Lost In The Starlight

by Kiki Archer

  Liza struggled to breathe as the sweat began to seep through her suit. “I’ll go and find him.” She started to crawl.

  “Oh no you bloody won’t. It’s your fault we’re here. You’ve pushed this new found independence. You’ve given Honey the confidence to take on the world. You were meant to show her how hard life is.”

  “Hard how?” Liza started to rock in a weak attempt to aerate her jacket.

  “For a woman like you. I employed you. I gave you the role of PA.”

  Gerty laughed, tits out, enjoying the show. “You and your master plans never work, do they, Di?” She looked at Liza. “You okay down there, big girl?”

  Liza’s voice was laboured. “Honey employed me.”

  “I made sure the other candidates were useless. I wanted her to have access to your world if she needed it,” she turned to her friends, “because we can’t deny we all saw signs in young Honey, didn’t we ladies?” She nodded and turned back to Liza. “But she also needed an up close and personal example of how hard your world truly was.”

  Liza wiped the sweat from her brow, still on all fours, as she struggled to swallow. “My world’s not hard.”

  “Life for lesbians is! Gay men do well in this industry with their utter fabulousness, but lesbians? No. And Honey’s sympathetic. She likes the gentler things in life.” She sniffed. “Don’t we all on occasion?”

  Gerty toasted her glass against Dot’s once more. “Hey, Di, remember old Fonda’s pool parties back in the day. All us having a piece of her pu—”

  Diana interrupted. “But Honey’s not ready for the media glare. We’ve had things in place. It’s worked.”

  Sofia added to the chorus. “She’s hardly living the lascivious life of a loose lesbian.”

  “Exactly,” nodded Diana, “so there’s no need to utter those words.”

  “Chin, chin,” added Gerty and Dot.

  Diana slammed the button once more. “We need more drinks so we can toast to no lesbian labels.”

  Liza, unable to handle the heat any longer, edged the short distance to the door and was greeted by a sudden cool blast of air as the spa attendant entered the sauna.

  He crouched down. “Your crème de menthe.”

  Liza took the glass but wrinkled her nose at the smell. “Water,” she gasped instead, trying unsuccessfully to hand it back.

  “And champers,” added Diana. “Bring the bottle.”

  Liza watched with horror as the door shut once more, trapping her, her three-piece suit and her ill-chosen liqueur back in the furnace. “I need to…”

  “Get nuddy-duddy!” wailed Gerty.

  “No, I need to…”

  “You need to hand round that bloody crème de menthe,” said Diana, grabbing the glass and lifting it in a toast. “To Honey, not using the lesbian label.”

  “No need for lesbian labels!” cheered Gerty and Dot.

  Liza felt her arms and legs weaken as she flopped flat out on the floor.

  “And the suit is down!” said Diana, prodding Liza with her toe. “Get some air and head back to the house. Check Honey’s singing from the same hymn sheet. Get her to use the word fluid, or modern, or progressive. She has a progressive sexuality not defined by pigeon-holed labels.” She prodded once more. “Liza? Oh dear lord, the suit’s gone and fainted.”

  ****

  Honey nodded as the journalist re-read her previous statement. “Yes,” said Honey with authority, “I’m fine with the lesbian label.”

  Chapter Ten

  Margaret Rutherton looked at the woman sitting in front of her. They were half an hour into the interview and she was smitten. There was something about Honey’s innocence that put everything she had recently heard and everything she had recently read to rights. Honey’s leaked song didn’t mean she’d been playing a game. She hadn’t been hiding her sexuality. Her only crime was naivety. She hadn’t previously courted the press, or encouraged them to jump to conclusions when pictured with male friends. She’d stayed quiet. And while some could cite this as guilty by omission, Honey’s case for the right to privacy was sounding more credible by the minute.

  “It’s in my contract to promote my music and my shows,” said Honey, “not my private life. But if there was something,” she smiled, “anything, in that realm worth talking about, then I might have talked, but there wasn’t, so I didn’t, and that’s why I haven’t.”

