Death Of A Diva

by Derek Farrell

  “Which is?”

  “That I was a coward.”

  “You mean you should have fought for him?”

  “God, no!” I laughed and swigged the voddie (which, once you’d had a few mouthfuls and overcome the odd numbness it engendered in the tongue, was perfectly palatable). “He was never mine in the first place. I regret not confronting him earlier; I’m sorry I left it so many years without sitting him down, telling him exactly how I felt and demanding to know how he felt. But I was afraid; of showing my hand. Of hearing him say that he didn’t want what I wanted. So...”

  “You let it slide.”

  I nodded and, at that point, Dash popped his blond head round the door to the bar. “Message from Ali,” he said, nodding once at Dom and addressing me, “says you might wanna get your arse upstairs. Said something about The Fan Club overstaying his welcome. She said you’d understand.”

  I drained the glass, rinsed it, put it back on the shelf and heaved a heavy sigh.

  “Sorry,” I said to a bemused Dominic and headed out of the bar, wondering whether Lyra’s number one fan and chief stalker had come tooled up; whether I’d be able to eject him by myself alone, or whether I’d face the embarrassment of having to ask the beautiful and heartbreakingly sad boy with the golden eyes to give me a hand dumping his literary rival on the pavement.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the time I got up the stairs, Leon was already out on the landing being held back – as he yelled at a closed door – by a rather flushed Morgan Foster.

  From the other side of the door I could hear Lyra’s voice screeching something about people taking liberties, a diabolical invasion of her privacy and the fact that there was no Perrier left.

  Leon glanced at me and, sensing I guess, that his time was nearing an end, redoubled his shouting at the door.

  “Right from the beginning, Lyra,” he called, “I know all there is to know. I could do a better job. You know there’s only me, Lyra. Only me.”

  The door opened and a hand appeared, holding Leon’s bouquet. The flowers hovered, for a moment, then, with a flick of the wrist, arced across the landing and landed between Morgan and Leon. Morgan released Leon momentarily to swoop down and grab them.

  Leon raised his head, his gaze shifting from the discarded tribute to the door. A sheen of spittle glinted on his lips and a shine of hatred flared in his eyes.

  And then the fight went out of him and, sensing his moment, Foster hustled the deflated figure past me and down the stairs.

  I stood alone on the landing, listening to the receding calls of Leon Baker and wondered what on earth I was doing in this place.

  And then, remembering the look on Robert’s face when I’d discovered the window cleaner polishing his pane, I took another deep breath, stepped forward and knocked on the dressing room door. I had a star, regardless of how combustible it might be. I had bar staff. I had booze and I had a full house promised (though all of them seemed to be comped).

  “Lyra,” I called, “Ms Day?”

  A moment passed and then the door was opened. Liz Britton stood guardedly in the gap, her eyes flicking over my shoulder.

  “He’s gone,” I said and she stepped aside, her hippy beads rattling against each other.

  Lyra was sat at the dressing table, which had now been spread with cosmetics; scented candles; a selection of inspirational photos featuring, it seemed, everyone from Florrie Ford to Oswald Mosely; and a pin-stuck doll that, bizarrely, seemed to have Dame Shirley Bassey’s face stuck to it.

  She glanced at me in the mirror, seemed ready to go into another round of screaming, recognised me and straightened up.

  “Some fucking pit you’re running,” she growled at me. “You let any freak walk in here so long as they’ve got flowers.”

  Liz bustled forward. “We need to get a move on; I see seven nails in need of manicuring.”

  Lyra sighed and the mask of fury vanished. “The show goes on,” she muttered.

  “S’right,” Liz confirmed, pulling a stool in front of Ms Day. “The show goes on.”

  “Danny,” Lyra fixed me with a smile and favoured me with an instruction that seriously made me question her grip on sanity: “can you let sound know I’ll be ready for a check in half an hour?”

  I looked at Liz Britton, who gave me a look that seemed to say humour her, picked up her emery board and advanced on the diva.

