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Authors: Alice Severin
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Alice Severin
own room publishing
Copyright © Alice Severin 2012
Cover photo copyright © Alice Severin
ISBN: 978-0-9882520-9-7
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or
events is purely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to the following individuals:
J, who made himself a lot of toast, understands proper tea and biscuits, is smarter than he knows, and was and is a trouper through all the ups and downs;
S, who never stopped pushing, who had the vision, without whom this never would have happened;
S, who kept me going with her kindness, love, and intelligence, and shared her dog and garden;
A, who believes in tough love, but at least he believes;
RP, who did some serious magic that made anything seem possible.
I don’t like anticipation. I don’t trust it.
• • •
Maybe that’s why I was shouting at my phone. Or why I was pacing back and forth in my small bedroom in my shared flat in London. And why I was trying—without a lot of success—to get the line right in my eyelashes. It had looked so easy in the video on the
Guardian
website. Like some terrible advert for kitchen appliances. Look, so easy, even an idiot can do it. I wasn’t as convinced by that other video I saw, the one that suggested putting masking tape on your eye as a guide, before tearing it off to face your public. That seemed a little desperate. I wasn’t a wall. But obviously a world of women could work the latest in feminine wiles, just not me. And time was running out for my transformation from hopeful also-ran to woman in-the-game. Not on the game, even if it felt that way sometimes.
I was on the verge of drawing pictures on my face with the blasted brush, when Sarah opened the door and started sniggering. Sarah, my roommate and tower of strength. Also accomplished producer of videos like the one that convinced me I could make myself look beautiful, as well as videos on actual important things like climate change and the housing crisis. She was a little intimidating. Still, it’s better to be surrounded by those you admire than those you don’t.
Of course, she quickly bustled about trying to calm me down, in her slightly impatient fashion. “Lily, what is wrong now? Why were you shouting? And why aren’t you ready? I thought the cab Mark was sending was going to be here any moment?” She sighed, loudly. “Always so emotional. And swearing like a sailor. Look, shut your eyes, I’ll do it for you. It’s not that hard. Why didn’t you just ask?” Sarah gave me a little nudge and sat me down on the bed. She took the brush from me, dipped it in the pot, then she carefully drew the rest of the line I had been struggling with and finished the other eye. She gazed at her work, then at the rest of me, critically as ever. “There. You look perfect. I know you, you’ll win him over. Don’t get hysterical.”
“Bloody liquid eyeliner. Why do they think every woman can draw? I can’t play piano either. Don’t even talk to me about sewing. Doubt I would have even received an invite to the Assembly Rooms. A failure in the marketplace in any era. Spinster on the edge of no more time,” I said irritably.
Sarah snorted with laughter. “Yes, you’re the complete antithesis of feminine charm. A wallflower nun. Now please stop whinging and go admire my handiwork.” I dutifully marched over to the big antique mirror that faced the bed and I looked at myself. I did look different. Dark hair pulled up. Moody green eyes flecked with blue and brown. A sardonic twist to my mouth that no amount of lipstick would soften. Dressed up. Distant. Harder. Pretty enough, but misaligned in places. The eyeliner made that better, I thought. Much better. A modern sketch finally pulled into focus.
Sarah’s voice snapped me out of my vain reverie. “You’re just pissy because you’re nervous. Because you, my love, want it—that badly.” Sarah cutting through the bullshit, as usual, always reporting back, razor sharp, on what she saw. It made me love her—and sometimes hate her. But I couldn’t deny it had improved me, to have someone like that in my life—noticing things I’d hoped would just go unnoticed—and still sticking around. In my experience, people saw flaws, and flew away. I certainly did.
I tried to explain calmly, but failed. “It’s just unbelievable. It happened so fast. Mark—knowing Jake Tully—the rock columnist—the radio personality. Sending him the link. The positive feedback. A possible freelance gig. Promising to introduce me! An awards show!” I sat down heavily on the bed. “Oh, Sarah, this isn’t me. I shouldn’t go.”
