by L.H. Cosway
He lets his head fall back against the seat, his eyes trained lazily on my lips and slowly reaches out to run his hand over my knee. “Maybe. Do you want me to be your boss now instead of Viv? I think I can pull that off.”
I draw my knees together when his hand makes a move to wander between my legs. “Nah, I think you should be Viv. We don't want to get ourselves thrown off the plane for indecency.”
He glances at the fluffy clouds out the window. “We're airborne, Fred.”
I raise my glass to him. “Exactly, Viv.”
He laughs. “Are you drunk already? You've only had a few sips.”
I shrug. “I could be. Alcohol affects me stronger this early in the morning.”
“In that case, no more screwdrivers for you.”
I laugh loudly. “Screwdriver, that's a funny word.”
Oh my God, I'm tipsy. This is a new record. Usually it takes me at least a couple drinks to get this far.
I put down the glass and pull a cookery magazine out of my carry on bag. Yes, I read cookery magazines. Sometimes I'm partial to a bit of food porn. I love looking at the pictures of the finished recipes. It gives me good ideas about what new food I'm going to try and cook next. About a year ago Nora and I got into the habit of playing a game where we'd open a cookery magazine on a random page and I would have to try and make the recipe, no matter how difficult or bizarre. One time I made Heston Blumenthal's snail porridge. It was actually quite nice. Okay, stop complaining. I warned you there were more tangents on the way. I'm done now.
Nicholas motions for the air hostess to come over and asks her for a bottle of water. I don't fail to notice them flirt back and forth before she goes to get him his beverage. To be honest, I can't really blame her for flirting with him. He's one of the prettiest men you will ever come across. Still, it irks me that he flirts back.
I have no right to be irked, but such is life.
The air hostess comes back and twists the cap on the bottle of water open for Nicholas, before pouring it into a glass with ice and a slice of lime over the rim. I want to cock my eyebrow at her and remark, Overdoing it a little, aren't we love? But I seal my lips tight. I don't want to come across as a jealous psycho. Even though, let's face it, when it comes to Nicholas I am a bit of a jealous psycho.
She leaves to take care of another passenger and Nicholas leans in, resting his shoulder against mine while he peruses my magazine. The page is currently open on a recipe for home made chicken stew.
“Do you remember some of the things you said to me last night?” he asks casually, his breath brushing against my ear.
“Unfortunately yes, but I have a feeling you're going to remind me anyway.” I sigh and turn the page.
“You said you were going to kick the arse of the next punter who tries to get up on the stage and fondle me,” he tells me, with a big delighted grin on his face.
“Alcohol makes me think I'm tougher than I really am,” I explain. “You seemed a little shaken by the whole thing. I wanted to make you feel better.”
He picks up his water and takes a sip. “Well, thank you for that. But I suppose I can't really complain about it. It's just something I have to deal with. Take the rough with the smooth. Most performers in my profession would kill for the packed out venues I get. If I started bemoaning the fact that some men can get a bit “handsy” then I'd come across as an ungrateful diva.”
“There's no doubting you're a diva Viv, but you're certainly not ungrateful. Every night you pull out all the stops, giving the audience a performance they'll never forget. You make them feel a part of something special for a small moment in time. You put your whole self into your singing, portraying emotion through your on-stage persona. The least you can expect in return is for the audience not to disrespect you or turn you into an object.”
He gestures with his hands. “This is why I like you so much. Most women would turn around and say I should enjoy being objectified simply because I have a penis. You see past that.”
“Yeah well, that kind of thinking pisses me off. Some people think that men are never the victims of sexual assault. Men can be raped too, you know,” I say, waggling my teacher finger at him. A moment later I regret having said it when I look up to see some strange emotion on his face. Some kind of pain. Crap, maybe I went a little too far.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you or anything,” I apologise and focus back on the magazine.
“Don't be, I like that you say what's on your mind. You just brought back a bad memory, that's all.”
