Lost In The Starlight

by Kiki Archer

  Looking through the open double doors towards the large lounge, Honey spotted a set of pyjamas folded neatly on the arm of the sofa. She smiled. Sofia did care. She’d often come home to find soft clothes, warm jumpers, bottles of water and pieces of fruit scattered around four or five locations where her godmother had anticipated she might finally lay her head, always insisting she eat, drink and get warm before sleeping. Honey unzipped her dress and padded into the lounge. The curtains were open and the winter night was black beyond, but she didn’t question her privacy nor feel the need to seal herself in. The Alderley was secure, and the glow from the lamps on her driveway ran all the way up to the well-lit private road, just a short distance from the estate’s hub with spa, bar, restaurant and all the other over-the-top amenities.

  Pulling on her pyjamas she settled on the sofa, clicking the projector to see if she could remember how to work the home cinema system. She couldn’t, so she lifted the arm of the sofa instead, searching for a remote that might possibly find BBC One. There were seven in total, one dimming the lights, one starting the cleaning system, but none changing the channel, so she opted for the iPad instead, disregarded along with a selection of other gadgets and gizmos, mostly gifts from her mother, and relegated to the compartment in the arm of the sofa, waiting for the day she’d finally become technologically capable.

  Honey clicked the home button, pleased to see it had charge. The iPlayer app was easy enough to find, but the list of on-demand programmes just didn’t appeal. EastEnders, Match of the Day, Simply Nigella and This Year’s Most Awkward Celebrity Moments. She studied the jpeg on the site. The image was of her. She cringed. They would no doubt be making a big hoo-ha about that damned misheard interview question on that American chat show at the start of the year. Liza had convinced her to take part, claiming people wanted an insight into the “sweetness behind the songs.”

  Interviews where she had to promote her albums or talent shows were just about bearable, but the idea of talking about herself, who she was and where she came from, never felt right. She avoided them at all possible costs. But this time she’d been persuaded. So she did it, and the questions were coming thick and fast, and she thought they’d said “math”. “What are your thoughts on math?” She’d always liked maths. Being home-schooled had been tricky – all the shows and musicals getting in the way. But maths was the one subject she could do on the job. Quick answers. No need for textbooks or tools. She was good at it. It made sense. So she answered wholeheartedly with enthusiasm and flair. “I love it. I’ve always loved it. It makes sense to me. I started when I was about seven and it’s something I really enjoy. I’m confident with it.”

  Meth. They were asking about meth.

  Liza had tried to show her the gifs that followed and an “I Love Meth” Honey Diamond beat-box remix that had done the rounds, all of which apparently made her even more loveable and endearing and were most likely the cause of the huge jump in merchandise and album sales at the start of the year.

  Honey stared at the link. What was the obsession with celebrity? She was normal. The same as everyone else. Yes, she had a talent, but so did the primary school teacher nurturing a class, or the doctor saving lives. Why weren’t these people hailed as heroes? All she could do was sing. Why did people get so obsessed? She thought back to the tringing notifications at The Muse. Gossip spreading like wildfire. Who were these people and why weren’t they living lives of their own?

  She brought up the Google search box and started to type. She hadn’t even got to the second S when the SlebSecrets site was suggested. The pink and purple header quickly filled the screen and the shushing finger flashed like a neon sign luring the punters in. The news of her Hollywood role and the ridiculous presumption about Liza had been relegated to second position. In the top spot it now asked: Which engaged sleaze is hooking up with online fans? This beefed-up reality star needs to stop pulling the wool over his fiancée’s eyes. Honey thought for a moment. She never had time to sit and watch shows but televisions were always playing in green rooms and she was sure she’d seen a billboard outside the recording studio advertising some sort of farming version of I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here! What was it called? Famous Farmers? Fame-Hungry Farmers? And who was that muscly man holding a sheep on the cover of Heat this week? She never bought or read the gossip magazines, but they were always around, always visible. Think, Honey, think. She gasped at herself, suddenly realising the pull of the scandal. Maybe this was the draw: the vicarious excitement of the exploits of others.

  Hitting the archives button she entered the search word “gemstone”.

  - Which national gemstone treasures her female PA more than she’d like us to believe?

  - With another bearded beard when will our sparkling gemstone realise the irony of her choices?

  - Whose eyes were sparkling like a precious gemstone during Shanice and St Lourdes lesbian kiss at the Grammys?

  - Which gemstone uses beards to appease her mother Lucy in the sky?

  Honey stopped reading. What in god’s name was this talk about beards? Yes, she could understand the gossip about Liza, clearly a lesbian and always pictured right by her side, but what was this chat about facial hair? She opened Google and asked the question: What is a bearded beard? Result after result mentioned hipsters, grooming and glitter beards – apparently the must-have accessory this Christmas – but she stopped at the entry from Urban Dictionary. Beard: Any opposite-sex escort taken to an event in an effort to give a homosexual person the appearance of being on a date with a person of the opposite sex.

  Honey laughed. She’d been escorted to the Bond premiere by Tommy Jacobs. Lead actor, handsome, successful, bearded and gay. Everyone knew he was gay. It was the first thing he’d done years ago when they’d met at a charity do: introduced his then boyfriend. He was gay. Blatantly so.

