One Christmas Star

by Mandy Baggot

  He sucked in a breath. How could he get back in the studio when Dr Crichton had told him not to sing? The singing on City FM hadn’t been without a hitch either. He’d really needed to hit a high note if he wanted to impress, but the ache had been so immense at the last minute he’d dropped an octave. Thankfully it had sounded OK and no one seemed to notice it was less than perfect. But, to him, it was average. And you didn’t stay in this industry by being average.

  ‘I will finish the album,’ Ray answered. ‘They know that, right?’

  ‘You need to get back recording,’ Deborah said sternly, powering on, crossing a road and side-stepping someone selling The Big Issue. ‘When can I tell them you’re going to book more time?’

  He didn’t have an answer. Dr Crichton’s words about an operation next month were ringing in his ears. He knew what he should say. He should be truthful. But he also knew what Deborah wanted to hear. She had bills to pay too. He was holding on to their client/agent relationship by a thread. It was only the money he had brought her in the past that was keeping her from giving him up now. Despite what she might say about having faith in him, even his own father had zero faith in him anymore.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ray answered. ‘Maybe next week.’

  ‘How about definitely next week?’

  ‘Would you tell me where we’re going?’ He stopped walking, the rain getting worse and battering his not-so-much-covered-in-beard-now face. ‘Or I’m going to stop right here.’ He looked to the shop he had halted next to… The Disney Store. He could see a red wagon and Minnie Mouse in a Santa suit from the pavement. He shuffled a little bit further away. Definitely a scenario that would be made better with alcohol…

  ‘We’re going to a rather nice café in Seymour Street.’

  Ray shuddered. He didn’t want a nice café. He couldn’t afford a nice café. He couldn’t really afford a not nice café. Or a pub. And why did Deborah always need coffee to talk with him? He stayed where he was… listening to a festive mix of songs from The Lion King emanating out onto the street.

  ‘Ray, please, come on, or we’re going to be late.’ Deborah pushed the sleeve of her coat back and looked at her watch.

  ‘Late for what?’ Ray asked.

  ‘Late for our meeting.’

  ‘A meeting with who?’ He felt his chest tighten. Someone from Saturn Records? Was all this talk about getting more time in the studio what Deborah was building up to? A meeting with the record company and an ultimatum. Suddenly he felt backed into a corner.

  ‘Come on, Ray, I’ve got another client meeting at 6 p.m. so I’ve literally got two hours max.’

  ‘It’s not with the press, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Deborah answered with a sigh. ‘It’s not with the press. And I’ll pay.’

  He dug his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. It didn’t seem like he had a choice.

  When they arrived at Seymour Street it was to a quirky-looking establishment with two chairs and a table on Astroturf outside of a large white wooden-framed window. Above the door was the name ‘Daisy’ in lights. Ray could see from the entrance that there were paper balls and real flowers in a myriad of colours hanging down from the ceiling inside. It looked like someone had gone crazy creating a rather eccentric garden theme and, for the festive vibe, there were neon-coloured gifts along the windowsills.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ Ray asked, following Deborah across the parquet floor.

  ‘Hello there, Deborah Michaels, I made a booking for a private space.’

  Deborah wasn’t talking to him. She was addressing a server behind the counter. There was a board stating they served Detox Boxes but, to counter that health, were Bottomless Brunch Parties. Perhaps this was his sort of place after all. Did they serve lager?

  ‘Come on, Ray,’ Deborah said, urging him forward as another server led the way into the bowels of the café. Suddenly they were heading downstairs, like they were destined for a basement and Ray wondered exactly what his agent had in store. It was all going a little bit Homeland if he was honest…

  White walls, a low ceiling and art painted over the bricks – pastel daises and hummingbirds and… Carmen Miranda. There was more fake grass on the floor and mismatched chairs at a long rustic wooden table. But what shocked Ray the most was who was sitting there waiting for them. He stopped in his tracks as his heart pulsed, the beat travelling to his neck, his vision swimming.

  ‘Hello, Ray,’ Ida greeted.

