by Mike Hockney
Leddington scribbled something on a note: a Mayfair address.
‘I’m going,’ I said.
‘I don’t see anyone stopping you,’ Zara retorted. As I made to leave, she made another of her mystical remarks. ‘The story moves on, Sophie. It always does. Only those who were part of it are left to remember.’
I slammed the door behind me.
*****
The address I was given turned out to be an up-market costumier’s. When I went inside, I saw Sam right away. He was deep in conversation with the old man behind the counter. As I closed the door behind me, they both turned to see who’d come in and Sam immediately gave me a typical Sam smile.
‘Excuse me for a moment,’ he said to the old man and sauntered over, planting a big kiss on my cheek. ‘I was going to call you, Sophie. I’ve been really looking forward to seeing you again.’
I had no idea if he was being sincere or just talking the talk.
‘Jez and Mencken are here,’ I said. ‘They’re staying at the Sargasso.’
When Sam didn’t answer, I put my hand on his arm. ‘You must come with me.’ I’d convinced myself that Zara’s spell would be broken if Sam stepped outside with me. I just needed to make him take those few steps. ‘Come on, you can’t screw with your career.’
‘I’ve set something up,’ he said with a grin that was practically manic, ‘something incredible. It’s a gift, the most fantastic present.’
I didn’t need to ask who it was for. Zara was all that existed.
‘It cost me ten grand, and took ten artists,’ he went on. It’s so cool it needs refrigeration equipment. It’s waiting for me at the Aggiornamento hotel.’
‘What is it?’
‘You’ll see when the time’s right.’
While we stood there, a man in a smart dark suit came in. He walked straight up to Sam and handed him a black envelope. Sam turned away to read it. A second later, he bolted for the door.
‘What is it?’ I pleaded, chasing after him. ‘What did that man give you?’
Sam didn’t answer. All of his composure had vanished.
‘Don’t go back to them,’ I begged as he sprinted from the shop. ‘There’s still time. Go home to America.’ I knew I was wasting my breath. ‘I can’t do this anymore,’ I shouted.
No response, nothing. As if I wasn’t there.
‘Fuck you!’ I screamed as I came to a dead halt. ‘Fuck her too.’ My lungs filled with air, allowing me to hurl one final insult, the big lie that made me shudder with self-disgust. ‘Jez has already screwed the bitch.’
Chapter 32: Follow your Heart
Is it possible to have a perfect experience, a moment when everything feels just right, when not a single detail needs to be changed? I don’t think I’ve ever had a time like that. I think I’m too anxious, always waiting for the incident that will ruin everything. Maybe waiting for the disaster is what makes it happen.
I’d ruined everything between Sam and me. I guess I’d never really come to terms with the truth that there was no ‘Sam and me’ and I’d simply been fantasising about a fairytale relationship between us. Before he went back to the States in the summer, I thought we’d genuinely connected. I hoped he’d spend a few weeks getting over Zara then realise I was the one he really wanted. How dumb can you get? Getting over Zara was something Sam, or any other man, wasn’t capable of.
‘We meet again,’ a voice somewhere behind me said, making me jump.
I’d been walking aimlessly around Mayfair, not wanting to go back to my apartment to sit on my own. So, I was just staring at people, especially anyone who looked happy, wondering what their secret was. Now, I was outside a bar, gazing through the large windows at the dozens of smiling people inside having a cosy lunchtime drink.
I turned to see who had spoken. ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ I beamed. It was Ligger, my handsome pop star.
‘Real good,’ he answered. ‘I think I have you to thank, don’t I?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I heard you put in a good word for us. It was that word that got everything started.’
‘Well, delighted I could help, but I don’t want to take any credit.’
‘But you knew the whole thing was Scotch mist, didn’t you?’
‘Only because you reminded me of me.’ I smiled again. ‘I bet it makes a great story.’
He nodded. ‘That night I met you outside the club, all I had was a drum-machine and a few songs in my head.’
‘So, you made a few stickers and badges to prove you were real?’
‘Yeah – the more you fake it, the more real you become, somehow.’
I understood perfectly.
