by Kiki Archer
“Official story. London Town’s new manager is starting an arts charity to increase engagement among young people. French culture comes to football.”
“Boring. No wonder HotBuzz aren’t here.”
“Seems like the club’s selected where they want coverage. It’s a clever marketing ploy actually. Get press inches in the broadsheets by talking about arts organisations and cultural venues for disadvantaged areas. HotBuzz would only focus on who’s wearing what.”
“I’d read that.”
“Exactly, but the more up-market person wants to read about the new, cultured French manager, no doubt shocked when he found out his youth team had never set foot inside an art gallery, or watched a live theatre performance, or listened to an orchestra.”
“London Town’s an inner city football club, of course they haven’t. Footballers are footballers. That’s all they need to know.”
Meg shook her head. “They’ll feed us the line now, but it’ll be about unlocking creativity, raising aspirations, improving communications – all things they’ll say a good footballer needs.”
Jo pretended to yawn. “This new job’s changed you.”
“Fine. Unofficial story. Louis Laurent’s knobbing his nanny.”
Jo grinned. “I’m on it. You sit down and suck up the schmoozing. I’ll do my usual.”
“Hang around the bar and loiter in the toilets?”
“People talk to me. I’ve got one of those faces.”
“Just don’t bid on the auction and don’t get too drunk.”
“There’s an auction?” Jo beamed. “That’s the perfect way in!”
****
Honey lay stretched out in her creative position, head back among the cushions on her music room’s well-worn sofa. It was the same sofa she’d lain on as a child, the one piece of furniture moved from property to property as she penned her first verses and dreamt her first dreams. She smiled. Because that’s what music was. A dream. A place where you could make anything happen. A place where you could evoke emotions with one simple line or one enchanted melody. Music was magic and she’d always had the ability to close her eyes and create. She nodded along to the notes circling around inside her head. This creation was different. This wasn’t peaceful or perfected. This was raw. This was angry. She jumped up. This needed new words.
Grabbing the pen and paper from the table next to her feet, Honey moved to the mixing desk and sat at the station, scribbling fast as the heated words poured from inside her.
What does it matter where I lay my head?
Who cares if it’s in a boy or girl’s bed?
There’s so much more to my personality.
What’s the importance of my sexuality?
She sang loudly as she wrote the chorus.
Love who you love.
Be true to your feelings.
Who cares who’s tugging at your heartstrings?
Love who you love.
Be brave with your choices.
Those who matter will accept our true voices.
She gasped. This was the feeling she’d had with Secret Smile. It wasn’t that her other songs lacked meaning, they were just rather samey. Like Adele. Like Enya. People knew a Honey song was a hit song, but she wasn’t breaking boundaries or making people think. She was producing hit album after hit album of tuneful songs. But what if she changed? What if she became edgy? What if she made a music video that wasn’t black and white for once? What if she caused controversy? Honey giggled at the thrill rising inside her. She twisted in her seat and reached back down to the table, finding the discarded iPad and forcefully tapping the SlebSecrets site back to life. She spoke with a smile. “I’m not hiding anything, so put that in your pipe and smoke it, you psychos.”
****
Jo hooked her heels onto the barstool rails and lifted herself up, waving her arms towards the stage. “Four thousand, five hundred!”
The elderly auctioneer struggled to take his eyes from the blonde hair and bouncing breasts. “Five thousand anywhere?” he asked, not really moving his attention from her bid.
“Five!” came a shout from the other side of the noisy banquet hall.
“Five,” he acknowledged before nodding enthusiastically again towards Jo. “Five, five?”
“Five thousand, five hundred,” she shouted, not daring to look towards table three where Meg would no doubt be having kittens. She glanced instead towards the group of footballers further down the bar, hoping someone would take the bait. Gavin Grahams, first team defender, was edging himself her way. About bloody time, she thought, praying the other bidder would go higher.
The shout came quickly. “Six thousand!”
