by Kiki Archer
“Then 2007 in Les Miz, 2008 twice at your first concert tour. And 2009 in the audience at the Palladium, 2010 on your world tour, 2011—”
“Stop.”
“I was a fan. I’ve always been a fan.”
“And I’ve always loved my fans. I’ve always appreciated everything they do. Buying tickets, supporting albums, showing up at events. Oh, Meg. I’m so sorry I didn’t see you.”
“People often don’t. I have one of those invisible faces. Not pretty enough to make you look twice, yet not ugly enough to make you remember.”
“I’m looking now.” The eyes were intense. “You’re not invisible, Meg.”
The lingering connection was rudely interrupted by the same sharp voice of the queuing woman. “I’ve remembered. You’re that comedienne, aren’t you? Catherine Tate. You’re in disguise. Are you filming a sketch?”
Honey spoke with all seriousness. “Yes. You’re right, I am. Would you like to be in it?”
“Of course! What do you need me to do?!”
“Go and buy a plate of meatballs and join us back here.”
“Oh, how exciting!” said the woman, spinning around and racing off.
“And run,” said Honey, giggling as she grabbed Meg’s hand. “Bag each. I’m not leaving those cushions.”
Meg felt herself yanked from her seat, head low as they scuttled out of the café. “You can’t just leave her!”
“I can!”
“She’ll be tweeting about Catherine Tate later, telling the world she’s rude.”
“Oh no, you’re right.” Honey stopped the escape. “I thought it was funny. Look at me! I’m no better than those trolls!”
“Trust me, you are.” Meg took the lead. “Come on. Utilitarianism. For the greater good.”
“What?”
“That interrupting woman left alone in the Ikea café with a plate of meatballs is the lesser of two evils. If she outs you, you’re history. It would be like the streets of Pamplona at bull running time.”
“You like philosophy and bull fighting?”
“Neither. I’m just waffling. Come on, in here.” Meg pulled them into a bedroom. “Catch your breath, we need to get to the exit.”
“Not just yet,” said Honey, stepping forward and taking away Meg’s space.
Meg held the connection. They were in a small corner bedroom pod decked out in stripes. People would pass by any minute. People would come in. People would… She lost herself to the lips, kissing back with as much passion as was given. She was melting, the connection so deep and meaningful. It was a meeting of more than just mouths; it was a meeting of minds and of souls. A meeting she’d dreamed about many times in the past, only the reality was so much more than she’d imagined, shockwaves of bliss lighting up all the parts of her she’d feared were lost, or unworthy. This felt right. She kissed deeper. This was right.
Honey eventually pulled away. “We’ve got it,” she groaned before opening her eyes and gasping in fright. “Gosh, and you’ve got foundation all over your face!”
Meg focused, lazily pulling herself out of the moment before blinking quickly at the sight. “Me? Your right cheek’s just fallen two inches. Come on.” She took hold of the hand once more. “We better get out of here.”
“But I like that picture!” Honey was pointing at the stripy design.
“We’ll get it in the market hall.” Meg led the retreat with as much decisiveness as she could muster. Her legs were all aquiver, her face was sticky with make-up and her heart was rising up against her head. Who cared about the danger of the situation? Who cared if she was about to be outed by Diana Diamond herself? This was her moment and she’d live it. “In here!” she gasped, pulling Honey into another vacant pod, this one decked out like a study with everything made from beige MDF.
“What?”
“This.” Meg kissed the make-up without a care in the world, demonstrating her real feelings with her lips, bags dropped to the floor, hands pulling tighter as she tasted the true flavour of Honey.
“We need to go somewhere,” came the groan.
“We’ve got to get out of this bloody building first,” said Meg, eyes drawn to the smudged nose and chin. “Keep your head low; you look like you’re melting.”
“I am.”
Understanding the meaning behind the smiling eyes, Meg followed the arrows leading them through the textiles area, the home organisation, the lighting and the clocks.
“That clock!” said Honey. “It matches my rug!”
