Cautiously, Freya opened the front door. There were teenagers everywhere, some dancing and drinking beer, others laughing and shouting. Several sleeping bodies were curled up on the sitting room floor. There were bottles and shattered glass all over the place, along with plates filled with soggy crisps, spilt coffee cups and overturned chairs.
‘Mum,’ said Freya, catching sight of Clare, dancing and swaying on the kitchen table in the same shorts and red vest top from the night before. The effects of the apple of youth were clearly still going strong.
‘Oh Gods, you again,’ said Clare. ‘You’re not invited.’
‘I just came to see how you are,’ said Freya.
‘Go away,’ said Clare, waving her arms and swigging from a bottle.
Freya went up to her bedroom, her shoes crunching on the rubbish-strewn stairs, and packed a few clothes, books, and the eski in a holdall. Veronica had told her not to worry about bringing too much as she would be re-styled. Re-styled! What a wonderful word to taste on the tongue.
Was this her chance to get famous, too? That would be fun, wouldn’t it?
She trudged downstairs, stepping over prone bodies lying in heaps everywhere.
‘I need you to sign a consent form,’ she said to Clare.
Clare scrawled a signature without reading the letter.
‘Turn up the music!’ she shrieked. ‘Let’s PARTY!’
‘Bye, Mum,’ said Freya. ‘I’m off to the Ritz.’
Bring Me an Ox
‘Now this,’ said the Goddess Freyja, surveying her large suite at the Ritz, the scurrying concierges, the room service and four poster bed, the stripy mauve and green velvet sofas and tapestried chairs, the floor-to-ceiling windows with views over Green Park, the blue-marbled fireplace, the festooned floral curtains and Turkish carpets, the crystal chandeliers and silver candelabra, ‘is more like it. Still far too small, but it will do at a pinch.’ She reached over and grabbed a handful of chocolates from the overflowing cut-glass bowl on the lacquered black side table, and stuffed them in her mouth.
Thor picked up the chilled champagne bottle and downed it in one gulp.
‘What’s this stuff called again?’ he asked.
‘Champagne,’ said Freya.
‘We wasted our time drinking mead,’ said Thor. He picked up the phone.
‘Room service?’ barked Thor. ‘Bring me an ox. Roasted rare. Yes, you heard me, a whole ox. And more champagne.’
‘Go easy on the drinking,’ said Veronica. ‘You have a football try-out coming up.’
‘What’s football?’ asked Thor.
Oh wow. Just in time Veronica remembered her deep breathing exercises.
‘Google it,’ she said.
‘Freya!’ bellowed Thor. ‘What’s Google? And what’s football?’
‘I’ll show you,’ said Freya, sitting down in an ornate gold chair at one of the suite’s laptops. She was overwhelmed by the luxury all around her. The thick linen sheets on her enormous bed. A marble bathroom bigger than her bedroom. A wardrobe filled with stylish new clothes. I could get used to all this, she thought, admiring her new Stella McCartney dress. You could forget all about frost giants living in rooms like these.
‘Ah, the magic tablet,’ said Thor, beaming. He studied the screen. ‘So I grab the ball, run, and kill anyone who gets in my way?’
‘No,’ yelped Freya. ‘No killing.’
Thor frowned. ‘But that’s obviously the best way of keeping the ball.’
Freya looked at Veronica. ‘I really don’t know—’ she faltered.
‘Not to worry,’ said Veronica, ‘we’ll get a football coach round for a few lessons this afternoon. My assistant will sort it.’
The Goddess stretched out on the green damask chaise longue and nibbled on more sweets.
‘Lay off the chocolates, please,’ said Veronica. ‘We’re taking you round to the top modelling agencies and I’m worried about your hips.’
Freyja looked at Veronica and shoved another handful of chocolates into her mouth.
Her funeral, thought Veronica. She glanced at her list.
‘Woden, you’ll be auditioning for FAME: Make Me a Star so you need to prepare a few songs. The vocal coach will be here in an hour.’
Woden surveyed Freyja’s suite.
‘Why,’ he demanded, ‘does she have a fruit bowl in her suite and I don’t? Freya. RING THE CONCIERGE.’
