It was one dark, cold evening when I was settled on the hearth, with a small port in my hand, that my life changed.
Having got both kids into bed, I was watching The Masked Singer UK, a rainbow hug of a show in the middle of lockdown when nobody was going anywhere except for various celebrities in the disguise of ridiculous and wonderful creatures and objects, from Spice Girl Mel B as a Seahorse to a Scissor Sisters singer as a sparkly unicorn. They had to sing their way through the contest while trying not to be ‘guessed’ and voted off. I was waiting for the next celebrity to ‘unmask’ – a giant Viking, more horned helmet and a squishy nose than anything else, aside from the sword and shield. With no visual clues to their identity, guessing solely on singing voice alone, I wondered if it could be one of the Kemp brothers from Spandau Ballet, or James Blunt, for his voice had a high, yet controlled quality to it. This guy totally knew what he was doing. His early rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s Songbird was totally beautiful.
So, to the moment when chanted by the audience, Viking had reached the point when he was to be voted out, and the mask, or a rather large helmet was teased off. A man with a floppy fringe, closed smile, and dark-rimmed glasses spun round.
‘Who is THAT?’ I exclaimed to no-one in particular, as the fire crackled back in reply.
‘It’s Morten Harket, the lead singer of a-ha,’ Joel Dommett, the presenter squeaked back in equal surprise.
Of course it was.
When did I see him last? Who hasn’t seen or at least heard Take On Me, the comic fairytale of the girl literally pulled into the magazine by the boy with the movie star eyes and impossibly perfect cheekbones. And to my shame, how could I have forgotten him?
From the Viking warrior came a soft, unassuming, serene speaking voice – unruffled by the sudden elimination from the show and the flirty comment from one of the female judges about how good he was still looking. Then came the shy smile of his, revealing a slight gap between his top two teeth. What perfect imperfections you don’t see much of these days among the bright white veneers and fake tan.
The credits roll and I’m onto Youtube, finding all the hits that him and his Norwegian bandmates have created since. Not to mention the song where Harket’s one single note won him a World Record for the longest held note ever ‘Summer Moved On’ in case you were interested, 20.2 seconds. I don’t think I can even hold my breath for that long, let alone sustain a note that people want to hear.
It was round about this time several things had happened. I had been and often still do struggle to get my ‘creative’ head on. I was just coming out of the fog of baby brain, as my youngest child was beginning to sleep through a bit more and he wasn’t plastered to my boobs breastfeeding all night. I had just gone back to work a few months previous and my brain was actively seeking stimulation once more.
My mother in law had bought me a mug coaster for Christmas, one of those ‘If you piss me off, I’ll write you into my book and kill you’ joke-type gifts. But it was more than that to me. I hadn’t seen myself as a writer in years. Changing pooey nappies and gusset-scrubbing babygrows will do that.
Sure I’d had some success magazine writing a bit while my first child was still napping in the daytime (she gave that up at 15 months) but not much more when my second child, the Velcro baby came along and everything, my everything went into that. I went back to work, a straight admin job to get a bit of a break from constant snack-providing and baby group attending. Until that winter. Someone still saw me as that person, a writer, not just a mum of two.
And I’d also just watched the film After – based on a book, a fan fiction novel using singer Harry Styles as one of the protagonists. And here I was spellbound by the Viking who may as well have reached though the telly and slow-danced with me for the way he had grabbed me by the literary lapels and shaken me. This guy needed to be written about.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I had started writing a climate change/horror novel (I love the Walking Dead and Day After Tomorrow) but I could never get a feel of the characters. I’d tried to write the male lead as a Harrison Ford, maverick type, but it just didn’t come across to my beta readers, and nor did he ‘sound’ American.
I got out my laptop and slid Morten Harket between the pages of my novel and into the shoes of Professor Joel Harket, my Norwegian muse with an attitude problem and a cross to bear.
And suddenly, my book rose from the ashes once more. And while my Joel starts as a recluse, still hiding from the world and love, post-covid, he becomes the hero he once was. I’d wager this Joel Harket cannot hold a tune, but holds a page for Amy, his equally tormented counterpart who holds a secret the Government wants her to keep. But time has run out and the world is burning.
(The first scene where Amy meets Joel):
Amy marched into Ron’s office and her breath caught as she found someone already there. A man with haunted, pale-blue eyes was leaning back in an office chair with his boots up on the desk. Twiddling a pen through his fingers, he showed no interest in the piles of papers spread out across the desk. He had more of a care to the window, as though devising a plan to launch himself out of it, rather than endure the sudden interruption of company.