The raspy auctioneer peered around at his audience. “Everyone wants this night at the opera with Louis Laurent it seems.” He lifted his wire glasses and winked in Jo’s direction. “But I’m sure he’d prefer the arm of a beautiful blonde, don’t you, ladies and gentleman?”
Jo lifted her hand in shocked apology to the equally pretty, brunette bidder on the other side of the room. “Sorry,” she mouthed, genuinely uncomfortable with the elderly man’s flirtation.
“That’s six five!” he whistled, spotting the raised hand and revelling in his role.
Jo gasped. “No, I…” the jeering was too loud.
“You’re making a mistake.” Gavin Grahams had positioned himself next to her at the bar. “I’d take you for free.”
Jo didn’t even turn her body his way. “You’re not Louis Laurent,” she said, deliberately needling the ego. She signalled towards the brunette. “You go. I’m out.”
The voice was annoyed. “Louis Laurent’s not even here. Too famous for a fundraiser it seems. Plus he’s married.”
Jo heard the shout of “Seven thousand” and smiled, relieved to be free. She ignored the inappropriate gesturing the auctioneer directed her way and eased herself back into a seated position, finally looking at the man standing beside her. It was common knowledge that Louis Laurent was disliked by most of his teammates. Mr Golden Shoes. The focus always on him. Yes, he could take free kicks and score the odd goal, but he wasn’t a great like Maradona or Zidane. He was good looking, with a famous wife to boot, and if there was something Brand Laurent could sponsor, they sponsored it. The fact most people thought London Town and Louis Laurent were one and the same annoyed the hell out of players like Gavin.
Jo reached for her martini and sipped deliberately slowly, needing to focus on the flirting. “Doesn’t stop him playing away though, does it?” she said with a smile.
“I didn’t come over to talk about him. I came over to save you some money.”
“Because you’ll take me for free?” Jo worked all the tricks. The flutter of eyelashes, the crossing of legs. Giving him hope before snatching it all away. “Sorry, like I said, you’re not Louis Laurent.” She lifted the olive from her drink and started to suck it.
The defender narrowed his eyes. “You know he’s a knob so why do you want him?”
“Is he a knob?”
“You said he played away.”
“Does he?” It was also common knowledge that Gavin Grahams wasn’t the brightest button in the box.
He frowned, confused. “What?”
The fluttering was back. “I thought you knew him.” She nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “Fine, let’s talk about you. Who would you pick? Me or the nanny?”
“What nanny?”
“Who’s better looking, me or his nanny? Louis’ nanny. The one he’s seeing.”
Gavin Grahams paused.
“You paused. It’s her isn’t it? I thought you were coming over to woo me? To wine and dine me? To take me to the opera?” She dropped her lips at the corners. “But now you’re saying you prefer her to me.” She straightened on the stool and pretended to strain her ears towards the auction. “I’m going back to the bidding.”
The response was quick. “No. I’d pick you. He’s a fool.”
Jo relaxed her p
ose and encouraged him with wide eyes. “Because he’s married?”
“No. Jackie’s always put up with his shit.” He lowered his voice. “The nanny’s a digger. Us players know them when we see them. Always after the bling.” Responding to the lifted eyebrows, he carried on. “And she’s a live-in, so she’s got access to everything. He’ll get unstuck with this one I’m telling you now.”
“You wouldn’t get unstuck would you? You’re bright enough to stay single.”
“Too right I am. No bird’s pinning me down.” He waited for the encouraging eyes, pausing for a second when they didn’t come. He coughed. “Unless the right one comes along of course.”
Jo nodded. “Of course.” She finished her martini in one gulp, thirsty now her job had been done. “If you’d excuse me for a moment I need to check on my friend.”
The footballer lifted her empty glass. “Can I get you another?”
Jo eyed the man up and down properly for the first time that evening. “You know what? Why the hell not?”
