by Kiki Archer
Honey stepped away from the contact and nodded. “I said I’ll be taking my time.” She walked towards the railings and the group of young girls who had been screaming the loudest. “Hi,” she said, “would you like a few photos?”
Chapter Six
Two months later:
The wine had been poured and the takeaway delivered with five minutes to spare. Saturday night and flatmates Meg and Jo were settling down, like most of the nation, to watch the latest episode of Britain Sings. The talent show hadn’t gone live yet and was still playing the pre-recorded auditions with tonight offering up the best and worst of London’s wannabes, some praised, but most dismissed, by the show’s four famous judges. Everyone knew they were on the run-up to Christmas when Britain Sings returned to their screens, with the winner almost guaranteed the much coveted Christmas number one single spot.
Moving the clutter of magazines, books and blankets off the couch Meg sat with her legs curled up, curry bowl on lap, phone ready and waiting beside her. It was all she needed to enjoy the show to its fullest: good food, good company and Twitter’s Britain Sings hashtag adding an extra dimension to the experience, with the whole nation in the room commenting on contestants in real time. She looked down at her flatmate, hoping the company would indeed be good for the evening. It was always hit and miss where Jo was concerned, her love of a quick tipple often turning into a full-on drink fest, bringing on the ugly side of her Jekyll and Hyde persona. Meg smiled at the long blonde hair. Things should be different now though; a recent more serious episode in the local A&E would have been enough to put the frighteners on the most seasoned of drinkers.
The blonde flatmate had opted for the floor claiming it gave her easier access to the coffee table and her half share of poppadom and paltry tear of naan, which had been laid out with precision to see her through the night. Meg knew from experience that Jo’s frequent sips of wine were less visible from that low down position. “Come and sit up here with me,” she said.
“No, and only read out the funny tweets this time.” Jo tore a tiny piece off the bread. “No one wants your usual running commentary of waffle.”
“It’s only us here.”
“Pia’s in the bathroom, still trying to pull your wad of black hair from the plug.”
“She is not. Stop being so cruel.”
“I watched her earlier. It was like a tug of war competition. Her wrestling your hair out of the sewers.” Jo dabbed gently at the mango chutney ensuring she got a graze of flavour rather than a chunk of calories. “You’re moulting, Meg. And that floor by your dresser…” She shook her head as she popped the bread into her mouth. “Well.”
“Well what?”
She spoke through the tiny portion. “Well it looks like a shag pile rug.”
“It does not!”
“It does. The amount of hair there’s just ridiculous. Is it a lesbian thing? Moulting.” She pointed her fork towards the television. “Look, here comes Honey. She’s not a lesbian. Her hair’s too thick and coiffured.”
“Her hair’s gorgeous and I love that headpiece.”
Jo glanced over her shoulder at her flatmate. “Says your scary eye bags. Seriously Meg, they’re frightening. You need vitamin D for your hair, vitamin A for your bags, vitamin C for your…” The criticism stopped as the camera panned away to reveal the judges’ outfits. “Oh no, what the bloody hell’s Honey wearing? She looks like a tap dancing peacock from a feather factory. Gwen’s definitely won best outfit tonight.”
“What have my frightening eye bags got to do with her thick hair? Maybe if you ate more and drank less you wouldn’t be so cruel. I thought you were taking it steady tonight.”
“I am.”
“Is there anyone you actually like?” Lifting her phone, Meg typed in the Honey Diamond hashtag.
“I like you. And it’s not cruel. It’s tough love. You’ve been in her company before, you’ll be in her company again. You need to create an impression.”
“Since when have you indulged in my Honey Diamond fantasy?” Meg scrolled through the tweets. “And I’ve only ever seen her from afar. She’d never notice my eye bags.”
“Oh, she’d notice them alright. They’re like dark hollows sucking your face back in on itself.”
“Thank you.”
“Seriously, let me give you that makeover. How many years have we been planning it for? Ten?”
