by Terry Tyler
Up on the stage some comedian was making his last quip of the night, and Theodore turned around, pretending to listen to the woman next to him telling him what she'd bought when they'd stopped off on Skyros the other day. Must have been a lot of stuff; her voice went on for ages. He started to close his eyes, his mind drifting away, as it did so often these days. His thoughts intertwined with the woman's chattering, and then, running through it, he could hear some music begin to play. A guitar. A girl's voice. The music was melancholy, soft; it seemed to stir up inside him some long forgotten emotion. The voice was soft, too, but not weak; English; he liked that. Lovely sound. It made him feel nostalgic, though about what he was not sure; peaceful, too. Theodore thought he could quite happily sit there, with his brandy, listening to that sound, until they carried him out. He opened his eyes, and looked up.
And then he saw her.
A girl with white hair, in a white dress, with golden brown skin and the face of an angel.
Theodore W Perlmutter blinked, and looked again. He sat up in his seat, and found himself automatically smoothing down his hair, holding in his belly. My God. She was perfect.
He nudged Nancy Jill. "What do you think of her? The singer?"
His wife looked at him, then up at the stage. "Very nice, sweetie-pie. Very pretty. Lovely voice." She yawned again. "I'm off to bed now, are you coming?"
"In a while," he said, standing up to allow Nancy Jill to squeeze past, her gold bracelets jangling as she did so.
"Don't be all night, now," she said, winking at him. "And don't go making a fool of yourself with that young girl - unless she's going to make us lots of money, of course!"
Theodore kissed her on the cheek, obediently, patted her on the generous, peach satin covered behind, and, once she was gone, grabbed the arm of a passing waitress.
"Excuse me, honey," he said. "What's the name of that girl, up there?"
The waitress smiled at him, and lifted some empty glasses onto the tray she carried.
"Oh, that's Ariel Swan," she said. "She's good, isn't she?"
"She's wonderful," said Theodore. He fished in his pocket, pulled out a couple of notes and, without looking to see what they were, pressed them into the hand of the waitress. "When she finishes playing," he said, "can you take me wherever it is she goes when she comes off stage? I want to meet her." He felt in the breast pocket of his shirt. Yes, there were some there; force of habit, there were always some there. "You go in first, and give her one of these," he said, handing her a card that bore the words 'Theodore W Perlmutter. President. Pacific Coast Records'. "Make sure she knows I want to see her, okay, sweetheart? Whatever you do, don't let her go. I have to see her."
***
After her set, Ariel made her way back to the dressing room she shared with four dancers. She was tired. She didn't feel like going back to her cabin just yet, though; Will would be waiting for her, and he was starting to get on her nerves. They'd remained just friends until only a few months ago (despite Dave Bentley's fears), then they'd got together one night when she was feeling a bit lonely; she regretted it, now. He was pretty hot to look at, but that was about it, really, and he was becoming less appealing the more she became involved with him; why did men have to get so damn clingy? Will hadn't got that nice-but-still-sexy thing going on that Dave had. Probably because he wasn't that nice. A bit self-centred. No, she wouldn't go back to the cabin just yet. She'd take a walk on deck, enjoy the air, before going back to avoid a sexual marathon for which she wasn't in the mood. With any luck, Will would be asleep. Oh, this was stupid. Hadn't she grown out of getting involved with men she wasn't that keen on? Evidently not. With a bit more luck they might find themselves on different boats, next time, and that would be that.
She was hoping to go home for a while after this cruise, if Oceanwide Entertainment would give her enough time off. She missed her dad; she'd emailed him earlier that day, telling him; he'd be pleased. And maybe she could see Dave, too - or was that wise? He entered her thoughts more often than she'd thought he would; she often recalled those few months when they were getting ready for Raw Talent with an unexpected nostalgia - oh, she didn't know; her feelings towards Dave were so confusing -
There was a knock on the door.
"Come in!" she called out.
