Lucy in the Sky

  ‘Um, it’s weird, but I’m kind of enjoying having the flat to myself,’ I answer truthfully.

  She tuts. ‘I’d kill to have a boyfriend like James or Martin.’ Martin is Gemma’s boyfriend. ‘But you guys aren’t having problems, are you?’

  ‘Erm…’ I don’t really want to shatter her rose-tinted view of my boyfriend because it’s lovely–and reassuring–to have people’s envy, but I suddenly find myself wanting to open up to her.

  ‘You know when I went to Australia…’

  I tell her about the flight and the text.

  ‘Yeah, but that all sounds perfectly reasonable, what he’s saying,’ she comforts me.

  ‘It’s just a feeling I have.’

  And then I tell her about Nathan.

  ‘Well, no wonder you’re confused about James,’ she says when I’ve finished. ‘Your heart is elsewhere.’

  ‘Is it, though? Is it really? Nathan’s on the other side of the world. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see him again. Maybe I’m just feeling like this because it’s safe. He’s like a fantasy boyfriend; very few flaws. When I think about him I don’t have to deal with reality.’

  ‘That’s conceivable,’ she muses. ‘But why can’t you talk to James?’

  ‘About Nathan?’

  ‘No, about how you feel about him. The text. The fact that you still worry about it.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Why are you so reluctant?’

  Because I don’t believe he’d tell me the truth. I don’t say this to Chloe. No one likes to admit they don’t trust their boyfriend. Instead I answer, ‘I’m not reluctant. I’ve just got a lot to think about, that’s all.’

  We’re friends, Chloe and I, but we’re not close enough that I feel I can tell her absolutely anything. I don’t have that closeness with anyone. Not even Molly. The realisation makes me feel very isolated.

  I ring Nathan the next morning and he answers immediately.

  ‘Hello, you, I was just finishing work on the house for the day.’ His voice travels warmly down the line. ‘So, tell me about Spain. I want all the gory details.’

  ‘It was a disaster.’ I fill him in on the trip and he listens carefully.

  ‘And when does James get back?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I answer. ‘The launch party went well, though, and my boss has given me a nice bonus, so it’s not all bad. What about you? What have you been up to this week?’

  ‘Well, it was my birthday on Thursday…’

  ‘Really? Oh, happy birthday! I wish I’d known. I’d have sent a card.’

  ‘That’s alright.’ He laughs. ‘You don’t even know my address.’

  That makes him a Gemini, I’m thinking. Good match for a Libra like me.

  ‘What did you do for it?’

  ‘Guys from work took me out for a few drinks and after that I just went round to Sam and Molly’s.’

  ‘How are they doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Really good. Busy with the B&B, though. Molly’s had to cut down her hours at the shop. So what about you? What are you up to today?’

  ‘I might go to Regent’s Park for a wander. Maybe head down Marylebone High Street and do some shopping.’

  ‘Sounds nice.’

  ‘It is.’ I smile. ‘When are you coming over, so you can see for yourself?’

  He laughs softly and I realise I’m holding my breath, waiting for his answer. ‘Not anytime soon, I’m afraid. Got to get this house finished and it’s tougher than the last one. Plus, work’s really busy.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I reply sadly. ‘Have you got any jokes for me?’

  ‘Funny you should say that…’

  ‘Go on,’ I urge.

  ‘Okay. An Englishman goes to the doctor and says, “Doctor, doctor, I really want to become Irish!” and the doctor says, “Okay, well that’s quite a simple procedure; all we have to do is remove twenty-five per cent of your brain.’”

  ‘Eesh,’ I interrupt. ‘My dad’s Irish.’

  ‘Bear with me,’ he says. ‘So he has the operation and afterwards the doctor comes in and says, “Oh, no! There’s been a terrible mistake! Instead of removing twenty-five per cent of your brain, we’ve removed seventy-five per cent!” The man looks up at him and grins. “No worries, she’ll be right, mate.’”

  I crack up laughing.