“You’ve been planning it, and according to Twitter Honey’s wearing a 1920s style flapper dress by Thierry DuBon, and it’s mostly receiving positive mentions.” Meg left the phone on the cushion and made a start on her curry. “And stop being so concerned with my style. This is me. I’m happy.”
“Using the word ‘style’ loosely there, aren’t you, my lovely?” Jo reached backwards and found Meg’s knee, giving it a tap. “And you’re not. You’re miserable. You’re working too hard. You’re playing too little. Look at us. Saturday night, stuck in watching Britain Sings. Get rid of your geeky-journalist female-Clark-Kent look and you never know how your horizons might change. There’s a chance you could pull someone other than a moody, mirror-image, chip-on-their-shoulder grungy lesbian.” She smiled. “And if I indulge in your incessant Honey Diamond obsession you might realise you want someone more girly.”
“I don’t have a chip on my shoulder, I’m not grungy and that one date with that grungy girl you’re so fond of recounting occurred over three years ago.”
“That was a girl?”
“Oh stop it.”
“Fine, you’re not grungy, you’re just serious looking with your chunky glasses and unintentional bed hair. But you do have a chip and that’s why you’re so jealous of Honey.”
“I’m not jealous of Honey.” Meg sighed. Her flatmate went through a cycle of being bearable, quite funny, far too much, then utterly inappropriate and offensive every time she started to drink, never seemingly growing out of that university phase where trips to the hospital to have your stomach pumped or your wounds sewn up were laughed about and worn with a badge of honour. Jo was a nasty drunk and even though she’d behaved unforgivably on many different occasions Meg always accepted the apology and moved on; life was short and people weren’t perfect. Plus Jo needed her. Every time she was propped up in a hospital bed looking so vulnerable and lost she’d call for her. Jo would recount stories of her mother and her childhood, booze the ultimate cause in her mother’s downfall and her own placement in care. What friend would give up on someone like that?
“What is it then?” said the blonde, not letting it lie.
Meg thought carefully. It wasn’t jealousy, and it wasn’t an obsession. She debated, as she had many times before, trying to place exactly what it was that she felt for Miss Honey Diamond, because there was definitely something. She’d first seen her performing in 2006 as Elphaba in the West End production of Wicked. Honey was eighteen and stealing the show; singing with a power that sent shivers down her spine and goosebumps up her back; singing with such a strong sense of ownership and pride and determination. She had it together. On stage, not much more than a kid, defying gravity. And there was Meg, also eighteen, sitting in the audience defying nothing much at all. A disappointing batch of A-Level results leading to an offer from her third choice university. A family now knowing they were right to be wary of the hair-in-the-face, hunched over, gothic-looking friends she’d selected, obviously a founding factor in her newly declared lesbian lifestyle, a phase that would hopefully pass.
Meg smiled. She’d been wowed by Honey, encouraged by Honey, and yes, maybe slightly enamoured by the beautiful actress with a rumoured singing career on the horizon, following in her mother’s footsteps to become one of the nation’s new favourites no doubt. She’d certainly become one of Meg’s new favourites, but the disappointing internet search had only fuelled her quest for more insight. Where was her website? Her MySpace? And Twitter? All the celebs were crowing about Twitter, a new platform where you could talk to your fans, tell them your likes, keep
them informed. But no, Honey had nothing, yet she’d been around for so long.
One page had informed Meg that Honey’s career had begun almost ten years previously with stage performances and bit parts on screen. So why the blackout? Yes, there were fansites set up displaying the latest pictures from the papers or the shots from red carpets, and as Honey’s fame increased so did these pages, but none were authentic, none came from Honey herself. Her record label set up a website and tried to make it look personal, but as Meg progressed in her own media career she realised nothing at all came from Honey. So when there was an actual interview or talking appearance she’d devour every last word, every last look, hunting for clues, desperate to know Honey and who really was behind those shy eyes. And of course she found her beautiful. Of course she’d imagined a meeting of lips, a connection of hearts, an understanding between them that they were somehow connected.