A waitress she recognised poked her head around the door. "Oh good, you're decent," she said, and stepped into the tiny room. "Someone wants to see you." She held out a card.
"Yeah?" Ariel read the words on the card, and smiled. "Yeah?"
She looked up, then, and her eyes flitted past the waitress's shoulder.
A man stood there; he was in his late sixties or early seventies, she guessed, portly, suntanned, casually but expensively dressed, like many of the other, older men on the boat. On every boat, really.
He smiled at her. He looked nice.
"Hello," she said, and smiled back at him. She felt a funny sensation in her chest; it was like the first day she'd met Frankie, back in London all those years ago, like the first time they'd got on the plane to take them to Buenos Aires, to begin their travels; it was the feeling that her life was about to change.
***
"Hello, my dear," said Theodore.
She was even more perfect, close up.
"I'm Theodore W Perlmutter," he said, and held out his hand; she took it, and her skin felt like silk. "I'm the President of Pacific Coast Records," he said. "I imagine you've heard of us, if not me! I loved what you did tonight."
She smiled, and when she did so he felt as though she was the only woman he would ever want to look at, ever again.
"I have," she said. "Heard of you, I mean. Thank you. That's wonderful. I'm so glad you enjoyed it."
"I most certainly did!" He crossed his arms, and put his head on one side. "Would you do me the honour of joining me at the bar for a drink?"
"Oh - yes, of course," she said, "I'd love to!"
That English voice. Got him every time.
"Good!" Theodore W Perlmutter linked his arm through hers, in a respectful, fatherly fashion, he hoped. "Come on, I'll order us a bottle of champagne."
She smiled at him, and accepted his arm. "Champagne?"
He patted her hand. "Yes. Well, it's a celebration, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"I hope so!" He opened the door. "Tell me, Ariel my dear, are you doing anything for the next couple of years?"
She laughed. "Well, I want to go home and see my father some time - and a couple of friends - and I'm contracted to an agency in London for a while. Why?"
He patted her hand again, and led her out into the carpeted corridor. "Family and friends I understand. Contracts, we can get out of." He stopped, then, and turned to look at her. "If you want to, that is."
She smiled, rather nervously, he could tell. "What do you mean?"
He laughed. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't say, did I?" He coughed, and took her hand. "Ariel, if you'll let me, I think I'd like to make you a star!"
***
At twenty past seven on a Friday morning in late June, the sun was shining brightly, the day promised to be a hot one, and Dave Bentley was feeling just grand.
Life was so much better, now, than it had been just a year before. Just thinking about the spring and summer of 2008 made him shudder.
Horrible times. Thor but a page on MySpace, forgotten by just about everyone but him and Ritchie. Janice had told him where to get off - and quite rightly so, he could see that now. The weather was shit, and Shane had moved away. Oh, and Ariel had gone, too, of course. Yes, she'd emailed, quite often, but Dave wasn't much good with computers, and he could never think of anything to write back. What was there to tell her? That his life was an empty shell without her and he was completely pissed off? Even if he'd had loads of stuff to relate, it wasn't the same as talking to her, holding her.
But then things had started to pick up, bit by bit. Mostly he just went to work, saw Harley, went to the pub and tried not to drown his sorrows too
extensively - but then, one night in The Romany, he'd met Isabel.
She wasn't Ariel, and she wasn't Janice, but she was good.
The relationship had started slowly; it had taken a while, but he thought he was starting to fall in love with her. Maybe Janice was right, maybe love was different every time - different when you were older, too. He didn't feel the white hot need for her that he'd felt for Ariel, and he didn't feel that other-half-of-him, coming home thing he'd had with Janice; it was something else. Not as intense as either feeling, but it was about a hundred per cent better than being depressed and alone.
Being with her had made him understand, he thought, about Janice and Max. About how life moved on. Max had turned out to be a brilliant step-father for Harley, and Dave didn't mind at all that he and Janice were getting married; in fact, he was happy for them. He truly was. This must mean he was dead mature, he thought, and he'd given himself a fair few mental pats on the back about it.
