Lost In The Starlight

by Kiki Archer

  “Oh no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You, Meg, my lovely, are living my life.” She smiled as wide as she could. “I sat on your Svlasta sofa yesterday so today you’re sharing my circle.”

  ****

  Meg studied the seated circle of five before lowering herself awkwardly into the chair next to Honey’s. She shifted her weight on the plastic, frowning once more at their surroundings. How could a huge production company haul Honey Diamond to a run-down studio in the middle of nowhere, with grey plastic school chairs, a battered vending machine and dog-eared posters featuring the BAGA gymnastics scheme? “Are you sure this is the right place?” she whispered.

  Honey nodded. “There’s Bernard Remi.”

  “Who?” Meg followed Honey's eyes to the man sitting in the corner of the room. “Why does he get to watch?”

  “He’s the producer.”

  “Never heard of him.” She flicked her eyes around the other people sitting in the circle. “And who’s this crowd?”

  “No idea. Bernard’s renowned for his inventive methods. Actors swear by him. I’m sure we’ll find out.”

  Straightening in her seat, Meg cringed. She’d always been crap at acting, lucky to get the role of cat or dog in the year seven drama class. She even remembered a lesson spent playing the pavement while the other more assertive girls in her group acted out an argument scene behind her. She smiled to herself. Those were the days: beginning secondary school with every subject offered up to you, no worry of real exams or assessments, just knowing you could spend an hour shuffling round as a cat or a dog, or being the best tarmac you could ever possibly be. She stopped herself. This wasn’t year seven drama class and she wasn’t eleven years old. This was a script from Hollywood. This was A-list celebrity meets A-list producer, refreshing A-list acting skills no doubt, but who this bunch of seated weirdos were she had no idea.

  Looking around at the gathering, Meg felt even more unworthy. Not only was she there as a tag-along, but also she didn’t seem to have anything captivating or memorable about herself, unlike the others. Her jeans, boots and jumper were no match for the man opposite, kitted out in grey dance leggings, Crocs and an impossibly large-knit polo-necked shrug. The woman next to him was striking as well with a large and shining pan face, highlighted by her scraped back hair and painted on eyebrows. Eager was the word that sprung to mind. Meg dropped her eyes, not wanting to connect, unsure of the protocol in such situations. No one was talking. It was as if an air of impending competition was passing between them in the stilted silence.

  Of course these actors would know who Honey was, but maybe this was one of Bernard Remi’s tactics, to take Honey out of her comfort zone. Or maybe these actors felt Honey, the singer, shouldn’t be here. Or maybe they weren’t even actors, maybe they were random members of the public plucked from the street, or the parish council in the case of the woman to Honey’s left with white ruffled collar, lifted nose and precisely pinned hair. A Mrs Peacock character from Cluedo. Meg turned her attention to the man completing their circle. Wolverine. The man looked like Wolverine, with dark hair sprouting from all over his face. She couldn’t resist the temptation to glance at his nails. They were long. She shuddered. Nothing worse than a man with long nails.

  “Stop staring,” whispered Honey.

  “What are we meant to be doing?”

  “We wait for instruction.”

  “It’s been ten minutes already.”

  “Just relax and enjoy yourself.”

  Twisting her shoulder, Meg shielded them from the rest of the circle. “Enjoy what? Can’t you feel the tension?”

  “That’s called the pre-emptive artistic atmosphere. Oh, here he comes! Here we go! Isn’t this exciting?”

  Looking up at the middle-aged man swishing his way into their circle, Meg felt anything but excited. The twist of his hip was complementing the twist of his handlebar moustache. The droop of his wrist, although working well with the drainpipe trousers and red beret, were taking her further away from any sense of excitement and right into the horror of unease. She shouldn’t be here. She wasn’t an actor or a pop star, she was a guest, and one who should be watching. Rising from her seat she kept her head low, planning a quick escape from the circle.

  “Seet!” said the French accent. “Task one. Srow yourself into a bizarre stance. Make a bizarre noise. Next person reflect and invent. Commence.”

  Meg dropped back into her seat. If there was no escape then she certainly wasn’t going to go first. She peeped up as the swish took the man back out of the circle, the twist planting him on the chair in the corner.