Oh no. I don't want to think about what that memory might be. God, I really want to hug him right now, but that might make him uncomfortable. I've always known that Nicholas must have experienced a dark past, mostly because his cheerful demeanour is often punctuated with periods of sadness, but also from these little things he says. Like how he told me he's had to suffer for his passion that time when we were walking up Grafton Street.
“I'm sorry that you've got bad memories,” I tell him, not knowing what else to say. I'm not going to come right out and ask him what the memory was. Some things you need to let people tell you themselves if they want to, and if not, you let them keep them hidden inside.
“Every memory makes me who I am right now, in this moment. Good or bad, all experiences shape you.”
“And I like how you're shaped,” I say, turning to give him a peck on the cheek. It's a sweet little gesture that I know he wasn't expecting. He smiles at me and turns to look out the window at the passing clouds. I focus back on my food porn for the rest of the flight.
If I had to pick two words to describe Edinburgh, I would tell you that it's majestic and beautiful. Really, really old, but somehow more alive than any other place I've ever been. Perhaps that's just because there are people everywhere for the Fringe. Every single sign post is covered with posters for shows. Around each corner there's a different street performer ready to show you something new. To dazzle you with some unusual and captivating talent.
I almost stick my head out the window of the taxi to get a look at a woman who's walking by in shorts and a tank top, with tattoos and piercings covering almost every square inch of her body. I'm thinking the words cool and ouch all in the one thought.
Nicholas gets the taxi driver who picked us up at the airport to drop us at The Royal Mile outside the Radisson Blu Hotel where, I shit you not, we are going to be staying. Okay, so if you've never seen this hotel before then you aren't going to understand my amazement. It's like a massive medieval looking fortress right there in the middle of the busiest street in the city. On the drive here I found myself astounded by the fact that around each corner there could be a castle waiting to surprise you. Or a historical building that shoots up high into the skyline.
When we get inside the hotel I find that Nicholas has booked us into a suite. A suite! This must be costing him a bomb, but he did say that he was quite comfortable money-wise, so I'm not complaining. I run inside the room and hop onto the bed. Then I look around and realise it's the only bed. So I'm going to have to share with him. Oh no, what a travesty. The idea simultaneously sets my body alight and paralyses it with nerves.
“Viv, you calculating little devil,” I call as Nicholas puts his bags down in the lounge area of the suite.
He glances at me for only a second through the doorway, a carefully constructed innocent look on his face with his hand raised to his chest. “Calculating? Moi? Whatever gave you that idea?”
“A one bedroom suite in the fanciest hotel going, business class plane tickets. Need I say more? Better women would be naked and spreading their legs for you as we speak. It's a good thing I'm not materialistic,” I raise my nose to the ceiling and fold my arms.
Nicholas' laughter filters in from the lounge. “Oh Fred, would you give me a hand out here with this bottle of champagne?”
I jump up and rush out, but there's no bottle of champagne in sight. Nicholas gives me an appraising look. “Not materialistic in the slightes
t,” he raises an amused eyebrow and clucks his tongue.
“Fine, you have me sussed. I'm a fickle, materialistic, easily bought hussy. Now pop out the champers Viv, we haven't got a moment to lose.”
“Maybe later, we have work to do first.”
“Work? What's that? Never heard of it.” I fall down onto the expensive couch and slip off my shoes.
“Take a look out the window and tell me what you see,” he instructs.
I pad my way across the thick, soft carpet and look out. “People, people everywhere, but not a drop to drink.”
“And what are the people doing?”
“Not much.”
“Wrong answer,” he says, coming to stand behind me. “You see those two over there,” he points at two guys wearing mariachi band outfits, wielding their flamenco guitars and playing for a group of people who have the look of tourists about them.
“Yeah, I see them.”
“They're doing promotion work to get people to come to their show. That's what you've got to do during the Fringe. There are hundreds of shows going on at any one time. You've got to sell yourself, make sure people come to yours.”
“Right, so you're saying that we have to go outside and sell Vivica Blue.”