  ‘So what is the deal with your dad?’ he says suddenly. ‘Molly says that you never talk about him.’

  ‘When were you talking to Molly about my father?’ I ask, taken aback.

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t being nosy. Well, actually I was.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Where is he now?’ he asks and I realise I don’t mind his prying. Molly’s right. I never talk about him. Not to her, James or anyone.

  ‘He was in Manchester, last I heard. My grandmother–his mother–used to send me birthday and Christmas cards until she died a couple of years ago, and she’d tell me what he was up to. Because he never bothered…’

  It was when Mum dragged me back to England that I first tracked down my dad. Growing up, I always wondered about him and started to ask questions, which I know my mum found difficult to answer. It was especially tough because after years of living alone with me she had finally found happiness with Terry and she had no desire to go back and relive her painful past. That’s when I found out about my father being an alcoholic. But I still wanted to meet him. My mum finally put me in touch with my dad’s mother in Dublin. My grandmother and father were the only relatives I had left on that side of the family. She was overjoyed to hear from me and together we planned for me to stay with her in Ireland. We decided to surprise my father, who lived on the next street.

  It was a disaster. My dad was off his face on booze, and the moment we walked into his house he shouted and threw a book at us. His place smelt of urine and was a complete tip. When I called my mum later in floods of tears, she barely knew what to say. She’d warned me but I hadn’t listened. There was little she could say to comfort me.

  My gran took me back there the next day, promising he was better in the mornings, and he was. But not much better. He didn’t want to know about me and what I was doing. He didn’t ask after Mum. He mumbled into his whisky and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I resolved never to see him again.

  My grandmother stayed in touch. But I hadn’t felt comfortable in her house, either. She was very pernickety and obviously not used to having people around. I didn’t know where to sit or how to behave. I was only seventeen at the time and it was all a bit much. We wrote to each other for a couple of years but soon even those letters dried up and we just sent the odd card instead. When she died I didn’t go to her funeral. The last thing I wanted was to see my father again. I wish now I’d gone. I still feel terribly guilty about it.

  I never really spoke to Molly about any of this. Sam’s parents had just died when I went to Dublin, and I didn’t want to add to their burden.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lucy,’ Nathan says softly, when I finish telling him.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Have you ever thought about…No, I don’t suppose you’d want to,’ he says.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ I really don’t want to see my dad again. If he’s still a drunk like he was back then, then I’ve got no time for him.

  ‘Did he ever remarry?’ Nathan asks.

  ‘Not that I know of, no. I don’t think I’ve got any half-brothers or half-sisters.’

  ‘I was just wondering about that,’ he says.

  ‘Tell me another joke!’ I insist suddenly. I don’t want to talk about this any longer.

  ‘I don’t know any more,’ comes his sorrowful reply.

  ‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Are you all dried up?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Do you realise, everywhere I go, everyone I meet, I pester them for crappy jokes?’

  ‘Do you?’ I squeal. ‘Me too!’

  He laughs.

  ‘So, what now?’ I giggle. ‘Is this the end of our rela
tionship?’

  ‘Is that what this is? A relationship?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I smile. ‘A relationship of sorts.’

  He chuckles, then says, ‘I’ll give you a week to come up with another joke. And it had better be a good one. Otherwise, it’s over, honey.’

  That week at work, Mandy calls me into the meeting room. She’s just signed a new client, and wants me to handle the account.

  ‘Ooh, how exciting. What is it this time?’ I’m thinking make-up…handbags…shoes…

  ‘Have you heard of the “Mockah Chockah” song?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Not even when you went to Spain?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ I admit, feeling inadequate.

  She slides a CD and a DVD across the desk to me. I pick up the DVD. The picture on the front cover is of two girls who appear to be in their early twenties–one blonde, one brunette–both with short and spiky haircuts, flanking a camp-looking blond guy in a tight purple T-shirt and bright orange shorts. The girls are wearing pink leotards, purple leg warmers and orange wristbands. We’re talking cheese of Parmesan proportions.