‘When they saw the stickers, professional musicians started taking me seriously and asked if I needed anyone. One was a keyboard player…’
‘And you said your keyboard guy had just walked out and you were urgently looking for a replacement?’
‘You’re good at this.’ Ligger’s eyes twinkled. They were a striking blue, a bit like Sam’s. Was he flirting with me? ‘In no time, I had a complete band,’ he went on. ‘Then, out of the blue, what do you know? – the boss of Captain Toper Records gets in touch and says he met a beautiful girl at Ballum-Rancum who told him we were red hot. I knew it had to be you since you were the only person who took a badge from me.’ He blushed. ‘And you were the only beautiful girl. At least, the only one I noticed.’
I felt myself blushing too. ‘Happy to oblige,’ I said. It was odd to be taking credit for what was originally intended as a joke at the expense of an obnoxious record boss, but what the hey.
‘He said he wanted to see us live and as soon as we mentioned his name, venues that had turned us down flat suddenly welcomed us with open arms. He came to one of our gigs…’
‘And the rest is the birth of a rock ‘n’ roll legend?’
Ligger laughed – such an incredibly sexy laugh. ‘You got it. We signed a megabucks deal. Our new single’s about to come out.’
‘That’s fantastic.’
‘Hey, come in and have a drink with me so that I can thank you properly.’ He led me into the bar and showed me to a corner table. He bought me a glass of white wine, and a Vodka and Red Bull for himself.
‘You seem a little down,’ he said.
‘It’s a long story. Some people can get inside your head, you know?’
‘And it’s always the wrong people.’
I nodded. ‘Some people know all the buttons to press, don’t they?’ I let him take my hand. It was so nice to feel physical contact with someone who seemed genuinely sympathetic.
‘You’re obviously in with the wrong crowd.’
‘Well, it could be worse, I suppose. I could be in with that lot over there.’ I gestured at a group of assorted hippies, crusties and bohos in the corner, nursing their pints of Guinness.
‘They’re with me,’ Ligger said slowly.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I…’
He burst out laughing. ‘Gotcha!’
I felt the blood rushing to my face, and giggled pathetically.
‘No, those types aren’t so bad,’ he said. ‘Always good for a laugh.’ He told me a story about visiting the ancient stone circle at Avebury for the summer solstice. The place was full of hippies zonked out of their brains on skunk as they watched the flickering lights from hundreds of burning torches. A druid dressed in black robes stood in the centre of the circle. As the sun came up, he was pushed out of the way by white druids. At midday, a final druid, in red, appeared. Ligger could hardly control his laughter as he described how the druid made everyone have a ‘dry orgasm’. Every person had to moan as loudly as they could while writhing around: basically doing a When Harry Met Sally routine. When he asked me if I’d go with him next year, I shook my head.
‘Oh, you’re still with someone?’ he said quietly.
‘Only in my head.’
‘I see, it’s a thing. They’re always the worst.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Whoever he
is, he must be dumb if he’s giving you a hard time.’
I should have been incredibly flattered. Ligger was a fantastic catch and he was coming on really strong, but I felt empty, and I just smiled sadly.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘give me a proper smile. That first night I met you, I thought you had the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen. I’ve even written a song about it.’
‘Oh God, I’m mortified.’
‘Bleak Mortified, huh?’ He grinned.
‘Er, what is a Bleak Mort, exactly?’ I asked.
‘Oh, it’s old New York slang for a pretty girl. It turned out John Adams was playing the same game as us. Maybe that’s why he loved us so much.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Captain Toper means a smart highwayman in old New Yorkese. Adams was also the guy who gave Ballum-Rancum its name.’
‘Good choice,’ I said.
‘Damn, got to go,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘Something I mustn’t be late for.’ He finished his drink and shrugged. ‘Some other time?’
I nodded. ‘I’d like that, but maybe after I’ve had a bit of a breathing space.’
‘The thing?’
I nodded glumly.
‘Well, let me give you my number and you call me when you’re ready.’ He scribbled it down and passed it to me.
As he got up to leave, I gave him as appreciative a smile as I could muster.
