by Kiki Archer
“Yhesh, yhesh,” said Pia.
“You don’t understand me, do you?”
“Yhesh, yhesh,” came the smiling reply.
Jo crossed the hall and yanked open the door. “Yhesh?” she snapped at the two suited men, one bald and staring, the other moustached with a clipboard. “I mean yes.” She looked at them carefully and changed her mind. “Actually no, thank you,” she said, quickly closing the door.
The knock came again. “What?” she snapped, yanking it open once more. “I’m halfway through my make-up and you’re meant to use the buzzer downstairs. Who let you in?”
“How long have you lived here, ma’am?” The man with the moustache was the first to speak.
“Ma’am? Why? What are you? The TV licensing people? We pay it, and if we’ve missed it just read me my rights. We’ve had this before. We’ll get it sorted.”
“We’re trying to trace the occupants of a flat in Lewisham. Flat 214, Brickworks Way.”
“We definitely paid it there! I remember the stand-off. You lot in that bloody van of yours trying to catch out us students.” Jo laughed. “Ha! Those were the days, and this might only look like a crappy two bed above a discount store in Clapham, but it’s a long way from Lewisham.”
“And you are?”
She paused. “Why? We paid it.”
The man spoke again. “We’re not from the TV license company. Can you confirm you lived at Flat 214, Brickworks Way in Lewisham?”
Jo shifted her weight onto one hip. “Might have done.”
“Ten years ago?”
“Maybe,” she fluttered her eyelashes.
The men shared a glance. “May we come in?”
“Depends on what for.” The smiles usually came faster than this. Jo tilted her head to the side and looked up. Her tried-and-tested female manipulation skills were able to pull her out of almost any situation.
The man nodded at his companion who pushed open the door and stepped past her into the lounge.
“What are you doing? Get out! Pia! Help me! There’s a bald man in the flat! Pia!”
The man with the clipboard scribbled down the name and stepped inside too.
“Pia!” Jo tried to shoo them out. “This is private property, we rent it, so it’s ours. You can’t just walk in here.” She paused. “You’re not the landlords are you? That hole in the wall was an accident, we had a party, I got a bit drunk, but we’ve filled it now and we’ve got a cleaner, and we know we’re not allowed parties, so we’re not having any more.” She shouted over her shoulder. “Pia, will you just come here and show them your duster!”
The maid appeared in the melee, nodding her head. “Yhesh yhesh. My company have visa.”
The moustache twitched. “Does Pia live here?”
“Of course she doesn’t bloody live here! Look at her! I didn’t even know she could speak English!”
The bald man smiled. “Pia, does anyone else live here?”
“Yhesh, yhesh. Two girl. One nice. One not.”
Jo pointed to the door. “Right, out, I’m calling the police.”
The bald man walked around the apartment, lifting notebooks and papers as he went.
“Pia, get my phone.” She pointed towards her bedroom. “It’s on my dresser.”
Pia stood still and nodded.
“Oh for god’s sake,” gasped Jo, shouting into the stairwell instead, keeping the front door propped open with her foot. “There are men in my apartment. Somebody help me.”
“The gentleman from the other flat’s gone out; he let us in.”
Jo shouted again. “There are men in my apartment!” She turned back to the action. “I’ll go downstairs onto the street then. Pia, can you please go and get my phone?”
Pia nodded. “I have visa.”
“Well woopty-doo for you! Just do something would you!”
Pia smiled and nodded, lifting her duster to polish the lounge mirror. “Yhesh yhesh.”
“Got it,” said the bald man, taking the clipboard and copying the names from the paperwork he’d found. He handed it back to his partner and stood with a smug smile, waiting for the action to unfold.
The man with the moustache presented the document. “For Miss Jo Tustin and Miss Meg…” he paused, “what does that say, Bob?”
“Bob! Haha! You just said his name!” Jo was pointing. “I’ve got you now, Bob! Bald Bob and…”
“I’m Charles. Here’s my card. You have a nice day now, ma’am.”
“And I’m Bob,” said bald Bob, reaching into his jacket pocket so he could present his business card too. “You read that document carefully now, love,” he said, sidestepping past her and out of the flat.
