by Kiki Archer
“I arrive in Thailand at eleven-thirty my time now, but that’s ten-thirty their time, so it will be four-thirty in the morning, your time.”
Meg couldn’t resist. “Honey Diamond, good at meth.”
“We call it maths in this country, as you well know. But through my calculations and Liza’s itinerary I should be able to call you tomorrow evening, your time at eleven.”
“The same time as today?”
“Yes, I’ll get up early. We have a packed schedule starting with a slot on the nation’s number one breakfast show, I can’t remember the name of the host, complicated sounding, which reminds me,” the pause was apprehensive, “I’ve booked us in for a joint massage on Sunday with Svetty and her apprentice, or junior, or whatever title she goes by, another one of Mother’s holistic therapists I assume.”
“And she’s got a complicated name?”
“Depends how you pronounce it.”
“What is it?”
“Kuntse. But I think Mother calls her—”
“You’re lying!” Meg laughed. “We’re not having a joint massage with Svetty and Kuntse.”
“We are, and I don’t say that lightly. I’m very apprehensive when it comes to strangers touching me. I think it was having so many different stylists and clothing people when I was younger – pre-Heidi, Caitlyn and Louisa. I felt like a piece of meat sometimes, dressed up, dressed down, make-up on, hair pulled. It got really uncomfortable. But Liza’s a different woman. She’s relaxed, she’s affable, she even slept on the plane, and Liza never sleeps on the plane.”
“So what, we go for this massage and become even cooler than we already are?”
Honey laughed. “I just thought it would be nice. Relax us, before a potential evening in?”
“This Sunday?”
“Yes. I’m back for Britain Sings on Saturday, then I have a script meeting Sunday morning, but from six I’m free. They’ve said they can bring their equipment to mine so we won’t have to go and see Mother, and afterwards I was thinking maybe we could get a takeaway and watch some TV?”
“You’re not the type of person who strikes me as getting takeaways and watching TV.”
“No?”
“You’re more of a music on, book out person.”
“I rarely have time for either, but I want to try. I want to try and make whatever this is we’ve got going on work. I can’t promise plans won’t change at the last minute, or that I’ll always be there when you need me, but I can promise I want to be. I want to be that person you turn to. I want to be the one you spend time with and, please, I’ll get you a seat for Saturday night’s show again if you want?”
Meg paused. It was tempting, and it had been good, but she’d rather have Honey to herself, not share her with her fans, and anyway, watching the live show on TV meant more close-ups and not just a view of her back. “I’ll see you at yours. Six on Sunday. Massage ready.”
“Yes it might.”
“Pardon?”
“It might.”
“It might what?”
“I thought you said the massage will get us ready?”
Meg grinned. “Oh, did you now? And what might it be getting us ready for?”
“Round two?”
“As long as round two doesn’t involve Svetty and Kuntse, or Liza for that matter.”
“It’ll involve Svetty and Kuntse if we’re doing it right.”
“Oh stop it!” Meg was laughing. “Are you sure she doesn’t mind us borrowing her?”
“Borrowing Svetty? No, but I think we should choose treatments from the regular menu to be safe.”
“Fine, and I’ll offer up dessert.” Meg smiled to herself. It was cringe, but she’d have typed it in a message, so why not say it down the phone?
“Oooh, you flirt.”
“Embarrassing, aren’t I?” This talking on the phone was easier than she’d imagined, her apprehension about the traditional communication method had been short lived. “Thank you for calling,” she said.
“Get ready.” The voice was smiling. “I’m calling a lot.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
On Tuesday afternoon, the buzz in the Beacon office was more charged than usual. Honey Diamond’s exclusive interview was top banner front page, a story about the European Union’s latest move on refugees the main headline. Any other paper would have the singer’s picture splashed full-frontal for all to see, but The Beacon didn’t approve of splashing or sensationalising, and therefore wasn’t best prepared for the tsunami of interest that occurred when a story went viral. And although it had its own online edition and team of people to keep track of comments and publish updates to ever-changing stories, it wasn’t on the pulse when it came to the perils of internet adaptation. Because that’s what would happen, Meg knew. Stories would get quoted, misquoted, adapted, made into memes, and she was one of the few at The Beacon able to understand what should be tackled and what should be left to run. Her time at HotBuzz – where the aim was to always go viral – had given her a wealth of expertise in this area.