Well well, thought Veronica, her new charges had certainly discovered their inner divas way ahead of schedule.
She sighed.
Never mind. At least they can pay for it, she thought.
Where Did You Find This Guy?
Tottenham Hotspur’s coach Harry Cray and scout Des Osmond watched the prospective footballer as he raced down the pitch faster than any player they’d ever seen, eluding all attempts to snatch the ball. Harry gasped as the ball sailed into the net, straight past the flailing goalkeeper.
‘Where did you find this guy, Des?’ he gasped. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. He makes our boys look like … amateurs. My Gods, he’s not even out of breath after running like that. He tackles like a tank. He’s the whole package – looks, fitness, agility. Except for looks. Must have had a troll for a father. But who cares when he can run like that.’ He shook his head.
Des tapped his nose. ‘Tip-off. I’ve got my sources.’
‘Has anyone else seen him?’
‘Nope. Spurs is the first.’
‘And he’s Icelandic? Do they even play footie in Iceland? Ha. Ha. Joke. I’ve never seen him in their premier league.’
Des shrugged. ‘He seems to have sprung out of nowhere. He’s never played professionally before. He’s a bit sketchy on the rules, it’s true, but I’ve never seen such raw talent and such strength. Maybe it’s all the herring they eat there.’
‘And his name really is Thor Bluetooth?’
The scout nodded.
‘Who’s his agent? I want him signed TODAY before anyone else sees him.’
Des picked up his mobile and dialled.
Beautiful Beyond the Dreams of Mortals
‘Knock ’em dead, honey,’ said Veronica, as the black cab pulled up outside a freshly painted building in Floral Street, Covent Garden.
The Goddess looked at Veronica, and her extraordinary cat eyes gleamed.
‘She doesn’t mean that literally,’ said Freya, wincing.
Gods, you could not be too careful with these clients, thought Veronica. Note to self: watch the jokes.
‘Just remember what I told you: you are here to impress these people,’ said Veronica. ‘If they don’t like you, that’s it.’
The Goddess shrugged.
‘Everyone loves me,’ she said. ‘It’s the story of my life.’
Veronica watched as Freyja tottered through the snow into Starburst Models, trying not to fall over in her high heels. Freyja had wanted to wear some five-inch studded gold stilettos, but Veronica was firm that until the flaxen-haired Goddess practised walking in high heels, the lower the better. Freya trailed unhappily after her. The Gods had refused to relent: she needed to be with one of them at all times, and Thor was practising on the football pitch and Woden was singing and didn’t want to be disturbed.
Veronica and the model booker exchanged big kisses. Freya tried to make herself invisible but the booker didn’t appear to even see her.
‘This,’ said Veronica, ‘is my new discovery, Freyja. Don’t take too long saying yes, Pierre.’
The skinny booker with floppy brown hair and thick-rimmed black geek glasses eyed Freyja critically. ‘Well, you’re tall, that’s great, and the hair’s lovely, and your face is beyond gorgeous, but honey, those hips.’
Freyja stiffened, and drew herself to her full height. She towered over Pierre, who took a step back.
‘Don’t you “honey” me,’ said Freyja. ‘I am the Goddess of Beauty, and you’re saying I need to … lose weight.’ She fixed him with her glittering agate eyes. The man blinked.
‘No, no, of course not …’ he stuttered.
‘… and that my hips are too big?’ Freyja’s husky voice dropped to a menacing hum. ‘My body is strong and powerful. I am beautiful beyond the dreams of mortals.’
‘You must have mis-heard me,’ said Pierre. ‘What was I saying? You’re gorgeous. Hips are in this year. Let me just take a few photos. If you could stand by that backdrop.’
Freyja wobbled and tripped.
‘Walking can be fixed,’ said the booker. ‘We’ll work on it. You’ll be strutting down that catwalk and on the cover of Vogue in no time.’
‘What’s Vogue?’ said Freyja. ‘And why would I walk on cats?’
‘You kidding me?’
‘Freyja’s had a very sheltered upbringing abroad,’ explained Veronica. ‘You know, one of those communities like the Amish,’ she added. ‘No electricity, no computers, no anything modern.’
