Chapter One
OTTY
It’s my last day.
I repeat it in my mind like a mantra as I go through the motions of the job I’ve done since I was twenty-one. Even though I have longed for this day to arrive, it’s surreal to be living it.
Dad keeps glancing over when he thinks I’m not looking. I know what he’s thinking. It’s two hours until my final shift ends and I haven’t had the talk. Yet. But I feel it in the air, the low rumble of approaching thunder.
‘It won’t be the same without you, bab,’ Sheila says, setting another mug of tea next to my workbench. Where other people use words, Sheila Wright uses tea. This is easily the thirteenth mug she’s brought me today, although, to be honest, I stopped counting around lunchtime.
‘In a few weeks you won’t even notice I’m not here,’ I smile back, reaching for her hand when her eyes glisten. ‘And I’ll still see you at the cricket.’
She nods, dabbing her nose with a tissue she produces from her sleeve. When I was little, I used to imagine the inside of Sheila Wright’s cardigan sleeves as endless winter landscapes of white. She’s as close to a real auntie as I’ve ever had. I’m going to miss her chats every day.
But it’s time to go.
I turn my attention back to the bike frame propped up on the bench. There’s something dodgy with its suspension and I’m determined to sort it before I hand in my RoadTrail staff badge. A clean slate for my next big adventure to begin.
An hour later, the inevitable happens.
‘It’s a good job, this.’
I smile but keep my attention on the suspension unit. ‘It is, Dad.’
‘I’m not looking for anyone else.’
‘Well, you should. Steve and Jarvis can’t manage the workshop on their own.’
‘Oi,’ Jarvis says, his head popping up from the bench on the other side of the workshop. One thing I definitely won’t miss is never being able to conduct a private conversation in this place.
‘I’m just saying you need an extra pair of hands here, Jarv.’
‘If they come without a gob it’ll be an improvement.’ His grin is a balm to his barb. For Jarvis and Steve mickey-taking is a badge of belonging. If they mock you, you’re in.
‘You hope,’ I grin back.
‘This is a proper job,’ Dad says. And there it is.
‘So is my new one.’
‘I mean a steady job. One you can rely on. People are always going to need their bikes fixing…’
‘And they’re always going to watch TV.’
‘Writing,’ Dad says, spitting the word out like a fly in his tea. ‘That in’t safe, bab. Six months and then what? You’ll be out on your ear with moths in your wallet.’
I meet his frown. ‘I’ll be fine.’
I’ll be more than fine. Writing is my dream. I’ve done the sensible thing for years, my full-time shifts in Dad’s bike shop nothing compared with the endless unseen hours spent wrangling words onto the page. Tomorrow that me gets to step out into the light. I’m still expecting to arrive and find it’s all a prank. I’m terrified of failing. But I can’t wait to try.
‘You can still change your mind.’
‘I can’t.’ I glance over at my colleagues, lowering my voice. ‘Russell Styles is expecting me.’ He wants me, I want to add, but I don’t. Dad doesn’t understand what that sentence means to me. Out of the fifteen hundred scriptwriters who applied, a famous showrunner chose me. Even though it’s my first experience as a staff writer, my first in a writers’ room. My first of anything. Russell read my script and wanted me on his team.
‘If you work with Jodie Comer tell her she needs a hunky bike mechanic in her life,’ Steve says.
‘Hunky? More like chunky, mate,’ Jarvis shoots back.
Dad doesn’t smile with them. ‘Just think about it, our Otts. It’s risky to rest your bills on a pipe dream.’
Nothing I say will change his mind. So I just hug him.
At the end of the day, we gather by the back door of the workshop. The sun is just beginning to dip over the warehouse roofs of the trading estate and starlings are bickering in the ash trees over the road. I fill my lungs for the last time with the scent of oil and metal, sawdust and leather. It’s strange to think I won’t smell it again, won’t be followed home by it clinging to my clothes and hair.
Sheila is in tears, Steve has his arm around her and even Jarvis isn’t cracking jokes. Dad stands beside me, a silent sentinel. For a moment, everything is calm. It only lasts as long as a slow intake of breath, but I feel more expressed by the silence than by anything words could say.
‘Right then,’ I say, surprised to feel tears arriving. I hand Dad my badge and door pass and he takes it as solemnly as a war widow accepting colours from an officer. ‘Thanks, guys. For everything.’
Jarvis gives my arm his usual punch, and then scoops me into an enormous hug. ‘Knock ’em dead, Otty. You show ’em.’
I smile against his chest, the pull of Past Me suddenly strong. ‘I will.’
Steve shakes my hand, which is the most physical contact I’ve had with him in all the years we’ve worked together. ‘We’ll be watching for your name on them telly credits.’
‘Cheers, mate.’
I hug Sheila and Dad. ‘See you soon, yeah?’
They nod and stand together as I walk from them across the car park to my car. When I open the driver’s door, I turn back and take one last look. As one, the RoadTrail team raise their hands in salute.
I don’t let myself cry until I’ve driven off the estate.
Tonight, I’m going to have a quiet one. Let it all finally sink in. I plan a takeaway from Diamond Balti across the street from my flat with one of their enormous Peshwari naans and a bottle of Chang beer, followed by a night of classic drama repeats on telly. Perfect. I’d say an early night, too, but I know my brain. It rarely switches off before midnight and tonight my nerves will probably push that much later. I’ll sleep when it comes.
Monty, my yellow Fiat 500, creaks into the car park and when I kill the engine I sit in the stillness for a moment. Last time I’ll make that journey. Last time I’ll get home with the itch of not having written all day. Tomorrow, everything changes.
I consider going straight to Diamond Balti, but decide on a shower first. Leaving my car, I punch the entry number into the door lock and head inside. The three flights of stairs seem to take longer to climb this evening but everything feels significant today. I’m on the cusp of the next season of my life, my toes inching towards the edge, ready to leap…
Hang on. What’s that?
There’s an envelope drawing-pinned to my front door. That’s odd. Why wasn’t it posted through the letterbox? I pull the pin out, which takes more effort than I expect. Someone bashed it into the painted wood with considerable force. When I look at the brass dome of its head, I can see the pin is dented from whatever implement whoever put it there used. Poor thing. I pocket the pin and the envelope and unlock my front door.
It’s not Birmingham’s most spacious home, but I love my flat. I’ve rented it for seven years and it might as well be a palace for the security and comfort it gives me. That was another battle with Dad I stuck out and won. He wanted me to stay at home with him, but I needed my own space and somewhere I could write without having to justify it. I love Dad and I know he loves me, but I wish he wouldn’t think he has to protect me from the world. I’ve stopped trying to argue the toss and instead just go with it, trusting that he’ll see I made the right choice in time. This flat was the right choice for me: the first night I lived here, I wrote all night, going into the workshop the next day dizzy with exhaustion but buzzing.