  “But you’re okay with me labelling your sexuality?” Margaret watched the quiet confidence with interest, wondering just how far she could push her subject without overstepping the mark. Both had glasses of wine in front of them, mostly for reassurance, but something caused her interviewee to reach forward and take a sip. “We can always allude to it instead,” she added, “if you’d prefer?”

  Honey visibly swallowed before nodding with decision. “I prefer women to men. If lesbian’s the word for that, then lesbian’s the word for that. I can’t shy away from a word. But I’ll be honest, I’d rather there was valid reason for that labelling. For example, Honey Diamond to wed the princess of her dreams, or Honey Diamond whisked off her feet by kind, clever, somewhat quirky, but definitely funny, independent woman who loves Honey for Honey, not for who she thinks Honey is, or who she thinks she’ll become when she’s with her.” She rolled her eyes. “Honey Diamond celebrity extraordinaire.”

  Margaret could feel herself melting at the cuteness, yet sadness, of it all. “Don’t we all want that?” quickly adding, “…not that I think anyone could become someone from being with me.”

  “Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, I bet they could.”

  Margaret laughed. “I must convey your humour in this piece.”

  “I’m serious.” The shy eyes dropped away but the voice continued. “You look like a lovely catch.”

  “My chance of winning a Pulitzer—”

  “With this piece?” The eyes were back. “It’s awfully dry, I know, I’m sorry. I wish I could be more exciting but I’d have to make things up.” Honey shrugged. “Yes, I’ve had the odd date and liaison, mostly with Liza’s friends, but nothing’s ever lasted. In fact, she probably vetted them first. I bet she got them signing non-disclosure agreements before she scheduled them into her PDA on a half-yearly basis; you know what she’s like.”

  “Your PA?”

  “Liza, yes. She says you go way back.” Honey took another sip of wine. “So, there was a slight romance with a well-known female pop star.” She smiled. “Very well known.” The pause was thoughtful. “But she’s married now, to a man, and I was young. Crushing no doubt.”

  Margaret watched the insecurity with interest. “I’m sure she liked you too.”

  “Maybe.” The eyes twinkled. “Off the record, do you want to know who?”

  Margaret’s inner hack screamed. Of course she wanted to know, but the temptation to snoop, dig and find similar stories would be too great. “It’s better if you don’t tell me.”

  Honey cringed. “Right. Sorry. I’m being too familiar.”

  “You’re not. It’s me. I’m not quite in the zone.” Margaret released the breath she’d been holding from the moment she’d arrived on the doorstep. She looked away. The front too hard to maintain. The idea she could converse with Honey Diamond and ignore the fireworks going off inside her, the thrill coursing through her veins, the rush of adrenaline that – far from subsiding – had grown with each moment. Moments where she’d stared with a straight face, but gazed internally with longing, with desperation, with a long-standing desire to know more. “I think you threw me with your wine and friendly chit-chat.”

  “Were you expecting some straight-laced, poker-faced bitchy beast? An entourage? A list of demands?”

  “Maybe.” Margaret looked at the woman sitting in front of her, whose beauty was radiating from every honest word she spoke. “Just not this.”

  “Nor me,” said Honey, smiling. “I was expecting the straight-laced, poker-faced bitchy beast.”

  Margaret laughed. “Maybe I
should tune into that vibe as I’m completely lost. I have no line of questioning. No desire to poke and prod.”

  The glint was wicked. “Really?”

  “Well, I…” Returning her eyes to her notepad, Margaret flicked quickly, as if the answer could be found somewhere in the empty pages. She needed to focus. This was beyond a joke. A few endearing comments and she was bewitched, absorbed by the beauty, lost in the confident innocence. “Right,” she finally managed, “let’s do old school quick-fire Q and A.”

  Honey nodded. “I’ll start. Why are you thrown?”

  Margaret couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you always like this?”