  Twenty-Three

  Stretton Park Primary School

  ‘Cherry, we never run with scissors, do we? Come on, Year Six, these are things you were told in reception class,’ Emily called as her class hurried round the classroom tidying up before home time. This was always a manic time of day. The children were tired. She was tired. She liked to get them to pack up, then have the last twenty minutes or so to impart important information, possibly information she wanted them to pass informally on to their parents before a news bulletin went out on the email system.

  ‘Did you fix the shelves, Miss Parker?’

  Emily looked to the stationery cupboard then. Matthew was poking his head out, PVA glue still all over his hands despite her best efforts to peel it off earlier.

  ‘Shelves! Shelves!’ Felix called out, head waving from side to side.

  ‘Er, no, I didn’t.’ She clapped her hands together then made the Jesus in Rio stance until silence prevailed. When all was calm she spoke again.

  ‘Now, Year Six, remember when we had that conversation about online safety and—’

  ‘You said that even if someone says they’re ten and into Miraculous Tales of LadyBug and Cat Noir they could be aged fifty and a man called Brian,’ Cherry informed brightly.

  ‘Yes,’ Emily said. ‘Well, today I just want to talk to you a little bit about privacy.’

  ‘Privacy,’ Makenzie said, sounding out pry-vacy not priv-acy.

  ‘That’s usually the American way to say it,’ Emily said. ‘In the UK we tend to say privacy.’

  ‘My nan says baff for bath,’ Jayden offered. ‘She’s from Yorkshire.’

  ‘I suppose there’s not really a right or wrong way to say these words,’ Emily told them. ‘It’s simply different dialects… anyway, back to privacy or pry-vacy, however you like to say it, it means the same thing. Now, remember when Ray Stone was here and—’

  ‘You locked him in the cupboard,’ Frema added.

  ‘Yes… well…’

  ‘And he saved Olivia Colman from certain death,’ Alice said, grinning.

  ‘And you didn’t want Mrs Clark to know,’ Rashid stated, stony-faced yet somehow smug.

  ‘Yes, but this isn’t about that,’ Emily said. ‘It’s about Mr Stone’s right to privacy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Matthew asked, toying with a strand of his hair.

  ‘Well, I know, that despite me telling you not to get your phones out and take photos yesterday, that you all got very excited about the hedgehog and about having a musician in the playground, and you did take some snaps that probably showed the hedgehog and Mr Stone.’

  ‘I did,’ Cherry admitted.

  ‘Me too,’ Makenzie said.

  ‘Well, Mr Stone has asked me if we can delete any photos of him, because if those photos go on the internet it will be a breach of his privacy.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Why was this so difficult? Maybe she should have just rifled through their schoolbags at lunchtime, got the phones out and deleted the pictures herself. Except there was fingerprint technology now. And passcodes. Her students probably knew multiple number combinations better than the maths she tried to teach them. ‘It just means that if any of you have used those photos on the internet, on social media, that you could get in trouble.’

  There was a collective gasp of near-terror that left Emily in no doubt that somehow this chat was too late.

  ‘Snapchat isn’t actual social media though, is it?’ Cherry asked, eyes wide, bottom lip trembling
a little.

  ‘Of course it is, dummy,’ Rashid snapped with a scoff. ‘I was going to put my photo on Instagram, but my mum said the way the newspapers are feeding on this story now I could probably make money from it.’

  Emily swallowed. Rashid had told his mother. His mother would be talking to Mrs Clark. Asking her why there was an apparently disgraced pop star in the playground of her son’s school…

  ‘She didn’t believe me that it was him though,’ Rashid added. ‘She said he looked like a really red-faced fake lookalike.’

  Emily didn’t know whether to feel aggrieved on Ray’s behalf at this description, or pleased that Mrs Dar wasn’t going to be on her back. And had Cherry only sent it to a friend on Snapchat? If her friend wasn’t someone from the Fox Corporation then it could still be OK.

  ‘Well, what I would like you to do,’ Emily began, ‘so that no one gets in trouble over this, is to get out your phones and we are going to all delete any photos we have with Mr Stone in them.’

  There was a bit of moaning and groaning and over-the-top sighing now.

  ‘Year Six, I’m doing this for your own good. No one wants to get in trouble, do they?’

