Chapter 3
Peter
“We’ve decided on a modern mullet-style haircut, something that will lift those cheekbones.
” The hairdresser was male, yet he wore more greasepaint than a circus clown.
Now that wasn’t me being ignorantly flippant or rude, but having spent the past decades in Mary’s world?
I knew the backstage dressing rooms in London’s theatres like the back of my hand, dusty places full of musty smells and human sweat manned by true professionals and artists.
The ghosts of former occupants etched into the floorboards as the productions moved in and out.
Mary had fitted into that world like a perfect piece of a puzzle and, as such, had loved it all.
Adored the costumes and the heavy make-up and the way she could turn herself into anyone in the blink of an eye.
She’d had a reputation, and she had played on it.
But she’d also had people around her to make her life easy, and she had made their lives easy in return.
Which is what I’d loved about her. That strength and conviction wrapped in a sometimes stern smile, when I knew full well behind the mask was a soft-hearted young girl.
She’d been the kindest person I’d ever met, and once again, my heart was filled with that overwhelming loneliness.
I missed her terribly, and nothing could make me feel better about that.
“You have a good face,” the hairdresser said cheerily, the same repertoire of comments they all flung around, these costume people.
A subtle mix of compliments and horrified excitement as they moulded my battered old face into something they deemed presentable.
A flick of a brush against my cheek. A stray hair removed from my forehead. “There,” they continued. “Hot as fuck.”
Okay, this was a supposedly professional set-up but felt miles away from that.
The room was messy and full of people; someone nervously screamed not to let anyone out in the corridor and where the hell was Justine?
The noise level made me shiver, and, I had to admit, made me feel out of my depth.
Who was I kidding? I wasn’t cut out for this. This wasn’t me. At all.
I had no idea who Justine was or what was even going on, apart from that these were apparently the official photographs being curated to launch my new career in reality television.
That’s what it was being called today then.
Yesterday, over the phone, it had been sold as the last day of singledom and the first day of my new life.
I wasn’t sure which part of that was worse. The fact that I wanted neither of those lifestyle adjustments seemed to be completely ignored here, and instead? I was now being dragged out into a photo studio under the watchful eye of not only one but two security guards.
“There are other contestants in the building. We have to make sure you don’t set eyes on anyone else until the cameras are rolling. George will have a fit if you do,” one of them whispered, as if they were trying to reassure me that this was normal. It felt anything but.
In my real life? I was a calm professional.
I dealt mostly with paediatric dentistry, some nervous patient referrals and spent one day a week at St Thomas Hospital dealing with patients needing anaesthetics for their procedures.
I was, and I had to reluctantly admit to that part, fairly successful in my field, but that didn’t in any shape or form make me cut out for things like this.
My professional image on our practice website, and on my practice ID, was a quick snapshot taken by a colleague. My NHS profile was a candid shot from a convention. I didn’t care much for it, but the boys had said it was a brilliant shot, so I’d used it.
Yet here I was, squeezed into a suit I was sure was three sizes too small, sporting a new haircut that looked anything but fresh.
Fresh. What on earth was that supposed to mean anyway?
But apparently I looked it, standing here like an idiot holding a bunch of heavily styled flowers in my hands, pretending to reach out to an imaginary friend who would accept them with a graceful smile…
or something. The photographer was almost aggressive in his instructions, where the production assistant of some kind, a lady with an overflowing clipboard and a tablet hanging from her utility belt, was half bullying him into submission…
half shouting at someone else down the phone whilst I was expected to smile and look excited about the way she was talking to me. I thought she was talking to me.
I couldn’t even remember what I was supposed to look excited about, standing here like a plonker in brand-new shoes that already hurt my feet. I was used to rubber sandals for work and slippers for home. Well-constructed trainers for sports, and that was my entire wardrobe in a nutshell.
Scrubs. I missed my lovely, colourful, well-worn scrubs.
“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 on camera 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.
I wasn’t so sure, like I wasn’t so sure about anything anymore.
Trust me.
I closed my eyes and let myself rest. Because what else could I do?