‘Let’s get to work and grab some pics,’ said Pierre, taking a few fast snaps.
Freya watched as the Goddess stood still for a moment and gazed at Pierre. Then her presence began to glow and she scorched the room with her glorious beauty.
Pierre put down the camera.
‘Wow. Looks great,’ he said, awestruck. ‘Wow.’ He took a few more pictures.
The Goddess scowled.
‘What are you pointing at me?’
Pierre looked at Freyja as if she were a lunatic.
‘Does she think I’m snatching her soul or something?’
‘She’s never seen a camera before,’ said Freya. ‘They’re forbidden in her community.’
‘What, I am supposed to stand here while he clicks at me?’ said the Goddess. ‘That’s how I will regain my fame?’
‘Yes,’ said Veronica.
‘Ah, I understand,’ said Freyja. ‘Instead of carving a statue for one of my temples, he is drawing my picture in the click silver box.’
‘Something like that,’ said Freya.
‘Whatever it takes,’ said the Goddess, yawning.
Oh, to Be Famous
Freya stared at the thousands of gaudily dressed, shivering fame-seekers slowly snaking their way round an endless maze of snow-covered crash barriers set up outside the vast O2 arena. There were food trucks, portable loos and patio heaters dotted about, while people with megaphones paraded up and down, organising, prodding, numbering and interviewing.
And that was just the contestants. Thousands more queued to be in the audience, to watch the fame hopefuls strut and fret for their moment in the spotlight.
Woden, in his tunic and hairy cloak and battered blue hat and mad staring eye, fitted right in with all the other flamboyantly dressed wannabes, thought Freya. Veronica’s stylist had decided Woden’s ‘look’ was so original he should keep it for the Fame auditions.
Snot, his bodyguard, stood rigidly by his side. Veronica had insisted he could not wear his bear skins, but Snot said he’d kill anyone who tried to remove them, so there he was, scowling and snarling at anyone who approached. Several photographers had already taken his picture but Veronica, shuddering, had refused to let him be interviewed.
Woden surveyed the hordes, all desperately hoping that today fate would be gracious to them and grant them their dreams.
‘They look like frozen cattle,’ he said. ‘Waiting to be slaughtered.’
‘Exactly what they are,’ said Veronica briskly. ‘Luckily not our fate.’
She guided them to a special desk set apart from the others and spoke a few words to the organiser, swaddled in a heavy coat and scarf, who stuck a number on Woden’s tunic, a yellow rubber band round his wrist, then pointed them to a door marked Private. The organiser looked enquiringly at Freya. For a mad moment she wanted to holler, ‘Me too. Let me have my chance to be famous. Give me a number and let me on that stage!’
Oh, to be famous. Who cared if it was for singing, dancing – now that would be something, given she had as many left feet as Sleipnir – or just famous for being famous? Wouldn’t that serve all the mean kids right when she swanned back to school with her entourage, to present a prize or sing a song, basking in the admiration and the cheers, their faces grotesque with gratitude because she’d brushed past them and somehow they’d become more real because they’d breathed the same air as her for a few seconds and touched her coat.
And of course her big fancy houses, and chauffeur-driven cars, and designer clothes and famous friends wouldn’t change her a bit. She’d keep it real. She’d still eat fish and chips on the sofa in her multi-million-pound mansion. ‘Isn’t it amazing how down to Midgard Freya is,’ her fans would marvel, ‘considering just how very famous and fabulous she is?’
‘Well, you know,’ Freya would explain modestly in her umpteenth interview, ‘I’m just so grateful to all my fans, so proud to be where I am, so humble to be where I am, so proud and yet so humble to be …’ Oh well, she’d have loads of time to work on her soundbites later.
And why the Hel not? Wasn’t it true that all you needed was a dream you wanted badly enough for it to come true?
‘Freya,’ snapped Veronica. ‘We’re waiting for you.’
Freya’s fame reverie went ‘pop’ and she blushed. How long had she been standing there daydreaming? She followed Woden and Veronica through the magic door. Snot also followed, grimacing.