Meg dipped a chip into her curry. Maybe she had soured with age. Upset that Honey hadn’t noticed her in the crowds at the shows. Hurt that Honey hadn’t replied to her interview requests. Embarrassed that Honey hadn’t seen her raised hand in that press-conference where she did finally have a credible reason to be in her presence, a lanyard granting her access, not realising there were two hundred others like her, the PA only choosing the faces she knew. And that was the next knock. Liza Munroe with her pixie haircut and androgynous style, appealing to all sorts of women; of course she’d appeal to her boss. Well known on the lesbian scene for her love life disasters, always using her hectic lifestyle as PA to the world’s most famous woman as the excuse. But on the scene there were stories. With everyone connected in some sort of way. Liza Munroe seemingly connected in more ways than most.
Of course Meg had never actually witnessed Liza on the scene, but others had, and stories were shared by women who’d been in her presence. The presence of the woman who was in the presence of the woman they all wanted to know. Because it wasn’t just Meg’s obsession. 99.99% of the lesbian population needed Honey Diamond as their gay. Kylie was the obsession in the 80s. Britney in the 90s. Bette, Barbara, Liza and Dolly lifelong favourites no matter the decade. But Honey was different. She actually gave off the signs. Meg dipped another chip. Well she gave them to her anyway. No confirmed boyfriend. Lyrics open to interpretation in a number of ways. A look in her eye. That’s what it was. That look. That look of longing. Of hurt. Of desire for someone like Meg to come and fulfil all of those hopes and dreams. She’d seen it at The Muse when Honey had walked in. Alone. Aware of the gazes. She needed someone like Meg to protect her, to provide for her.
Meg stopped herself, hating where it always went. The daydreaming, the romanticising, as if that would ever happen. She shook her head, remembering how she’d reacted when Honey Diamond walked up those stairs at The Muse. She’d shrunk so far down in her chair that her dinner guest, a well-known sculptor she’d been interviewing for an arts piece, had asked what was wrong. She could hardly tell him she was hiding her scary eye bags that sucked her face inwards from the crush of her life. The woman of her dreams.
Maybe Jo was right? Maybe the occasional post on her SlebSecrets site was her way of feeling close to what she knew she’d never have? Looking down at her flatmate, Meg opted for a change of focus. “You had sex, didn’t you? You’re always like this post-sex, all cocky and confident, setting the world to rights because yours is so perfect.”
Jo wiggled her bottom on the floor. “Gavin Grahams.”
“Again?”
“Yep. It’s been two months since the auction, and two months of shagging means I’m officially a London Town lady.” She turned and spoke seriously. “But it’s not exclusive. I’m still spreading the love.”
Meg grimaced. “Nice.”
“Oooh look, this contestant’s pretty.” She nodded towards the television. “You should try going for someone like her.”
Meg watched as the feminine woman hit the heart-pounding high notes in the beautiful ballad. “She’s too young.”
“She is not. Look. Honey’s blushing. Oh good, they’re getting her feedback first.”
Both women watched as Honey Diamond judged the performance, praising the emotion and tenderness behind the song, a small tear forming in the corner of her eye.
Jo laughed. “She likes her.”
“Of course she likes her.”
“But you look nothing like her.”
“So?”
“So if you want someone like Honey to like someone like you, you need to ease up on the dark grumpiness.”
“Oh god, Jo! You just don’t get it. I don’t want someone like Honey to like someone like me. I want someone like Honey to be honest, to come out, to show the world it’s okay to be someone like me.”
“It’s not okay though. You’re hiding your beauty under that messy hair and those awful glasses.”
“And she’s hiding behind the pretence of heterosexuality.”
Jo shrugged as she grazed some more naan across the chutney. “Why do you get so het up?”
“Because she’s a lesbian! I just know it. It’s like a sixth sense. I see it in people. I see it in her.”
“So you’re reverting to the playground and teasing the one you love by posting mean gossip about her?”
“It’s not mean.”
“You’re trying to out her.”
“You supported me when I started SlebSecrets, so what’s stopping you now?”