  I look up at Mandy inquisitively.

  ‘Titteesh. A new Russian boy–girl group. Their “Mockah Chockah” song has been sweeping the nightclubs in Europe since early May and now it’s being released here. I want you to do the PR for it. We’re looking for a Number One.’

  ‘Right…’ I answer, still confused. ‘Titteesh? That’s the name of the band?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mandy replies, a hint of a smile forming at the corner of her neatly lip-lined lips. I fight back the urge to dissolve into hysterical laughter.

  ‘Have a listen, watch the DVD, learn the dance—’

  ‘Dance?’ I can’t help but interrupt.

  ‘Yes. It’s a novelty song, Lucy. They always have a dance.’

  Ten minutes later I’m in the small back office watching the television screen through my fingers. Holy shit, this song stinks! And I’ve never seen a dance so ridiculous. I do vaguely remember the tune from Spain, now. I press a button on the DVD remote control and watch it over again, scarcely feeling any better, even as a PR plan starts to evolve in my mind.

  We like a Mockah Chockah

  Show us with your hands

  We like the way you look

  And we love the way you dance

  We like a Mockah Chockah

  Like the way you move

  Like the way you kiss

  And we love the way you groove

  Mockah Chockah hot!

  Mockah Chockah slow

  Mockah Chockah now!

  Go! Go! Go!

  And so on.

  I peep my head out of the door and look over at Gemma and Chloe. I really want them to see this and share my pain but Mandy is at her desk in full view.

  ‘You okay, Lucy?’ Mandy calls, eagle eyes never leaving the computer screen in front of her.

  ‘Yes, fine, thanks!’ I turn back to eject the DVD.

  ‘Any ideas?’ She swivels to look at me as I make my way back to my desk.

  ‘A few,’ I respond.

  ‘Good.’ She nods abruptly, before swivelling round again to her computer. I swear she’s trying to keep a straight face.

  Titteesh–I can’t believe that’s their name–are arriving in the UK on Monday for almost two weeks of solid PR. It’s Wednesday now, so I don’t have long if I’m going to formulate a plan that will propel this godawful group and their crappy, crappy song to the top of the charts in just over a fortnight. I hope mankind will forgive me.

  Chloe and Gemma naturally think it’s the funniest thing ever. I can practically hear them thanking their lucky stars that they weren’t chosen to run this campaign. They’re not so jubilant, however, when Mandy calls a team meeting that afternoon and tells them they have to assist me in any way I see fit. I smirk at them across the table with a twinkle in my eye. Maybe this won’t be so torturous after all.

  ‘James, I have to use the DVD player,’ I tell him that night.

  ‘Aw, Lucy, the tennis is on,’ he moans.

  I don’t mind the tennis, actually; it’s better than the cricket any day.

  ‘Sorry, but I must. I have to learn this stupid dance routine.’

  ‘What stupid dance routine?’

  ‘Give me a sec and I’ll show you.’

  A short while afterwards, James is beside himself on the sofa as I swing my arms and kick my legs like a baton-wielding maniac. Without a baton, unfortunately.

  ‘Stop laughing, you little shit!’ I pant as I attempt a twirl before jumping to my right to repeat the routine.

  ‘I can’t…I can’t…I can’t…believe you’re going to do this around London,’ he manages to spit out, tears streaming down his face.

  ‘I’m glad you find it so funny,’ I snap, but I’m smiling really.

  My plan is to get the group to perform their novelty dance in front of iconic London landmarks on Monday and post the video on the infamous internet site YouTube the following day. The week after next, the single is released and the television and radio promotion will start, so this week I’m going to drag Titteesh around various magazine and newspaper offices and get them to teach willing journalists the dance. Well, when I say I, I mean we. I’m buggered if I’m going to let Chloe and Gemma get off lightly.

  By Saturday morning, though, I’m starting to feel panicky. Titteesh are arriving on Monday and I still haven’t properly sourced the locations where we’re going to shoot the video. I tell James of my concerns as he’s buttering toast in the kitchen.

