Free This Is Your Life by John O'Farrell Page B

anybody who knew me: namely that I had just been on the television. And now they were phoning me for comment and reaction to the story of the day: Jimmy Conway was on the lunchtime news.
    â€˜Jimmy, I can’t believe it – I just saw you on the telly.’
    â€˜Oh hello, Dave. Yeah, they filmed it this morning. Terrible, eh?’
    â€˜No, you were really good, mate. Like a real pro.’
    â€˜No, I mean the news. About Billy Scrivens.’
    â€˜Oh yeah, what was all that bollocks about you being his jogging partner? They do talk some rubbish, don’t they? You never knew Billy Scrivens, did you?’
    I couldn’t help feeling slightly insulted by this, as if he was undermining my one moment of glory.
    â€˜Well, actually we were chatting on the Downs only yesterday . . .’
    â€˜You mean you really knew him then?’
    â€˜Well, I didn’t want to sound like I was bragging about it or anything. . .’
    â€˜Oh, sorry, mate, I didn’t realize.’ And then his voice turned from embarrassed sympathy to boyish excitement. ‘So will you be going to the funeral then? ’Cos there’ll be loads of celebs there!’
    â€˜Come on, Dave, that’s not really the point, is it?’ I said.
    â€˜Er, well, no, I suppose not, but I was just saying, you know . . .’ and he apologized and I told him not to worry about it, and explained that I was still a bit in shock from what had happened.
    But Dave was right, there would be loads of celebrities there: soap stars, footballers, rock legends, quiz show hosts and maybe a couple of politicians hanging self-consciously around the edges. Just imagine being invited to that, being in the same room as all those people at once. But of course it was part of another world, a world in which I didn’t have any place. There was no question of me being invited, even though the BBC had called me Billy Scrivens’s jogging partner. Whoever got the job of drawing up the list of people to invite was never going to say, ‘Oh, and we must ask that bloke who was on the news, you know, the one down in Sussex who used to jog with Billy.’ It’s not as if any of them had ever met me or knew anything about me; just seeing the lunchtime news would never prompt them to invite me. They didn’t even know where I lived.
    It was about this time that I wondered if it might be a thoughtful gesture to send a letter of condolence to Billy Scrivens’s wife. Just a few words to say that my thoughts were with her at this difficult time and perhaps mentioning how Billy had seemed in such good form when we’d chatted the day before he died. I thought in order to explain who I was I should say that although she and I had never met, I was the one on the lunchtime news given the dubious title of ‘Billy’sjogging partner’! And then I thought twice about the poor taste of this and removed the exclamation mark. Before I could change my mind, I dropped the letter in by hand to the big empty cottage in Cuckmere Haven that had been their holiday home and then went back to listen to all the excited messages on my answerphone.
    Four days later I received a black-edged card inviting me to Billy Scrivens’s funeral. ‘Yes! I’m going to the funeral!’ I exclaimed to my excited dog. ‘What a result, way to go, Jimmy! Oh joy! Oh happy day!’ I couldn’t remember ever being so delighted.

4
    27 Elms Crescent,
East Grinstead,
West Sussex,
England
    Dear James,
    Fame is a two-edged sword. But they’re not both good edges, one of them is a bad edge. And the trouble with being the major celebrity that you are is that there are some pretty weird people out there who will probably stop at nothing to get close to you. Most will probably just want a brief taste of your exciting world, but others may have more sinister intentions. I don’t want to spoil all the fun of being rich and famous or anything but