by Kiki Archer
“Always.”
“Always what?”
“What?”
Diana nodded. “Always what?”
“What do you mean always what?”
The collar was straightened. “Always ma’am.”
“Oh for god’s sake, Diana, I’m not calling you ma’am.”
Diana turned on her heel. “Well then. Svetty, it’s over to you.”
****
Margaret rose from the sofa as Honey came into the lounge with their plates. “Here, let me help you,” she said, relieved to have something to do, having been banished from the kitchen and forced to relax in what was quite possibly the largest front room she’d ever been in. A front room that reminded her of a show home, or an area of an upmarket department store showcasing what your front room could look like if you filled it with their furniture, wallpaper and ornaments, none of which you’d relax in, but would instead creep around gently to ensure you didn’t knock anything out of place or leave any evidence of your presence. Margaret took the plate and made her way to the large shag pile rug lying in the centre of the room surrounded by dark wood flooring. She looked again. It wasn’t just a rug on the floor, it was encased by the wood. It was a whole other type of flooring built into the centre of the room. She sat carefully and crossed her legs, adjusting her kimono to cover her modesty.
“What are you doing sitting in the middle of the room like that?” asked Honey with a laugh.
Margaret looked up at her host, still standing there with her plate. “I thought we’d agreed to eat on our knees?”
“Yes, on the sofa. The coffee table’s here too so it’ll be easier.”
“Don’t,” gasped Margaret, unable to watch as the clearly expensive oak table was pulled, one handed, across the floor. “It’ll scratch!”
“I have moved it before.”
“Have you?”
“Well no, but we can’t sit in the centre of the room like two little Buddhas.”
Margaret patted the soft pile next to her. “Yes we can. That sofa looks like it’s made of white mink and this curry will stain. Where do you usually eat?”
“In the kitchen, on the road, in the studio.” Honey gave up and joined her guest on the floor. “Sofia’s a great cook. She prepares most of my meals no matter what time I’m due out or in. She’s always ready, and it’s always delicious.”
Margaret scooped up some of the sauce and rice. “And I’m sure this is too.” She lifted it into her mouth, quite unsure what hit her first. Was it the strong smell of garlic or the rancid taste of rotten eggs?
“How is it?” asked Honey, watching eagerly for approval.
Margaret’s eyes started to water as her nostrils widened, trying desperately hard to chew confidently as she masked her utter disgust. She nodded as keenly as she could. “Mmmm,” she managed.
“Oh good. I’ve not cooked it before, but I’ve seen Sofia do it a number of times and aside from the burnt spices I think it’s a success. I added the boiled eggs at the last minute to give it some bulk.”
Margaret almost baulked. “Did you boil them earlier?” she asked through the mouthful that wouldn’t go down.
“No, Sofia always has some ready in the fridge. Here, let me grab us more drinks.” Putting her plate onto the rug Honey rose up and headed back into the kitchen.
“Shit,” cursed Margaret, lifting her plate as high as she could before working the contents of her mouth out with her tongue, quickly using her fork to bury the mush. She left her tongue hanging there and exhaled heavily, panting like a dog to rid her taste buds of the putrid flavour.
“You’re really getting into that, aren’t you?” said Honey, smiling at the scene in the centre of the room.
Margaret looked down at her position. She appeared to be plate up, mouth open, guzzling away. “Sorry, us journalists are known to wolf down our food then abandon it as we head off on one lead or another.” It was a total lie but it was all she could think of. “So don’t be disappointed if I forget all about it.”
“You’re not going anywhere are you?”
“No, I…” She lifted her hand for her glass. “Thank you, it’s got quite a kick.”
“I think I may have confused bulbs of garlic with cloves of garlic.”
“Right.”
“It’s not too bad though is it?”
Margaret coughed slightly. “Try a bit with some egg.”
Honey eyed her suspiciously. “Feed it to me?”
“Really?” She watched the smiling eyes. “Okay then, here goes.” Margaret scooped up some sauce making sure she stabbed a large chunk of fermented egg as she went. “Open wide. Shall I do the choo choo?”
“I was thinking of something more sexy.”
“I’m not sure this will be sexy with or without the choo choo.” She lifted the curry to Honey’s mouth. “Enjoy.”