So that’s where she found herself, shipped in to help the drowning online team, trying to monitor comments and react to the ever-growing interest the story had caused. People were desperate for more with numerous offers coming in from news outlets asking for a quote – “What was she really like?” – or even better, an appearance – “Come on our show and expand on the story.” But that’s not what they did at The Beacon, and Meg was grateful she was only asked to sit and advise.
Pulling herself closer to the screen, she read the latest influx of comments and smiled; over eighty percent were positive, and in the age of vicious internet trolling that was a huge accomplishment. “It’s fine,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
“But the volume!” said one of the flustered faces.
“And the calls!” said another.
“We’ve never had to deal with anything quite like this before!”
“I’m sure you have,” said Meg, sympathetic to their bewilderment at this bizarre world where people bothered to comment more on celebrity than politics. It was the same with YouTube stars, or reality kings and queens, an older generation simply not able to grasp the concept of their huge following, asking who they were and why could they possibly matter? The new media world understood that celebrity sold, but for an institution like The Beacon it was all very disconcerting. Meg’s Honey Diamond interview had already collected more than a hundred times the hits registered by the editor’s front page European Union piece, and if early sales figures were to be believed the paper was about to experience its largest bump in circulation in over a decade.
“Just make sure you delete all the spam,” she said, pointing at an html link guiding readers in the direction of miracle fat absorbing diet pills, “and watch out for anything overtly homophobic.”
“Where’s the line?” asked one of the flustered comrades.
“You’ll know it when you see it,” she said, highlighting and deleting a comment that read: All gays shall be dragged into boiling water and suffer never-ending pain, torture and eternal damnation in the burning fires of hell. You dirty gayboy scum. She replaced it with the banner: “This comment has been removed by the moderator.”
****
“Let me borrow your glasses,” said Diana, squinting at the iPad Sofia had recently rescued from the arm of Honey’s sofa, the half-hourly phone calls from her tech team not enough to quench her need for insight.
Sofia passed over the half-moon frames. “Would my laptop be easier?”
“What does this one say?” she snapped, shoving the offering onto the bridge of her nose and scrunching up her face.
Sofia tried to pinch the tablet’s screen and widen. Nothing happened. She peered in closer. “It says, oh hang on, glasses back, Di. Right. Let me see. It says,” she coughed, “All gays shall be dragged into boiling water and suffer never-ending, oh I won’t read that one.”
“Read it.”
“No, it’
s—”
Diana plucked the pass-the-parcel glasses from her friend and continued the sentence. “Never-ending pain, torture and eternal damnation in the burning fires of hell. You dirty gayboy scum.” She frowned at Sofia. “Have they even read the article?!”
“Probably not, but look,” Sofia tapped the screen, “it’s gone. Comment removed by moderator.”
“Stop tapping the screen, you’re changing the size!” Diana thrust the glasses back to their owner. “I should have stayed at Velvet Villa. Benedict and his tech team have a whole incident room set up in the lounge.”
“There’s not been a murder.”
“Hasn’t there?”
“Oh Di, these comments are good, the response on the television’s been good.” She pointed at the broadsheet pulled apart on the coffee table and shrugged. “The story’s good. And you’ll always get some weirdo spouting drivel – you know this, you’ve seen this, that’s why you have your team of people. You have to admit the reaction is overwhelming positive. And gayboy scum? That’s just trolling. You’ve explained to me all about trolling. They obviously haven’t the first clue who Honey is.”
“Everyone knows who Honey is. That’s why I can’t let this get out of hand.”
“It’s not. She’s done the right thing.”
Diana dropped her head backwards onto the cushions. “And have I?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know.”
“With Meg?” Sofia joined her friend, head back on the cushions. “I’m watching her. I’ll report if she steps out of line.”
“Isn’t she as bad as that troll? And if she is, shouldn’t I keep her away from my daughter?”
Sofia fixed her glasses back into position. “Of that I’m still to decide.”
****
Meg replaced another comment with the moderator banner. Who were these people sitting at home spamming articles with hatred? Now these were the people Honey and Diana had described. Cat killers. Self-hating, porn-obsessed weirdos. Freaks with no goal in life but to hurt other people. She wasn’t part of that group and she’d never left a single trolling comment in any guise on any forum. Her site had been intelligent, yes possibly not so much at the start, but it had been witty and tongue-in-cheek, and honest. The posts she’d written were honest. Drivel about burning in hell wasn’t honest, or productive. At least her site made people think twice, made people question their motives. She twisted in her chair, contemplating once more the titbit she’d picked up this morning. An interview with up-and-coming artist Sandy Greer, daughter of Alexander Greer, billionaire tycoon, owner of Greer’s retail empire, which included half the stores lucky to be left on the nation’s high streets. Sandy had spent the majority of the somewhat pretentious interview crowing about the success of her sell-out exhibition, every single piece snatched up within the first hour of exposure. A mean feat for a relative unknown, as was last year’s singing success, a drum and bass track charting in the top ten, and the year before that a party planning book categorised as Waterstones’ most recommended read.