  “Um,” I said once more, stepped out of the room, closed the door, walked to the end of the hallway and froze.

  Sound check? I wondered how to tell this diva – who had packed out the Albert Hall, emptied out every other venue on the Strip when she played Caesars, who is still available on DVD in Supermarkets singing ‘Somewhere’ with Pavarotti at the amphitheatre in Taormina in 1993 – that the sound check would consist of coughing into the mike and, if you can hear the cough, checking.

  And then my phone rang and, without glancing at the display, I accepted the call and put the thing to my ear. “Yup,” I said – I mean how much worse could a phone call make my situation?

  “Hi Daniel,” said Robert, in that tone he always used when he wanted to appear both chummy and landed gentry.

  Something in my stomach clenched and I actually had to reach out and grab the wall for support. After months of silence, Robert was on the phone and Caz – my guaranteed wall of He’s no good for you was nowhere to be seen. I managed to croak out his name, which allowed him to respond:

  “It’s been a while”

  “A while?”

  “Listen: I just wanted to check how you were doing? You need anything? You know...”

  Moments passed. I listened to the ongoing work of the ASBO twins and heard the sound of a passing fire engine. I swear I became aware of the noise of Lyra Day’s nails being ground to dust and then I heard a voice speaking and realised it was my own:

  “Doing? Oh, you know, I’m doing alright. OK, I suppose.”

  “Your job,” he interjected, but there was no way I was letting him get into the conversation.

  “Got a new job,” I shot back, “running a bar. Opens tonight, actually. Got Lyra Day as an opener. I’m doing OK, Robert,” I let go of the wall and stood upright. “What d’you want?”

  “A pub? Oh Danny,” Robert’s voice – so avuncular initially– had reverted to the standard paternal tone he’d used with me for so long: cheery, but slightly disappointed. “Well, that sounds... super...”

  “Yes,” I interrupted, seeing the window cleaner’s green eyes staring at me across space, “how’s Andy?”

  “Andy?” Robert stopped dead, confused for a second and then recovered himself. “He’s fine. He sends his love.”

  Be better if he could send the contents of my wardrobe, I wanted to say, but I was too shocked: Andy, it seemed, was still around. And Robert, more to the point, seemed to think that sending the fucker’s best wishes to me was acceptable.

  “Look, Robert: no offence, but I’m a little busy right now,” I said, summoning up a pair of balls from god-knows-where. “What do you want?”

  “Want?”

  “Require; request; what are your intentions?” I pressed, conscious of some new movement at the end of the stairs.

  “I wanted to say hello,” he said in his best Hugh Grant.

  “You’ve said it,” I replied as a veritable cloud of white – lilies, roses and delphinium – ascended the stairs in the grip of a still frowning Ali.

  “There’s still no one stocking shelves,” she grumbled, “and if I wanted a job as a florist’s delivery girl, I’d have taken one.”

  “Wait,” I stopped her, hunted through the plastic wrapping and discovered the little envelope containing the card.

  “Why wait?” Robert was saying. “Tomorrow night would be good. Just one or two things...”

  “What?” I jerked myself back to Robert. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Roof Bar,” he said referencing one of his favourite bars in Soho.

&n
bsp; “Wait, Robert, what–” I glanced at the card.

  Lyra, it read, I hope the show displays you as you truly are. And I hope…

  “So,” Robert said, “all sorted. See you then.”

  “Wait, Robert,” I stuffed the card into the bouquet, waved Ali on and returned to the phone, but it was too late; my bastard ex had arranged an assignation with me and I had had no chance to, as I had repeatedly been instructed, stand my ground.

  And, to make matters worse, as I was about to discover, I had just let a death threat past me and into Lyra’s dressing room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Morgan, having disposed of Leon, had followed Ali up the stairs and on into the dressing room. He was on the threshold when Lyra, her hands in the midst of a French polish, received the tiny white card I’d just reviewed, read the greeting I’d just read, turned the card over and, as I subsequently discovered, found that the greeting that had started out as “Lyra, I hope the show displays you as you truly are. And I hope” finished up as “that you die screaming you worthless fucking whore.” To clarify their intent, the sender had completed their handwritten greeting by scrawling the words “Die Bitch!” across the bottom of the card.

