Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy Read online

  Don’t Stop Me Now

  The Perfect Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy

  Colleen Coleman

  To Julian, Betty and Sadie, for believing that this could be done.

  Because there were times I wasn’t so sure.

  Thanks for ganging up on me with all that love, you guys.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Reach for the Stars

  Colleen’s email sign up

  A Letter from Colleen

  Chapter One

  ‘Poppy, have you got a moment?’ Dr Burley taps me on the shoulder as I wait outside his office. You better believe I have. I’ve been waiting for this moment for … ooh, let me see. The last decade? Two decades even. Perhaps it’s closer to forever. From my first spelling test in reception class to handing in my PhD thesis four weeks ago, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for; the moment I find out if I’m good enough, if it’s been worth it, if I’ve been accepted into the highest echelons of academic life. It’s a big moment. The moment.

  ‘I’m ready, Doc.’

  He invites me in and closes the heavy mahogany door behind us.

  ‘It is with the greatest pleasure – and a healthy sprinkling of personal pride – that I inform you that you, Poppy Bloom …’ he shakes his chubby fists up and down like meaty little maracas, ‘are this year’s doctoral valedictorian of the psychology faculty of Banbridge University!’

  Omfg.

  He grabs me by the shoulders with his cocktail-sausage fingers and laughs with delight. Valedictorian: even more than I’d hoped for. WAY more than I’d hoped for. I knew I’d put in the hours, grafted hard, but the competition at this level is fierce. Half of my class is addicted to uppers, the other half to downers. Even in my very small circle, the stress, the pressure and the sheer volume of work took its toll. At least twice a week my boyfriend Gregory would have to be talked out of quitting at the final hurdle. Sometimes it would take hours to talk him down, sometimes whole days. And with deadlines and exam dates looming, whole days spent pressed up against a locked door were hard won. There were times he’d threaten to set his thesis alight or pack everything in and flee to a remote lighthouse off the Scottish coast so he’d never have to face a research paper, a professor or an exam ever again.

  But we’ve made it.

  In the end, we have all made it.

  Here I am, relatively unscathed. And more than that, proud. Really bloody proud. Valedictorian. Holy shit.

  ‘I couldn’t have done this without you, Doc. Thank you so, so much.’ I give him a great big bear hug and see that he is beaming from ear to ear. Good ole Dr B, he really stuck with me. This achievement belongs to him as much as it does to me.

  ‘Poppy dear, I have loved every moment of it. You know that for me your thesis is a thing of great beauty; a work of hope and ambition; a real force for good in the world.’ He blinks back a little tear. ‘Forgive me, I must compose myself! We’ve got a big day ahead and I have more to tell you.’ He skips over to the small coffee table and whips off a tea cloth to reveal a bottle of port and a cheeseboard. ‘But first, indulge me, one last toast.’

  I laugh. This is so fitting. My entire thesis was fuelled by cheese – lengthy discussions, debates, questions posed and solved over chunks of Cheddar and gallons of port in Dr Burley’s snug little book-lined den.

  He pours us two fingers each and I pop a creamy yellow wedge in my mouth.

  ‘A girl’s Gouda do what a girl’s Gouda do,’ he chuckles.

  ‘Oh Doc, I Camembert bad cheese puns,’ I laugh back as we throw down our ports like they’re Jägerbombs.

  He pours us another. ‘Now, this time a proper toast. In vino veritas.’

  I bow my head in mock solemnity.

  ‘As the great father of psychology Carl Jung said, let us be loved for who we are, not just what we do. And what you choose to do next, Poppy, well, that’s the million-dollar question. Whatever it is, I hope it brings you not just what you want, but everything you need too.’

  ‘In that case, what I need is the fellowship,’ I tell him.

  Dr Burley crosses his fingers. ‘Obviously there are no guarantees in this world, and the final decision lies with Dr Winters, as Dean, but let’s just say …’ he gives me a wry smile and drops his tone to a hush, ‘I am quietly confident.’

  Quietly confident? That’ll do me.

  We raise our glasses one last time as tutor and student and knock back our port.

  Traditionally, the ‘first among firsts’ is offered a fellowship at the university –lodgings in Ivy Court, an office on the original grounds beside the Old Library and the chapel, not to mention the most amazing research, teaching and travel opportunities. A Banbridge fellowship; a prickle of heat travels up the back of my neck. Charlie Bucket, you know how I feel.

  Dr Burley pours himself a third glass; I decline. Another would go to my head, and I’m a lightweight at the best of times. Burley holds his finger in front of his face.

  ‘One final matter I need to discuss with you, Poppy.’

  I lean on the edge of the solid oak desk to steady myself. I can tell by the twitch of his lips that it’s something big. He leans in towards me. ‘Ninety-six per cent, Poppy. Ninety … six … per cent: you know what that means?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It’s a new record! You have smashed Dr Winters’ record.’ His purple tongue glides over his hairy upper lip. ‘Your mark is the highest we have ever awarded to a woman under thirty years old.’ Meaty maracas pump at his sides again. ‘Highest EVER.’

