear laughter from the crowd as Simon buries his head in his hands in despair, but David loves it. David is up on his feet dancing, willing the crowd to clap and sway along.
They do.
Still no sound comes out of my brass instrument, but it’s a euphoric feeling to have thousands of people cheering me on.
When the song comes to an end the room erupts in support.
‘That was, without question, the best audition we’ve seen this year,’ says David in his usual flamboyant manner. ?
??I’m glad I was here to witness what was undoubtedly a huge moment in British history. You’re a star.’
‘You know what?’ Simon says, looking pensive as he taps his fingers on the desk in front of him, squints his eyes and purses his lips.
I’ve no idea what his verdict is going to be so I stand there staring at him open-mouthed like a pathetic child hoping to be praised.
‘I like you,’ he states, remaining measured as he nods his head.
I’m frozen with my heart in my mouth, waiting for him to say more.
He raises his eyebrows at me playfully.
‘And I’ve got an apology to make – I think I pressed my buzzer too early,’ he smiles, giving me one of his cheeky little winks. ‘So you don’t actually play or know what you’re doing. Whatever. I think this competition needs someone like you. I think David’s right. You’re a star in the making.’
Cheers.
Grins.
Happiness.
Success.
I spot Mum and Dad sitting in the front row of the audience, both wearing t-shirts with my face on them, weeping with joy and pride for their daughter – the phantom saxophone player.
I wake up laughing – actually cackle laughing while crying with happiness all at once, feeling utterly foolish and weirded out when I realize it was just a dream. Not that I’d want to be a Britain’s Got Talent success story (even though it was lovely to be praised, valued and bizarrely respected momentarily), of course – I’m just overwhelmed with how those emotions can be carried through from one state to the next, leaving me in limbo until the worlds separate and things become clearer and I remember who I am, what I am and where I am.
Ah …
It’s Monday.
Today is the day where life gets real and I’m about to be given the opportunity of actual furtherance.
Holy crap.
Needless to say, I’m a nervous wreck as I get ready for my interview with Jonathan and Derek.
Poor Carly sat on my bed for hours the previous night watching me try on everything in my wardrobe a million times – at one point she even fell asleep. Anything suit-like felt ridiculous, like I’m making too much of an effort to be taken seriously, and my normal work attire suddenly seemed old and ragged. It was a tough task having to pick something that screams ‘employ me’, but before we both crept off to our beds, we agreed on a loose blue swing dress with a pattern of dark blue broderie detailing on the front, tights and low heels. It’s smarter than what I’d wear to the office every day, but I don’t feel as though I’m pretending to be someone else who’s far more intelligent than I am. It just looks like I’ve made a bit more effort than usual.