She sniffs again and says, ‘Well. Thank you.’ And then she lets out a gasp that lands halfway between anger and relief. ‘God, it feels good to actually talk about this. I don’t really have anyone I can speak to about it properly.’
‘That’s what we’re here for,’ I say.
‘What do you think, though, Jack?’ She coughs, and suddenly I can hear the smile back in her voice. ‘Did I make the right decision? I mean, you’re the expert.’
I play along, but I’m smiling too. ‘Not at all, actually, Pia. I’m just a volunteer, and I’ve known you for all of about nine minutes, so I definitely can’t go making any sweeping judgements on your life. The whole point of this line is to listen without judgement.’
‘Oh, OK. I get it… So you’re like a kind of phone Beefeater?’
An extremely inelegant snort-laugh splutters out of me. ‘A what?’
‘Beefeaters aren’t supposed to react, are they, no matter what you do in front of them. I remember my dad taking us to see them when we were kids, and me and my sister would jump about, sticking our tongues out at them, and they had to stay totally composed and professional. So – that’s you. You’re a phone Beefeater. No matter what I say, you can’t react.’
My grin stretches even wider. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘OK’. There’s another weirdly comfortable pause. Then she takes a deep breath and says, ‘Well. I’d better go – there must be other people trying to get through to you.’
‘How are you feeling now?’ I ask.
‘Better than I was when I called. So that’s something.’
‘That’s very good to hear.’
‘Thank you, Jack. It was really nice talking to you.’
‘You’re welcome, Pia. You too. And you can call again, you know. Any time between 1 p.m. and 11 p.m. – someone will be here.’
‘OK, thanks. Maybe I will.’
I suddenly very much don’t want her to hang up. I don’t know why, but I just want to talk to her – to listen to her talk – for just a little longer.
‘Bye, then,’ she says.
‘Bye.’
Then the dial tone is drilling into my ear, and I’m sitting here wondering why my heart seems to be beating slightly faster than usual.
Will
Friday, 4th March
I’m still thinking about Pia’s call at half seven the next morning, as I stumble bleary-eyed onto the Hammersmith & City line.
I navigate the carriage’s complex obstacle course of takeaway trays and discarded Evening Standards and slump down into a free seat. It’s weird – this used to happen all the time when I started volunteering at Green Shoots. Every call I got would stay with me for days afterwards. I couldn’t help imagining the caller’s life in intricate detail; colouring in all the bits they hadn’t told me. I’d picture them at work or at college or at home – nailing on a brave face for friends and family, pretending everything was fine, and all the time holding this secret pain in their chest or their head or their heart, or wherever it was their particular pain was located.
I’d even project the callers onto strangers, people I passed in the street. The woman who barely made eye contact as she served me in Tesco could be the same woman who’d tearfully told me of her husband’s suspected affair the night before. The teenager who barged past me onto the bus might be the same frightened kid who’d confessed he was too scared to come out to his right-wing Christian parents.
It seemed like this incredible – and incredibly strange – privilege; to see into someone’s life for just a brief moment, to have them tell you things they wouldn’t even tell their closest friends. Things they maybe wouldn’t tell anyone.
Better than I was when I called. That’s how Pia said she was feeling before she put the phone down. I think about how she sounded when she said it, and for the first time in a long time, I feel… OK. Like I’m doing something good.
One of our regular callers, Eric, has this tradition before he hangs up of telling me he’s ‘so grateful’ for the helpline and I’m such a ‘good lad’ for doing what I do. From reading the logbook and all the email chains, I know it’s not just me he says this to: he signs off with this same monologue to all the volunteers.
It’s sweet, but it always makes me flinch when I hear it. Because he doesn’t know why I’m doing this. Not really. He thinks I’m a ‘good lad’ – giving up my spare time to help others. He doesn’t know what made me sign up, what keeps me coming back. Occasionally, I get the mad urge to tell him why I really do it. To hear his voice buckle under the disappointment.
But then there are calls like Pia’s, last night, and I think… Maybe I am doing something good. Even if I’m doing it for selfish reasons. Maybe I am making some sort of difference.
Better than I was when I called. I wonder where she is right now.
The Tube driver’s voice crackles suddenly through the speaker, making everyone look up, wincing, from their phones. I look up too, and as I do I catch eyes with two blokes sitting across from me. Their gazes scatter as soon as I notice them. They look at each other, lips bitten, eyebrows raised in amusement.
I feel a horrible churning in the pit of my stomach. I pick up a half-shredded Metro from the seat next to me, holding it slightly higher than necessary to mask my face, like a crap spy in a crap spy movie.
I can hear them whispering over the whirr of the train. This is pathetic. I’m being ridiculous. I’m being paranoid.
But they do fit the exact profile of the 0.0001 per cent of people in this city that might recognise me – i.e. men, maybe a couple of years younger than I am, with shoulder-length hair and wrist tattoos now half-hidden by freshly ironed office shirts. Indie kids all grown up.
The train hisses into Great Portland Street.
‘Sorry, mate. ’Scuse me?’
I focus hard on a ‘60-second interview’ with Paul Chuckle and try to block out the hot thudding in my ears.
‘Sorry? Mate?’
I lower the paper to see them both staring at me. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re not… Did you used to be in a band?’
My throat is dry suddenly. I attempt a smile. ‘Yeah.’
‘I knew it!’ The first bloke slaps his knee in delight. ‘I knew I recognised him!’ He nudges his mate. ‘Didn’t I say it was him?’
His mate just shrugs. ‘I’ve never even heard of him.’
Before everything happened, back when I was a different person, I used to daydream about what it would be like to get recognised in public by strangers. I used to pine for the attention – the furtive glances, spreading smiles, looks of embarrassed awe. Now I realise it just means people talking about you as if you weren’t there – like you’re a Madame Tussauds waxwork, or something.
The truth is: I am the absolute worst kind of ‘famous’ – recognisable only to a tiny handful of people, all of whom probably think I’m an utter knob.
The first bloke turns back to me with a broad grin. ‘I think I saw you lot at Reading in like… 2014?’