  “Maintenant,” came the command.

  Meg tried to fold in on herself. Who would go first? She certainly wouldn’t. And Honey didn’t appear to be moving either. A strange trilling noise made her look up. Of course. Eager pan face was up, performing an arabesque in the centre of the circle, trilling like a sparrow. Leggings man jumped up next to her, reflecting the move, only lifting his leg slightly higher, trilling until she sat down. Meg couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t trill, and she certainly couldn’t lift her leg like that. She watched as Leggings’ pose morphed into a cherub-like statue, shooting an imaginary arrow with an accompanying whistle. But it wasn’t just a regular whistle, rather it was a dynamic, multi-faceted whistle that actually sounded like an arrow in flight until it was silenced by distance. Meg gasped. She couldn’t do a whistling arrow either. Old Wolverine could though, repeating the sound and action before dropping to his stomach, with arms, head and feet curved upwards, fingers together and pointing, accentuating the long nails as he clicked like a dolphin. Meg looked at Mrs Peacock; no way she’d get her spine to arch that far backwards.

  Yes, and there she was, Mrs Peacock, balancing on her stomach, clicking like a dolphin. Oh good god, who were these people, and what could she do? It was Honey next and then it was her. Surely Honey would do something simple? She held her breath as Honey entered the circle, copying Mrs Peacock’s frog-shaped pose with accompanying ribbit before rising up like a ballerina into a beautiful balance with a harmonious “tring” reminding Meg of a delicate music box.

  Shunting forward on legs that didn’t work properly she hoisted her arms up into the balance as best she could tringing in a slightly strange key, but tringing all the same. Honey stepped away. The circle was hers. All eyes were watching, staring, judging. What the hell could she do? Catching sight of the BAGA gymnastics poster, she gasped. A star jump! She jumped… slightly, legs wide, arms out, hands doing some strange jazz shake of their own. She paused. The noise! What noise could she do? Everyone was waiting. Anticipating. Meg felt her tongue drop from her mouth and couldn’t help the raspberry that escaped. It was a half-hearted raspberry. A wet, half-hearted raspberry. Pan face didn’t get up. No one was copying her move. She stood there a moment longer, her jazz hands waning somewhat as her eyes dropped to the floor.

  “Seet!” came the shout. “Very telling. Very, very telling.” The drainpipes were back up and twisting. “Exactly as Bernard expected.”

  Folding back into her seat, Meg stared at pan face. How did she know the game had ended? She could at least have tried to copy her move. It wasn’t horrific. It might have been a slightly obvious jump into the circle and ta-dah, but still. Meg felt Honey’s hand on her knee. She looked down at the fingers. Were they squeezing with encouragement or squeezing with despair? Meeting her eyes, Meg tried to signal apology. She was doing her best; she’d never claimed to be Scarlett O’Hara or Clarice Starling. She smiled. She would like to be the Thelma to Honey’s Louise though. With a nod of determination, she turned back to the beret. This one she’d do better. This time she’d excel.

  “Bernard wants to see what you are doing.” The hands were expressive. “Mime simple activity. Group shall guess what you do.”

  Pan face was up, swiping what looked like a sword in front of herself.

  “Filleting salmon,” said Mrs Peacock.

 
As if she’s filleting bloody salmon, thought Meg.

  “I am indeed,” said pan face with a bow.

  Yes because everyone fillets bloody salmon with a samurai sword, don’t they. And what’s this now? The ruffled collar of Mrs Peacock was lifted along with the nose as the fingers strummed at chest height.

  Tickling your girlfriend’s tits, thought Meg.

  “Playing the harp,” said the man in the leggings.

  Of course she was, nodded Meg, and what are you going to do? Blowtorch a crème brulee?

  The man stood still, with thumb and forefinger on chin.

  Ha, she thought! He’s stuck. He’s frozen! He’s fluffed it at the final hurdle.

  “You’re observing art,” announced Wolverine.

  The bow was graceful, as was the dance back out of the circle.

  Meg huffed. Oh, this was all so ridiculously pretentious. What would Wolverine do now? Open a hipster café in Shoreditch? She watched as he bent and offered out his hand with a look of sheer benevolence.