One of these days, you’ll smile at me again just like you did that first time.’ He pointed at his heart. ‘Always go where this takes you, Sophie.’
When he said that, I realised a lot of my heart was pointing in his direction.
Chapter 33: Apologies
Half an hour later I was slumped on the sofa in my apartment, wearing an oversized woollen jumper as I attempted to keep warm. In the last couple of days, the mild autumn weather had turned bitter. Now snow was falling and my central heating was taking too long to kick in. Snowflakes were melting on my windows. Some things fade away almost unnoticed while others vanish with a bang, leaving you gasping for air. With Sam and the Top Table, an emergency oxygen mask seemed like essential equipment.
I’d blown it. I should have gone along with Sam, put up with all of his crazy behaviour. He needed help to save him from that witch. He was world famous, loved by millions, yet no one cared, not really. There’s such a gulf between the life people think stars are leading and the one they actually lead. I remembered Cary Grant’s great line: ‘Everyone wants to be Cary Grant. Even I want to be Cary Grant.’ That summed it up. Sam desperately needed support and I wasn’t there for him. Instead, I’d taunted him. Did I really say Jez had screwed Zara? What a bitch. But Zara would be proud of me, and wasn’t that what I wanted above all? The more I resembled her, the more chance there was of Sam liking me again.
I stared at my telephone and wondered if I should yank the cable out of the wall. When I’m feeling down, the phone scares me. Each time it rings you have to stop whatever you’re doing and leap up to answer it. You’ve become this puppet creature, being manipulated by people very far away. I’m uncomfortable even when a friend rings. I’m sure they’re sitting at the other end of the line, pulling faces at me and making yawning gestures.
Jane’s friend Becky let it slip once that she couldn’t bear to make love to her boyfriend doggy style because she was sure he was laughing at her behind her back. I knew exactly what she meant. I always want to see people’s faces, to see if their pupils are growing or shrinking, to study the wrinkles around their eyes when they laugh, the direction of their gaze, all the little things that betray whether they’re genuinely interested or stringing you along. All the rest is propaganda.
It’s crazy that I feel this way. After all, I spend most of my life in a world of pretence, where phoniness has been raised to an art form. In the kingdom of fakes, is it the most fake or the least who’s the king? Shit, I was beginning to sound like them.
I sat upright – someone was knocking on my door. I didn’t want to answer it, convinced I looked ghastly. I’d been crying and my make-up was probably smudged. I rushed to the mirror to check if I looked OK.
‘Parcel!’ a man shouted. ‘Need a signature.’
I put on a baseball cap to hide my messy hair and scurried to the door.
‘Sign here.’ The courier didn’t even glance at me.
I took the package inside. It was wrapped in expensive gold gift-paper. Opening it, I found a beautiful pearly pink box containing champagne truffles. The attached card said, ‘Sorry – Sam.’
I stared at the chocolates in amazement. An apology! I flopped back onto the sofa, opened the box and popped one of the truffles into my mouth.
Perfect.
As the first chocolate melted in my mouth and my hand automatically reached for another, my mobile rang.
I hesitated, not recognising the number of the caller. I hit ‘answer.’
‘You can’t walk away.’ Sam.
I felt light-headed as I listened to his voice. Had he come back to me?
‘It would be weird without you, Sophie. Everyone’s asking for you. Zara and Charles say they’d love to see you again.’
My heart sank. He was just the messenger boy for the unholy couple, wasn’t he? They were probably standing behind him right now, sniggering.
‘I thought you’d seen enough of me,’ I said.
‘Didn’t you promise me a good time?’
‘Is that what you call this?’
There was a long pause. ‘No.’ At least he hadn’t completely lost his senses.
‘But, despite everything, it’s what you want, isn’t it?’
There was an even longer hesitation. ‘Yes.’
I could hear something in his voice. Despair, resignation, acceptance, I don’t know what. It nearly made me cry. I didn’t care about Zara and Leddington, I just wanted to help Sam.