  I pour myself that third port. It’s not even midday yet, but as far as days go, this one is playing an absolute blinder.

  ‘So the fellowship? You really think it’s a possibility?’ I ask.

  ‘I know what it means to you, my little prodigy; I kid you not when I say that I’m confident. How could they pass you up with this result? I think they’d be crazy, even for a bunch of psychologists, and that’s saying something.’ Smiling, he nods to the heavy wooden door. ‘If I was a gambling man, Poppy, I’d put my money on you calling the office across that corridor home, and slipping into a bright future as part of our Banbridge family.’

  Home, family, Banbridge, bright, future. I hold my face; this is a like a haiku of everything I have ever wanted.

  ‘I so look forward to working alongside you as a colleague and as a friend – may you have many, many happy years surrounded by the sweet scent of leather, mahogany, fresh coffee, stinky Danish Blue and the occasional whiff of an undergraduate.’

  This is actually happening. I’m going to live in Ivy Court. I’m going to share my thesis with the world. Dr Poppy Bloom will be engraved into the small brass plaque on the door
beside Dr Burley’s. My mother will explode with pride. Frank will cry. My best friend Harriet will party and Gregory will be utterly blown away. My ex-dad may nod and turn up one corner of his mouth and claim that he knew best all along; that I belong tucked away in the safe, cosy enclave of academia and out of harm’s way. I steady my velvet graduation cap squarely on my head and blow the red tassel away from my nose. I hear the bells of the chapel chime the hour. This is actually happening. And it’s happening now.

  The heavy old door creaks open and I look up to see Harriet draped in her black graduation gown, her finger on the face of her watch. ‘Are you ready? It’s time to go down. It’s really time! I feel sick!’

  We’ve dreamt of this, Harriet and I. Walking up the marble stairs into the ceremonial Old Hall, just as we walked in through its ancient doors nearly ten years ago. The two of us bound tight by a decade of library all-nighters, apocalyptic hangovers, streaky tan meltdowns and, of course, boys, then men, with lots of boy-men in between: fit ones, kind ones, clever ones. The search for a hybrid that possessed all these qualities; endless, rather emotional discourse on whether such a hybrid even exists.

  We reach the stairs of the hall.

  ‘Come on then, the quicker we get this done, the quicker we can start the celebrations.’ She hooks my arm. ‘I’ve already seen your parents – well, your mum and Frank; they’re in their seats. Is your real dad coming?’

  ‘Ex-dad. He is coming but not until the ceremony is over. He already had something booked at the recording studio – story of my life.’

  Harriet shrugs. ‘Well, it’s not like you’ll notice anyway, to be honest. It’s absolutely thronged in there! Hundreds of people, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds …’

  I feel a slight quake in my stomach. Hundreds and hundreds is hundreds and hundreds too many. Harriet squeezes my hand and I remind myself that I’ve rehearsed this scenario in my mind so often that I should be able to do it on autopilot by now: walk, bow, say thank you, turn, walk back to seat. If I lose my bottle, I’ll find Frank’s face in the crowd and everyone else will fade out.

  I squeeze her back to signal that I’m ready. ‘Right, let’s do this,’ I say, and together we step through the open doors.

  ‘Poppy! Over here! It’s me! IT’S MUM!’

  Mum and my stepdad Frank are sitting amidst a solid crowd of over eight hundred people. I turn in the direction of her high-pitched voice and spot her pointing me out to a female vicar, who looks slightly bemused and embarrassed but also strangely familiar. Dark eyes and a long, slender Roman nose. Like Gregory. This must be Gregory’s mother. The Reverend Stubbs talking to my mother. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  ‘Poppy! Over here!’ Mum’s platinum bob is bouncing up and down.

  O-kay. Just for the record, that dress is definitely not ‘pale pink, classy and something Kate Middleton’s mother would wear’. Mum is sporting some kind of zebra-print patchwork number with neon pink fringing and an asymmetric sleeve. A drag queen would find it garish. Even in San Francisco. During Gay Pride. On the Loud, Proud and Outlandish float.

  I can guess what Gregory will think: that it came from the bargain bin at the big fat gypsy wedding shop. He’s not met my parents before. That’s supposed to happen today too. There is a flutter of panic in my stomach that not only will he meet my parents today for the first time, but I’ll have to meet his. And our parents will have to meet each other officially. This has the potential to be a car-crash.

  I squint vaguely into the distance, certain that my mother’s dress is going to bring on a migraine or an epileptic seizure for someone in the Special Assistance row. I find poor Frank beside her and notice that he doesn’t look quite right either. There is a lot of white tissue paper stuck to his face, as though a family of baby moths has landed on his mottled cheeks. I try a subtle wave, which causes Mum to jump even higher out of her seat and propel her arms above her head like an air traffic controller. I give her a discreet thumbs-up and she sends me a double thumbs-up back, looking like she will literally burst with pride – and she doesn’t even know about the valedictorian bit yet. Or the ninety-six per cent. Or the Ivy Court lodgings with the original fireplace. Once she hears this, she will explode, a full-on biological combustion, and this ancient hall will look like a bloody scene from a zebra abattoir, shards of black and white satin with hot pink fringing splattered across the wood-panelled walls.

