Read by Clareine Cronin
My dear Nigel,
By the time you read this, I will be long gone and far away. However I feel I could not just disappear without offering some explanation as to what you witnessed earlier today at the Nottingham Smartphone Sales Conference and why I fled the way I did. It must have seemed so peculiar to you, but it relates to something I have lived with for years.
“Be careful what you wish for” the saying goes, but it would be more accurate in my case to say “be careful what your expectant mother wishes for her unborn daughter”. For reasons she was never able to adequately explain, my mother seems to have been granted some sort of supernatural boon from a show-business itinerant. And my mother’s love of musicals and a teenage crush on Gene Kelly led her to wish that her child would live the sort of life enjoyed in a glamorous musical.
Unfortunately for me, this happened.
The curious manner in which this wish was fulfilled was evident early on. As my first goos and gaas began to take the form of a rudimentary song, music would suddenly burst out of nowhere and anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby at the time would spontaneously find themselves joining me an elaborately choreographed dance routine. I had no control over this, it would just happen and it made my infancy a nightmare for my parents as my unending demand for milk, warmth and attention compelled them to perform numerous, repetitive dance numbers.
And so, once I was old enough, my parents packed me off to a theatrical boarding school. And it was there that wily teachers quickly realized two things; firstly that my “episodes” often were brought on by key trigger points like a strong emotional surprise or a landmark moment in life. And secondly if they timed it right they could push one of these triggers at the beginning of a class and incorporate the way I made everyone sing and dance involuntarily into the lesson itself, saving themselves a great deal of effort.
I also learnt at school that despite my “gift”, I had not been born with any actual talent – I would feel compelled to perform a tune but my voice could never carry it – while the grace of my mother’s idols was completely absent in my awkward shuffling form of dance. Due to all of this, I came to hate school – and the world of show-business became no business I wanted to know.
My happiest moments were found hiding in the library, or preparing spreadsheets in the computer room. But such moments were few and far between, and you can probably guess from those trigger points that adolescence was to prove truly ghastly. I struggled to ask boys out without bursting into song midway through, while the first time my awkward teenage fumblings with myself proved successful it led to a celebratory dance routine that incorporated much of the borough and culminated in fireworks at the nearby Millwall football ground as the packed stadium that night performed – somewhat appropriately – jazz hands.
Quite by happy accident, my university years led me to discover that certain illegal, euphoric substances temporarily suppressed my condition. It was a relief that I could spend a Friday night on ecstasy grinning inanely and waving my arms like a loon safe in the knowledge that I wasn’t making anyone else there do the same thing.
At first I feared that the transition from this carefree, drug-touched life at university to the sober, responsible one of work would bring with it the risk that my condition would return. But surprisingly things seemed to go fine – the day-to-day drudgery of work in distributing smartphones was happily free of any of the emotional engagement that might bring on a song. I flourished in this environment, and was soon promoted to Head Office.
And then you started working there.
I spotted you on your first day. The incredibly smart suit in a sea of office Jeremy-Clarkson casuals. The jaunty tie, the well-kept footwear that suggested style not sportiness. No-one else but me seemed to spot that beneath you awkward first-day smiles lay a beaming Gene Kelly grin.
For the next few months, every time you came near my desk, I could feel my heart start pounding the beat to an amorous show tune and I would have to find somewhere to hide and calm down. This more or less worked until that day last month when we were assigned to work together. I remember vividly how you sat next to me in the area manager’s office as he explained the presentation we would be expected to make at the Nottingham conference. You may remember that midway through this meeting I suddenly had An Urgent Thing that needed doing that forced me to hurriedly leave the room. But what you could not know at the time was that what it was all I could do to race and hide by the bins round the back of the office. And, unable to contain myself, I proceeded to spontaneously involve the cockroaches, rats and one bemused fox scavenging there into a high-kicking musical extravaganza.
This probably explains to you why I was to spend so much of the time preparing for the conference working from home, sparing myself the risk of coming into contact with you and setting off another episode. But as we exchanged e-mails on the project, I became more relaxed about the prospect of working together with someone as witty and intelligent as you. And I know you apologized even as you sent them, but I did enjoy the cute photos and amusing clips from the internet you’d constantly send me. Eventually we were able to discuss things over the phone, although I must confess to you that it was not actually “hold music” that kicked in whenever we seemed to be getting on particularly well.