“I’m not your love,” said Jo. She leaned forward to shout down the stairs at the man with the moustache. “And I’m not your ma’am either.” Kicking the door shut, she looked at the document and cards. Catching sight of the header and crest Jo gasped.
Pia nodded. “My visa all good, yhesh? My visa all good?”
Chapter Nine
“I’m nervous,” said Honey.
Liza reached out to adjust the sweeping fringe. “Exactly why I should stay.” She was studying the lack of make-up. “And let me call the girls. There’s still time.”
Honey pulled herself away from the fussing and moved to the sofa. “No. This is meant to be natural. You said it yourself: a private interview, just me, my home, my words.” She nodded, smoothing out the cushions either side of her. “No cameras. No paps. No production. Just a chat about life, relaxed in my lounge.”
“Remember what I said about Diana in the Bashir interview. The way she used her eyes.”
“I’m not trying to seduce the old woman!” Honey jumped back up and shooed Liza away. “Go. You’re making things worse.”
Liza spoke over her shoulder. “She has to like you and she’s a stickler for manners.”
“And I have to act for that?”
“There’s always a bit of acting when you meet someone for the first time.”
Honey’s finger was pointing. “Go. They’re expecting you.”
“I haven’t got time for a spa. I need to sort out the photographer.” She tapped into her PDA. “They’ll want at least one exclusive image.”
“Sort it at the spa. Sofia, Gerty, Dot, Mother. You complete the Golden Girls gang.”
“I’m thirty-eight, Honey.”
“Just go.” She bustled her PA to the front door and nodded. “I’ve got this.”
Liza paused. “Really?”
“Really. I’ll call when I’m done.”
“Right, well….” Stepping onto the porch, Liza cleared her throat, opening her mouth as if to find one further objection.
“Go. Relax.” Honey motioned for her to move. “That’s it. Keep walking.” She watched as the brogues crunched across the gravel. “Off you go; join the other OAPs.” Honey smiled as the first step transformed into an actual walking pace. A left at the end of the drive would lead Liza onto the private road that wound its way through the estate to The Alderley’s main hub.
The paused PA made one final shout. “You’re sure you’ve got this?”
Honey nodded back. “I’ve got this.” She waited until Liza disappeared from view before closing the front door and crumpling against the hall wall. “I’ve not got this!” she cried.
Lifting her hand to her mouth, Honey realised she was terrified. She hated interviews, doing her best to avoid them at all costs, only taking part when deemed absolutely essential. The idea of celebrities courting the press or encouraging the attention still seemed foreign to her. Maybe because she’d always had it. That fame. That stardom. Or maybe because she disliked it so much. That scrutiny. That judgement. She sang. She performed. She didn’t ask for column inches or fan sites. Being the centre of attention wasn’t something she craved. It was a by-product of her chosen career, an inevitable consequence of her Diamond heritage. Being on stage under the spotlight was different. She could get lost in t
he starlight. Lost in her world. A world that made sense, singing lyrics that came from the heart.
She pulled herself up. This would be the first time she’d used the press for a personal purpose. Spinning a story, as Liza had put it. She started to pace as the doubts came flooding back. Was there really any need to discuss this? Weren’t the lyrics in the song enough of an answer? It didn’t matter where she lay her head. Who cared if it was in a boy or girl’s bed? She stood still and laughed at herself. Honey Diamond, the singing Don Juan. If only people knew. A sexual preference never fully explored. Physical interactions you could count on one hand. She sighed. Never that pull of total wanton desire. Never that obsession to know someone’s soul. Never that all-consuming feeling of love. That first waking thought and that last late-night dream. Never the fairytale.
It would come when she was least expecting it. Wasn’t that what they said? And she’d been busy. She was always busy. It wasn’t a priority. Love. Desire. Being liked by someone. Someone who wanted to know her. The real her. Not the famous celebrity they hoped for. Honey checked the clock on the wall. What if the journalist didn’t like her? What if she went off topic? She started to panic. Of course she’d go off topic, it was a no-holds-barred interview. Honey paced faster. She’d offer tea and coffee on arrival. Or should it be wine? No, that would just create the impression of an alcoholic diva. She raced into the kitchen and checked for chilled bottles, just in case.
