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I look over at Dylan to signal it’s a cut, then jump up to open the door and let in some cooler air. We hire the studio and all the equipment by the hour, so I need to be mindful of the amount of takes we do.
‘Guys, that was perfect – you were brilliant, adorable,’ I say, then scrunch my eyes closed in frustration. ‘Oh wait, I forgot to ask about the cat. Was the cat OK?’
Silence for a moment, and Sian lets go of Paul’s hand.
‘No, well …’ She hugs her arms around herself. ‘It turned out Paul’s fire truck ran Felicia over. She had to be put down.’
Paul squeezes Sian’s shoulder and shakes his head.
‘Oh – I’m so sorry,’ I say, mirroring their sad body language. ‘Well, I think maybe it’s best we leave that detail out – might be a bit of a buzz kill for our viewers.’
Sian flinches ever so slightly. It looks like I’ve killed the sexy mood by mentioning the dead cat, and now they’re not going to rush home and rip each other’s clothes off. No sex for anyone! Woohoo!
What is wrong with me?I’m a horrible person.
I have three more interviews scheduled that morning: a couple from Liverpool who met sheltering from a lightning storm (they called their first child Light Ning Jones – seriously), a couple from North London born in the same hospital on the same day who reconnected and fell in love thirty years later (what are the chances?), and a couple from Nottingham who met as cancer patients on the same ward. Their oncology doctor was the Maid of Honour at their wedding.
By the end of the morning, I am emotionally drained. When the cancer woman says, ‘I might have lost all my hair in that hospital, but I found my heart,’ I let out a sob so loud I have to ask her to say it again two more times so we can get a clean take.
Don’t get me wrong, I love these stories. ‘How did you meet?’ is my all-time favourite question – the first thing I ask anyone in a relationship. I love hearing how people’s paths have crossed in seemingly random ways, and how that chance encounter has affected the direction of their lives so profoundly. I’m your classic hopeless romantic. And yet recently, perhaps since losing Mum, I’ve been finding it harder to witness other people’s ‘happily ever afters’.
Maybe it was easier to be happy for other people when I felt my own soulmate might be just around the corner, but I keep turning corners, and no one is ever there.
Once we’ve wrapped filming, I walk through Soho on my way back to the office and pass the alleyway off Carnaby Street where Vera’s Vintage, a grotto of second-hand clothes and jewellery, is tucked away. I haven’t been inside a shop like this since Mum died, but today, I find myself standing in front of the window, peering into the Aladdin’s cave within.
When I was a child, Mum and I spent every weekend driving around the country in her clapped-out Morris Minor, following a trail of flea markets and vintage fairs. She could scour a car-boot sale for treasure better than anyone; she had a magpie’s eyes. Mum used to tell me that objects hold memories, that the more owners an object had had, the more meaning that object possessed. If what she said was true, her drawers and cupboards had been stuffed full of more meaning than anywhere else in the known universe.
She collected old jewellery to repurpose it, to give it new life. It started out as a hobby, but then she found people wanted to buy what she was making. Her large amount of jewellery was the one thing I didn’t know what to do with when I packed up her house. I’m still paying forty pounds a month to keep the boxes in a storage locker in Wapping; a tax on deferred decisions. I press my hand against the shop window. Just looking at the treasures on display sends a skewer of pain into the everyday ache of missing her.
At the front of the shop window, near my hand, is a ruby brooch – a beautiful stone in a weathered silver setting, the trace of writing just visible. I feel a flutter of excitement; is there anything more romantic than an old engraving? I imagine those scratched letters to be a clue, waiting for me to unravel the story they hold, just like the coin I’ve worn around my neck since I was fifteen. My hand reaches up to the pendant, the place my hand always goes to when I’m thinking about Mum. As I’m inventing a romantic backstory for the ruby brooch in the window, a man in a long camel coat leaves the shop. He drops something, a piece of paper, so I pick it up and call after him.
‘Excuse me, you dropped this.’
He turns around and looks me square in the eye. He’s in his thirties with salt and pepper hair, deep-set eyes, and a regal nose. He’s attractive, in a Roman emperor sort of way. And for some reason, maybe it’s the emotional morning I’ve had, or the fact that I’m here thinking about Mum, I just get a feeling that maybe this could be the beginning of my ‘How did you meet?’ Sexy Caesar drops a receipt, I pick it up, we get to talking about vintage jewellery, stare into each other’s eyes, and then kablammo, we just know: this is it; we’ve finally found each other.
‘What?’ he says.
‘You dropped this.’ I reach out my hand to give him the piece of paper, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind my ear and furnishing him with my warmest smile.
‘I don’t need it.’ He waves a dismissive hand at me and turns to go.
‘Hey, wait,’ I call after him. ‘You can’t just drop paper in the street.’
The man stops, turns, and scowls at me, as though I’m a small dog that’s just peed on his grey suede loafers.
‘Who are you, the street police?’ he asks, shaking his head as he turns to leave.
‘If everyone dropped their receipts, then where would we be? We’d be ankle-deep in old receipts, that’s where!’ I call after him, still inexplicably waving the piece of paper in the air as though I’ve found one of Willy Wonka’s golden tickets.
‘Piss off, litter witch,’ he calls over his shoulder, and I let out an indignant puff of air. OK, maybe that wasn’t my ‘How did you meet?’ after all. I’ve probably dodged a bullet, anyway. He might have been good-looking, but I wouldn’t want the love of my life to be a litterbug.