Isabel was starting to be a great step-mum for Harley, too; his son now came to stay with them at her flat on a regular basis, and that suited everyone.
Isabel was lovely, really. He knew he'd been attracted to her at first because she looked like Ariel - though nowhere near as beautiful, of course; no-one was as beautiful as Ariel. In the beginning, when they'd made love, he used to pretend she was Ariel, but he'd had to stop that because once, in the throes of passion, he'd called her by the wrong name, and she'd got very upset. Aside from that, it just made him depressed when the explosion was over and he realised he was lying next to the wrong woman. It was better now, though, because he'd stopped needing to pretend she was someone else, and that had to be good, didn't it?
Better than his new relationship, though, was the fact that Shane had got in touch with him again, to tell him all about his baby daughter, Chloe. Weird. The whole story had come out in a rush, over the phone one night (Shane had sounded as if he was drunk or speeding, but it had turned out he was just ecstatic about fatherhood), all about how he hadn't been the father of Kerry's baby after all, and something about going on The Jeremy Kyle Show (what??), and then Cecilia being pregnant, too - anyway, the upshot of it was that he and Isabel had driven up to Spalding to see Shane, Cecilia and Chloe, and Dave couldn't believe the difference in him.
Around his baby, anyway. When he and Shane went to the pub, leaving the girls at home, he'd been just as bad as ever. Eyes darting this way and that every time a pretty girl walked past, flirting with some dark haired bird with great legs; it was obvious to Dave that they were more than just acquaintances.
Isabel and Cecilia got on like sisters separated at birth, the downside of this being that Isabel claimed that seeing baby Chloe had made her 'all broody'. She'd been particularly enthusiastic for sex ever since, and that made Dave wary; Harley was enough for him, he didn't really want another child. Janice and Max were providing him with a brother or sister; Dave didn't see why he should have to, as well.
He was happy with Isabel, though, as long as she stayed on the pill. But then he'd bumped into Ariel's dad the other day, and he'd said she'd emailed about possibly coming home for a short visit.
Ariel, coming home.
Despite Dave's successful resolve to buck up his ideas and stop thinking about some time, way ahead in the future (maybe in five or ten years, she'd said) when they might be together again, the thought of her coming home still put the butterflies back in his stomach.
That was when it all started to happen.
Everything started to come together, just like before.
Dave was waiting, at twenty past seven on that bright summer morning, for Phil Wiseman to pick him up for work; his car was off the road, yet again. That wasn't a problem, though; he could get it fixed. He'd kissed a still sleeping Isabel goodbye, and left early, because he wanted to have a think.
It was happening again.
The indications were all there, just as they had been two years before.
There was talk of Ariel coming back. Okay, it was just talk, it was just for a quick visit - anyway, he was with Isabel now (though he was still his own man, of course), and for all he knew Ariel might have a boyfriend; hopefully not that slimy dickhead Will Corrigan. But the fact remained that there was a possibility of her return, and when Ariel was coming back, magical things happened.
It was a bit like Narnia, he thought, when you heard that Aslan was on the move; he'd been reading The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe to Harley the other day, and it had made him realise that Ariel was magic, too.
As well as this wonderful news, Ritchie had a new mate called Howie who was a shit hot guitarist, even better than Shane. He wasn't a bad lad, either. Dave was a bit worried about the way that Ritchie seemed to almost idolise him, but he'd promised himself not to think any of that sort of stuff about Ritchie. Even though he'd put up this new Kylie Minogue mirror in the kitchen, and - well, those sort of men, they always liked Kylie, didn't they?
Anyway, best not to think about that.
And then the third thing happened. If he'd had any doubt that things were starting to fall into place again, that it was just his imagination running away with him, his mind was made up when, the other night, he'd received a phone call from none other than Boz!