“What rug?”
“The one we’re picking up at location…” she pulled the piece of paper, pencil and paper tape measure from her cagoule, “202.758.14 aisle 8 location 9.”
“Really?”
Grabbing the clock, Honey thrust it into the blue carrier. “Yes! Where do we go?”
“Down there.” She pointed to the escalator.
Honey bent over as it took them lower. “Can’t be right. Looks like a warehouse.”
“It’s the self-service furniture area.”
The gasp was excited. “Wow! Like a cash and carry? I read once about cash and carries!”
Meg hurried them along the aisles of stacked-up brown boxes to find the random pile of rugs. “Here.” She grabbed the top one and rolled it up as best she could. “Tills are this way.”
“Why’s everything boxed up?”
“You build it. Come on, hurry.”
“What?”
“The furniture.” Meg guided them towards the checkouts. “You build it. Everything in the show rooms is ready to assemble.”
“No? That sofa in the lesbian teacher’s lounge?”
“Over there, look.” Meg pointed to the pile of cardboard boxes with the picture of the floral sofa on the front. “You build it. With just one Allen key. Right, here we are, the tills.”
“Catherine! Catherine!” The now familiar sharp voice sounded loud behind them.
“Oh, Honey, let’s leave this and go.”
“No, that queue’s only four deep and, wow, look! Here’s a freezer with meatballs in it!” Honey reached in and grabbed a couple of bags. “I know supermarkets have sweets at the checkout, but this is a whole other level. Köttbullar meatballs. Three packs for £5.” She shoved another into the blue carrier.
Meg looked over her shoulder at the woman racing their way, her speed somewhat impaired by the hot plate she was holding. “Honey, really, I think we should go. I don’t want you to be recognised.”
“But my stuff. My cushions. My meatballs.”
“I’ll come back for them. I promise.”
“You promise?”
Meg watched the eyes falling as the two blue carriers were placed on the ground with the same heartache as if Honey were leaving a child she could no longer afford. “They’re just cushions and meatballs. I’ll get you some more.”
“But I’ve never bought cushions and meatballs before.”
“We’ll make it a yearly outing. Come on!”
Honey fell in step with the fast trot towards the exit. “Twice yearly at least.”
Meg laughed at the rustling coming from the wind trousers. “Let’s just get to the car, you crazy lady.”
“I’m trying, but I think these trousers might spontaneously combust.”
“Is that a promise?” asked Meg with a smile.
“Well, they’re certainly sparking already.”
****
Diana Diamond was sitting on Honey’s lounge sofa, brown folder clutched in her hand. She’d informed her daughter of her evening arrival, but the day’s antics at Velvet Villa had become too much to bear. Liza and Svetty’s growlings could be heard on the whole upper level and Gerty and Dot’s downward dogs were far too giggly for her cracking headache, an after effect of last night’s martinis, essential in surviving yet another TV special featuring Nick and Nadia Diamond. She spat the surname in her head. The Diamond name was precious. It was treasured. It was hers. She’d been the star that exploded from nowhere. Sh
e’d been the one building the empire. She’d been the one protecting the name from any chinks and cracks, ensuring the sparkle always shone brightly. And, yes, while Nick and Nadia weren’t real threats – most people understood they were just leeches riding their fifteen minutes of fame for all it was worth – Honey could quite possibly tarnish the name with this ridiculous desire to come out.
That had been the focus of last night’s program: the labelling of sexuality and the possible consequence of this new-found fluid society. Dropping the folder onto the coffee table, Diana closed her eyes. Most women were bi-curious, weren’t they? And most would experience the softer side of love at some point or other. Lesbian liaisons were certainly common among the stars. They weren’t hidden. They weren’t whispered about. They just happened. Like cocaine. Everyone saw it, did it and enjoyed it at one time or another. If Joe Public found that titillating or gossip-worthy then it only showed what dry little lives they lived. Diana pushed her head further into the cushions. Maybe the cocaine analogy was too far.