‘Years ago, my therapist told me I had to get rid of my anger towards my dad,’ Sam said. ‘He advised me to write a letter to him. Not one for sending. I was supposed to set it on fire and burn those bad feelings out of me forever.’
Somehow I could picture Sam gazing out of a window, fighting back tears.
‘It was a good idea,’ he said ‘but you know how these things go.’ His voice was so weary. ‘In the end, the bad feelings were burned into me worse than ever.’
I think he was explaining to me that there was never any chance he could escape from Zara. When people get enough of a grip on you, it’s impossible to shake free. There’s no way out. Perhaps when it came to Zara I wasn’t so different. I wasn’t in as deeply as Sam, but I was in deep enough. One day, I would have to deal with it.
I wasn’t going to abandon Sam this time, and I was determined to prove to Zara once and for all that I was worthy of her respect.
‘I’m on my way.’
Chapter 34: Day of the Dead
It was as if the intervening months had never happened. I was with Sam at the mansion, and my old worries were back, worse than ever. We’d been given the task of helping to redecorate the Great Hall. Zara’s plan was to transform it into…well, she didn’t say exactly, but I knew headstones were involved because about twenty of them had been lined up outside the hall. We took all the paintings off the walls, removed the dining table and put it in the middle of the entrance hall then began moving in lots of weird stuff: long black curtains, wheelbarrows of soil, wooden crates. It appeared we were reconstructing the set of Nosferatu.
I was banned from the room for the last half hour of the preparations, presumably while the others applied the Top Table’s trademark touches. I sat alone in the Palm Room and sipped mineral water. I had been offered wine, but I wanted to keep a clear head.
By 10 pm, everything was ready. The girl I’d nicknamed Snow White led me upstairs to the changing room where all the other girls were getting ready. The men were nowhere to be seen. I was nervous about the costume we all had to change into or, rather, about the final item we had to
put on. I tried not to think about it as I wriggled into a man’s formal black morning suit, complete with black silk trim down the exquisitely cut trousers, and beautiful brand-new top hat. Before I could put on the hat, I had to force my head into the thing that had been terrifying me since I first saw it.
A gasmask.
Snow White ushered all of the girls, apart from Zara who was absent, down the staircase and into the Great Hall. As we descended, I caught a glimpse of our motley group in one of the hall mirrors. We were like a procession of alien creatures with black rubber faces, huge round glass eyes and strange protruding noses. We looked as though we were on our way to the wedding of some monstrous bride and groom. If so, who were the betrothed? I could only think Zara was marrying Leddington. Maybe that was how they intended to deliver the final humiliation to Sam. Perhaps they’d ask him to be Leddington’s best man, or he might be forced to give away the bride.
As I walked into the Great Hall, my mouth gaped. It was now a vast graveyard, complete with headstones, freshly turned soil and dim lanterns. Beautiful bright flowers, different-coloured candles and odd, skull-shaped loaves of bread covered the fake graves, assuming they were fake.
Three red skulls rested on pedestals in the middle of the graveyard, the forehead of each printed with a name. I leaned forward to get a better look: Lawrence Maybury, Chloe Sanford and Marcus Gorman.
We stood in a line on one side of the graves and waited for the men to appear. The doors swung open and in they trooped. I gasped when I saw them. They were dressed like doctors from London’s Great Plague. They wore black circular hats, long brown coats and thick gloves. Their masks with bizarre curved beaks and strange inbuilt spectacles that made them resemble vultures entranced me. You’d know you were in big trouble if you ever looked up from your sick bed and found a doctor like that bending over you. When they lined up opposite us, it was easy to imagine they weren’t human.
In the far corner of the hall, a mausoleum had been constructed, and the sommelier – resembling a corpse what with his face caked with white make-up and dark shadows round his eyes – was standing there surrounded by wine bottles and glasses. He pulled a lever and smoke belched from pipes located around the hall and inside some of the graves. In seconds, the room was full of swirling, thick clouds of dry ice. I imagined I could see ghostly faces appearing through the haze. Blue laser beams stabbed through the white smoke and began to move around at high speed. They were overtaken by strobe lights that sent shimmering flashes through the hall, like sheets of blue lightning.