“Exactly,” Nicholas squeezes my shoulders. “Now come and help me pick out something to wear,” he lifts up his suitcase and lugs it into the bedroom, before plopping it down onto the bed.
Nicholas leaves me to assemble an outfit for him, while he prepares to have a shave. He's sporting a bit of a five o'clock shadow. I prefer him with stubble rather than clean shaven, but a drag queen with a beard just won't do.
“Go make that face as smooth as a baby's bottom,” I tell him, as he grabs his toiletries bag and heads into the bathroom.
“Oh, it's not just the face that'll be smooth, I have to wax my legs as well,” says Nicholas.
“Fun! Can I help?”
“No you cannot. A lady has to keep some things sacred,” he says in a high pitched voice as he swings the door shut.
I laugh and dump myself onto the bed to sift through his costumes. I select a pair of barely there sheer black tights, bright red six inch heels and a navy blue form fitting lace dress. Nicholas comes out of the bathroom about a half an hour later wearing one of the complimentary hotel bathrobes. When he sits down beside me I lean forward and run my hand over his leg.
“Woah, those are some smooth pins. You'll have to show me what products you use.”
“Vivica Blue doesn't reveal her beauty secrets,” he tells me with a wink.
“Speaking in the third person, Nicholas, you really are turning into a diva,” I chide.
He takes the clothes I've set out for him, hangs them up in the wardrobe and we get to work on his make-up. He decides not to wear a wig today, so I use some wax to style his hair into that Jamie Lee Curtis slicked back look, like the first time I'd seen him perform.
We decide on this really dark lipstick that looks almost black and I find these cool diamond-esque body jewels at the end of the make-up case. I convince Nicholas to let me put them around his eyes and cheek bones.
A little fairy of a woman stops by the hotel room just as Nicholas is almost ready. She's got feathery white blond hair, is about 5 foot and looks like she weighs next to nothing in the most appealing way possible. She makes me feel like a giant, and at 5”6 I'd never considered myself to be unusually tall.
“This is Catelin, Fred. She's the friend I told you about, the one who manages the venue I'm going to be performing in tonight.”
“Hi Catelin,” I shake her hand. “It's lovely to meet you.”
“The same to you,” says Catelin, in a light Edinburgh accent. “I just came to drop these by. I take it you're both heading out to do some promo work now?” she asks, as she sets a stack of flyers down on the coffee table.
They've got a great picture of Nicholas on the front wearing a gold dress and a long black wig. The caption reads, in shiny silver font, “Miss Vivica Blue, singing sensation, returns to Edinburgh for a limited last minute run.”
Nicholas gives Catelin a massive hug and thanks her for the flyers. It's a really warm hug too, a familiar one. I wonder if they're old flames? It seems like the only reason he doesn't kiss her on either cheek is because he'd get the dark lipstick all over her. They sit on the couch and chat for a few brief minutes. I go to the bathroom to freshen up and by the time I come back out, Catelin is gone.
“You two,” I say to Nicholas, waving my finger at the door to signify I'm talking about Catelin, “you used to go out, didn't you?”
He smirks. “Very prudent Fred, how could you tell?”
“I don't know, just a feeling. That and she seemed unusually pleased to see you. Maybe she wants to get back together.”
He looks at me in a smugly satisfied way, and I hate myself for having said any of this because it reveals so much of how I feel about him. “We were lovers for a short while, nothing serious,” he gives a casual shrug. “And she's married now to a man named Barry, so there's nothing to be worried about.”
“I'm not worried. Why would I be worried?” I ask, in the most unconvincing tone imaginable.
“Of course you're not,” he smiles. “Come on, let's go get some work done.”
Nicholas holds my hand as we walk through the hotel lobby, without so much as a raised eyebrow from the staff or other guests. They must be used to seeing people in strange attire during the month of the Fringe.
I have the flyers stuck in my handbag and Nicholas is holding a stack himself. He stops in front of a group of women and introduces himself, giving them a little pitch about his show. I idle just behind him and suddenly find a man and a woman who look freakishly similar to one another standing in front of me.
