To Be Someone (43 page)

Dashing out to the water cooler in the hallway, I rinsed out my tumbler and filled it to the brim with icy water, gulping it down gratefully to wash the bitter juniper taste out of my mouth. Not to worry, I had heaps of pills, and after the show, I could just hold my nose and pour the gin down my throat like medicine. Filling up the cup with water again, I returned to my desk and glanced at the envelope Vicky had brought in.

It was addressed to me, care of New World, in a strange plump handwriting. I slit it open and flipped the four sides of paper over to see who it was from. I suspected a nutter, writing that amount. Fan letters these days were usually just brief requests for signed photos.

At the very end I saw “All my love, Toby,” and for a split second, everything in me turned to water, from knees to nose and all the bits in between. I thought I might just dissolve right there onto my desk, fusing all the electrics in the studio and bringing my show to a premature climax. But I forced myself to remember our last meeting: Toby swaying and running off to puke, calling me “she” and sucking lager off his arms. Then I remembered Ruby telling me how they were all going to live together again as a family.…

I was so distracted that I nearly forgot to cue Jackie Wilson. With no link at all, I segued into “Sweetest Feeling,” knocked back two more pills, and devoured the letter, skimming at first through its contents.

Dear Helena

 … fantastic to talk to you when you were at Lulu’s … can’t believe you didn’t leave your number. I had been trying to get hold of you ever since you left hospital, via your agent, but you didn’t reply, so I suppose you never got the letter.

Damn, I must have thrown it away along with Geoff’s letter

 … forgot to mention it when we spoke on the phone, and when you saw me drunk that day. So, so, sorry about that; I’m mortified. I made Bill come with me to Richmond in the hope of bumping into you—what a twat, eh? As you noticed, I was hardly at my best. I gather that Bill told you why.… miss you very much … think about you all the time …

Omigod! I read the final page more slowly:

It might seem to you like I’m running after you because I’m on the rebound—but I’m not, I promise. Things hadn’t been right between Kate and me for ages, but because I’d already been walked all over by one woman (Lorraine, the one you met), I just wouldn’t allow myself to see that it was happening again. It’s been a nightmare, but Kate and I will stay in touch—we have to for Ruby’s sake. Ruby doesn’t understand what’s going on, although I think she’ll be fine. She was happy staying at Lulu’s, even when I was away on business. Kate did most of her recovering at her lover’s flat, where there apparently wasn’t room for Rubes. Kate and Giacomo (prat!) have now bought a house together, and Ruby went to live there a few weeks ago—in fact, the day after you went to Lulu’s.

So Ruby was mistaken when she thought Toby was coming back to live with Kate, too—jeez! That would teach me to take the word of a two-year-old as gospel. I couldn’t believe my idiocy.

 … The Italian Prat is actually a fairly reasonable guy, and Kate’s keen to be “mature” about access (so I should bloody well hope!), so I’m sure I’ll still see lots of Ruby.

Anyway, listen, I’m worried about you, Helena. It’s fine if you’ve decided that you don’t want to pursue a relationship with me (well, actually, it’s not fine at all, but I’ll live with it), but you seemed upset when we spoke on the phone. Even though she hadn’t met you before, Lulu thought you were acting a bit strangely, too. I still can’t believe that you really wanted to give away something as precious as your memories of Sam. You aren’t planning anything stupid, are you??

Whatever you think of me now, please do me one last favor and call me to let me know that you’re okay. It’s 0171-386-9162 (Lulu’s number—I’m staying there until I find a place of my own. We’re selling the house in the country).

I’ve been scouring
TimeOut
ever since the girl in your agent’s office told me that you were going back to New World, and I was delighted to see your nighttime show listed. I’ll be tuning in, you can count on it. It will be fantastic even just to hear your voice again.

All my love,

   
Toby xxx

When I looked up from the letter, I saw that there were only two seconds left of Jackie Wilson. I’d been intending to talk a little bit about Sam, and how we first met, before I played “Route 66,” but I was too flabbergasted. Leaving three unprofessional seconds of dead air, I hastily pulled down the fader to start Sandie Shaw and flopped back into my chair.