Sarah laughed her choppy, barking laugh, then grabbed my elbow, hard. “You’re going. Don’t be a fool.” She turned me around to face her. “Besides, who knows what is you? Who knows anything, definitively? Absolutes are for children. This is something you say yes to. You love music. Your blog. That article you wrote for Confusion and Haze. Didn’t Mark say that Jake really liked it?”
“Shit, Sarah, I know, but why? Why is Mark doing this for me?” I started to wrench away to rub at my eye, but Sarah grabbed my hand and swatted it.
“You don’t trust him? Hasn’t anyone ever been nice to you?” I watched as her face registered what she had just said. “Right, sorry. Yes, he’s a man, subject to whims and sudden distances. But that’s not what I meant. Lily, good things can and do happen. It’s the way the world works. Just because you haven’t had a big taste of it, doesn’t mean it’s not out there. Waiting. For you!” She marched me to the door, and handed me my leather jacket. “And you’re sure you don’t mind Nick taking me out while you mix with the rich and famous?”
I sighed. Until about two months ago, Nick and I had been going out. He wanted me to be more regular. I wanted him to be less dull. It had been a stalemate, both of us feeling we should stay together, because we couldn’t be bothered to do anything else. That is, until he met my fierce yet feminine roommate, Sarah, and suddenly I had a guilt-free way to let go. “No, Sarah. We are done. And he’s a nice guy. Just not for me.”
“Maybe you don’t like nice.”
I turned on the path and looked up at her. She was leaning on the doorframe, with her usual slightly distant and distracted look on her face. The wind blew my hair in front of my eyes and I wondered, not for the first time, why my hair never behaved and why Sarah was always right. My hand caught the offending strands and put them back into place. “Maybe I don’t, darling. I don’t know.” We smiled at each other, and behind me, I could hear the diesel rumble of a black cab.
Her face took on an impish glee. “That’s your ride…darling. Go lose your slipper—or something else,” she said.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales,” I replied, waspishly.
“Yes you do. That’s your problem. Well, it’s all of us, really. Wanting to believe. Now go!”
• • •
That’s how I found myself, twenty-five all too short and slightly panic-stricken moments later, at the venue for the big yearly rock awards down in Hammersmith, an area of London to the west, away from the center. I stepped out of the cab, slightly cowed by the small, yet intense crowd of fans outside, waiting patiently in the drizzle to see their obsessions in the flesh. I managed to slip by, unremarkable and unremarked upon, a little too early, to hand my credentials to the man on the door. He looked unimpressed, but that was his job. I hoped I didn’t look the way I felt, a credulous newbie way too excited to be here, trying to play it cool, doomed to failure. At least my laminated card passed the test, and he handed it back to me, checking his list, talking to someone else through his headset, and I walked in over the red carpet, and proceeded to dig my nails into my hand until I felt the welcome pain. It was time to remember and to forget—all at once—why I was here.
I was more of an observer than a participant. Unlike the others, I would have to write about it, remain distant enough to give my view on the ceremony. My view, but told in a quirky way, according to the email I’d received from Jake. But quirky—that could mean anything. Everything I might see that others might miss. I liked the idea of me as outsider on the inside, a spy—because there was a beauty in invisibility. I could be made up to be just another normal face, useful, because people tended to watch out if they felt eyes upon them. Of course, the higher up they were on the food chain, unless for some reason they actually reflected upon the complications that came with wealth and power, the more likely they were to treat the “little people” like invisible dust motes—unable to hold any interest, much less understand the significance of what they were witnessing. Neither a problem, nor a threat– just a backdrop to a bigger, more important theatrical experience. The I and me show.
