To Be Someone

by Louise Voss

  The phone rang again. Again the caller declined to speak into the machine.

  I put the Cocteau Twins’ Heaven or Las Vegas on, loud, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the phone ringing a third time.

  I toyed with the idea of hiring a bodyguard. Perhaps that would add another twist to the Plan. The police might think that I’d been kidnapped, or assassinated, if I suddenly disappeared after employing security. No, I thought. Keep it as simple as possible, like Richey from the Manic Street Preachers did. No fuss, bye-bye. Gone.

  But in the meantime, I didn’t want to be trussed up and knifed to death by a stalker, not before the manuscript was finished.

  I picked up a blurry photo of two people kissing, and peered at it for a while until I realized it was Sam and Justin. God, I wished she were here to show it to! What a pity it was out of focus. If it had been sharper, I’d have mailed it to Justin with a note: “You and Sam—remember her now?”

  There was a picture of me with Sam and Sam’s traveling buddy, Andrea. Ondrea, she pronounced it. It was taken in New York right before the two of them set off on their travels, their gap-year round-the-world trip. Even thinking about it now, jealousy twisted like chicken wire in my guts. Andrea looked so smug in the photo. She was tiny and blond and brittle, with big, high Baywatch breasts, and I remembered how hard it had been for me to donate a smile to the camera, when this horrible blond interloper was about to take Sam off to the other side of the planet.

  It was a funny sort of jealousy, one I’d had to grow up with ever since leaving Salisbury—that Sam was having experiences in which I should be sharing but wasn’t. And the Australian trip brought up in me an all-consuming resentment that, now that we were old enough to make our own decisions, Sam had decided to go off without me, to have adventures of which I was no part. I’d tried to explain it to her before she left, but she’d laughed.

  “But you’re on the road all the time! What’s that if it’s not an adventure?”

  “Well, come on the road with us instead!” I’d replied.

  How secretly gleeful I’d felt, then, six weeks later, when Sam had called collect from Australia to ask if she could come and spend the rest of her six months off with me after all, since she and Andrea had fallen out. Blue Idea was about to set off on tour again, but I instantly arranged for Sam to fly to Seattle and meet us there.

  When she arrived at our hotel, I’d listened, tutting and head-shaking, to her tale of woe and false friendship. Apparently the trip had gotten off to a great start in Sydney: They’d both gotten waitressing jobs, and had rented a flat with a three-month lease. Then one day a beautiful tanned surfer with luminous lime shorts and a washboard belly had sauntered into the café where Sam worked.

  Sam had fallen, instantly and passionately, in love, and nearly passed out with excitement when the Sex God (whose name was something ridiculous like Dwayne) had asked her out that night. She raced home after her shift and tarted herself up like she had never tarted before, rabbiting incessantly to Andrea about how wonderful he was, how gorgeous, how sexy, and consequently how nervous she was feeling.

  “What if he’s late? What if he stands me up? What if I’m left sitting there all night like a prat? What will I do?”

  Andrea had magnanimously suggested that she go with Sam, just in case Dwayne didn’t show up. Once he had, Sam could introduce Andrea and Dwayne, then Andrea would push off, pleading a prior engagement, and leave them to get on with their date.

  Only it didn’t quite turn out like that. Sam and Andrea arrived at the venue on time, and were twirling on bar stools, sipping daiquiris, when, just as Dwayne walked in, a woman sat down on the stool next to Sam. Before she had the chance to tap the woman on the shoulder and say, “Sorry, this seat’s taken,” Dwayne had sashayed over and, with a glowing smile and hello to Sam, perched his two walnut-tight buttocks on the stool next to Andrea.

  Sam waited and waited for Andrea to leave, but she didn’t. Sam kept looking at her watch and saying, “Golly, Andrea, you’d better hurry up, you’re going to be late for the cinema,” but Andrea just shook her Hollywood hair and said, “Oh, actually, I don’t fancy that film tonight after all.” Then Sam had waited for Andrea to go to the ladies’, so she could casually change seats with her, but Andrea’s bladder was evidently extra capacious that night. Instead of including her in the conversation, Andrea gradually and subtly moved her shoulder around so she almost had her back to Sam. Sam had sat miserably sipping her third cloying pink drink and wondering how best to go about cutting off Andrea’s breasts.