This truly was radio at its worst—I hoped that nobody was listening. And this was the show that was supposed to be going down in history. I’d have to pull myself together and concentrate harder.

It also occurred to me that I hadn’t once even thought about Sam while the record was playing. Perhaps my theory about music and memory wasn’t so infallible after all.

Still, there was a long way to go. Three down, seventeen left. I touched the Ziplocked stash of tablets with my toe, rubbing them affectionately against my sock. I had never felt so confused. I took two more tablets. Then another two, quickly, to prove that Toby’s revelations weren’t going to change my mind.

Damn you, Toby, I thought through the jolly brass of “Route 66.” It’s too late. I can’t go back now. This show sucks so badly that even if I hadn’t ditched the format, I’d probably get fired for it.

I replaced the cans and listened to the end of Sandie Shaw before opening the fader on my mic again.

“That was a little-known but fantastic track from the great Sandie Shaw, her version of the classic song ‘(Get Your Kicks on) Route 66.’ I know I said these were my songs, but that one’s for my dad, over in New Jersey.

“Hey, it’s a good thing this isn’t my old show, isn’t it? For those of you who remember it, I used to never play a song unless the person requesting it could practically write a thesis on the reason they wanted it played. And I have to tell you, right now I wouldn’t play any of these records if I was that punter, ringing in for them.… But I do have an excuse. I knew there wouldn’t be enough time to talk much on air about why these tracks are important to me, so I wrote it all down instead. And if any of you care enough, perhaps one day it’ll be made into a book, and you can read it. It’s a thesis about my life, I guess.”

I paused. “Who thinks that I maybe ought to be just a little less self-obsessed?”

I faded up “Wichita Lineman,” determined to talk up to the vocals without crashing them: “And here’s a song that reminds me of being a kid, hanging out with my best friend, fighting with my mother—the way you do when you’re nine years old. I thought that it was about a linesman, you know, like they have in tennis matches.”

Bingo. Got it right that time. Suddenly love-struck linesmen and my own self-obsession seemed terribly funny, and I began to laugh. The show wasn’t going a bit like I’d imagined it would. All those months, writing and planning and being serious and grief-stricken—and now these songs were making me laugh? Perhaps I was losing it. Or maybe it was the medicinal cocktail starting to take effect.

Well, since Toby had had the decency to write and declare himself worried about me, the least I could do was to ring him. I liked the idea that he would be the last person I ever spoke directly to.

I dialed Lulu’s number, feeling a ridiculous heady sensation that I couldn’t quite identify.

The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. Just my luck. Eventually an answering machine picked up and curtly instructed me to leave a message. I spoke quietly, guiltily, in case I woke up Lulu.

“This is a message for Toby. I’m really sorry to call so late. Anyway, I got your second letter, but not the first one—oh, by the way, it’s Helena here. Call me back at the studio, if you like. I need to tell you something. I hope you get this message, but it’s two-fifteen and you’re probably in bed asleep. But if you aren’t, then ring me on”—I peered at the number of the XD line written on the studio phone—“0171-935-6906—that’s a direct line into the studio. Bye, Toby. It was really great to hear from you.”

Not speaking to Toby had pulled me back to earth again, and I felt like I was getting down to business as I played “Sunday Girl,” “Sitting in Limbo,” and “Home Again.” I concluded that it probably was the pills making me feel weird, so I decided to ease off them for a while, to stay alert.

I talked a lot in between each record, more than I’d intended, but kept it to generalities: when, why, what. Inside, I waited to be overwhelmed by memories of Sam and me on magic carpets, of the visitor’s pink ribbon and the preacher with the bouffant hair, of my first bedroom sessions on the rickety bass—but it didn’t happen. Yes, I remembered Sam, and saw her face, and relived the feeling of the love that bounced off the high tapestried walls of the Freehold Baptist Church, and heard the flat thud of my bass strings before I knew how to properly play it—but the odd thing was that I felt it all quite
fondly
.

It was like watching a much-loved movie, the way you go, “ooh, I love this bit!” but you aren’t particularly glued to it because it’s too familiar. You’ve seen it too many times before. The revelation I was expecting never occurred.