  She nodded, ready to Google the words: Tommy Jacobs gay. But as soon as she’d input his name, her name automatically appeared. Tommy Jacobs and Honey Diamond. She clicked on it and scanned down the links. Most were from news sites proclaiming with delight the fact they’d gone public. Romance blossoms. Love is in the air. Year-long secret relationship finally revealed. Honey laughed even louder. How utterly ridiculous. They weren’t dating. It wasn’t even a date. It was two professional people appearing together at a movie premiere. It was work. It was, as Liza put it, maintaining her profile and supporting events worth supporting. And it was fun. With a friend.

  Honey tapped back to the SlebSecrets sites and typed: Tommy Jacobs. Nothing came up. She thought carefully and smiled to herself, searching instead for: Cream Cracker.

  - The cream cracker might have bling on his arm, but we know the story’s just cheesy.

  - His love of cream crackers is out there, so why won’t he tell us he’s gay?

  - He’s a cream cracker of an actor, so why won’t this gay man come out?

  Honey clicked on the most recent entry. She was clearly the bling they were referring to. The story went on to ask if the two of them were ever shaken or stirred by the speculation surrounding their sexuality. Honey smiled to herself. It was actually all rather clever, but the idea of any mainstream sexuality speculation was just nonsense. Never once had she been asked about boyfriends or girlfriends, or dating, or love life, and rightly so. She was there to talk about music, not what went on in her bedroom. No one had the right to ask about that.

  She tapped the words into Google: Honey Diamond sexuality speculation. Again, page after page of stories flashed up declaring male celeb after male celeb as the new found love of her life. She scanned through the pictures, finding it rather amusing that most were indeed sporting beards. It didn’t have any meaning: it was simply a trend, a fashion. She clicked five pages in: more of the same. People weren’t speculating about her sexuality. People were speculating about which hero would claim her heart. It appeared that her mother, for once, might be right: people just wanted her to be happy. Well she was. She was living th
e dream.

  Honey dropped her head against the cushions and sighed. Wasn’t she? Wasn’t this all she’d ever really wanted? To follow in the family footsteps? To share music? To be known? She thought carefully, unable to remember a time when she hadn’t been known. This was her life and she’d learnt how to live it in the best way she could, which included a blanket ban on technology. Liza would inform her of anything essential, any campaigns that had performed particularly well, but there was no need to re-read or re-watch the interviews. She’d been there; she knew how they’d gone. The same with performances: she’d lived them already. Life was short; it was about progress, looking forward, moving on; not obsessing over every past action or critiquing every past thought and word.

  She’d decided to turn off the iPad and head to the music room instead to write lyrics, but that’s when she saw it, the result at the bottom of the Google page: The Lesbian ChatBoard. I know Honey’s a lesbian. I guessed when I sha**ed her. (16 members 1207 Guests 28 anonymous) Active: SneezyFlavor, LaterBlooms… Honey hit the link. A message board flashed up entitled The Lesbian ChatBoard. Hot lezzie gossip and drama. She had been taken to page 317 of 2872 and the message from Unregistered claiming to have sha**ed her. Looking up at the thread title, Honey gasped. What is Honey Diamond’s Sexual Orientation Part 4. She clicked onto page 2872 and scrolled to the last message, posted exactly one minute ago. Another “Unregistered” user was commenting on a picture she recognised had been taken that afternoon as she was leaving The Muse, her mother insisting they use the front entrance to get into their cars. Ha, you’re right, it said, she even dresses like the only lesbian Disney Princess. A new message flashed up in real time. Unregistered: She needs to use Merida’s bow and go shoot herself some livestock #pale #thin #GetSomeMeatInsideYouGirl

  The reply was instant. Unregistered: She doesn’t like meat ha ha, that’s the whole point #HoneyDiamondDoesDykes

  Honey remembered her mother mentioning a hashtag at lunch. What was it? Horny Honey’s Double Dipping Dilemma or something equally ridiculous? She scrolled up, reading message after message dissecting everything from her look to her seemingly lively lesbian love life. Where in god’s name were these people getting it from? Feeling the heat rising inside she typed quickly, her message appearing as Unregistered: Who’s writing these things?

  The replies came thick and fast ranging from Go away newbie to Hello Honey. Honey bit the inside of her lip, panicked that she’d somehow left her name, or a link to her iPad, or… she stopped as the bickering continued among the users, fighting about whether celebrities would ever visit the site or not. She typed again. Unregistered: Isn’t her private life private?

  The flurry of replies included:

  - Troll.

  - Get lost and go read the thread from the start.

  - Take that pole out your arse, she’s a celeb, she sold out, she owes us the truth.

  - Hello PR slut.

  - Not now that SlebSecrets site is spilling her story.

  Honey typed quickly. Unregistered: Who’s behind SlebSecrets?

  The reply flashed up. Now that’s the biggest mystery of all.