Honey slowly closed her lips around the fork. The splutter came first, then the choking. “What in god’s name is that?” she gasped, flicking the food out with her fingers. “That’s horrific! It’s off! Something’s off!” Gulping from her glass she continued to finger her tongue. “It’s burning!”
“That’s the garlic. Has the egg hit you yet?”
“If it’s responsible for that decomposing putrid taste then yes!” She slugged the Champagne and growled. “Oh Margaret, I’m so sorry. I’ve been tasting it as I’ve gone along and I thought it needed more garlic, hence my confusion about the bulbs versus cloves, so I’ve obviously gone and put too much in, and those eggs are just horrific. They must be off. Sofia usually leaves them on the middle shelf for me in the fridge, but these were on the top shelf and I thought they’d be fine. I’m so sorry. This really is revolting, isn’t it?”
Margaret lifted her fork to scoop a bit more. “If I avoid the egg it’s fine. You’ve got some good flavours coming through.”
“You’re lying. It tastes of death.”
Margaret laughed. “It’s okay.”
“That’s sweet, but it’s not.” She reached for the plate. “You top us up; I’ll throw these away and grab us a toothbrush.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It is. The Champagne’s over there.”
Margaret rose from the floor, masking a burp that made its way into her mouth, reigniting all the vile taste sensations. A toothbrush? Why was Honey grabbing a toothbrush? This whole experience was bizarre enough as it was. Equally as unusual as the interview and the services trip. Was she uneasy? Was she holding back, being stiff? Honey certainly wasn’t. Honey was beautifully at ease. An innocence that made the whole situation even more shameful.
“Right. I have a new toothbrush for you, some toothpaste, a bottle of water and a bowl.”
Margaret looked at the offering. “You want me to clean my teeth in your lounge? And spit into a bowl? In front of you?”
“I’ve got mine too.”
Margaret smiled. “This is a sign.”
“What sign?”
“A sign that you’re different. Someone obviously brings you bowls and toothbrushes like it’s a normal thing to do.”
“I thought this would be less weird than standing side-by-side in my bathroom like you’re staying the night.” Honey blushed. “And I’m not saying that you staying the night would be weird, I’m just saying…” She paused. “Oh, just take your toothbrush and scrub that stink off your tongue.”
Margaret took the brush, bowl and water towards the window and rested them on the sill. She dipped the toothbrush and stared out across the wide driveway, wondering if it ever got lonely living so hidden away. She brushed her teeth quickly. It was now or never. “Listen, Honey,” she said, not turning around. “I need to—” She stopped at the fingers that were touching the back of her neck, parting her hair. “I need…” They were moving up and down with a devastatingly arousing effect. “I…” Honey was behind her, her body inches away.
“I’m sorry about the curry,” came the whisper.
Margaret
slowly edged herself around, trapped between Honey and the window. “It’s fine.”
“Can I make it up to you?”
Feeling the hands move slowly around her back she gasped. Shit.
“I like you.”
The lips were brushing her cheek. Oh. My. Good. God.
“And I think you like me too.”
The mouth hovered over her own. What the hell’s going on?
“Liza’s known you for years,” Honey was pulling herself closer, “and that’s good enough for me.”
Margaret couldn’t reply. Their mouths had connected. She had to stop this. She couldn’t stop this. Honey was hungry. She was forceful. She was pushing her onto the windowsill, parting her legs with her body.
Margaret snapped her legs closed and slid down. “I’m so sorry, I can’t do this. It’s too soon.”
Honey shunted backwards, pressing her hand to her mouth. “Gosh, I’ve misjudged this. My life’s so busy. I have no time for spontaneity. I thought I’d try and snatch it, but I’ve snatched it too hard and too fast.”
Margaret felt her insides weaken. She liked it hard and fast. Damn it, she liked Honey. So much. Too much. She’d never said no to a woman, she never had the chance; they were always so few and far between. And here she was with Honey Diamond, saying no. Stopping what would no doubt be the experience of a lifetime. She thought fast. “Tomorrow? Start afresh? Take our time?” She paused. “I’m not the woman you think I am.” She thought back to the Liza comment. “Maybe quite literally. But I’m worth knowing, and I’ll explain. I’ll make things right.”
