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‘Sure.’ I nod. ‘Just let me know what to do and when.’ Something easy, I think, as I gaze around, because I know I’m here towork, but I’d quite like to press a big pause button, freeze everyone, freeze time, and wander around. Explore. That’s what this shiver in me is, I think. Newness. Like life has opened up a little crack in a door and is saying, ‘It’s been waiting for you all along, you know.’
‘Right! I’ll get your pass from Jack,’ says Petra with a smile. ‘And then we’ll find Marshal. He’ll be delighted to see you.’
*
Marshalisdelighted to see me, and he even lets out a little cheer, that’s lost to the breeze as I jog over to the far corner of the pitch. Marshal’s been set up to film by one of the posts and the entire pitch is in a huge, window of sun. I do regret wearing these jeans. It’s almost October, but I’msweating.
‘Very good to see you!’ He beams, as I arrive in front of him, and then he does the most Marshal Chandra thing in the universe. He holds his hand up and cocks his head for me to high five it. I really like Marshal. He’s fifty-two, has four sons, and has recently started the most adorable YouTube channel, providing camera tutorials. His intros are like something created on Microsoft Paint, and he holds the camera so close to his face, he looks like he’s filming into a spoon, but his subscriberslovehim, and he acts like he’s won an Oscar every time someone leaves a ‘thanks for this!’ comment.
Marshal is a helper. Nobody is ever bad, just in pain. He’s of the mind that people only do mean things because they’re hurt themselves. And he’s also one of those baby boomers who refuses to be left behind. Last time I helped him, I found him listening to grime music his son sent him. ‘It’s important, you know,’ he said, ‘that you keep up with the new things that are being made. Or you simply stop growing.’
Marshal and I catch up, as I help him set up the camera – he asks me test to see the focus and zoom are working correctly as he sips from a large, handled keep-cup of sugary tea. He tells me about his eldest son, a newly qualified driving instructor, and about how his wife has gone to visit family in Pakistan, and he’s been making her a pantry in the cupboard under the stairs as a surprise. He doesn’t mention the emails, and neither do I, and instead, he asks about me. How am I, how ‘the flat with the view’ is. And then he holds up a finger, and smiles.
‘Just a sec, Millie. The truck’s testing the link.’ He presses a finger to the earphone on his headset. ‘Yep, this is camera two, I can hear you.’ He stares into the middle distance. ‘Hello? Camera two, Marshal Chandra over, can you hear me? This is Marshal, camera two .?.?.’ Then he sighs, pulls off the headset, checks it over, and puts it back on. ‘Plastic toot,’ he mutters. ‘Hello, hello, this is camera two, can you hear me? Ah,bollocks.They – they can’t hear me. The talkback’s not working. I can hear them, but .?.?.’ He checks his watch, glances around. ‘Where’s Jack when you need him?’
Jack.
A little crackle of excitement zips through me at the mention of Jack being here somewhere. Petra got my pass from him, but I didn’t see him myself. And I’ve been reallyhopingto see him myself. He’s been working on location a lot, since our lovely, unexpected lunch at Back-Donald’s. It’s as if Flye is squeezing every last drop from him, holding onto his tail, before he breaks free and flies away.
‘Can I do anything?’ I ask. ‘I could .?.?. wait here while you go and look into it, or speak to Petra?’
‘Could you let the truck know?’ he asks. ‘It’s just out the back. Just through there, you see that gantry? That walkway below?’
‘Umm.’ Oh, God, notthe truck. Anywhere, lovely Marshal, but the sodding truck. Owen is in the truck.
‘Argh, time’s getting on a bit too .?.?.’ says Marshal, as if to himself. ‘Always bloody close to the wire, this gaff. Every. Time.’ Then he looks up at me, dark eyebrows raised, expectantly.
‘Truck,’ I say. ‘Yes, I’ll – I’ll go to the truck.’
‘Superstar,’ grins Marshal, turning the headset over his hand. ‘Tell them camera two can hear but the talkback’s not working, please.’
‘Right. OK. Talkback. Sure.Yes.OK.Truck.’ I stare at Marshal, who nods back at me. ‘Now?’
‘Please.’
‘Sure.OK! Great. I’ll be as fast as I can.’
Of course this has happened.Ofcourse. But then – itisjust Owen, isn’t it? And this is in a professional capacity. He’ll have other people in the truck, too, other workers. He’ll be in director mode. He isn’t exactly going to say, ‘Hello, Millie, come on in, shall we discuss how you still have feelings for me? Sorry, guys, talk amongst yourselves. PS, did anyone else here see Millie’s email to all?’ No. Plus, time is marching on, and Marshal needs the issue sorted as soon as possible. What other choice do I have? Just grab my keys and zoom home, when the whole reason I’m here is to make agoodimpression, not an unhinged one?
I follow Marshal’s directions, pass a little cluster of crew. Their shirts say ‘ITV’. One of them switches on a microphone – one of those handheld ones the pundits hold, with the little square boxes around the edge. Another smiles at me, and I smile back. I must look normal to everyone here; like I’m someone who knows what they’re doing. Not someone who feels like they’re walking to the slaughter. An OB truck to many, but to me, a fairground haunted house.
I find the truck pulled up on the tarmac at the side of the building, parked across numerous car parking bays. OB trucks are like a mix of a rockstar’s tour bus, and those temporary portacabin classrooms most of us had in secondary school. A long, rectangular, windowless metal trailer mounted onto a lorry with steps up to a metal door, and while you might expect a shipping container, inside, it’s more like something fromStar Trek. Lines and lines of televisions and computers on the walls, desks of mixing decks, the lights low, lit-up buttons and knobs like an arcade simulator ride.
The door to this one is ajar, and I can hear voices. One of them isdefinitelyOwen’s.Good.He’s busy, he’s talking to someone else, immersed in work. I can just put my head around the door, tell them all what’s going on, and disappear again. Professional. To the point. No chance for Owen to regale me with memories of pub outings when we were so in love that I felt like I could have crawled into his jeans pocket and lived there forever.
I knock.
Nothing.
The muffled talking continues.
I knock again.
Nothing.
‘Hello?’
I pause, peel back the door, and .?.?. it all happens at once. As I open the door, reveal myself in the doorway, at thatexactsame time, I hear Owen say, ‘Mymumhelped choose that ring,’ and a sweet, familiar voice reply, ‘You really can never see something as your fault, can you? You can never justhold up your hands,’ followed by Owen’s deep laugh, and ‘That’s because none of thisismy fault,’ as the light from outside illuminates them both, like a giant spotlight on a stage: Owen and Chloe, in the darkness of the OB truck.