  ‘Could we get in trouble? Like with the police?’ Angelica asked.

  ‘Nee-naw! Nee-naw!’ Felix blurted out, jumping up from his desk and spinning around like he was an out-of-control helicopter.

  ‘Felix, sit down please,’ Emily ordered. ‘So, before the bell goes, everyone get out your phones and I will come over to each of you and make sure any photos of Mr Stone are deleted.’

  All the children scurried about, dipping fingers into rucksacks and satchels, searching for their devices and putting them on to the table. One child remained completely still. Rashid.

  ‘Rashid,’ Emily stated. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘I heard you talking about privacy, Miss,’ he answered. ‘But isn’t making me delete a photo I took an invasion of my privacy?’

  As she looked at Rashid she could almost see the triumph shining in his expression. Why was he such a difficult child? Where did this sense of self-importance and need to be one up on everyone really root from? She took steps towards his table as everyone else began fiddling with their mobile phones calling up photos.

  ‘Rashid,’ Emily said firmly. ‘I would like you to delete any photos you have with Mr Stone in them. He did not give you permission to take any photos.’

  ‘Probably because he was wasted,’ the boy retorted.

  ‘And saying things like that, Rashid, is defamation of character. You could get into a lot of trouble over that.’ Emily took a breath. ‘Just like you can get into a lot of trouble for stealing from the mini-market.’

  For one brief second she saw a flash of something like lessened bravado, almost – but not quite – fear. And then it was gone as he made his reply.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Miss.’

  ‘I mean, Rashid, that when your parents come to see your “What The Holidays Mean to Me” tableau, I will have to speak to them about your behaviour inside and outside of school. Anything you do when you’re dressed in school uniform, Rashid, is a reflection on the reputation of Stretton Park. And we all know how much Mrs Clark wants a great reputation for the school.’

  ‘And we all know that my dad is sponsoring the festive play,’ Rashid reminded.

  ‘And I am in charge of the festive play,’ Emily said. ‘Executive director. In charge of script-writing and songwriting and costumes and… deciding who will be taking part in it.’ She smiled. ‘Basically, I am the Stephen Spielberg of Stretton Park right now.’ Good grief, now she sounded so full of self-importance she was close to channelling her mother. She drew a determined breath. ‘Phone, Rashid. On the table. Right now.’

  He slowly drew his mobile from his rucksack and put it down in front of him.

  ‘Good,’ Emily said. ‘Now, let’s start with deleting your photos, shall we?’

  Twenty-Four

  Ladbrokes, Islington

  Running away was what children did. It wasn’t what grown men who already had the world scrutinising their every move did. Ray had struggled to breathe as he’d rushed from the café the second he realised Ida was in front of him and that this set-up of Deborah’s had involved his ex-girlfriend. Why? Why had his agent done this? Without warning. Sure, she had loosely mentioned the idea that meeting with Ida might be an idea, but he hadn’t expected it now. Right now. When he was nowhere near ready. And Deborah had no idea what was really going on with Ida. That was why he was here, outside a betting shop. It wasn’t a pub. That had to be some sort of progress. Really, he wanted to pretend the past thirty minutes hadn’t happened and focus on something he could be in charge of.

  Taking a deep breath, he looked at the red and white branding-matching Christmas tree in the window display. What was going to be inside? Inflatable Santas with racehorses or greyhounds pulling a sleigh? Fucking Christmas. He pushed opened the door and hoped he would find what he was looking for in here…

  The air was warm inside and smelled slightly of sweat, beer and possibly last night’s vindaloo. Since the smoking ban had come in, there was no longer a thick fog of emissions from Marlboros or roll-ups like there had been when he was younger, there was now even a drinks machine. Apart from that, the place looked the same. Same carpet, same walls with today’s race meetings pinned to the boards, definitely more flat-screen televisions and some faces he recognised. Only one in particular interested him.

  ‘Hey, Wilf,’ Ray greeted a man in his sixties, wrapped up in a thick polyester coat that could have passed for a sleeping bag. He had a fisherman style hat on, wisps of grey sprouting out from underneath it. The man stuck a small pen in his mouth and growled a greeting. ‘How do.’ The man’s attention then fell back into the betting slip he was writing on.