“I’m the one who needs to make things right. Look at me. I’m a sex pest. I have no clue what came over me.” She shrugged. “Well I do, it was the sight of you in your kimono. But I know I can’t just take what I want, and I don’t want you thinking I do. I never do. You’re right, we should slow it down.” Her cheeks were flaming. “You should go. I’m embarrassed.”
“Tomorrow then? I’ll take you out.”
“I’m at the studio tomorrow.”
“Postpone it.”
“I can’t. And where would we go? People will see me. You remember what happened at the services.”
“You have make-up artists.”
“So?”
“Contouring.”
“But—”
“Please, Honey. I need to get my head straight. I need to start from the start. If this is more than just work then I want to do it properly. A date.”
“Look at us. We’re both in a tizz. We’re ridiculous.” The eyes dropped. “This is ridiculous.”
“I think me brushing my teeth at Honey Diamond’s lounge window was the pinnacle.”
The laugh was quiet. “Okay,” said Honey, “I’ll spend tomorrow with you, but only if you promise to spend the next day with me. I’ll live your life if you live mine. Now leave me alone before I change my mind, or before I internally combust with embarrassment.”
“It’ll probably be those fermented eggs.”
The laugh was louder. “Actually stay, let’s start this again?”
“I can’t.”
“You’re right. Look at me. Always pushing. I’m useless.”
“Trust me, this is all me. My fault. My mess.” Margaret shrugged. “My car’s by the hedge.”
“You drove? You had no intention of drinking?” Honey led them out of the lounge towards the front door. “Well you were drinking, so that means you thought about staying?”
“I didn’t know what I was coming round for.”
Honey opened the door and shook her head. “Earlier today you said you were suited up like a goal keeper with full body armour and kit. You weren’t lying were you?”
Feeling the cool breeze on her cheeks, Margaret stepped into the shadows. “I don’t want to hurt you.” She crunched onto the pebbles. “I…” The words just weren’t there.
Honey followed her out onto the drive, moving towards the lights. “Am I way off the mark?” she asked as they walked.
“Not at all. You’re wonderful. You’re…”
“I’m what? Because you can’t get away from me quick enough.”
Margaret sighed. “You’re perfect.”
The voice was soft. “So show me.”
Looking down at the arm now resting against her own, Margaret paused, unable to control the conflict in her mind. “You don’t know me.” They were at the car; she should get in and go.
“But I want to.” Honey’s lips were back, kissing gently, kissing kindly.
Margaret moaned, quickly losing herself to Honey’s demands. “Wait,” she gasped, hearing the footsteps behind her.
Honey pulled away and looked over the shoulder at the person coming their way on the pavement. “It’s fine. It’s one of the contract cleaners from the hub. They have to sign non-disclosure agreements to work here. You don’t need to worry. Oh and I know this one, she’s lovely.” Honey waved. “Pia, hello.”
Margaret span around and looked at the woman.
“Yhesh, yhesh, Miss Diamond.”
Hunching her shoulders, Margaret tried to hide against the car.
“Pia, this is my friend, Margaret. Margaret, this is Pia.”
The little woman inclined her head to get a better look. “Meg, what you do here?”
Honey frowned. “Meg?”
“Yhesh, yhesh, Meg nice girl.”
The journalist’s voice was quiet. “Meg’s the shortened version of Margaret.”
Chapter Fourteen
Keying in the code next to the battered shutters of the discount store, Meg granted herself access to the stairwell. The drive home had been peppered with half swerves into side streets, a decision to turn around and explain quickly discarded and corrected by the analytical part of her brain. The part that always won out. Hence her position now, trussed up in Jo’s ridiculous kimono, trudging back up the stairs to her flat. No new truths had been told except for the fact she was sometimes called Meg. Shoving the key into the lock she mouthed to herself. You’re always called Meg, you liar. This whole Margaret bollocks was recent. Apparently the prestigious role of Arts and Entertainment correspondent at The Beacon required her full name. The horrible old-fashioned gift from her parents: Margaret Audrey Joyce Rutherton. Yes, she could just about manage to introduce herself as Margaret, but including Audrey and Joyce in her byline, no.