****
Stepping out of the recording pod, Honey made her way to the control panel and sat down in front of the mixing desk. She’d never made an album at home, but the small soundproofed music room was perfect for times like this when she wanted an instant copy of her creation. Yes, lyrics had been written down and basic notes recorded, but there was nothing quite like a playback of the melody as it came from her mouth. She was forever changing bridges and harmonies and it was helpful to remember where the vision had first started; here with these rough verses and chorus. She pressed play and listened. Just her. Just her voice. There was something powerful about the playback. It wouldn’t need much. Some beats and some bass. Stripped back and raw, yet dominant and edgy. She transferred the file onto her iPod: the one piece of technology she did keep in her possession at all times. The iPad next to her suddenly pinged as well and she vaguely remembered setting up the share across devices feature when she’d received it from her mother, thinking she may use the tablet to listen to music. She never did, hence its relegation to the arm of the sofa.
Honey tapped the home button, instantly annoyed as the SlebSecrets site filled the screen. She was about to minimise and check the music app when she noticed the new entry.
“Which twinkle-toed London lad likes to put the boot into his long-suffering wife? Pregnant with her fourth and he’s playing away. It’s the spoon full of sugar bringing down this brand of medicine.”
Honey shook her head. The Laurents were her neighbours. This was clearly about them. They’d received huge stick for their latest endorsement, a family advert for Calpol. Louis claiming it helped when he fell on the pitch. Jackie claiming it helped with her births. The kids claiming it helped them put up with their parents. Honey paused, making the connection. Spoon full of sugar? Not that new nanny? Surely? She wasn’t close to Jackie, but they spoke now and then and she’d often see her on the green with the kids.
Honey felt the annoyance rising once more. How dare someone spread such rumours, especially with families involved? It was one thing to speculate about a singleton’s sexuality, but to outright accuse a family man of a fling, well. She nodded her head. She’d get it seen to. She’d get this sordid SlebSecrets site down.
Chapter Five
Honey was seated on the large stool in the centre of her even larger kitchen, living the same morning she lived most days she was home. She watched with a smile. PA Liza was strutting around, PDA in hand, listing the day’s itinerary of meetings, rehearsals, appearances and studio sessions. She could feel hair stylist Heidi at her shoulder, coaxing her long auburn layers into a fashion deemed appropriate for whichever outfit clothes stylist Caitlyn had selected for the day. Louisa the make-up artist was in front of her playing her usual role as master fencer, jumping in and out with her blusher brush whenever the curling wand was lowered. Then there was Sofia, adding to the hustle and bustle with non-stop rounds of tea and coffee before presenting all of the pre-packed meals she’d carefully prepared for whoever was involved in the day.
Honey always insisted on no visible entourage when out and about, but most working days involved at least one style change and she’d often find herself back in the company of Heidi, Caitlyn and Louisa as they miraculously appeared at her studio, set or location exactly when needed. Honey knew this was all down to the careful planning and preparation of Liza and her ever-buzzing electronic PDA, but as long as she didn’t travel, arrive or hang with a huge crowd of groupies, as her mother was famed for, she could cope with Liza’s stranglehold on their each and every move.
“So,” confirmed Liza for the third time that morning, “Tammara’s coming at eight and we’re—”
“Even I’ve got it today!” yelped Sofia, the high-pitched volume from such a small body shocking everyone in the room. “Sit down, Liza,” continued the voice, more calmly this time. The old woman patted the free stool next to her before pointing to the centre of the kitchen where Honey’s naturally pale eyes were being transformed into cat-like creations by the expert flicks of Louisa’s black pencil. “Watch the show.”
“No.”
“What is it? You’re more on edge than usual. Another love life disaster? Sit down, let it all out.”
Liza stayed standing. “I don’t have disasters.” She turned to Honey. “Is that how you report it?”
Honey smiled to herself. It was wonderful having Sofia around at times like these to keep her grounded, to make her laugh and to say all of the things she was far too polite to say herself. Liza’s dramatic love life was funny. It was a mishmash of mishaps, reflecting the mixture that was Liza herself. She was short, but not stocky. Slim, but not trim. How one might picture a little dictator: more amusing to her people than feared, her pretty features and pixie haircut paired with her masculine suits and flat shoes bringing all sorts of lady lovers her way.