  ‘You keeping OK?’ Ray asked, sliding himself onto the stool next to the man. ‘Still winning?’

  ‘Yerp,’ the vague reply came. Wilf had never really been one for long or in-depth conversations. Two syllables was even a novelty.

  ‘So, I’ll cut straight to the finish line,’ Ray said. He cleared his throat then lowered his voice. ‘Do you still have a lock-up full of parts for heating systems?’

  Wilf looked up from his writing then and eyed Ray with suspicion. ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Er… I am.’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘Um, well… me.’

  Wilf sat back a little on his stool, looking Ray up and down as if he suddenly considered him a threat of the highest order. ‘And who are you working for?’

  ‘Listen, Wilf, I’m not working for anyone. I just need a part for a Worcester boiler. I’ve written down the make and the part number and…’

  As Ray got the piece of paper from the pocket of his coat Wilf slid backwards, completely off the stool, lumbering towards the counter, mumbling to himself and making shooing motions with his hands. He walked straight into a hanging glittery horse with an elf in the saddle, making it bounce and swing like a clock pendulum.

  ‘I don’t know nothing,’ Wilf finally said, shaking his head. ‘And why are you asking me? You should be asking him.’

  Now everyone in the bookmaker’s was looking at Ray like he was an unwanted outcast. He swallowed. First the paparazzi. Next the radio station. Then Ida. Now here.

  ‘Ask him,’ Wilf repeated, pointing to the darkest corner of the room and Ray followed the direction of his finger to the person getting down off his stool and heading across the carpet towards him. His dad.

  Suddenly Ray wished he had taken his chances in the café with Ida. He dug his hands into the pocket of his coat and waited for the next round of harsh words…

  ‘What’s the model?’ Len growled, unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.

  ‘What?’ Ray asked, taken aback the question hadn’t been yelled at volume.

  ‘The model of this boiler,’ Len repeated.

  ‘It’s a…’ Ray paused. He was
flustered and he couldn’t have felt more pathetic. It was like he was thirteen years old again. He drew out the scrap of paper and held it out to his father.

  Len sucked through his teeth as he scrutinised at the numbers in front of him. ‘Your place has got this model?’ He shook his head. ‘Bet it’s the thermostat you’re wanting, ain’t it?’

  Still no shouting. Ray answered quickly. ‘Yeah, it is.’

  His dad started heading towards the door and Ray felt the eyes of all the customers still on him as if this was pre-racing entertainment.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ Len called, looking back to him. ‘I’ve got one in my van.’

  It was bitter outside now, although it had stopped raining at least. The sun was making a weak attempt to break through the thick cloud, but all Ray could feel was the icy wind as it whipped around him. Standing outside his dad’s seen-much-better-days white transit van, the doors open, his dad somewhere in the middle of the back, rifling through boxes of parts, sighing, cussing and coughing every few moments was not where he had ever imagined being when this day started. His phone vibrated in his pocket again. He wondered when Deborah was going to give up hunting him down. When he gave her some sort of intelligent reason for running from the café he assumed. He wasn’t sure that was going to happen today. It was all too much.

  ‘Do you need help?’ Ray called to Len as his dad’s head disappeared completely and the backside of his brown trousers became all that was visible, shoes buried ankle-deep in cardboard.

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t ya?’ Len retorted. ‘You ain’t got a clue of my system.’

  This pile of crap was actually in some sort of order?! Unbelievable.

  ‘So, are you going back to heating then?’ Len shouted, voice muffled by products.

  There was pride in his tone. And hope. If he wanted an easy time of it he should just lie and say yes. Although, given the situation with his vocal cords, saying yes might end up being a reality if he lost his voice…

  ‘No,’ Ray answered. It seemed his voice still had some sort of control, even over his brain. ‘I’m just… helping out a friend.’ His thoughts quickly went to Emily Parker. A virtual stranger who had given him her spare room without any judgement on what he was doing with his life. A beautiful stranger he really needed to make sure he kept proper boundaries with.