by Kiki Archer
Looking at the stage, with the lights low in waiting, Meg realised Honey was playing a role: the nation’s Honey, the nation’s sweetheart. This was her act, all the make-up, hair, glamorous gowns and sparkling jewellery was the front that protected a very private person. Yet this person, so loved by so many, had shown her true self – to her – to Meg. Feeling the buzz of anticipation, she held her breath. Music was cued and brought up. The lights rose as the music reached a crashing crescendo, the studio doors opened with firework effects flaring from each side. Four judges were revealed, all famous in their own right, all dazzling in their own themes, but only one drawing her eyes. Honey. Her Honey.
Meg couldn’t stop the smile that took over her face. She was proud. Honoured. She felt special. In this crowd of screaming people, Honey had made her feel special. This wonderful woman, so loudly cheered and adored, wanted her; and every bone in her body wanted Honey right back.
Meg joined the whooping audience, clapping and cheering on their feet as the four judges took their seats. She knew the live show wasn’t due to start for another half hour and the judges would enter once more after Justin performed. She realised she’d have previously viewed such antics with scorn, thinking the vain judges wanted to practice their entrances. Or she’d have laughed at the famous guest singer’s fear to perform live on what was ironically a live talent show, but now she viewed it as another chance to stand even taller, to clap even louder, to bask in this feeling of wonder. This secret smile. This secret bond. She turned towards the judges table. Honey, with fireworks blazing behind her, was smiling right back.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Looking down at the head resting in her lap, Meg felt the tender wash of affection course through her body once more. The evening had been a mix of emotions swinging wildly from pride to lust, back to wonder and respect. Honey had been a generous, funny and astute presence. Her judging on-point, her comments endearing, sharp but never mean, and her secret glances back to the audience had sent silent shivers of anticipation straight down Meg’s spine. Honey had been sitting there, watched by millions, with a poise and purpose so far removed from her previous position, moments before, back up against the dressing room door being kissed with a passion and urgency most viewers wouldn’t be able to imagine let alone comprehend. But then the show had started and the hours, although not dragging, had totted up. And it wasn’t simply the live show, there was the after show as well, live from another channel, not focusing on the judges but needing their input in debates and discussions. Then came the dress down. Hair unpinned, gown given back, Liza taking quotes that were needed for headlines: Had Honey felt the right people progressed? Was she happy her outfit polled better than Gwen’s? It was never ending, and now it was past two in the morning.
Honey had tried her best to stay sparkling, Meg had seen that, but once they were in the warmth and security of the car, Honey had wilted, and Meg, looking down on her, knew she should leave her in peace. The plan had been to go back to Honey’s, to make the most of the day that had started an age ago with Mrs Peacock and pan face, but the idea of waking the sleeping beauty and expecting any kind of meaningful interaction was cruel, let alone unrealistic. So Meg whispered to Tammara that the first drop-off was hers. She wrote a note, leaving her number for Honey and the reasons for bailing. For the first time in her life, she genuinely wanted to do the right thing. She already felt more for this woman than she had any other, never saying no to the few and far between come-ons even if the timing had been wrong or the person not right. But this felt so different, this yearning for total connection. She wanted their moment. She needed their moment. But this wasn’t it.
Carefully climbing out of the car, Meg looked back at the sleeping woman. There would be another time and another place and, yes, Honey was busy, but two people who had that pull would never be far apart, of that she was sure.
****
“But I’m in China tomorrow!” gasped Honey, holding the note up to the light. “And Thailand from there. I’m not back till next weekend’s live show! Oh Tammara, why didn’t you stop her?”
The driver leaned through the space the reclined divider had vacated. “I thought she was right. You look shattered. You’ll see her again.”
“When?!”
“Should I go back and fetch her?”
Reading the words on the note, Honey sighed; she knew both women were right. “The day just didn’t finish as I planned, as I hoped. I was meant to be showing her a day in the life of Honey Diamond.”
“She’s seen that.”
“Not all of it.”
“Why, what do you usually do now?”
Honey thought honestly. “Well, I…”
“You collapse, before Liza’s early morning call alerts you to flight times and journey preparations. She hasn’t missed anything and if the way she was staring at you lying there asleep on her lap was anything to go by then I’d say the day ended pretty perfectly for her.”
“She was watching me?”
“With wide eyes and sighs of contentment.”
“She was not!”
“She was, and I like her. I like her a lot. Betty Big Boobs who?”
Honey laughed. “Do you want to know what she wrote?”
“Obviously.”
Reading the neat penmanship, Honey spoke softly. “I may not be a singer, or a star in your bright world, but life is now much better with you here quietly curled. I may not be a poet, or a master writing song, but please sleep tight this evening as my heart is singing strong. We’ll meet again tomorrow and every day therein, because with you I think a special bond can now begin.”
“I love it!”
Honey felt the warmth rise in her chest. “So do I, but I’m not here tomorrow and I’m not here the next day or the day after that.”
“You have her number.”
“You know I don’t have a phone.”
“So get one.”
“No. I hate the idea of hunching over some gadget that only ever takes you away from the real world.”