  Honey’s smile was natural. “I’m never like this. I don’t get the chance. I’m always busy. It’s so hard to meet people organically. Not that this is organic. This is far from organic, but we’re two women, alone, with wine, and a promise,” she reached out and tapped the notepad, “a promise to only publish what I okay.” She smiled. “So my guard’s down.” She lifted her wine. “Is your guard down?”

  Margaret winced. “I’m the hockey player standing in goal, kitted up with full body armour and helmet.”

  “You’re not!”

  “I am! You’re Honey Diamond!”

  “So?”

  “You must be aware of the effect your presence has on people?”

  “Not for a seasoned journalist like yourself.”

  “Seasoned?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that in a ‘you’re old’ way. That’s what struck me when I saw you. Your age. You’re younger and more, more…” She smiled. “You’re better looking than I was expecting.” Lifting her glass, Honey took another long sip. “Sorry, now it’s me losing my train of thought. Shall we do the quick-fire Q and A?”

  Margaret tried to ignore the fast beat of her heart. “Okay,” she said, keeping her eyes on the empty pages. “Question one. When did you know you were gay?”

  “Jump right in there, why don’t you?”

  Margaret fanned her face. “I don’t know why I asked that. I’m being nosey, sorry. This is going so badly. I won’t even be using that storyline in the piece.”

  “You already know what you’ll write?”

  Margaret nodded. “I knew within five minutes of meeting you; that’s why I’m struggling for questions.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ll write about your music, your success, your constant, non-stop, never taking a breath work ethic and your desire to lead a private life.” She nodded, confidence returning, always able to sell a good story. “Now, unless I’m mistaken, that doesn’t mean you’ve been hiding your sexuality for fear of exposure, or shame of labelling, but simply because the two worlds haven’t collided. And you’re right. There’s been next to no mainstream speculation until this point, whereupon you’ve addressed the rumours and come out.”

  “And you’ll examine whether coming out warrants column inches?”

  “Yes, and I think the conclusion will be that it does. Celebrities, whether they like it or not, are role models. People aspire to be like them. Showing the world you’re proud of who you are gives others the confidence to do the same.”

  “And I’m proud of my music, I’m proud of my shows. Like I said before, if there was someone special I’m sure I’d be proud of them too.”

  The passion in Honey’s voice confirmed the truth for Margaret. “I know you would.”

  “And I was seven. A crush on one of my mother’s glamorous friends.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. You’ve successfully, and quite rightly, kept your personal life out of the press. I’m not going to ruin all that with one sensationalised piece.”

  “Let me answer for you then.”

  “For me?”

  “One gay woman to another.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  Honey smiled. “Liza told me. She said it would be good to keep this in house.” She paused. “A change of scenery though.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The green. Do you have a coat?”

  Margaret nodded. “I always have a coat.”

  ****

  Buttoning up her warm duffel, Margaret reached into the car for her scarf, feeling the eyes of Honey Diamond on her shoulder. “Sorry, I won’t be a minute.”

  “Why didn’t you drive up to the house?” was the question.

  Margaret closed the door to the Mini Cooper and turned, lifting her eyebrows. “For all I knew, you had five Porsches in your drive.”

  “So you parked behind the hedge and walked up to the house without your coat? In winter?”

  Margaret laughed. “Very out of character, I must admit,” she smiled at Honey’s hat, gloves and over-the-top layering, “and I’m glad I’ve met a fellow wrapper-upperer, but I needed the breeze to calm me.”

  “And you’re calm now?”

  “No. I have Honey Diamond on my shoulder judging my 2002 Mini Cooper.”

  “At least you can drive. I’ve never learnt. And I never judge. Come on, this way.”

  Margaret felt the hand on her back, guiding her away from the car. “How far to the green?” she asked, totally unsure of the protocol. Should she step away from the contact? It looked like one empty road, gently winding in front of them to the estate’s centre, no doubt. There really was no need for the physical escort. She paused. Should she link arms? She gasped at herself. Of course she shouldn’t link arms. This was Honey Diamond. This was her turf.