The man is wearing a pink dicky bow and a black and white polka dot shirt, while the woman wears a pink polka dot fifties poodle dress and her black hair is styled into a Betty Page do. She's also holding a ukulele. Ukuleles kind of annoy me, because they remind me of the hipsters back home who carry the tiny instruments around to make themselves look all subversive and kooky.
“Hello little lady,” says the man, in a Liverpudlian accent. “I'm Bob and this is my twin sister Bobby. Together we're the Polka Dot Twins and we'd like to cordially invite you to our show, a musical comedy extravaganza of the filthiest kind,” Bob hands me a flyer that tells me when and where their show takes place. It also states that it's free.
“Oh, are you really twins?” I ask, admiring Bobby's shoes that have little kitten faces printed on the toes.
Bob motions me closer, and whispers theatrically, “No, not really, but don't tell anyone. It would ruin our image.”
“My lips are sealed,” I grin.
A second later Nicholas has finished chatting with the group of women and comes to stand beside me. “Hey, I hope you two aren't keeping my assistant from her work,” he jokes.
“Oh, I'm so sorry fair maiden,” says Bob, giving Nicholas a sweeping bow. “I didn't realise this beautiful Irish molly was your assistant. Allow myself and my sister to play you a song as a gesture of goodwill.”
“Go ahead,” says Nicholas smiling.
Bobby begins strumming her ukulele and Bob bursts into an alternate rendition of “Hello” by Lionel Richie. He's changed up the lyrics to make them dirty and absolutely hilarious.
When they've finished we give them a round of applause and I pull one of Nicholas' flyers out of my handbag. “I tell you what, if you come to our show tonight, we'll come to yours.”
Bobby takes the piece of paper from me and eyes it with amusement. Nicholas' show finishes at nine and theirs starts at ten-thirty, so it's doable.
“It's a deal,” says Bobby, and we shake on it.
The Polka Dot Twins sidle off to sing for another unsuspecting passer by, and Nicholas and I set about pitching his show to as many people as possible. By the time three o'clock comes around I'm exhausted. I have about twenty flyers in my handbag from
other performers who all managed to pull me in and ask me to come to their shows.
I'll never possibly have enough time to go to them all. The whole day gives me a real glimpse into how competitive the Fringe is when it comes to getting punters in to see you perform.
When we get back to the hotel I go to run a bath in the fancy tub and Nicholas calls for room service, before getting out of his drag clothes and removing his make-up.
About five minutes into my soak there's a light knock on the door. Nicholas saunters on in a moment later. I went a little wild with the bubble bath, so none of my bits are on show. All the same, I grab a hand towel and lay it over my chest.
Nicholas sits on the edge of the tub and absent mindedly runs his fingers through the water.
“I ordered us both the steak,” he says quietly.
“Sounds good,” I mutter.
Neither of us is mentioning the fact that I'm basically lying here naked. I've never been more aware of another human being in my life. The fact that I'm nude in a bath of water and he's sitting there fully clothed in a t-shirt and jeans is strangely erotic. I feel vulnerable in the best possible way.
We're both quiet for a long time. I use my foot to turn on the tap and let more hot water into the tub. Nicholas' eyes are glued to the movement.
“Let me wash your hair for you,” he says in a soft voice.
I look at him and hesitate to answer. For some reason I'm terribly nervous that he's going to try and hop in here with me. That would be trouble in a big fancy box with a bow on top. Delicious, wonderful trouble.
“Okay,” I say finally, holding the hand towel firmly to my chest and turning around so that my back is facing him. Nicholas picks up a jug and fills it with water, before raising it and pouring it over my hair. The water trickles from my head all the way down my back, like a waterfall.
He grabs the tiny bottle of hotel shampoo, squeezes some out onto his hand and begins massaging it into my scalp. I focus on the pressure of his fingers as they move against me. It's a soothing sort of pressure and I relax, leaning back against the rim of the tub. I hear Nicholas suck in a breath. He makes a lather with the shampoo and then rinses out all the suds.