Sixteen cigarettes, three strong coffees and my first E in five years enabled me to join you for the train journey to the Nottingham. I know we spoke the entire journey, but I have no real recollection as to what we talked about as your voice was gently replaced by a beautiful, mellow trumpet solo, played by the coolest, sexiest teacher Charlie Brown ever had.
So I was feeling nervous, yet strangely confident earlier today as I waited to give our Presentation. On the conference centre’s stage, Jason from Accounts droned on about developments in pricing strategy while I waited in the wings – my heart pounding a reassuringly normal rhythm. As our time got closer, I noticed you hadn’t arrived and I began to get worried. But only worried that something might have happened to you. I could do this presentation alone, indeed the thought that I might not mess up in front of you made me even more relaxed. I could present it, you could turn up afterwards and we could share the credit for the contents. No need for me to risk the humiliation of screwing up my side of things on stage, right in front of you.
I was so busy looking around the room for any sign of you that I at first missed that Jason from Accounts had finished his presentation and had begun introducing ours. But then I heard him say the following, ominous words “of course, one of these presenters needs no introduction from me as she’s becoming quite the internet celebrity”. Everything seemed to stop.
I looked on with horror as Jason clicked on his laptop and the big screen on stage was filled with a video clip he’d downloaded from the internet – along with six million others (and counting). Someone had clearly seen my episode at the bins behind company HQ and had secretly caught the whole thing on their smartphone. There was me, badly singing about a crush on someone I was working with, to a small troupe of dancing animals.
I felt so glad you weren’t there to see my humiliation; the entire conference rocking with laughter, especially as I began to waltz with the surprisingly fancy-footed fox. As the video climaxed with numerous stuffed bin liners flying into the air to explode like fireworks I started staring at Jason’s chortling fat face. And I saw red. And then it got worse. I started to see Technicolor.
Jason’s shoulder jerked involuntarily, then his hips. He suddenly looked at me confused, but it was too late. I have never managed anything like this before, but I was deliberately making him dance.
And then the invisible orchestra started playing music, and I found I could make the entire front row get up and dance. Then the whole conference room. A glorious gay escapade about smartphone manufacture was playing out before me, performed by a panic-faced troupe of corporate executives. Somehow my gift had developed powers I never knew I had. The back wall of the room seemed to part down the middle, revealing not the Nottingham Conference Centre reception area but a garishly theatrical re-invention of a Chinese smartphone factory. And costumes began spontaneously appearing – before I could work out how it had happened a clearly terrified senior management board were salsa-ing onto the stage dressed as SIM cards.
Then I saw you, awkwardly and hurriedly race in through the side door. You looked straight at me, beginning to mouth “I’m sorr…” when you saw what was happening. I saw the sheer confusion and – worst of all – fear in your face. And that was the moment I panicked and fled.
I can’t begin to imagine the chaos I left you in, so I am writing this note. You deserve an explanation, but it would not be possible for me to tell you face-to-face without me inevitably dragging you into a mawkish duet and you really don’t deserve to be put through that.
When you finally read this note, I will have left the conference and the company for good. My plan is to head to California, buy a camera and a small legion of cute animals and try to make my gift work for me on the internet. Maybe I will be able to find internet subscribers and new fledging web companies willing to pour money into big musical kitten numbers. I have a feeling this might just work.
And if you ever think you might want to help make cute
videos for the world wide web rather than just send them, then maybe you could
look out for me on the internet, and quietly come find me?
(c) Alan Graham, 2013
Alan Graham studied "Creative Writing" and "Economics" at UEA and is still unsure which discipline relies on make-believe the most. He lives and works in London.
Clareine Cronin trained at Drama Studio London. Stage work includes Susan in The Future (Pentameters), Tanya in Paper Thin (Barons Court Theatre) and Eva in Tough Luck (Hen and Chickens). Screen credits include Tiz in Forna, Teresa in Making It Mean Something and The Bill. She is also an experienced voiceover artist. Her website is www.clareinecronin.com.
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