  Really, in hindsight, one could have forgiven Lyra Day for going totally mental.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Except she didn’t.

  I stood in the dressing room, awaiting the inevitable and Lyra, instead of screaming, turned on Morgan.

  “Where the hell have you been? And why are you so red? Have you taken your pills? Where’s bloody Dominic? Have you seen this?”

  Morgan, sweating profusely and gasping slightly, read the card and put a hand on his chest, at which Lyra leapt from her seat and lurched at him.

  “Did you take your pills?” She demanded again.

  “I took them.”

  “Well where were you? I could have been attacked right here.”

  Morgan raised a hand, nodded and looked at me. “Do we need the police here?” he asked.

  “The police?” Lyra, Liz and I chorused.

  “This is a threat.”

  “This is a confirmation,” Lyra said triumphantly.

  Liz, Morgan and I stared at each other, as Lyra lifted a half-manicured hand and began to do her own eye makeup.

  “Confirmation?”

  “That I can still attract reaction,” she smiled, widening her eyes.

  I wondered whether I’ve written a letter to Daddy would be her opening number, looked at Morgan Foster, who still clutched his chest; at Liz, who still clutched her emery board; and at Lyra Day, who still clutched the fantasy that she was ever likely to be a major star again; and left the room.

  Downstairs, Ali cornered me.

  “Look, Danny, you’re a nice bloke–”

  “Ooh, is this a private party?” Caroline trilled, wafting in from the bar and throwing a slightly protective arm around my shoulder.

  Ali paused and I saw her jaw clench. “No offense, but I have no other way to say this: do you two know what the hell you’re doing? I mean, we haven’t even got a float.”

  “A float?” Caz dived into her ever present and voluminous handbag, shot a slightly antagonistic glance at Ali and waved a fistful of notes at the barmaid. “Coins in bags on the bar – unless Mouret or Jenny’s had ‘em.”

  The notes were banded into bunches and Caz handed each over with a tinge of regret.

  “Oh, and,” she said, producing from her back pocket a pristine fifty pound note, “in case anyone feels generous,” and she planted a long, lingering kiss on the note. “Now fly, my pretty and fill your till, or whatever needs doing.”

  Ali accepted the cash, shot Caz a filthy look and headed on in to the bar.

  “You know,” my friend mused, “I don’t think she likes me too much.”

  Morgan Foster descended the stairs. “Oh,” he looked surprised and glanced towards the door to the bar, from where we could hear the sounds of Jenny and Dominic chatting, “is there a back door?”

  “That way,” Caz advised nodding to the end of the hallway, beyond where the sound of the twins hurling bottles into baskets whilst singing along to some dreadful pop tune emanated.

  “Thanks,” he said and, as he headed out the back door, I heard the front door slam shut. Caz and I headed into the empty bar, Jenny and Dominic having just left.

  Ali stood behind the bar, counting coins into the till and nodded at the door. “The princess just left. Said to tell you she’s taken the boyfriend to the caff, if you wanted to join them for breakfast.”

  “Thanks,” Caz said, griping my arm, pulling me across to a table at the far end of the bar and plonking me on a stool far enough away from Ali to be out of her hearing.

  Caz sat opposite me, paused, pulled her stool closer to mine, leaned forward and, in a conspiratorial whisper, said “No offence, dear heart and sorry to sound like the bar Frau over there, but do you know what the hell you’re doing?”

  I gave her the look. The one that said I’m disappointed in your lack of faith in me, your lack of vision, then dropped my head in my hands and moaned.

  “I have no fucking idea what I’m doing, Caz. But I have to do something and, really, what am I suited for? I’m a mailroom boy in an email age. I’m a gay housewife with neither a house nor a husband to clean or cook for. I’m thirty-five – which is, like, a hundred, in gay years – and the few measly pennies I had to my name are invested in the stock for this place. Even if tonight works, I’ve got no guarantee that I’ll be able to pay the electricity bill in six weeks. So here I am...”