“So call her from your hotels. Speak to her. Woo her the old fashioned way; not that she needs much wooing if that poem’s anything to go by.”
Honey smiled. “I guess a build-up could be fun.” Sliding across the seat she reached for the door handle. “Don’t get out, it’s cold. Are you on airport duty tomorrow?”
“That I am.”
“Don’t tell me the time, I don’t want to know.”
“Let’s just say your planned ending may have been somewhat rushed anyway, and no one wants to rush the important things in life, do they?”
Honey groaned. “We’re talking hours, aren’t we?”
“Not quite the plural.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Checking her phone for the umpteenth time that day, Meg sighed. Had she given Honey the right number? It had been late, the lighting in the car had been low, she could quite easily have scribbled what looked like a wrong digit. Or maybe it was that stupid poem? What had possessed her to write such ridiculous lyrics to arguably the nation’s best lyricist she couldn’t comprehend, but she had and it was stupid. Stupid enough for Honey to run a mile? Quite possibly. They hadn’t exchanged numbers before. The Beacon and Liza prepared their first meeting, a verbal agreement to meet the next day and the day after that serving as their only method of communication so far. But Honey could find a way of contacting her if she so wished. It was easy. Phone The Beacon. Ask Liza. Google her staff profile. But Honey? How was she meant to call Honey? The public couldn’t just access her any old how, and that’s all she was now. A nobody. A person who’d missed their damn chance.
Rolling over in bed, Meg considered the possibility of turning up at The Alderley. Old Sal would let her through security, wouldn’t she? But then what? Knock on the door like a stalker? No. If Honey hadn’t messaged there was a reason for it. She counted the days once more. It was eleven p.m. Monday evening. Almost forty-eight hours since the Saturday night sh
ow. They hadn’t discussed details of Honey’s schedule during their time together, in fact Honey hadn’t spoken much about her whirlwind lifestyle apart from the fact it was whirlwind. Albums, shows, this new film. Maybe a day or two was nothing to her? Maybe time flew in the face of all the lights, camera, action. Or maybe she just wasn’t that bothered. Honey didn’t have a personal phone, so she wouldn’t have been glued to it like she’d been, waiting for that first initial contact. Not that Meg could make it anyway as there was no direct line to the star.
Meg huffed. She’d been expecting a text that very first evening. A few words about her departure, or even her poem, just something, anything, but no, not even a smiling emoji. Honey could have borrowed Tammara’s phone, or even Sofia’s. There were ways and means had she so wished. Pulling the pillow over her head, she let out a silent scream. Why had she just walked away? Why hadn’t she gone back to Honey’s? Why hadn’t she seized the moment and woken her, kissed her, made love to her. The sound of the ringtone stopped her. She looked at the screen. International. She clicked quickly. “Honey?”
The delay was noticeable before the connection kicked in. “Meg? Hi. I’m calling from China.”
Meg wiggled her toes with pent up delight under the covers. China. She was in China. “I’ve missed you!” The words were out of her mouth before she had time to take a breath.
“I’ve missed you too. I’m sorry, my flight left at seven on Sunday morning, and I arrived at gone midnight China time, and I was going to call before work but I realised it would be the early hours of the morning for you, and I was chocka-block all day and I’ve only now got a spare half hour before I get picked up to go to Thailand.”
Meg grinned at the phone. “What time is it?”
“Six, Tuesday morning. I worked that out as eleven Monday night for you. Is it okay to call? It’s not too late?”
Meg sat up, drawing her knees into her chest. “It’s fine. You’re sure you’ve got time?”
“It’s hectic as always, but I’ll make time for you.”
Meg puzzled at the comment; for her this delay was indicative of someone not making time. Yes, phone chats may have to be scheduled in but, realistically, how long did it take to thumb a quick text message? She thought of all the methods Honey could use if she had her own phone. A WhatsApp thread. A liked heart on an Instagram post. A thumbs up on a Facebook picture. All of those gestures signalled interest. They’d keep the ball rolling until the real deal phone calls could take place. Meg stopped herself. Their worlds were markedly different. Honey didn’t like social media and the apps all needed a phone, and even if she did ever get a phone the idea she’d be sitting there staring at the screen and refreshing each site every ten seconds like the normal twenty-something did while multi-tasking with the TV and at least one personal tablet was laughable. Honey had a life. She had a busy life.
“You should have dropped me a text.” More words out of her mouth without thinking. Meg banged her head onto her pillow. Why was she always so needy? For an independent woman it was a chink in her armour that she just couldn’t mend. Her previous, albeit on-off and somewhat lacklustre, love life, had been marred by over-thinking and second-guessing. It wasn’t that she was insecure, it was that she hated the rules. If you liked someone why should you wait the three days before contact? Why was a heart on every third Instagram post acceptable, but not a heart every time you saw something you genuinely liked? Why should she comment occasionally on Facebook if she had funny comments for all that she saw? It wasn’t needy, it was honest. She was honest with her feelings, yet it was this that caused her own second guessing. Had there been too many likes? Was the contact too constant? Her own lack of over-thinking, causing the over-thinking to happen. Like the poem. It felt right at the time. She was feeling those emotions and thinking those thoughts so she wrote it, and she left it for Honey with her number attached, the number she’d only now just chosen to call.