  Eventually Sam got up and said, “Well, I’m off, then. Anyone coming?”

  Dwayne and Andrea had looked at the floor and muttered, “Just stay for one more, I think, don’t you?”

  The next morning when Andrea returned to the flat, wearing the same clothes as the night before and with a red stubble-burn rash around her mouth, Sam was packed and ready to go.

  When she asked Andrea, tearfully, how she could have done such a thing to her, Andrea’s only defense was, “Well, he was just so gorgeous, and it’s been such a long time since a man paid me that much attention.… ”

  Sam was on the next plane to Seattle, and I had a worm of vindication wiggling guiltily in my heart for months afterward.

  I decided not to use the story of Sam’s treacherous blonde in my manuscript. It was tempting but not really relevant to my own life. Instead I would just record the facts: Andrea would get a mention, but that was all she merited.

  I managed to get most of the photos into some kind of order, chucking away all the overexposed and blurry ones (except the one of Sam and Justin), and filing the others under headings like BAND and SALISBURY and SAM. As an afterthought, I pulled out three of my favorite shots of Sam and put them into the Hel-Sam box, on top of everything else. I wanted them to be the first thing anyone saw when opening the box.

  When I was getting ready for bed that night, I thought I heard a heavy dull sound, like a stumble, in the back garden. It must have been quite loud, for my one ear to pick it up. Creeping into the spare room, I watched for a long time through a gap in the curtains but saw nothing except the dusky shapes of trees and silhouettes of shrubs. There was usually a movement-triggered security light on the patio, but the bulb must have blown, for it remained dark.

  I wondered again whether to call the police but suddenly felt too tired. Plus, dialing 999 might lead to publicity, and I couldn’t risk that, not yet. I’d just have to take my chances with the stalker.

  Nonetheless, I double-checked that all the doors and windows were locked, made sure the alarm system was switched on before I went to bed, and slept with a rape siren and a baseball bat under my pillows.

  The Jam

  TO BE SOMEONE

  March 2, 1985

  Dear Ram Gnats (Turkey Plucker and Duck Stuffer),

  I hate the boys. I HATE THEM I HATE THEM I HATE THEM!!!

  I can’t stand being on the road a minute longer. Why am I doing this, why? I could be with you in Salisbury, doing A levels, having a laugh with you over all the things you find funny in your English texts, but instead I’m stuck in a van, which STINKS to high heaven, surrounded by hideous mutons.

  The books you sent are keeping me sane, though. Oh, I found a quote for you: “The man opened the door and hurriedly threw his eyes down the street.” What do you think, good one, eh?! It’s from the D. H. Lawrence.

  Writing this has already made me feel less like killing the boys. A little bit less …

  David’s not so bad (as he once proved!)—but, man, Joe and Justin are SO JUVENILE. Last night was about the final straw. Bastards. Wait till you hear what they did. We were all stuck in this one tiny dressing room at a venue in Northampton, Massachusetts, running three hours late (we’d gotten stuck in traffic and arrived to find out the club’s curfew was midnight, which left us twenty-five minutes to do our set). It was a college crowd, but they’d been waiting for ages, and were chanting and stamping their feet.
Troy, our new tour manager (doubles as a roadie), and David got the gear set up in record time, and Joe, Jus, and I were all scrambling over each other to get changed, do our makeup and hair, and get out there before there was a riot. Usually there’s a bathroom where I can get changed—I don’t mind sharing a motel room with them (if I have to), but I never get undressed in front of them.

  I was nagging them like mad to turn round, so I could put my skirt on, and Justin was fed up with me. He goes, “Just do it, Helena, like we care—I’m far too busy here to be looking at you naked.”

  I begged them, though, and eventually they faced the wall, and I turned around, too, and ripped off my sweatpants and sneakers (my van-driving clothes).