‘If you want the world to listen, you should stop shouting at it,’ he said, his cold stare locked onto her.
Just what she needed. Another person telling her what to do. And a total stranger at that. ‘Thanks for that,’ she panted, putting her hands on her hips. ‘But I don’t need your help.’
His appearance suggested he had as much reason to be there as she did. He had not bothered to shave his stubble, peppered with early greys. The frayed sleeve of his faded navy-blue t-shirt revealed a glimpse of a tattoo on his upper arm. His black chinos had a hole wearing at the knee.
‘So, you’re the intern?’ He spoke with hints of a clipped accent she could not pinpoint. Biting on the end of his pen, revealed a small gap between his two top teeth. ‘Must’ve been hell of a bender last night to get a police escort to work. Have a nice night in the cells?’
With an easy view of the street from his chair, he must have seen her arrive in the police car. She hoped he had not told Ron. She was in enough trouble already. ‘I wasn’t arrested, not that it’s any of your fucking business,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t care what you do. But you might want to dial down the weeknight partying if you want to keep your internship.’
‘And when I want advice from someone who looks like they just crawled out of a bin, I know who to call.’
He laughed. ‘Speak for yourself. I can smell your hangover from here.’
Amy frowned, annoyed with herself that she liked the way he laughed. It had a shy edge to it, which was bafflingly at odds with his brusque manner. ‘Who are you? The fun police?’ she asked.
The sunlight coming in from the window behind him cast a silver lining around his dirty-blond hair. He gave no reply and watched her as though he had never seen anything like her before.
What was in that stare, she wondered? Disgust, fascination or just plain hate? If she was about to be fired, she had nothing to lose. She reckoned he might be worth a tease. She slinked over and held her wrists out. ‘You should cuff me now. Get it over with. You might even enjoy it.’
His gaze fell to her exposed skin. He looked away with a grimace and resumed pen-chewing. ‘You wish.’
‘You have no people skills,’ she said. No answer. Again. How could silence be so infuriating? ‘Who are you anyway?’ she asked, folding her arms.
‘It hardly matters.’
Amy’s words stuck in her throat. How could someone think they did not matter?
—–
(and another excerpt mid-way through a scene):
Deep in thought as he looked at the paper, his tongue ran over the small gap between his two top teeth. ‘This is what I’m talking about. Brilliant.’ He looked up at her and smiled without parting his lips. Amy wondered if he was self-conscious about his tooth gap. It was barely noticeable, but she suddenly longed to feel the gap with her own tongue. Blushing, she picked at her fingernail, hoping he would not notice.
‘What are you staring at?’ he asked, with an irritated edge to his voice.
‘Nothing, sorry professor.’ Inappropriate. He was hot, but it would be unprofessional to do anything about it. He was just a colleague, and he did not even want to be that. He hated her fucking guts. Plus, his wife was dead. Was he grieving still? He had offered to take her out on a date, but only as a bet. Did he wear a wedding ring? She had not noticed. Maybe there was a tan line if he had taken it off recently. She could not look now, as it would be obvious. For all she knew, he had a girlfriend. Fuck, stop it.
‘Call me Joel, all right?’
His name repeated, screamed inside her mind, like it enjoyed hearing the informality of it. Joel. Joel. Joel.
Ignoring the cowed sensation within, she held out her hand. ‘Hello, I’m Amy.’
He gave a shy smile and shook her hand. His grip was firm, with reassuring, broad palms. No ring mark on his wedding finger. As he sat back, his jacket fell open and she noticed a flash of something silver in the inside pocket. He covered it up when he saw her looking and went back to scowl. ‘Come on then,’ he urged. ‘It’s proof that we need to take to Whitehall.’
——-
I spent maybe longer than I should have rewriting and editing my novel again, but from that inspiration my characters lived and breathed, fought to the death for each other and loved hard in the face of adversity.
I’d like to say that how other people view you shouldn’t matter, it’s what you think about yourself that matters. But if you’ve somehow forgotten what it is to be you and someone else reminds you, sometimes that is all it takes to start again.
The Poison Balance is my debut novel and I am seeking representation.
Please visit http://www.facebook.com/LucyGhose and click the ‘like’ button to keep updated with my writing journey.
Lucy Ghose - writer 