Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy by Colleen Coleman

Author:Colleen Coleman
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781786811462
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2017-03-22T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

On Monday morning, I find the studio in a converted Victorian warehouse nestled between the Tate Modern and Shakespeare’s Globe, slap bang in the middle of the South Bank. It’s so early it still feels like it’s night-time, silent and dark with nothing but the clanging of bin men and a handful of revellers trying to flag down taxis. The security guard waves me through the big glass doors and directs me up to the fourth floor, to the 105 FM studio.

I stand by the huge ceiling-to-floor windows watching the first orange-hued rays of sunrise bleed across the sky and following the Thames as it winds gently through the city, neither blue nor brown but a glittering metallic grey, glistening as an occasional spear of light pierces the clouds and dances over its rippling surface. Breathtaking. It actually feels as if I am on top of the world.

I blink back a prickle of tearfulness. I feel like I’m on the cusp of something big, like I’m about to set sail to a new and foreign land, and I’m a mess of nerves and excitement. Or maybe I’m just super-tired. Despite my very best intentions, I didn’t sleep a wink. My pained nocturnal activity consisted of turning my pillow over every five seconds, kicking my duvet about, counting sheep and visualising white sands and turquoise beaches in an effort to turn my mind off and sink into a peaceful slumber, but alas, it never happened.

Now I feel dog-tired. And hypersensitive, like all my feelings and nerve endings are prickly and razor sharp and just a tad too close to the surface of my skin. I have been known to get weepy and sensitive and irrational when sleep-deprived, even succumbing to the odd temper tantrum. Keep it together, Poppy. Please, please do not mess up today.

My phone beeps; a text from an unknown number. Who on earth could this be? And why would they be up at this crazy hour texting me?

‘Hi, Tom here. Got your number from Leanne, been thinking about you. Good luck with the new job. You’ll smash it. T x’

My heart swells in my chest and I text back my thanks. Tom. Thinking about me? Wishing me luck? Kiss at the end? As there is still nobody else here yet in the studio but me, I twirl around in one of the three swingy chairs lined up by the desk and survey my surroundings. There is a gigantic clock face fixed to the back wall of the studio. Above it hangs a glass panel with the lettering ON AIR illuminated in red. It will turn amber when on a ten-second countdown and then green when we are actually live broadcasting. The distressed red-brick wall showcases row upon row of framed autographed prints of guests who have visited over the decades. The most famous and celebrated singers, bands, sports stars, politicians, comedians and actors posing cordially by this desk, in this spot, this very studio. I’m drawn to

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