“Oh, Di,” said Sofia, entering the room with a tray of tea. “You look pained.”
The eyes were open and narrow. “Honey’s going to label herself as a lesbian and spend the rest of her life known as just that, the lesbian singer, not Honey Diamond the singer who happens to like girls. You know what the media’s like. They’re vermin. They raise people up just to pull them down again.”
“They’ve never pulled you down.”
“I’ve played them. I know how to work the system. You don’t go around making big statements about your private life. She’ll never be able to take those words back.”
Sofia sat next to her friend. “She wants to be that voice.”
“Why?”
“She’s brave.” Sofia handed over a mug and sipped from her own. “I think we should support her on this one, Di.”
“It’ll be a shit storm.”
“The piece will be good. The journalist’s lovely. She came across as very thoughtful.”
“Journalists aren’t lovely and that paper’s got one hell of a fireball coming their way. Do you know they’ve employed the owner of SlebSecrets, that site Honey wanted my men to take down?” She nodded towards the brown folder. “It’s all in there and this so-called lovely journalist of Honey’s will know her no doubt, passing her titbits I bet. They’re probably all in it together.”
“Meg’s not like that. She was very sweet towards Honey and she seemed shy, respectfully professional.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Read what?”
“My folder.”
“Not yet.”
“You said Meg.”
“She goes by Margaret in the paper.”
“I know she does.”
“I think they’ll be really good together. Bringing out the best in each other.”
Diana placed the mug back on the tray. “What are you talking about, Sofia?”
“Honey’s date today, with Meg.”
“The dusty old dyke? She’s not called Meg, and anyway, Liza’s told me she’ll sort it.”
“She’s not old. They’ve got to be similar ages.”
“Who?”
“Honey and Meg.”
Grabbing the folder, Diana yanked a photo from the front page. “This woman?”
Sofia studied the picture. “She wasn’t wearing glasses today but, yes, that’s Meg.”
“This is Meg Rutherton!” Diana hit the photo with the back of her hand. “Of SlebSecrets!”
Sofia was frowning. “You’ve lost me.”
“They traced her. My men. They traced them both.” She pulled another photo from the folder; this time a pretty blonde pouted back at them. “Her flatmate, Jo Tustin. Probably not involved. Not clever enough. A make-up artist on set at Reality Rules. She might possibly pass on information, but she’s not got the brains to run the site or phrase the posts.” Diana was shaking her head. “SlebSecrets is the work of this woman.” She slapped the picture of Meg once more. “You’re telling me this woman is out with my daughter? Right now?!” Diana could feel the steam rising from the top of her head. It had been bad enough believing Honey was enamoured by some old hack, but this. This was far more horrific.
“Who knows?” asked Sofia with real concern.
“Just me and my men. I’d usually have them deal with everything, heaven knows how many sites we take down each month, but this was on Honey’s insistence. I wanted her to make the call. I wanted her to decide if it was enough for the site to be down, or whether she wanted to ruin this bitch’s life once and for all. Tell her workplace. Tell her family. Expose her online. Good god, she’s probably out there right now stealing all Honey’s secrets. What a sly little sleazeball.”
“I really don’t think—”
“She’s using my daughter. That bitch is using my daughter!”
****
Slamming the car door, Honey looked over her shoulder at Meatball Woman, still on their tail. She glanced at Meg who was frantically trying to get the key in the ignition. The mixture of nervous excitement, hilarity and desire was too much to ignore. “Come here,” she said, giggling as she leaned towards her driver, planting teasing lips on her neck.
Meg turned into the embrace. “Meatball Woman,” she muttered through the kiss, still fumbling with the keys.
Opening her eyes, Honey spotted the plate looming in the rear view mirror. “Damn it, just drive.”
The engine started, Meg hit the pedal and the Mini sped out of its parking bay. “You’re crazy!”