They entered the vast backstage area of the chilly arena. Everywhere she looked people were singing, dancing, twirling, juggling, texting and chattering. TV monitors let them watch what was happening out front. The place stank of sweat and hairspray and the floor was sticky.
Freya recoiled at the avalanche of weeping and wailing as the spangled rejects hurtled off the stage into the arms of their sobbing friends and family while others high-fived and whooped. It was like being initiated into a grisly secret club of mourners and gladiators.
‘This is where the bards gather, to compete for glittering fame and life everlasting?’ Woden’s lip curled. ‘The noise is worse than five hundred drunken warriors clattering their spears and shields.’
‘Take a seat over there,’ said one of the many clipboard-holding assistants, all wearing radio mikes and burgundy T-shirts with I’LL MAKE YOU A STAR embossed on them. He waved to a roped-off area of rows and rows of chairs and tables, packed with nervous contestants and their fluttering families.
‘There?’ said Woden. ‘With the cattle?’
‘You haven’t made it yet, mate,’ said the assistant. ‘Plenty of time to make diva demands later.’
Wisps of conversation drifted over as they took their seats.
‘… Always wanted to be a star …’
‘I’m just following my dream …’
‘I was born to do this, I can’t …’
‘When I’m famous I’ll …’
‘My nan says …’
‘Just be glad you’ve been fast-tracked,’ said Veronica. ‘You could be waiting in the pens outside for 12 hours. This way you’ll go straight in front of the judges.’
‘And in front of the world on the magic box?’ asked Woden.
‘Of course. I’m going out on a limb here for you; I told the producers you were marvellous. They are having you on sight unseen so don’t let me down.’
Woden glared at her.
‘Now remember, the producers will want to know all about your background, hear your family history, so ladle on the sob stories, okay?’ said Veronica. ‘I told them a bit about you, not everything of course, and they were very interested.’
Probably for the weirdo crazy nutter group, thought Freya. The loonies they put in front of the audience so everyone could laugh at them. She shuddered. Oh Gods what was Woden going to do? Recite his poetry? He’d be laughed out of the arena.
The judges will insult him, and then he’ll kill them, thought Freya.
This was not a cheerful scenario.
She looked at him to see if he’d concealed his spear under his cloak. But knowing Woden he could probably still kill pe
ople with a look or a charm.
And what would he perform? Would he sing, dance, do magic, raise the dead? Gods, that would be quite a scene, the corpse invasion of the Fame set, the audience screaming and struggling to escape while the zombies staggered about …
Woden had refused to rehearse or even to discuss what he was planning to perform in front of the judges.
‘I sacrificed my eye for wisdom. I have summoned the dead to gain knowledge. I am Lord of Inspiration. I will do what I need to do to regain my fame,’ he’d said.
Most likely it would be poetry, thought Freya. But if it were anything like the awful poetry Roskva and Alfi had recited to her on their quest to restore the Gods to youth, then he was in trouble.
‘So what’s your sob story?’ asked Jay the researcher, coming up to Woden.
‘My sob story?’ said Woden. He stood up, towering over the skinny young man, who took a nervous step back.
‘Yeah, the story that will make the fans care about ya,’ said the researcher, hopping from one red plimsolled foot to the other. ‘Dead granny? Divorced parents? Brother with incurable disease?’
‘One of my sons killed the other,’ said Woden. ‘My blind son, Hod, killed my second son, Baldr.’
The researcher stared. ‘So, you have a blind son, and he killed his brother,’ said Jay. ‘That’s heavy. What, like on purpose?’ he gasped.
‘An accident,’ said Woden.
‘Gods,’ said the researcher, writing furiously. ‘So, were they like, little kids when this happened?’
‘No,’ said Woden.
‘Wow,’ said the researcher. ‘I like it. Really Eddic.’ He went off to the next table to interview a scary-looking woman with teased blue hair, wearing a bathrobe and high-heeled shoes.
‘Great story about the kids,’ said Veronica. ‘The producers will love that. Make sure you dedicate your performance to the dead one.’
*
Oh Gods, thought Freya. How much longer would they have to wait? It felt like she’d spent her whole life in this place.
Woden stared off into the distance. He looked like a warrior who had found himself trapped in a sewing circle.
The Lost Gods Page 10