The chrome fridge door displayed her wobbled reflection. Honey looked down at her clothes. Maybe she should change? Maybe jeans and jumper wasn’t the right vibe? Relaxed, yes. Serious, no. And this was serious. This was seriously the most serious public discussion she’d ever had to have. Honey raced out of the kitchen. She’d change. Skidding to a halt at the hall mirror, she checked her hair. What was wrong with her hair? She zhooshed it as much as she could, but it laughed back at her, her fringe flying free, layers all loose. Liza was right! Why hadn’t she listened? Why hadn’t she said yes to Heidi and the girls popping over for a quick pampering session? She checked the clock. Was it too late?
On hearing the doorbell, Honey shrieked. It was too late! The woman was here! What was her name? Margaret Rowley? Or Rowland? Or Rostrand, or something like that? A battle-axe type Miss Marple was the picture Liza had fashioned. The bell sounded again. “Oh, damn it,” Honey yelped, pulling open the door in an overly enthusiastic fashion. “Hi there!” she said, feeling her cheeks fill with colour as her fringe fell out of place.
The woman lifted her hand. “Margaret Rutherton.”
“Margaret, hello!” Honey realised she was shaking the hand too forcefully. “There’s wine in the fridge!”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Wonderful.”
“Sorry, I…” Honey paused. “Do come in.” She looked at the journalist standing in front of her, surprised by the pleasant features and enquiring eyes, not at all what she’d been expecting.
Margaret coughed. “May I?”
Honey realised she was blocking the door. “Yes, sorry.” She shuffled to the side. “You’re not as old as....” How could she say the old bag Liza had fashioned?
The journalist smiled. “Have you started on that wine already?”
“Yes. No! Well, maybe I should. Or we should.” She nodded. “Shall we?” Throwing her hands to her face, Honey shook her head. “Sorry, can I begin again?” She paused and took a deep breath. “You won’t write all this down, will you? I’m not used to hosting events by myself. Not that I can’t do things by myself. I’m not managed. Well I am, but I’m very normal.” The reassuring smile stopped her.
“Maybe we do need that wine.”
“Really?”
“Your home, your way.”
Honey narrowed her eyes. “Is this a trick? Are you monitoring my every move to use later as evidence against me?”
Margaret laughed. “We can chat. I’ll make some notes.” She smiled. “You can vet the article before we publish. In fact, I’ll send it to you before I send it to my editor. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Honey. I’ve got the brief. I’m on your side.”
“Luring me into a false sense of security?”
“No.” The laugh came again. “Trust me.”
There was something about the smile and searching eyes that made Honey do just that, trust her. The woman was kitted out almost identically in jeans, jumper and boots, which had immediately put her at ease. “So, Margaret, may I welcome you in?”
“I was hoping for that five minutes ago.”
Honey’s lips turned at the corners. “You don’t want to do the interview on the doorstep?”
“Doorstep, drive, back up near those security gates, you name it, I’m there.” Margaret spoke sincerely. “We’re honoured that you chose The Beacon. And I’m thrilled to meet you in person. You’re famous for shunning the press, so this was quite a surprise.”
“I’m not famous for my singing?”
“Yes yes, of course you are. Sorry, you’re endlessly talented. Your singing, your songs, your…” The journalist spotted the smile. “Clever. Making me nervous as well.”
Honey pointed towards the kitchen. “Shall we start with that wine?”
Margaret nodded. “Sounds perfect to me.”
****
Liza huffed as she pulled the blue plastic covers over her shoes. So much for accommodating. The Alderley was famed for its pledge to meet all of your wishes, to make all of your dreams come true. But walking past the pool and into the sauna without any kerfuffle? Too much trouble. She snapped the plastic around her ankles and smiled sarcastically at the spa attendant, who had politely requested she remove, or cover, her brogues.
“Thank you,” said the young man, “I hope you understand it’s a health and safety issue.”
Liza snorted. “I bet they’re all sipping sherry in the sauna, aren’t they?”