“Me!?” Honey laughed as she realised this had quite possibly been the craziest, funniest, most memorable day of her life, and a new favourite role in Iris the bag lady. Yes, there had been an element of camping up the excitement with some of the products, but those cushions… and that rug: they were fantastic, and so cheap! The whole place was incredible and if she hadn’t been able to name a designer or an era she was drawn to in the past then she certainly could now. Ikea. She liked Ikea. Ikea was her style of choice.
Looking across at Meg, Honey laughed. Her neck was covered in brown make-up, as was her face, her hands and part of her collar. “If you look like that then I dread to think what I look like.” Pulling down the passenger mirror, Honey gasped. “Michael Jackson in Thriller!”
“You can shake my bones any day.”
Honey turned and frowned. “Does that work?”
“Probably not.” Meg was laughing. “I’m not smooth.”
Reaching for Meg’s leg, Honey rubbed slowly. “Oh, I think you are.” She took a deep breath and decided to brave it. Yes, Meg had shied away from her advances yesterday, but everyone knew lesbian relationships were like dog years: one full day-date the equivalent of three weeks in the straight world. “Shall we go back to mine? Mother’s not due till this evening, and I can’t really go anywhere else looking like this.”
“I wanted to take you to a penny arcade.”
Honey moved her wandering fingers higher. “I’d love that… just not now.” She turned in her seat to stare at the intriguing woman driving beside her. So unexpected, and so freeing, to have someone suddenly come into your life and be the answer to all of your questions. The randomness of the day being exactly the structure she needed. Normality. Realness. Fun. “Right now, I’d like you to take me home,” she said with a smile.
“So I can fill your slot?”
Honey laughed. “Again, doesn’t quite work.”
“Sorry, no, I was thinking of the penny arcade.”
“I know you were; I get you.” She smiled. “We’ve got it. That shared wavelength, that ability to build each other’s banter.” The smile turned wicked. “And now that you mention it.”
****
“I can’t not mention it!” cried Diana, off the white sofa and pacing the lounge.
“It might not be her.”
“Of course it’s her! They went all out with this one. I wanted to show Honey how good my men were. How much she could ben
efit from their expertise.”
Sofia, who had so far tried to remain the voice of reason, took a different tack. “So tell her. Ruin her day. Spoil any chance of romance.”
“Romance?! With that twisted troll?! Over my dead body! Get them all here: Gerty, Dot, Liza, even Svetty sodding Sokolova. I want this outing witnessed by all! This warning shall be heard far and wide.” She pulled up her collar and snorted the words like fire from her nose. “No one dares mess with a Diamond.”
Chapter Eighteen
Pulling into the gates of The Alderley this time was a new experience entirely. Old Sal from security had recognised Meg’s little car and its passenger as she’d rounded the corner into the estate and the gate had been opened without even a consultation of clipboard or request for ID. Meg realised that her driving was also rather different. Usually, she crawled along the winding road past the huge houses, not wanting to disturb, pulling up alongside the tall hedge, not wanting to impose. But this time she’d sped through, scooted down the road and swerved into Honey’s driveway with the bold resolve of a woman encouraged. Encouraged to go faster, encouraged to cut corners, encouraged to pull right up to the door. Honey’s fingers had done the talking. Exploring her neck, her shoulders, down her spine and back onto her thighs, which were now thoroughly relaxed, manipulated and aroused.
Upon feeling her seatbelt sweep across her chest, Meg realised that Honey had unclipped it. In fact, she’d not only released her, she was now leaning across her legs to push open the driver’s door.
“Go,” came the soft voice.
Meg looked down at the face peeping up from her lap, another brown make-up stain now smearing her trousers. “We’re not in The A-Team.”
“I just want you inside,” explained Honey, giggling as she hauled herself from the car. “Come on!”
Stepping out onto the gravel, Meg felt the hand in her own, the warm fingers pulling her towards the door. “Isn’t Sofia in?”
“I’ll advise a session in the spa if she is.” Honey lifted her thumb to the fingerprint lock, discreetly hidden under an old fashioned key cover. “Sofia! Sofia! Are you home?”