“I don’t have a phone, sorry.”
“I know, but Liza does, so does Tammara, and I saw Sofia had one at your house.”
“I’m not sending you private messages on someone else’s device.”
“Whose phone are you on now?”
“The hotel’s.”
“In a booth?”
“No, in my room.”
“You seriously don’t have a mobile? Not one that’s just tucked away for emergencies?”
“No.”
“Seriously?”
Honey was laughing. “Seriously! I like proper phones.”
Meg closed her eyes. This was adorable. This was old school. This would be hard. “Can you get one?”
“A mobile? I don’t want one.”
“We could text.”
“I’d rather talk.”
“But you’re busy.”
“I’ve said I’ll make time.”
“You’re getting on a plane.”
“It’s only a short flight.”
“How short’s short?”
“Three hours twenty.”
Meg laughed. “That’s long! You could get to the Canaries for that.” Most of her holidaying had taken place in Europe where a two-hour flight could get you almost anywhere.
“Stop with the buts. I want to hear how you’ve been.”
Meg ignored the temptation to say she’d been glued to her phone for the past forty-eight hours hoping for any sort of contact in any sort of form. She was easy to find on every single social media platform with links available from her staff profile page, or under all of the articles she’d written. She even wore a FitBit that had a messaging facility and gave alerts when new friends came online or cheered daily progress. Its buzz earlier that day had caused a rush to the app in the hope it was something from Honey. It wasn’t. It was Jan James, the fittest woman at work, requesting yet another hot step hustle. “I’ve been busy,” she lied.
“Doing what?”
This was strange. She wasn’t a social chatter. She didn’t have friends she’d just dial up and call. She spoke on the phone at work, but this always involved research, questions or information retrieval. She phoned home once-monthly, reeling off the list of statements she knew her parents needed to hear: yes, she was saving her money; no, she hadn’t yet found a girlfriend; yes, she was eating well. Some people thought it was harder for this new social media generation, apparently unable to communicate properly, but actually it felt easier. You’d start the relationship with accepted friendship requests. You’d like the odd post. You’d build up to the first public comment. Then, moving into the private message, you’d continue the jokes you didn’t want others to see. You had time to think of your responses. You had emojis. You had gifs. You’d build up that foundation before you actually had to have conversations like this.
Meg took hold of herself. They’d spoken perfectly freely when they’d been together. In fact it had felt like they’d done it before. Old friends, slipping into that familiar territory of chat. Maybe it was just this whole phone thing. Who called anyone up these days? She paused. What did she really want to know? “Have you missed me?” she asked, before grimacing and holding her breath. Was this delay the same length as the last one, or was this delay more than just the long distance phone line? Dammit there she was again, not playing it cool then overthinking her lack of cool play.
“Is that what you’ve been doing? Missing me?”
“Lots,” she said, smiling at her own inability to act mysterious or dangle a carrot. Jo always accused her of being a moody, chip-on-the-shoulder goth, and while she knew her blonde-haired, blue-eyed flatmate viewed anyone with dark hair and dark eyes as gothic, she struggled to understand where the brutal, if not slightly teasing, character assessment had come from. She could be quiet sometimes, but not moody. Thoughtful was possibly the word and, yes, maybe that perceived chip-on-the-shoulder could have been caused by a slight disgruntlement that her openness couldn’t be met by others, or that the heart she wore on her sleeve seemed to cause more damage
than good. But as Honey had said, if you liked someone you told them, if you felt something you showed them. “I’ve missed you lots.”
Honey’s voice was smiling. “And I’ve missed you lots too. I’ll get a phone. I’ll send you a message.”
“Don’t.” Meg sat up straighter in bed. “This will be fun. Old fashioned. You can woo me. I can woo you.”
“You mean that?”
“Woo hoo, I do.”
“Oh, Meg, thank you.”
“For what?”
“You’re not trying to change me.”
“I never would, and it will be nice not having to check my phone every five minutes.” She meant both. People, she believed, never really changed. They might say they would, but they wouldn’t, and why should they, just to fit in with someone else’s idea of how a person should act or behave? Too often people lost themselves in relationships. She saw it all the time when working for HotBuzz: young girls transforming into the WAGs they thought their footballers wanted only to be replaced when a newer model became available. Vacant and airy was the fashion to begin with, then it was driven and successful, potential recruits requiring at least one clothing line or modelling contract under their belts before admittance into the world of the WAG.
Meg smiled. This whole phone thing would be a relief. She’d received a multitude of notifications from her numerous apps over the past forty-eight hours and each time the ping wasn’t from Honey she’d fallen deeper into a pit of depression and desperation. Why wasn’t she contacting me? Why hadn’t she shown me a sign? A like. A buzz. A heart. A ping. A gif? Just anything? Ridiculous given the fact she knew she was phone-free, but the hope had been there. “As long as I know when you’re going to call,” she said, excited already at the novelty of this old fashioned idea, wondering what it must have been like before mobile phones. Sending a message by carrier pigeon? Throwing a rock at the one you quite liked?