“The residents of The Alderley don’t mind alcohol in the spa, but they do mind muddy shoes by the pool.”
“My brogues aren’t muddy. But fine. I’ll have a crème de menthe.”
“In the sauna?”
“Yes.”
“In your three-piece suit.”
“Yes!” Liza snapped. “I’m on Honey Diamond’s guest sheet! You should be granting all my wishes.”
“Sorry, of course. I’ll be right with you.”
Liza nodded, finally feeling The Alderley’s renowned air of importance. She looked at the heated pool, bubbling Jacuzzi, padded loungers and soft lighting. No bugger was even here. So much for appeasing the health and safety conscious residents. Marching to the sauna, she pulled open the door and was immediately hit by a wall of heat and alcohol. Diana, Gerty, Dot and Sofia were steaming, in more ways than one.
“Shut that door!” cried Diana, sporting a leopard-print swimsuit complete with upright neck collar. “You’re letting the heat out.”
Liza edged inside the wooden furnace, noticing Gerty and Dot’s bare breasts mottled with drops of perspirations. “Hello, everyone,” she said, to no one in particular, trying to act as casually as she possibly could in the rising temperature.
Sofia laughed. “Oh Liza. You’ve surpassed yourself this time. Honey sent you here to relax.”
Edging herself onto a wooden slatted bench, Liza nodded. “And here I am, with a crème de menthe en route.”
Sofia stretched out on the highest bench, smiling through the mist of alcoholic warmth. “You’re wearing a three-piece suit. In a sauna.”
“At least those bloody awful brogues are covered,” added Diana, pointing at the blue plastic bags as she sipped from her flute.
Sofia lifted her head up. “Go and borrow a costume.”
“Or get nuddy-duddy like us,” added Gerty, toasting her glass against Dot’s too forcefully, resulting in an unexpected breast-led Mexican wave.
Liza breathed in the scorching air, realising she’d have to loosen her collar any minute. “I shan’t stay long,” she croaked, thankful for her short haircut.
>
“You shall,” said Diana. “We’re under strict instructions to stay away. Give Honey some space. Let her do what she needs to do.” She leaned forward and pressed the button that would summon the spa attendant, because residents of The Alderley were wholly incapable of adding more water to the sauna rocks by themselves, or in this case ordering more drinks.
“It’s cost me ten thousand pounds in therapy over the past two months to say that sentence.” Diana inhaled for three and exhaled for four. “Let her do what she needs to do.” She repeated the breathing technique. “Let my daughter roam free.”
Sofia shook her head. “She’s hardly roaming free. She’s just showing a bit more initiative.”
“Our little girl’s growing up, isn’t she Gerty?” said Dot.
Diana spun round on the hot wooden slats, breathing forgotten. “She’s my little girl and I’ve spent my whole life protecting her. And so far it’s paid off.” She pulled on her collar. “Oh stuff the therapy, I was right all along. She’s had no scandals, no—”
“Not like you in your day,” interrupted Gerty.
“Different times.” Diana composed herself. “And as I was saying, no scandals, no—”
Dot took over. “Remember that picture of you, Heath, and… what was Heath’s friend called? The one with the Elvis hair?”
Gerty nodded. “Norman.”
“And Norman, in a field, not an ear of corn between you.”
The two crowns of curly white hair giggled. “Cost you an arm and a leg to keep that out of the papers, didn’t it, Di.”
“Exactly my point! Honey’s lived her life unscathed. I challenge you to name one other child star of her calibre who can claim the same.”
Sofia spoke up. “There’s no one like her, but she’s hardly living her life. She’s working.”
“And she’ll keep working, so there’s really no need for this sudden outpouring of personality.”
No one had noticed Liza slowly wilting off the bench until she wheezed from the floor of the sauna. “We agreed… she needed the reins.”
Diana was sharp. “Will you get up, woman?” She banged the button once more. “And where the bloody hell’s that pool boy? He’s probably gone off site to find your bloody crème de menthe.” She tilted the flute and shook it over her outstretched tongue, trying to drain the last few drops of Champagne. “I mean, for god’s sake, who drinks crème de menthe?”