The paper’s proprietor had claimed that good old stalwart, Margaret Rutland, admired and adored by all, couldn’t possibly be replaced by some young upstart called Meg; bad enough she’d joined them from HotBuzz, but a Meg who wasn’t embracing the fact she could follow in her predecessor’s footsteps by name, if not by constitution, just wasn’t okay. So she became Margaret at work, and if she was honest it did help. People who were expecting Margaret Rutland were somewhat appeased that this new woman had a very similar name.
Meg shoved open the door. She should have corrected Honey at the first opportunity. Thinking back, she couldn’t even remember when that first opportunity was. She’d assumed Honey’s Pulitzer Prize comment had been a joke, but no, good old Margaret Rutland won it back in the 80s. She paused. Just how old did Honey think she was? And all this chat about Liza. She should have said: I’m sorry, I don’t know her. I know of her; so many stories from the scene... She stopped herself. It was like that moment someone says your name wrong and you don’t catch it until a couple of seconds later but by then it’s too late. She slammed the door behind her. None of this mattered anyway. This wasn’t the exposure she was expecting. She was expecting a set-up by Honey, luring her in before throwing Diana Diamond’s findings right in her face with the full force she deserved, revealing what a low life creature she truly was.
Meg flopped face first onto the sofa. But Honey hadn’t known, and maybe she’d never know. Maybe the letter had just come from the family’s matriarchal dictator, Diana, puller of strings. The hidden force behind a highly successful media whitewash. Maybe the cease and desist was standard. Maybe the men we
re employed full-time to rid the internet of negativity. Meg felt a crushing realisation of what she’d done. Sitting across from Honey at the interview and then staring at Jackie Laurent on the green had both served to flick that switch, to confront her thoughtlessness. These were real people. She’d hurt real people. And now someone knew. Someone knew it was her. She was exposed. A silly, stupid hobby suddenly of so much importance, so much consequence. She’d never got it before. She’d never made that connection. Celebrities were untouchable, weren’t they? It didn’t matter with them.
That’s why she’d frozen. That’s why she needed to think. She was about to tell Honey when she’d been kissed. She needed to get away, clear her head and formulate a plan and, yes, maybe she’d been saved by that kiss. Maybe there was no need to tell the truth, or to go back and confess something that may never come to light. Honey didn’t know. A simple misunderstanding about which journalist was doing the interview was one thing, but finding out about her links to SlebSecrets? Well, that was a whole other disaster. Yet it was this fear which had caused her to run from their contact. To pull away from the come-on. Honey liked her. For some unknown reason, she liked her. Damn it, she’d even kissed her, with such want, such desire.
Meg sat back up. The site was down. She’d done what was asked. Yes, it had taken the writer’s block this afternoon to finally convince her. The realisation that she had, for the first time, the chance to write about Honey from an honest, informed and enlightened position, instead of her usual chip-on-the-shoulder guesswork. The acceptance that she’d been theorising, and while her theories had in most cases been correct, they weren’t her truths to tell. They were Honey’s.
Shaking her head, Meg sighed. She’d felt guilty. It wasn’t the threats in the letter, it was the regret. Trying to write those real words, those informed observations, those truths that Honey had trusted she’d tell, well… they’d made her feel sheepish, wicked even. Maybe she should have gone back and explained? Maybe she should have told Honey the truth? She wasn’t shying away from Honey because Honey didn’t know the shortened version of her name, or that she’d taken over from old Margaret Rutland. She’d shied away from her because of the guilt. The sin of who she’d been, what she’d done. Meg stopped herself, the analytical part of her brain firing up once more. Was there really any point in coming clean? It was the same as the husband having an affair and telling his wife just to relieve himself of his own burden. She shook her head. If they won’t find out, don’t tell them. Don’t hurt them. And the chances of Honey being involved in the internet side of things was slim. She despised technology. She hated social media. Crikey, she didn’t even have her own mobile phone. Meg paused. But she’d heard of the site. She’d announced an address had been found. Would she want to give Jackie Laurent a name, or just the knowledge the site was no more? Biting the inside of her lip, Meg shouted. “Oh god, Jo, where are you?”