“I must say you are a tad more jumpy than usual,” agreed Honey.
“It’s this Hollywood film.” Liza lifted her device. “I’ve had to schedule in hours and hours of rehearsals, sound checks and recording sessions. Plus, we’ve got Britain Sings still in the auditions phase so there are months of that to come. Not to mention the new album.”
Honey raised her hand. “About that.”
“Which bit?”
“The album bit.” She paused, trying really hard not to move her face as she talked. “But why’s the film stuff starting already? I thought I’d be in Hollywood for that?”
“On-set filming won’t begin until the end of next year, but we’re recording the songs and singing bits of dialogue over here as and when time allows.”
Sofia laughed. “Oh Liza, I love how you say we.”
Clothes stylist Caitlyn, who was sitting at the breakfast bar with her role in activities done and dusted, blew on her coffee and looked up and down at Liza’s trouser suit, complete with braces and waistcoat. “You’re certainly dressed for the part. Going on set at Bugsy Malone are we?”
“She’s always on set at Bugsy Malone,” added Sofia. “Have you ever seen her in anything other than a three-piece suit and those bloody brogues?”
Liza huffed at the comments and marched to the spare stool. “Stop it,” she said, sitting clumsily. “I’m not in the mood. And brogues are my trademark.”
“It’s so sweet that you’re proud of that,” commented Caitlyn.
Liza folded her arms on the breakfast bar. “Decided. You three are signing the new confidentiality contract. You’re taking too many liberties.”
Hair stylist Heidi moved the curling wand away from a now bouncing auburn ringlet and whispered into Honey’s ear. “Definitely a love life disaster.”
Honey smiled. Heidi, Caitlyn and Louisa were her longest serving employees, having been with her since things started to get really serious ten years before. Liza had taken up her role as PA and insisted on stylists. Stylists that were exclusively Honey’s, on call at all times as the empire was established and expanded. “Quite poss
ibly,” said Honey.
“I heard that.” Liza checked the clock on the wall, followed by the watch on her wrist and the time on her PDA, obviously feeling the pressure of taking a moment.
Honey raised her hand again. “I’ll make you smile. I’ve written a new song for the album.”
Jumping from her seat, Liza’s moment was short lived. She started to pace. “Oh good god, we’ve not got time for that! The album’s finalised, it’s well into production!”
Honey laughed. “It’s good. It’s different. It can be a bonus track or something.”
“No.”
“Special edition version?”
“Absolutely not.” The sound of a car horn averted Liza’s panic. “Thank goodness. Tammara’s here; Alan’s already there. Ladies, are we done?”
Louisa and Heidi stepped away from the stool, presenting a perfectly preened Honey Diamond showcasing a silvery chic 1920s look. Caitlyn put down her coffee and joined in the admiration. “It’s a one-off Thierry DuBon full-length flapper.”
Honey looked at Liza who was double-checking the notes in her PDA.
Liza nodded. “Got it. And the head piece?”
Hair stylist Heidi smiled. “That’s my own creation.”
Caitlyn continued. “The headpiece isn’t DuBon, but it follows the main themes of his winter collection. Silver. Sparkle. Lace. White feathers.”
Heidi spoke louder. “Headpiece by hair stylist Heidi Dixon. Get that in your PDA, Liza. Pass that on to the press.”
Liza ignored her. “Bobby Brown make-up, Louisa?”
“Yep, and I’ve flicked the eyes in the Dauragé style.”
“Yes, got that.”
Honey stood from her stool. “I don’t look like a peacock, do I?”
“Does Honey Diamond want a mirror?” Caitlyn laughed. “I think she wants a mirror! Girls, I think we’ve done it!”
Honey turned to her godmother. “Sofia, do I look like a peacock?”
“No, my dear, you look beautiful. Who’s the designer?”