Boz had told him all about the farce that was Genital Warthog, said he was thinking about moving on, that he might head back to Fennington for a while, see what was going down. He'd been surprised that Dave hadn't got a new band together; of course, Boz needed to earn some proper money, too, but he hadn't played any decent music in ages and if Dave heard of anything that might interest him, or wanted to get together again, he might stick around, find somewhere to live back down there again.
See?
Dave knew he only had to wait, and the signs would appear.
Almost immediately, they did just that.
Isabel said people should listen to the universe speaking to them, and so listen to the universe Dave had.
First of all, when Harley had been over last weekend, he'd told him about a fancy dress party he was going to; could they go to a fancy dress shop and look at some costumes?
Dave had thought he'd want to go as Spiderman, or a zombie, perhaps, but no; he wanted to go as a Red Indian. Native American, Isabel said you had to call them, these days. Harley had tried on the gear when he got home, and Isabel had looked up some pictures on Google Images and practised painting his face for him with her make-up.
He looked cool. He started rushing around, really excited, as if he was a real Red Indian kid, making whooping sounds like on the old fashioned western films, though Dave was sure he'd never seen one. When he'd had to take the outfit off to go to bed, he'd cried, and said he wanted to wear it all the time.
"Perhaps he was a Native American in a former life," said Isabel, who believed in all that sort of thing, too, which was another good thing about her.
Then, later that night, they'd been watching something on BBC2 about old punk bands, and Siouxie and the Banshees had been on.
Sioux.
The next day he, Isabel and Harley had gone round to his mother's for Sunday lunch. When Yvonne Bentley cooked Sunday lunch she always listened to her favourite 'golden oldies' radio show. As Dave walked into the kitchen to greet her, that morning, the song being played was an old favourite by The Shadows.
Apache.
In the afternoon he and Harley had been looking through the atlas, so he could show him where Ariel's cruise ship was (this was when Isabel was helping his mother with the washing up, of course). They'd ended up looking at the pages of North America, too, because Harley couldn't believe how big it was, and for some reason Dave's eyes had fallen on Wyoming.
The capital of which was Cheyenne.
It couldn't be just a coincidence, could it?
Sioux, Apache, Cheyenne. The signs.
If, as Isabel had suggested, Harley was a reincarnated Red Indian, then perhaps he was, too. As well as his other past life as a Viking, of course.
<
br /> Back at home that evening when Isabel was doing girl stuff of some sort, plucking her armpits or whatever it was they took so long in the bathroom doing, he started reading up about Red Indians on the internet.
They weren't so different from Vikings, were they? Apart from the fact that they were the conquered, rather than the invaders, of course. Kind of a massive difference, really. But they were a fierce race, proud and fearless, with their own gods, their own lore and beliefs, just like the Norsemen.
Even as he looked at the pictures, read about their history, Dave Bentley could hear the words and melodies begin to float around his head, a sensation that had eluded him for so long. He could hear the haunting cries of a young Apache warrior, on his horse, looking at his lands laid waste by the white man. Yes! The magic had returned, his creativity had been given a kick start, just like before.
That morning, waiting for the Phil Wiseman Construction van to pick him up, Dave lit a cigarette, lifted his head to the cloudless sky, narrowed his eyes as he imagined himself as that Apache warrior, gazing out onto a vast, empty landscape, and experienced a moment of pure happiness.
He had it! The inspiration had come back, and this time, with Ritchie, Boz, and this Howie guy, it was all going to germinate, flourish, in the way that Thor had not been given a chance to do.
Glenn Hunter saying, "You're better than you realise, mate."
Yes, this time, they were going to make it!
He'd even thought of the name of the band.
TOMAHAWK!
He couldn't wait to tell the others all about it.
THE END
I hope you enjoyed reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. On the next page, Amazon will give you the opportunity to rate the book and share your thoughts on Facebook and Twitter. If you think the book is worth sharing, please take a few seconds to tell your friends about it. Thanks! -TT
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