  I lean in to Harriet’s ear and whisper good luck.

  Biological combustion and all, today is going to be the best day of our lives.

  The ornate Vice Chancellor takes to the centre of the stage in front of us and strikes the gong. He calls order and a hush descends upon the audience. Running his hands down the sleeves of his gold and scarlet gown, he steps up to the podium, adjusts the stem of the microphone and begins the graduation in proper ceremonial style, turning to the two seated professors on the stage.

  Dr Burley sits to the left of the infamous Dean, Dr Margaret Winters, both of them in throne-like brown leather chairs. They nod to the Vice Chancellor, giving their blessing for the proceedings to commence.

  He clears his throat. ‘We are here today to honour the exceptional achievements of our best and brightest, within not only Great Britain, but arguably the whole world. To be awarded a doctorate from Banbridge University is beyond the reach of the vast majority of human beings. It takes exceptional intellect, talent and discipline to reach such dizzying academic heights, and yet today we are honoured to be in the company of this elite. Please join me in applauding all our psychology graduates present.’

  An encouraging ovation ensues. I can hear Mum whooping from her seat at the back.

  ‘However, today’s ceremony is a little different from those of previous years. Today we are here not only to congratulate this class as a collective, but also to celebrate and acknowledge the achievements of certain individuals within this class group.’

  I place a hand on my stomach to settle the whirring butterflies.

  ‘Three exceptional individuals. Three landmark achievements. Game-changers, if you will.’

  There is a nervous titter from the crowd.

  The Vice Chancellor’s gaze settles on Harriet and me in the front row. ‘Game-changer number one: three of you have achieved over ninety per cent in your final dissertation. This has never happened before. Poppy Bloom, Harriet Law and Gregory Stubbs, we offer you our heartfelt congratulations.’

  Harriet’s hands fly to her face in amazement, and I wrap my arms around her and give her an almighty hug. Go, Harriet!

  Gregory is behind us. I turn to catch his eye, but he remains focused straight ahead, eyes on the stage. He looks fantastic. Black hair cut tight to show off his high cheekbones; deep, almost black eyes. He looks especially princely today in his robes. Ah, Gregory: fit, clever and mostly kind. The best hybrid I’ve come across. Today is a major game-changer for us too: from now on we’ll no longer be students living in financial limbo; we will be free to do what we like, catch up with other, proper couples who are now at the stage of engagement parties and deposit-saving and caring about bins.

  I breathe him in. We can so be like that. I’m going to get us Egyptian cotton sheets and cut-crystal glasses. I will learn to cook and bake and grow herbs, and he will bring me cups of tea while I pore over dusty tomes in my private little library. Ivy Court will be our hideaway home, sealing us safe from the outside world with all its madness. Just the two of us, cosied up together, safe and happy in our book-lined life. I can’t wait; I honestly just cannot fucking wait.

  The Vice Chancellor taps the microphone to restore order.

  ‘Game-changer number two: the average age of a PhD graduate is thirty-seven. For the first time in our history, all three of our highest-achieving PhD graduates are under thirty years of age. So once more, huge congratulations to Poppy, Harriet and Gregory.’

  Another round of applause; another shrill but gutsy whoop from my mum. I turn around in my seat to try and catch Gregory’s
eye again, but still the same steely stare ahead. What is up with him? Why is he being like this? I’m well aware that he is a moody bugger, and more than capable of marathon sulking, but really? Today of all days? I rang him last night numerous times but he didn’t pick up; then this morning he texted me to say he was exhausted from travelling and would catch up with me after the graduation. He’s probably just as nervous as Harriet and me. Still, he’ll cheer up when I tell him about my plans for us at Ivy Court.

  ‘And finally, game-changer number three: we have an astounding new precedent set by Dr Poppy Bloom.’

  He motions for me to leave my seat in the front row and join him on the stage. This isn’t something I had anticipated. I take a deep breath and Harriet gives me a wink as I smooth the lapels of my gown and walk towards the podium. Just one foot in front of the other, then bow, say thanks and sit down.

  ‘Dr Bloom has achieved a staggering ninety-six per cent in her final doctoral thesis, thereby superseding the record previously held by our own esteemed Dean and world-famous author in the field of social psychology, Dr Margaret Winters.’

  Skeletal and silver-haired, Dr Winters nods curtly behind dark-lensed reading glasses. The Vice Chancellor reaches out his hand to shake mine. ‘Well done, Poppy.’ The room erupts with applause and Dr Burley thumbs the armrest of his leather seat and shouts, ‘Knew you could do it, Poppy!’

  This is big. Beating Dr Winters? I still can’t believe it. Dr Winters is a god.