Jo pulled herself onto the cushion next to her friend. She touched the folded knee and squeezed. “My lovely, in the beginning you were aggressively propositioned by that multi-media mogul Eddy – what was his name – Elroyd. Not enough to warrant police intervention, but enough to expose his sleazy nature. You researched, you wrote a piece, you found other women like you. No one wanted it. No one would publish. So you alluded to it in your first ever SlebSecrets post, and it went viral, because it was true. You then got a taste for the thrill, posting more and more salacious gossip until you grew up, got a proper job and realised people were free to live their lives as they pleased.”
“It’s not that. I have a duty to right the world’s wrongs with my site.”
Jo lifted a finger. “Shush, my lovely. I’m in full flow.” She flicked her blonde hair and continued. “Your site’s your baby. It’s grown with you. You don’t want to let it go, so you keep it ticking over, now only posting indiscretions, as you put it, that need to be outed. Admirable? Maybe. But only…” she raised her voice, “if they’re true!”
Meg pushed her sideways. “Go back to your piddly pieces of bread.”
“No.” Jo picked up the phone. “Read your precious tweets. All the Honey Diamond hashtags are nice.” She paused at a tweet that read #HoneyDiamond looks like a peacock. “Well mostly. And yes, there’s the odd mention of hashtag contestant girl crush, but no hashtags declaring that Honey, in her tap dancing flapper gear, likes fanny.” Jo paused. “Oooh hashtag leaked song.”
Meg grabbed the phone. “Where?”
“There. One second ago.”
Meg read the tweet from @StudioBoi1992. #HoneyDiamond #LeakedSong ow.ly/Xghdn… She spoke quickly. “StudioBoi 1992. Four followers. Two tweets. The account’s new.”
“Click the link then.”
“Alright, alright.” Meg fumbled with her phone, expanding the webpage as she looked for any sort of arrow that would play the hidden MP3.
“There!” said Jo, pointing at the text before grabbing the remote to mute the television.
Meg held the phone between them and pressed play. Artists’ songs were leaked all the time, sometimes a PR stunt, but mostly a breach in production with someone recording on a mobile from the back of the studio. The track started to echo. “Definitely a breach in production,” said Meg.
Jo nodded. “It’s upbeat.”
“Shush!”
“It won’t be Honey’s. Hers are never upbeat.”
“Shush!” Meg lifted the phone higher as the lyrics started to sing.
&nb
sp; “It’s Honey!” declared Jo.
“Listen!”
The big blue eyes were wide. “Sexuality?! What?”
“Shush!”
“She’s outing herself!”
“Shush!”
Jo jumped up. “Honey Diamond’s outing herself!”
Meg listened closer. “It’s definitely her.”
“Of course it’s her. She’s got such a distinctive voice and here she is singing about sex!”
“It’s not about sex. It’s about…” Meg kept listening. “She’s outing herself.”
Jo nodded. “Get your laptop, goddamnit!”
“Why?”
“You need to post this!” She grabbed Meg’s curry bowl and started to guzzle, excitement getting the better of her. “It’s proof!”
Meg played the track again. “I can’t post this.”
“Why the hell not?!”
“Will you just calm down? You’ll get indigestion.”
“Me? You should be losing it! This is Honey Diamond, laying her head in different beds!” Jo gasped. “Oh god, this curry’s so good.”
“Sit down. Let’s think. It might be for someone else. Or for that new film of hers.”
“Doesn’t matter. She’s singing it. It’s on the web. It’s live. Don’t post the actual song, just post a link to the link. This is big, Meg. When people get a whiff of it they’ll come straight to your site. They’ll expect you to know. Let me do it then. You check Twitter. I bet it’s trending already.”
“The host site will get pulled.”
“Refresh it. There. It’s still live.”
“I can’t. This is too far.”
“This is a scoop!” Jo jumped up and grabbed Meg’s laptop, opening the SlebSecrets admin page.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve got it. I’ve watched you do this god knows how many times.”
“Wait. I need to debate. Is this an intrusion too far? Speculating about her sexuality’s one thing, but leaking a song?”