By revelation, I mean a defining moment, some sort of
It’s a Wonderful
Life
–esque catharsis; that by seeing my life unfold before me through those songs, it would make me appreciate its value, and I’d want to live again. This was not happening, but something else was.

Slowly, slowly, as each song shook out and laid before me its patchwork memories, I realized that, yes, these were indeed my memories, for better or worse—but frankly, I’d spent so much time dwelling on them in the past few months that they were no longer quite so interesting to me. The funny bits still made me laugh, but not out loud. The sad bits brought tears to my eyes but didn’t destroy me. I had become an observer instead of a participator.

I’d thought that playing the music would tip the balance, but it didn’t. My memories had, in the writing of them, become downgraded from Top Priority to Day File. By osmosis and obsession, they had become part of me. Suddenly I didn’t even
want
to share them with the rest of the world. I didn’t want a bumper sticker announcing to anyone that I’d Told London My Song—I wanted to keep my songs. Now that I’d given away the Hel-Sam box, they were all I had left of Blue Idea, of Sam, of the past. They were mine.

I galloped seamlessly through “Oliver’s Army,” “There There My Dear,” and “Ghosts,” and before I knew it, I’d done my first ten in a row. I switched over to the news desk for a bulletin and then ran a few more ads just to use up a bit more time.

During “To Be Someone,” the XD line on my phone started flashing, indicating a call. I just happened to glance down and see the little green light blinking at me, and I lunged for the receiver, my heart in my throat.

“Toby?” I said loudly and breathlessly, over The Jam.

“No, this is Geoff,” came a cross and crackly voice from a mobile phone. “I’m in a car in Crouch End coming back from a party, and this is what I hear? What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Helena? I gave you express instructions that you were to stick to the format, and you’re totally pirating it!”

“I’ve played the ads and had the news,” I said lamely.

“So I should bloody well hope. Get back to Selector, now!”

I swallowed. “Geoff, listen, I haven’t been straight with you. I only ever planned to do the one show. I’m really sorry that I’ve messed you around, but either you let me continue with my own records or else I walk out of this studio now. It’s going to take you a while to get down here from North London, so unless you want forty minutes of dead air, you’d better let me keep going.”

I waited for the staticky spluttering to commence, but there was just a brief pause. “I don’t respond well to blackmail, Helena. We’ll speak about this in the morning.”

I segued into “Shipbuilding” without missing a beat, headphones pressed against one ear, an irate passenger in a car in Crouch End connected to the other ear. It was still such a marvel, being able to do two different things with two different ears.

“If you like, Geoff—but before you bother to fire me, consider this my resignation. I’ll put it in writing and get it to you by ten
A.M
. I’ve decided that I don’t want to be a DJ anymore.”

Or a rock star, or a pushover, or a recluse. I realized then, with complete certainty, that I would still be around at ten
A.M
. to type up a letter of resignation. I knew that I would leave the building as hale and hearty as when I’d entered it. I knew that Vinnie was right, that no one really cared anymore. And instead of that fact making me shrivel up like a salted slug, I saw that it was all the more reason why
I
had to care, in a positive way. A looking-forward, new-life kind of way, not a wallowing-in-the-past way.

I just wanted to be me, Helena Nicholls, making a new start, hopefully with a new boyfriend, and maybe even a few new friends. Sam wouldn’t mind. In fact she’d be cheering me on.

Vinnie had done me a favor. Who’d have thought?

I kept the tracks coming, wash after wash of music and faith and recollection flowing over and through me—but then out the other side again. Not sticking around clogging me up but rinsing me. And then, as if my body was echoing the sentiments in my head, a great wave of nausea rose up from my stomach. I only just made it to the ladies’ in time to vomit out the gin and the eight paracete-mols.

Back in the studio in time to cue the next track, I felt cleansed inside and out. It didn’t prevent me from feeling sad during “Deep Blue Dream,” though, remembering how Sam had seemed to shrink just a little more each time I crossed the Atlantic to her bedside—but at the same time, I was thinking about the future. How I didn’t have to run away, or plan my death. Who cared? Nobody. Instead of panic and depression at the idea that I might be forgotten, I felt liberated. I could do whatever I liked!