I had asked why they just didn’t send me in as a server. Pouring wine. Taking away dirty glasses. Bending over shoulders, showing some cleavage, smiling benignly, remembering everything. The answer was unequivocal: it’s been done before. Not only that, it’s done all the bloody time. So celebs tend to go quiet when the waiter–ess is there, unless there’s something they want repeated. But me, wandering around, masquerading as one of them, having a seat and a good pair of ears and eyes, could bring something fresh to it all. Fresh. Fresh. Fresh. They all kept repeating the word like a bunch of fucking greengrocers. I smirked. Every job, after all, has its jargon. And it could be so much worse, I said to myself. Fuck knows it’s been so much worse. Now it was just up to me to not completely screw it up.
I ran my fingers through my hair, almost hearing Sarah’s anguished plea—leave it alone!—and made my way further into the room. I’d find Mark, we’d sit down at the table, have a drink, chat to the illustrious Jake Tully. It was fine. I’d certainly done more frightening things before, right?
No.
• • •
I made my way into the main hall—it really wasn’t a very big place, all faded red and gold baroque glory in the way only aging London theatres can pull off, and walked around, checking out the meeting and greeting. It was, for the most part, the people behind the scenes. The people they don’t show the close-ups of on TV, the expensive suits, the business deals, the people that treat the music like a product. Some of them loved it—the art, the craziness, the precision—the actual ears of the recording process. Some of them—well, it was the coolest place to be. And whoever was hot, was cool. That made good and bad interchangeable and meaningless terms. And it was a fairly ruthless world. I almost laughed out loud at the thought. No, scratch that. It was an incredibly cut-throat business, where the fever to be in was almost as sharp as the bloodlust to exclude.
For that reason, and a few others of my own, I stood for a moment at the edge of the dance floor, wondering if I should just call Mark, rather than wander around. No. I was stronger than that. I’d wander. And find a bar. A drink or two would make the effort of belonging, rather than fitting in, that much simpler. I spotted my bottle-covered goal on the other side of the room, and started making my way through the round tables, each covered with a crisp white tablecloth. The place cards were on the ones in the front; the tables towards the back had numbers, or one company name on it. They would sort out their own seating arrangement. The stage was covered in pseudo-Hollywood style TV staging—the curved staircase, the big bulb lights, now dim, the podium from which, later on, we’d get to watch the celebs receive their awards, trying to say something newsworthy and memorable in under a minute. As we were in London, these comments were going to be both more splintered with swearing, as well as more personally insulting. “F-ing and blinding” were what you could do here, as opposed to the other, supposedly sweeter side of the pond, and it pleased the crowd. Those naughty Europeans. Except we weren’t in Europe, as the British liked to remind the unwise Yanks who waded in those muddied waters.
The tables were clean and clear now, but in a few hours they would hold the remains of empty bottles and glasses and food that would serve as proof that everyone had a good time. There would be a lot of bottles. A lot. Beer, wine, champagne—I wondered what would be on offer at the bar and what I’d want. Champagne, why not? If they had it for the hoi polloi. Sure. I really needed a drink. But there was a part of me that wanted to go down front and scope out the name tags on the tables down there, see where people would be sitting. Who did I want to see most? Pure visual, no autographs. I couldn’t even think straight. I’d never been in a place with so many famous musicians all at once. I looked around again. Me. Them. Fuck. I was glad Sarah had forced me to come. Even if I wished her calming, sensible self was next to me, reminding me it was all ok, because it was hard to believe I was even here. But I was.
The barman was pleasant, pre-crowd pre-stress, and was happy to pour some cheap champagne. After the first few sips, the taste improved. Nothing special, but drinkable. I stood there for a minute, tempted to make conversation with him, or with one of the couples at the bar. Then I changed my mind. What was the first rule of being mysterious, or at least not looking like a complete fool? Distance. So much more alluring than actually opening your mouth. I drank some more and contemplated calling Mark. I had looked around but hadn’t spotted him. I finished the first glass and went back up to get a second. I rationalized away my small feeling of guilt by reminding myself this was the music business. Drinking alone was the least of it. Why pretend?