‘Right. No, thanks, honestly, I’m fine.’
First time round, I tried – unsuccessfully – to engage this woman in a highly patronising conversation about her hopes and dreams, and how she’d ended up in a place like this. It was partly to assuage my guilt about being here, but also – if I’m totally honest – probably to indulge some lame knight-in-shining-armour daydream, in which I could imagine my words compelling her to quit this awful job immediately and start flirting outrageously with me – but because she actually wanted to, not because I’d just bought her a glass of horrifically overpriced champagne. And let’s face it, that makes me just as pathetic as every other bloke in here.
I don’t bother with my patronising interrogation this time, so the Viking girl just wanders off to find another punter. I’m left sizing up my disgusting tequila shot and watching as Jonno and another Thump staff member get wriggled on by two near-naked blondes in front of me. Strangely, they seem to be looking at each other more than at the actual girls; swapping child-like grins and thumbs-ups every time a nipple comes within a few centimetres of their faces.
I feel a buzz in my pocket, and find myself hoping that it’s Daphne. But it’s not. It’s an email from Clare Rodway, at Rodway Cohen Associates.
‘Just got to check something,’ I announce, standing up and waggling my phone about. But no one’s paying the slightest bit of attention to me. I smile at the murderous-looking bouncers as I walk past them and step back out into the dying afternoon light on Shoreditch High Street.
The email is just as I remember it. I don’t bother to read the whole thing, just scan it to make sure the general gist is the same. Thank you so much for sending … Shows great promise, but unfortunately … And then the killer blow at the end: I think you’re Patrick’s son, is that right? Pat and I go WAY back, so I’ll mention you next time I see him!
I put the phone back in my pocket and think about how I reacted to this email first time round. Not well, is the answer. I felt utterly broken and desperate: like a total failure. Daphne called me as I stood outside this very club, and when I told her what had happened, she came straight back from work to meet me at my place. We then spent a dreary evening together dissecting what might have been wrong with my manuscript.
Now, looking back, I honestly find it hard to believe that I was such a jumped-up, overly melodramatic dick.
Like Harv said, I was only twenty-four years old. Did I honestly expect that the first thing I wrote would get published? Who the hell did I think I was?
The answer to that seems staggeringly obvious now. I thought I was my dad.
The first play he wrote was staged at the Young Vic theatre when he was twenty-four – though obviously I found that out from Wikipedia rather than him. And I suppose I thought … Well, what did I think? That if I performed the same trick, he might reach out to me? That he might get back in touch once he realised how similar we really were? I don’t know. It sounds stupid, obviously. But despite him leaving, despite what he did to Mum, he’s still my dad. I guess I always imagined that at some point we’d be close again. If I’m honest, I still do.
I watch the furry white sun disappearing gradually behind Liverpool Street station, and wonder for the zillionth time why all this is happening. I look down at my watch and find myself wishing that the watch-seller was here. He told me he’d see me again: ‘I guarantee it.’ Well, where is he now? There’s so much more I need to know …
I unfasten the watch strap absent-mindedly, half expecting to be whizzed straight back to the present as soon as it’s off my wrist. But nothing happens. On the back of the face, though, I spot something I didn’t notice before. A block of worn-off lettering. An address: 15 Foster Road, Bloomsbury, WC1A. That’s central London …
An idea flashes into my head, but before I can properly weigh it up, my phone starts buzzing. I take it out to see Daphne’s name flashing on the screen. Despite everything, I feel a burst of happiness as I slide my finger across to answer it.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Hey! Just calling to see how your lads-lads-lads thing is going? Have you done a shot in your eyeball yet? Are you wearing fake breasts? Have you gaffer-taped someone to a lamp post?’
‘Doing all three as we speak.’
‘Excellent, glad to hear it.’
‘I actually … Daff, I actually just got an email from that Clare Rodway woman.’
There’s a pause, and then she says, ‘Oh …?’ And the hope that she fills that one syllable with is genuinely heartbreaking.
‘Yeah, no, she said it wasn’t for her in the end.’
There’s a blustery crackle on the other end of the phone as Daff sighs heavily. ‘Oh, Ben. I’m so sorry. Well, look … Do you want me to come round in a bit, and we can talk about it?’
The thought of ruining her evening all over again with my boring, self-pitying bullshit makes me actually wince with embarrassment. ‘No, seriously, don’t worry,’ I tell her. ‘I feel all right about it, you know. She was probably right to knock it back; I don’t think it’s very good after all. But it’d be great to see you tonight, if you still want to meet?’
‘Yeah … OK,’ she says, brightly. ‘I’ve kind of got this work thing. But it’ll be done by seven, I reckon.’
‘What’s the work thing?’ About six months prior to this day, in summer 2010, Daff started in a junior role at the agency she still works for today, in 2020.
‘It’s nothing. Just, they do these Rising Star awards every year in the office, and this year they’ve kind of … chosen me.’
‘Shit, what? Why didn’t you tell me?’ I’m racking my brains, but I have no memory of this. Yet it must have happened that same night; the night Daff spent listening to me bore on about my rejection email.
‘Well, you’ve just been so caught up with all your book stuff,’ she says. ‘It’s only a stupid in-house thing anyway. It doesn’t mean anything.’
I feel myself flush with shame. She gave up this whole night – this awards ceremony – for me. Instead of being publicly honoured for being brilliant at her job, she chose to come home and comfort and support me when I was down. Words start clogging up my throat, rushing to get out.
‘Daff … Fuck … OK, I’m sorry. I’ve been a selfish fucking idiot. This is so great! It’s so exciting. Well done!’
‘Ben, calm down,’ she laughs. ‘Like I say, it’s not a big deal.’
‘It’s a massive deal! So, shall I come and meet you once it’s all finished? I could be outside your office at seven?’
‘Yeah, that sounds great. But can you leave your work thing? Won’t it look bad?’
‘I really, honestly don’t care.’
She laughs again. ‘OK. Cool. See you here at seven.’
I hang up the phone, suddenly feeling alive with purpose. Seven o’clock gives me just under three hours. Plenty of time to try and get some unanswered questions answered …
I’m about to head off in search of the nearest Tube when Jonno steps outside, bringing with him a powerful stench of cocoa butter. The perspiration is glistening on his forehead as he grins at me and lights a cigarette.