  ‘Well, you’ll just do Trafalgar Square, Downing Street, Piccadilly Circus, that sort of thing, won’t you?’ he suggests.

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not sure where to go first or if you can even film in those locations.’

  ‘Just wing it, Lucy. You’ll be fine.’

  But I’m still worried.

  ‘How about we go and check out some locations today? Would that put your mind at rest?’

  ‘Would you do that with me?’ I ask him hopefully.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Ah, that’s so sweet! Thank you!’

  I realise as we’re walking out of the door that I haven’t called Nathan yet and I was supposed to do that today. I peer down at my watch. It’ll be too late to call him when we get back. I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. For once, work has to come first.

  The next day is Sunday and James is watching Wimbledon.

  ‘I’m just going to make a phone call,’ I tell him, wandering through to the bedroom.

  ‘You’re not ringing that bloke again, are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Nathan? Yes.’

  ‘Lucy, you speak to him more than me…’

  ‘James, I do not,’ I respond calmly. ‘If you want to switch the tennis off we could go and do something instead?’ I know full well that he won’t. Yesterday’s location sourcing took a lot longer than we thought and we were both shattered by the end of it. Missing one full day’s tennis was hard enough for James.

  ‘Forget it,’ he grumbles, turning back to the match.

  Nathan answers on the second ring.

  ‘And there’s me thinking it was all over,’ he sighs.

  ‘You said I had a week!’

  ‘It’s been eight days, Lucy, I was going out of my mind.’

  Is he flirting with me?

  ‘What have you got for me? I hope it’s a good one…’ he says.

  ‘You tell me. Two goldfish in a tank. One says to the other, “Are you driving this thing or am I?’”

  ‘That sucks.’ I can hear him trying not to laugh. ‘That’s just not funny. I’m afraid we might have to call it a day.’

  ‘Wait! I have another one.’ In between all the ‘Mockah Chockah’ madness this week I’ve still managed to pester people for jokes I haven’t heard before. A guy from accounts and one of the receptionists came up trumps.

  ‘This one will get you. Right, a duck walks into a bar and asks, “
Got any bread?” And the barman replies, “No.” And the duck asks again, “Got any bread?” And again the barman says, “No!” “Got any bread?” “I said, no! N. O. NO!” “Got any bread?” “Oh, for crying out loud…N-O spells NO and I mean NO!” “Got any bread?” “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!” “Got any bread?” “Look, if you ask me one more time if I’ve got any bread, I’m going to nail your fucking beak to the fucking bar! WE HAVE NO BREAD!” “Got any nails?” “No!” “Got any bread?’”

  Nathan laughs. ‘Okay, you got me. Consider us back on. So,’ he says, ‘when are you coming back to Australia to see me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I smile, collapsing back onto the bed. I’m pleased that he said ‘me’ and not ‘us’.

  ‘Because I’m not really into long-distance relationships,’ he continues.

  He is definitely flirting with me.

  ‘Well, you might just have to come and see me…’

  ‘Alright, then.’

  ‘When?’ I grin. As if!

  ‘How does the end of September grab you?’

  I sit bolt upright.

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘You’re serious?’ I’m flabbergasted.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘If you ask me that one more time I’m going to nail your fucking beak to the fucking bar!’

  It turns out that one of the guys from Nathan’s work has just returned from London where he’s been helping to build the new Wembley Stadium. The building company running the job is Australian and they’ve been looking for more Aussie builders to work over here. As simple as that.

  ‘How long are you coming for?’ I ask, almost lost for words.

  ‘If it all goes to plan, and it might not yet, we’ll see, but if it does, they’re trying to line us up with three-month working visas. So we should be there until early January.’

  By we, he means his friend Richard from work who also wants to come to England.

  ‘Where will you stay?’ I want to tell him he can stay here but of course that’s ridiculous. Even if we did have a spare room, James would never allow it. And anyway that would just be asking for trouble. It was bad enough having him sleep in the room next door to me at Sam and Molly’s house.