  “Feeding the poor,” she said, without thinking.

  “That I am.”

  Meg cringed. She’d not meant to say it aloud, and as if anyone would actually act out feeding the poor! She stood up. Honey was watching. Remi Bernard was watching. Big old pan face was watching. She’d do something good. She’d do something better. She squatted down and lifted her hands in front of herself.

  Pan face tutted. Mrs Peacock looked away. “Rather crude,” sniffed Leggings.

  “What?” Meg shrugged. “I’m on the Orient Express reading an Agatha Christie.”

  Honey patted the chair beside her.

  “I was!” continued Meg.

  “It’s okay.” The whisper was kind. “I think we’re moving on now.”

  Meg looked towards the swish. Why did they always stop on her turn? “Let me try another?” she said.

  “Non! Bernard have one final task, then maybe you seet with me.”

  Slumping back in her seat Meg looked around at the circle. It wasn’t her fault they’d thought she was taking a shit. Fine, back to basics with this one. She listened hard. It was called “I am”. The first person apparently had to announce what they were and the second person had to become something related, and the third one and so on. Oh, and here she was now, surprise surprise, pan face back up, first in the circle.

  “I am a tree!” she declared, eyebrows rising even higher as she waved her arms like branches.

  Leggings was straight up next to her. “I am the wind, blowing your leaves.” He started to prance.

  Wolverine joined the duo. “I am the sun, softening your branches.”

  Mrs Peacock swirled among the bodies. “And I am your scent summoned up by the sun.”

  Honey joined in the scene, forming a heart over her head with her arms. “I am the lover’s carving, in the bark of the tree.”

  Meg shuffled forward, bent down and flopped onto the floor. “And I am the pavement built over your roots.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The atmosphere in the back of the car was somewhat stiff to say the least. Honey hadn’t taken kindly to Meg’s character assassination of the people in the circle and Meg hadn’t appreciated Honey’s accusation that she was deliberately messing around. She wasn’t. She’d been trying. Yes, after the pavement mime, which was deemed by pan face to have lowered the artistic ambition of the scene, her enthusiasm had waned, but she’d been trying, she honestly had. Staring out of the window, Meg decided to take a different tack.

  “It’s like the kid in the class who gets labelled as a problem,” she said. “They’re very often not messing around for messing around’s sake. They’re behaving in a manner that distracts attention from the fact they’re failing, or struggling, or in my case not up to the job.”

  “No one was judging you, Meg.”

  “Mrs ruffled collar was, and so was Mr big balls in those bloody dance leggings.”

  “There you go again. You’ve just judged them.”

  “Oh come on, Honey, you can’t seriously be that prim and proper?”

  “Is that how you view me?”

  Meg sighed, thankful that the glass divider was up and tinted. “No, I’m sorry.” She shrugged, unsure of how open to be. “I guess I just feel inferior. No matter where I am, no matter what I do, I never feel good enough, and that’s bound to get worse being around someone as perfect as you, and I mean perfect in the most genuine sense of the word. There’s nothing I could possibly dislike about you. You’re incredible, and I can get grumpy and sulky sometimes.”

  Honey reached out for the bottom lip that was protruding and gently pushed it back up. “You’re writing for the nation’s most established broadsheet. You’re talented and successful and—”

  “They liked my background at HotBuzz, that’s all. They needed to step into the twenty-first century and I ticked that box.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You just need to be nicer.”

  Meg straightened in her seat. “You think I’m not nice?”

  “I think you judge easily and I think you’re too quick to look for the negatives, for the bad in people. Geraldine said she missed you in the afternoon activities.”

  “Who’s Geraldine?”

  “The lady with the up-do.”

  “Cluedo piece? Mrs Peacock?”

  Honey laughed. “See!”

  “That's funny though, isn’t it?”

  “No. You shouldn’t be mean about people.”

  “How can you not be? How can you spend a day in that room without rolling your eyes at their ridiculousness? Filleting the salmon? Feeding the poor? I mean come on! Who are these people?”

  “They’re people I have to deal with every day. The industry’s renowned for its eccentricities.”

  “So you just turn a blind eye to all the bollocks?”

  “I have to.”

