“Fabulous, that will do. We’ll see you on the fifth. Don’t be late, alright? We need you checked in at eight sharp for hair and make-up, and then we will come get you shortly after. And if you could attempt to do those exercises I suggested to work on those arms? Everything looks better oncamera when we have made an effort, yes?” That was some other assistant, someone who masqueraded as the fitness consultant on set and had given me a quick glance over and a printout from some webpage, like that would make any difference.
I imagined myself doing the same. Here, kiddo, have a printout with tips on how to brush your teeth. And no more sweets, yeah?
Hardly professional in my book, but then, what did I know about the world of TV? Nothing. No more than my wife had taught me, and she hadn’t worked in this kind of environment. She’d been a star. A national treasure. Loved and beloved.
God, Mary. What was I doing? I could almost hear her laughing in my ear. Feel her arms around me. And her response would, as always, have been a gentle laugh. “Just do it, Peter. Live a little.”
Loneliness, the boys had said, and they weren’t wrong. I was lonely. I was also tired, and done, and I wanted out of these clothes before I went mad. I didn’t want to live a little. I wanted to live. Just the basics. Home.
“This way, lovely,” someone said, leading me by the arm. That security bloke was hot on my heels again. “Let’s get you changed into our next outfit, and we’ll have you done in no time. Now, I have this gorgeous purple rollneck, which will really complement your skin tone. I suggest a light tanning session before the fifth. Don’t overdo it, just a little colour. Make yourself look your best.”
Like I didn’t look my best? Also, I had thought we were done? Apparently not.
“This is the way I look,” I tried, pathetically waving my arms around as she held out a knitted monstrosity at me. Garish colours.
“Put this on. Grey trousers. Same shoes, chop-chop.”
Did I have a say in this? Apparently not.
And just as quickly as I’d got swept into this weird circus? I got swept out the back door with the trash, making my way past rows of bins back to where I’d parked my bike.
London. The only home I’d ever known, and I still loved it. The fading sun was still warm, and I stopped for a second just to stand there and let it kiss my face. I loved that I could ride my bike anywhere I needed to go, something my boys still laughed at. When they’d been little, I’d driven them round in a trailer, strapped into a Danish-style bike box. Then, when they’d learnt to ride, they’d biked with me, their colourful little helmets bobbing in my line of vision. I’d sometimes taken them around the park. Made them watch the world passing by with me. Just stood there letting the sun touch us. The wind blowing in our hair.
These days, the boys got the tube, like most other Londoners, or grabbed a bus. On occasion, I would find those ghastly electric scooters outside our front gate, the boys having ridden them home after a night out. Me? I still had my battered old mountain bike, and the helmet felt weird over my freshly coiffed head. Still, the cool air brightened my mood as I headed straight for the practice, only to be met by my receptionist waving a wad of papers at me.
“I thought you were supposed to be on your sabbatical?” She frowned, yet still pressed the letters into my chest. “Sort these before you go, will you?”
“That’s Deepak’s job now.” I grimaced. “And has Daniel turned up?”
“He’s in your room, dealing with a patient.”
“Ah.”
“You need to hand in your pager. We don’t have a spare.”
Yes, she was right, and my pager came out of my pocket, straight into her outstretched hand.
“We don’t really need you,” she whispered, glancing nervously at the waiting room, where a handful of patients were lounging. “Take that break. We do know how to run this place.”
I knew they did, but this was my life’s work. And also a place of safety. Of belonging. Where I apparently no longer belonged, standing there with a bunch of paperwork and with no office to retreat into. Even the five minutes I went on to spend behind the reception desk, signing documents and sorting out orders, seemed to get everyone’s back up.
“Are you seeing us today, Dr Felton? Our appointment was ten minutes ago. You never usually keep us waiting.”
And yes. Here was a patient, and no I wasn’t, and then thankfully Deepak popped out and rescued me as I waved weakly and fled out the door.
I had no idea what I was doing. What I’d signed up for here, because whatever it was, I was already making a mess out of it. And how was I ever going to undo what I was clearly orchestrating here? Disaster on a grand scale.
Hence, I returned home to hide in my house, waved weakly to Mrs Patel through the window and lit a fire in the front room. Sat there hoping the warmth would make me calm.
I’d always loved the quiet breaks, the early mornings before Mary and the boys got up. The simple pleasures of just making myself a hot drink and reading the news. Eating warm toast and allowing myself to look out into our small garden. I’d once grown tomatoes here, heavily inspired by Mrs Patel next door. I hadn’t been able to get myself back into all that, barely managing to cut the grass these days.
I was an old man. And I should just age gracefully and accept my fate. Because anything else at this point?
God help me.
“Oh, Mary,” I whispered into the air. No need to even glance in the direction of the dusty box which housed her ashes. She knew. I knew. We always would.
You will be alright, she whispered back in my head. Like she was still here. Live a little, Peter. Let yourself get swept up in everything. You deserve it. You do. Remember that.