  I didn’t notice how quiet they’d both gone until I turned back, half into my tights, wobbling all over the place on one leg, and met their eyes in a mirror on the wall they were facing!! I could have died. I burst into tears and they just laughed. Oh, Sam, I was wearing my horrible huge old knickers, and they’d had a perfect view of my massive bum. I hate them.

  Anyway, I’m feeling a bit better now. I’m just worried they’ll tell David what a massive ass I have, and then he’ll feel sick at the thought that he actually went to bed with someone as repulsive as me. Wish I was skinny like you!

  Write soon and tell me about Martin, I’m glad he’s finally asked you out. Have you “tweaked his deak” or maybe even “pronged his dong” yet?

  Oodles of love,

  H x

  P.S. Further to your enjoyment of Around the Aardvark in Eighty Days, might I suggest a few more titles for your reading pleasure?:

  80,000 Aardvarks Under the Sea

  To Kill an Aardvark

  The Aardvark of Casterbridge

  The Decline and Fall of the Roman Aardvark

  P.P.S. I tried to get Joe to play this game, and the best he could come up with was 101 Aardvarks—duh.… xx

  June 19, 1985

  Dear Rusty Harcourt,

  (That’s your porn star name, in case you ever fancy a change of career: You take the name of your first ever pet, and the name of the first street you ever lived in.)

  Thanks for your letter. Your language gets worse every time you write—I must say, you were a better class of girl altogether when you were going to that church all the time!

  Only THREE more months till I see you again!

  I’m right in the middle of exams. They seem to be going okay so far, although History was a bit of a nightmare. You’re so lucky you don’t have to do all this studying, you tart, off round America being a rock star.… I can’t wait to hear you play live. I’m still playing your record like mad, and I make everyone else listen to it, too. It’s fabby.

  So, my big news is that I am definitely going to take a year off before law school. There’s a girl called Andrea Parsons who’s started a Saturday job at Russell & Bromley with me (did I tell you I wasn’t working at Price Rite anymore?), and she’s saving up to backpack around Australia. She’s asked if I’d like to come with her! I’m so excited. I’ve always wanted to go to Australia. So what I thought is, I’ll still come and stay with you for a month first, then Andrea can fly out and meet me in New York.

  Right, this was just a quick one, got to get back to the revision.

  Lots of love and kisses,

  “Hammy Chestnut”

  xxx

  P.S. You know that Squeeze song about Maid Marian and William Tell—“Pulling Mussels from the Shell”? It was on the radio the other day, and the Nadger said to me: “You know, I’ve always wondered what exactly that means—’Pulling Muscles Off a Shelf.’ It doesn’t make sense!” I couldn’t stop laughing.

  August 25, 1985

  Dear Gas Mnart (Monkey Shaver and Sheep Dipper),

  First, CONGRATULATIONS!!! You little brainbox—there’s just no call for anyone to have such a disgusting amount of grade A’s. What a creep. I’m not sure I can be friends with you anymore. Don’t take a year out—get into that law school and hurry up and qualify, so you can become Blue Idea’s lawyer. Wouldn’t that be great?

  Second, sorry I haven’t written for so long. I’ve been saving it all up for this letter, so make sure you’re sitting comfortably!

  I can’t wait to see you! I wish you were coming for more than a month. In fact, I wish you were spending the whole year with me instead of swanning off to Oz with Andrea Parsons, whoever she may be, but that’s your choice! Just remember, backpacks are really heavy, Australia is full of those horrible black widow spiders that bite your bum when you go to the dunny, and there are fifteen-foot crocodiles who’ll rip your foot off as soon as look at you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  I’m sorry that I probably won’t have much time to show you the sights in NYC (although the interior of our tour bus is a complete sight after a few days, and so is Joe in the mornings—would that do?), but at least once we’re on the road, you’ll get to see some of the bars and diners of America.

  Can you believe it, Blue Idea’s been on the road for two years! I was so shocked when David told us that yesterday. I suppose I hadn’t realized that we’d been touring for so long. So much has changed, and a ton of it has been really gradual—it’s sneaked up on us. Like, we’re headlining more and more shows, in bigger, packed-out venues. I feel so sorry for the poor bands who are first on our bill; they look so despondent, hammering valiantly away to an empty room. It seems like yesterday since that was us.