  “Aha! You admit it’s bollocks then!”

  “I didn’t say that.” Honey laughed. “But this is my world, Meg, and I’ve learnt to take everything with a pinch of salt. Nothing surprises me anymore.” She smiled. “I’ve honestly seen it all. And who am I to judge?”

  “You’re Honey Diamond who gets everything right!”

  “So I’m right when I say you need to be nicer?”

  Meg took the comment in the kind spirit it was offered. After all, they did say you should be with someone who brought out the best in you, who helped you be the best version of yourself you could ever possibly be. Honey would do that. From this one small conversation she knew that Honey would do that. Looking back out of the window, she spoke again. “I’m never going to let you meet my flatmate, Jo. She makes me look like St Sheila from Stockport.”

  “Was there a St Sheila from Stockport?”

  “No, but I didn’t want to use Mother Teresa in case you didn’t approve.”

  “I just want you to be you.”

  “What if I’m not a nice person?”

  “Meg, look at me. You are. You’re a very nice person.” Honey shifted her position on the backseat. “A very, very nice person.”

  Meg’s eyes dropped to the lips that were smiling, encouraging. She knew she wasn’t a bad person as such, but she wasn’t as good as Honey deserved. She could be better. She wanted to be better. She’d try harder to be positive and always look for the good in people; it would be a challenge, but she’d try. Thinking again of her flatmate, Meg realised there’d have to be changes; she’d have to call Jo out on her sniping, even if booze was involved. Usually she’d just nod and accept it, knowing the apology would arrive the next day, but it brought her down, or worse, it sometimes encouraged her to rise up and join in.

  She didn’t want to be the person she became around Jo, she wanted to be the person she became around Honey. Honey thought she was someone special, and no one had ever thought that before. Her, Meg Rutherton, special. Lifting her hands, she drew Honey’s mouth closer, kissing with ambition, not pulling Honey’s perfection that li
ttle bit nearer the dark side, but instead drawing herself into the light.

  ****

  Honey moaned at the contact. Meg’s lips so soft, yet her tongue so searching. It was the kind of kiss that aroused you, that turned you on. She wanted more, she needed more. Pulling Meg closer, she drew their chests together, instantly feeling the heat of two bodies intensely attracted to one another. She groaned into the connection. It was as if they’d been magnets, sensing each other’s presence but not fully realising the power of the invisible pull until it was too late, now locked together, not easily prised apart. She lifted her hands to Meg’s neck, running her fingers through her hair until she had a hold of her head, forcing her closer, tasting her deeper.

  “Wait.”

  Meg’s words stopped her. “What?” she gasped.

  Meg’s eyes were glancing around the car. “We can’t, not here.”

  “We can.”

  “You have?”

  Honey shrugged. She might have got a bit hot and bothered in the car that one time with She-Ra, and that other time with Liza’s friend Mandy, but nothing this fierce or this fiery. Maybe Meg was right. She wanted her naked. She needed her naked. The thought flushed over her in a blaze of arousal. She wanted this quirky, slightly awkward, yet totally intriguing woman, with her dark stirring eyes and nervous self-worth, all alone to herself. Yes, there had been an instant attraction on the day of the interview, opening the door and accepting that feeling, yet the draw had intensified with each further meeting. The not knowing had driven her desire to find out. Who was this woman? Why was she so distant? Impenetrable? Because she was. She had been. Meg had almost jumped out of her skin at the post-curry come on, and again at the kiss by the car. Yes, it could have been the interruption by Pia, but there’d been a definite wall. A wall that was slowly crumbling away. She liked her. Looking into her eyes, Honey knew she daringly liked her. Because it had been daring, to be so full on. To seize the moment. To try and grab this feeling and run.

  Honey smiled, enjoying the emotion for what it was. It was the acceptance that for whatever reason she wanted this woman. That mysterious feeling of lust. Why them? Why had the universe thrown them together? Why had the sparks started to fly? She didn’t really believe in fate or a pre-determined path, but she did believe in this feeling. This invisible bond. Two people knowing they wanted each other, and no matter the circumstance or situation it would happen, eventually. “Tonight,” she said with a smile, “after Britain Sings, you’ll come back to mine?”