  Honey put the iPad back down, fuming that she’d been so drawn in. This is why she avoided social media. Reading mean comments in her teens had put her off for life, leading to her self-imposed blanket ban on technology which had for the most part saved her from feeling like this. She paused, shocked at how much worse it had got. Who the hell were these people and where did they get off gossiping about her so aggressively? She reached out and hit the top tab, bringing the SlebSecrets site back onto the screen. Yes, it wasn’t as bad as that ridiculous forum, but this site was obviously popular. Who would run such a place? A site about strangers, because that’s what she was. People might listen to her songs and watch her on stage, but they didn’t know her and they didn’t have any right to pretend they did. She pulled herself up and walked towards the old-fashioned house phone, calling the one number she knew off by heart.

  “Mother,” she said when it was answered, “your tech guy, Benedict. You said he could help?”

  The reply came with quiet caution. “That, dearest, depends on what’s true.”

  Chapter Four

  “Ai ai, Meg. No HotBuzz riff raff tonight.”

  The journalist smiled at the doorman, their paths having crossed on numerous occasions before. “And hello to you too.”

  Jo tottered up the red carpet, grabbing hold of the lanyard dangling from her flatmate’s neck. “Darryl, my man, Meg’s moved up in the world. I see you’re still working the doors.”

  “Ow! Your words are as sharp as her glasses.” The doorman moved his nod from the black frames towards the buxom blonde’s ample assets. “But you, my lady, are as stunning as ever.”

  Jo slinked towards one of the tall patio heaters and shivered. “It’s freezing out here.”

  Blowing on his leather gloves, the doorman rubbed his hands together before reaching out to warm the goose-bumped arms. “You should have worn a nice sturdy coat like Meg.”

  Jo smiled at the sarcastic remark, remembering how wicked he had been in other departments. “And hide my beautiful ball gown? I’m sure you wouldn’t want that now would you, Darryl?”

  “It’s been a while,” he said, continuing his come-on. “You should have called.”

  Meg lifted herself onto her tiptoes and waved with two hands, refocusing his flirtation. “Helloooo! My sturdy coat and I would like entry please.” She paused, catching sight of the clipboard and guest list resting on top of the stone pillar. “HotBuzz are here, aren’t they?”

  Darryl stopped the rubbing and turned to Meg. “Nope. It’s all that French manager’s fault. Coming over here and trying to culture-fy our club.” He lifted the list and showed her the names. “It’s all the big-wigs, all the proper papers.”

  Jo smiled sweetly, willing the attention her way. “The club’s winning aren’t they?” That was as far as her football knowledge went.

  “Yes, but we’re London Town, and that French fucker’s brought all his froggy fuckwits with him. People like Louis Laurent will stop playing. We’re a British club, we need British players.”

  Meg laughed. “Louis Laurent’s half French.”

  “No he ain’t. British bloke born and bred.”

  Jo pouted. “Mmm, Louis Laurent.”

  “Alright blondie, calm it down. Still here for the ride I see.” He turned to Meg. “That press pass better say two.”

  Jo stepped away from the heater and reached out to wiggle Meg’s lanyard once more. “Doesn’t matter who she works for, she always gets her wicked way.”

  “I’d rather have my wicked way with you.”

  Meg hit the bulging bicep. “Just let us in.”

  “Always a pleasure.” He stepped to the side, allowing them to pass. “Jo, you know where to find me.”

  With an added wiggle to her walk, the blonde seductress smiled over her shoulder. “We’ll see.”

  “We won’t,” snapped Meg, marching them forward. “We’re working.”

  “I’m only being friendly,” she said, trotting to catch up, only half noticing their impressive surroundings. “Have we been here before?”

  “The Children in Need charity dance. Remember? The footballers took part in that spoof Strictly sketch.” Meg led them across the plush hospitality arena towards the banquet hall, taking a moment to marvel, as she always did, at the building’s ability to encase one of the UK’s largest football pitches, not to mention the conference areas, hospitality suites, performance stages and events rooms. She turned to her friend. “Is my coat really that bad?”

  “Yes!” said Jo, suddenly remembering.

  “Great.”

  “No, not your coat.” She gave it a quick up and down. “Well yes, it’s bad, but I was yes-ing about this place.” She lowered her voice. “It’s where I heard the WAGs in the ladies gossiping about Matty Hardacre’s impotence.”

  “Oh don’t, that was one of my e
arly posts.”

  “What was it? ‘Which premier league player’s not as hard as his name suggests? The only thing he gets up is the score sheet’.”

  Meg cringed. “Stop it. It’s awful. I’m ashamed of myself. You convinced me on that one, remember?”

  “You had a better sense of humour when you were younger.”

  “It was never funny. It was cruel, and I regret it. My site’s so much better than that now.” She pointed at the grand placard outside the hall. “Seating plan,” she said, trying to change subject.

  Jo glanced inside, taking in the quiet buzz of activity. Waiters were in a line receiving instruction and organisers were pushing missing chairs into place. “It’s rather empty.”

  “We’re an hour early. They want to brief the press pre-event. Sell us the story before it occurs.”

  Jo tapped the plan. “Here we are.” She scanned the hall finding the position of table three. “There. Look, people are already seated.”

  “The other papers.”

  Jo nodded. “So what’s the story, and where do you want me?”