  We still have a little table at the back of the venue where people can sign our fan-base sheets—that’s worked out really well. I remember, from the first tour, feeling really stupid when I’d have to collect all those blank pieces of paper at the end of a show, thinking that nobody would ever sign them. These days Troy leaves out about eight sheets a night, and they’re all filled up—about thirty names and addresses per sheet! He sticks them in the mail to Ringside, and half the time they’re all beer-stained and illegible. I really pity the poor minions who get the job of typing them all onto our master mailing list. Still, at least we know who to send the fanzine to!

  Have I sent you the famous Bluezine lately? What an exquisite work of art it is! (Joke.) I really hate writing it these days, I never have time, and I can never think of anything new to say, apart from droning on about chart positions and new singles, etc. I think I’m too hung up on the idea of trying to make it “a good read.” Justin teases me about it. “It’s not supposed to be Catcher in the Rye,” he said last time, when I wanted to put in a story about that weird fan we had (you know, the one who kept sending David his toenail clippings).

  It has gotten easier, though, touring. I’m much less self-conscious onstage these days, since “This Is Your B.I.” was a hit (and I think losing my virginity has also definitely helped!!). It was a real turning point. Suddenly it was like people were starting to respect us, and not just lust after Justin.

  The best thing was when kids in the audience stopped yelling insults at me—in fact, these days they quite often make suggestive remarks, or compliments, even. I love it. Some guy shouted “Lovely tits!” from the crowd last week, so I have to assume that he was talking to me! Actually, I’ve lost quite a lot of weight. I’ll never be as slim as you, but I’m down to an American 8 (English 12), and my hips and cheeks and other assorted bits are much less wobbly. Touring is surprisingly hard work, considering how much sitting around on the bus we have to do.

  Did I tell you that the second single, “Conditions of Love,” is in the Billboard Top Ten? Number four, currently, up from seven last week. We’ve been on a bunch of regional TV shows, in the places we’re touring, and girls are recognizing Justin in the street quite often. We even made a video for it! (I’ll try and get you a copy.) I had this letter the other day from a thirteen-year-old girl in Michigan who said she wished she could meet me because I’m “really cool.” Isn’t that hilarious? I wish twenty-year-old boys would write to me and tell me that.…

  God, I wish I had a boyfriend. You’re so lucky to have t
he Nadger, even if he does get song lyrics wrong (well, at least he didn’t think that the first line of “You’re the One That I Want” by John T. and Olivia Neutron-Bomb went: “I got shoes / They’re made of plywood,” which Joe claims he thought were the words, although I can’t believe that even Joe is that dumb).

  For a while I wondered if David was going to make another move—I don’t fancy him, and I know it’s a bad idea, with us all being on the road the whole time, but I do have some nice—if a bit vague—memories of that sex. You’d been telling me for ages how lovely sex is, but I never quite understood—you don’t, until it happens to you, do you?

  Anyway, I’m wasting my time with David. He’s got a big crush on the sister of some friend of his. And none of us have time for lurve at the moment. Love and a Door (hopefully not “that difficult second album”) is coming out in a month’s time.

  Write soon, and I’ll SEE YOU NEXT MONTH!!! CAN’T WAIT!!!

  Oodles of love,

  H x

  We arrived in Manhattan for our New York show on a chilly late-September afternoon. I was on pins because I’d told Sam I’d meet her at the venue at four, and it was twenty past by the time we got there. Justin and Joe were taking bets among themselves about who’d cop off with her first—the idea of a Woman on tour with us was almost too exciting for them to stand, especially since I’d built Sam up as something resembling an English Charlie’s Angel.

  “Get lost,” I said to them. “She’s far too good for any of you. She likes real men.”

  Justin groaned lasciviously. “And she’ll be in the van with us for four whole weeks. She’ll give in to the Becker charm eventually, I just know it!”