  The celebrity smile was wide. “Okay?”

  “Yes fine, thank you.” God no I’m not okay! I’m strolling down a deserted road with Honey Diamond’s hand on my back. And the air’s crisp. And the sun’s all wintry. And the view’s really quite gorgeous. Margaret kept her eyes forward. If the hand shifted slightly, Honey would have her by the waist. Side-by-side. A close companion. A lovers’ walk. The hand dropped away.

  “If anything I’m jealous,” continued Honey, completely unaware of the ripple effect that her touch had created. “The thought of jumping in a car and driving to anywhere. To nowhere. Just driving without a purpose, or a place to be. Just enjoying the moment.”

  Margaret laughed. “Now that’s low maintenance. A drive down the M25 in a Mini.”

  “Maybe somewhere slightly more scenic.”

  “The M1?”

  “As long as there’s a roadside café. Or the services. Hanging out in the services always looks like fun.”

  Margaret could feel her walls crumbling inside. The sweetness of the simple request was so endearing, so moving, so downright sad that the temptation to scoop Honey up and take her, via 2002 Mini Cooper, to the services, right now, was simply overwhelming.

  Honey continued. “On long trips the tour bus stops and Liza will often go in, but the fuss it causes if I do choose to get off… well, it just isn’t worth it.”

  “Why could you possibly want to hang around the services when you’ve got all of this right here on your doorstep?” Margaret lifted her hands to their surroundings. “It’s beautiful. It’s picturesque.”

  “It’s like The Truman Show.”

  The comment made Margaret laugh loudly.

  “But not as many people. Come on. Count the cars that pass as we walk to the green. In fact, just stand still and listen. Tell me what you hear.”

  Margaret closed her eyes. There was the low hum of traffic from outside the estate, a very distant siren and the wind. She could hear the nipping winter wind blowing gently against her collar. “People pay thousands,” she smiled, “millions for this.”

  “You can’t hear life.”

  “It’s worth billions then.”

  “Sometimes I want to hear life. I want the hustle and bustle, the pushing and the shoving.”

  “I’m sure you get pushed and shoved all the time moving from venue to venue, or getting through groups of fans?”

  “Yes, but they’re pushing and shoving so they can gawp and gape. I want to be pushed and shoved by people living their own lives, peop
le barging past on the tube, or at the fast food counter, places to be, people to see.”

  “Right. So, Honey Diamond’s ideal date, a drive round the M25 followed by a trip to the services and some argy bargy at the McDonald’s counter.”

  Honey laughed. “Can we do it tomorrow?”

  Margaret looked across at the twinkling eyes, teasing yes, but also quite telling. “If we carry on like this I won’t be able to give The Beacon enough of a story, so I may indeed have to return tomorrow.”

  “Good. I’m not answering any more of your questions.” Honey linked her arm with Margaret’s. “Come on. Let me show you my life.”

  Margaret felt her heart quicken at the contact. The lovers’ walk. So strangely surreal. Bizarre in fact. She looked around, desperate to focus on something, anything, other than their locked limbs. Turning to her surroundings, she smiled. Honey was right. It was like The Truman Show. Staged somehow, and so far cut off from reality that reality no longer felt real. There was no movement, no shouting, no beeping of horns, all of the things she associated with her own street, her own living neighbourhood.

  Walking in silence, they passed huge houses set back from the road, all of which appeared empty, the odd flash car in the driveway, but no sign of life inside. “There!” gasped Margaret.

  Honey jumped. “What?”

  “A grey squirrel. There! It ran across the road.”

  “You scared me.”

  “Sorry, it was a sign of life. The first one we’ve seen. I was excited.”

  Honey laughed. “It’s not that bad. Look,” she pointed over a grassy bank towards a cluster of tall bushes, “Tony the handyman.”

  Margaret squinted, finally spotting the camouflaged fence behind the bushes. A man was up a ladder. “Security camera?”

  “They’re well hidden. Oh,” she grimaced, “and he’s waving.”