  Caz reached out, took my hands in hers and looked into my eyes. When she spoke, I knew that everything would be alright. “There’s always prostitution,” she said.

  “It’s an option,” I conceded, “what with my boyish good looks.”

  “And killer baby blues,” she added.

  “And the blues,” I agreed. “Do many men hire escorts because of the size of their eyes?”

  “Takes all sorts,” Caz answered, at which point two things happened: Ali let out a very brief, very loud and very high pitched fart, and heaved a loud and contented sigh, and Liz Britton rushed into the bar, causing a startled Ali to drop a glass she’d been about to put onto the shelf.

  The glass hit the floor, did not break and rolled harmlessly to one side. Ali tutted at Liz, who shoved her fist into her mouth, emitted the sort of sob I imagine was Theda Barra’s bread and butter, pushed past a now bemused Ali and rushed from the bar.

  I looked at Caz, who looked at me and we both, in turn, looked at Ali, who gazed back at us with puzzlement in her eyes; and just when the whole thing was getting a bit too French Art House movie, we realised that, standing in the door from which Liz had erupted was a fully made up Lyra Day, a huge Afro wig extending about three feet above and around her head.

  Three pairs of eyes turned to the singer who raised an immaculately drawn eyebrow, said – in a voice dripping with little girl innocence – “Was it something I said,” turned smartly on her kitten-heeled mules and vanished from sight.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Caz heaved a sigh, rolled her eyes and went off to check on La Diva Day, returning a moment later to inform Ali and I (who were, by then, stocking the shelves with the bottled beers and filling the finger bowls with wasabi cashews) that “Ms Day requests she be left alone to rest for half an hour or so.”

  Eventually, Morgan, Dominic and Jenny returned en masse. Caz asked if Liz was with them. Morgan received the news of the weird and slightly dramatic scene we’d witnessed, seemed to cave slightly in on himself, muttered, “Oh dear sweet shitting Jesus,” turned on his heels and, like a latter day Rochester, went in search of his mad wife’s makeup and hair person.

  “We should check if she’s OK,” said Dominic.

  “Don’t worry,” Jenny answered, hugging him closer and snuggling into him. “Dad’ll find her.”

  “Not Liz; your mum.”

  “Stepmum,” Jenny re
plied, in a tone that might have frozen ice. “Lyra will be fine.”

  “Jenny, this is a huge thing for her. It’s the first time she’s sung live since – well, since the breakdown. She’s gonna be terrified.”

  Jenny snorted. “Dom: anthrax doesn’t scare that bitch.”

  Dominic shrugged her away. “Jesus, Jen. She’s not a monster.”

  Jenny’s jaw dropped. She shut her mouth. Her jaw dropped again. “Oh no,” she said. “Not you too.”

  “Not me what?”

  “Not another one who’s buying the poor little Lyra schtick. Listen, Dom: I’ve spent years with that woman – and I can tell you…”

  “Champagne!” Cried Caz, clapping her hands and looking at Ali, who let rip with another high pitched honker, muttered something about needing to check on the paper in the ladies and lumbered off.

  “Champagne!” Caz announced again and, realising that mere repetition of the word was likely to have diminishing returns, she brandished from one of the fridges a magnum of bubbly. “What?” She replied to my raised eyebrow, “I’ve prepaid.”

  And I sort of had to agree that she had. “Glasses,” I said and began scouting the champagne flutes, as Dominic excused himself, headed off to the gents and, after a brief moment of tension, Jenny relaxed and went to find a bucket big enough to hold the bottle and enough ice to keep it cold.

  At which point the pub door swung open and a short man with a shaven head and the heaviest unibrow I’d ever seen stepped into the pub, shrugged his shoulders, bobbed his head like an irritated pigeon, shoved his fat little mitts into the nasty leather-look blouson that was straining against his pot belly, sniffed and cast a pair of dark and beady eyes around the room.