Meg knew money bought success, or at least the initial appearance of success, because her research had shown the single dropping out of the charts after a week and the book going on to receive dozens of horrific one-star reviews on Amazon. This time it was the pouty assistant at the gallery who let slip, post interview, that it was Sandy’s father who’d purchased all the pieces with red dots displayed next to them. Meg smiled to herself, realising the slip was no mistake; she’d deliberately waited until Sandy had left the building before scurrying over to tell tales. A sympathetic smile and a further gentle question got it all tumbling out in a whisper: Sandy Greer was a horror to work with and her pieces were shit. Meg couldn’t write that, just as other critics whose websites and books would undoubtedly list the Greer Fine Arts Foundation as a sponsor would know, but the whisper was there, as it often was in such circles.
What post could she write? Which daddy’s girl’s making it onto super-cool gallery walls because the fashionable father’s buying her way in? Meg stopped herself, shocked at the thrill that had so quickly returned. It would be easy to fire up the site – she hadn’t deleted it, it was simply offline. One click and it would be back, one post and people would know. Closing her eyes, she sighed. She couldn’t, there was too much at stake. In fact her escape had been a lot more than just lucky. She’d been truly blessed with this fresh start, this chance to make amends. She smiled. This chance to know Honey for real.
Meg felt the familiar lurch of anticipation, the shock of sparks ricocheting around her body every time she remembered. The contact. The kisses. They’d kissed, with passion, for hours and she knew they would soon go further, much further. That wasn’t luck, that was some divine intervention by some divine being giving her a glimpse of what happiness might be. She knew her life hadn’t been bad as such… just a bit ordinary. Tough times, regular times, the odd memorable holiday, the odd memorable encounter, but nothing like this. Nothing so extraordinary that saw her wake with a smile, walk with a skip, sing with no cares in the world. Meg laughed to herself. She’d even sung in the shower. She never sang in the shower. Crikey, she’d gone as far as smile at her own reflection when usually she’d be faced with a grimace. She’d eaten a good breakfast and enjoyed it. She’d been gracious when faced with the customary office politics and article disputes. She’d even invited Jan James, work’s fitness freak, to a FitBit daily showdown, not caring if she lost, just upbeat about getting involved. Life was good. Life was really good, and some half-hearted, short-lived desire to see Sandy Greer faced with an uncomfortable truth just wasn’t worth it.
Turning to the team of anxious faces she said calmly, “This is all fine. You’re doing a good job.” It was strange somehow, how this had brought her into the fold, her irrational feeling that she was in some way undeserving of her new role quashed by the expertise now on display. “Keep replying to interview requests with the standard line,” she continued. “Everything Honey Diamond wanted to say she’s said. Everything Margaret Rutherton learnt she wrote.” She got up from the desk and smiled. She would use this time to find some real questions that, when asked, would give her the real answers she’d so desperately wanted.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Honey lazily lifted the receiver that had been buzzing for some time now. Liza’s wakeup call wouldn’t be coming in for a while yet, but she’d privately requested an early morning alert from her eager-to-please personal concierge. They were staying in Bangkok’s Mandarin Oriental hotel, famed for its comfort, dignity and style, or so Liza had said en-route from the airport in a car that seemed to be curiously immune to the worst traffic she had ever seen. It really didn’t matter to Honey where they stayed as she’d rarely get chance to walk the grounds, or use the amenities, or even see the city. Most often it was a case of settle in, order room service, go to sleep, get up, do the job and leave again and this trip was no different. A packed schedule meant her only glimpse of the slow-moving green expanse of the Chao Phraya River was from her seventeenth floor balcony. She yawned into the receiver. It had been a while since she’d requested Liza schedule in some sight-seeing stops, Venice being the last time she’d insisted they stay on. A performance in St Mark’s Square had filled her with a love for the city that one day she wanted to share. She blinked, remembering why the soothing voice was waking her so early from sleep. She was calling Meg. Never before had she requested a wake-up earlier than necessary. She knew every single minute of sleep was essential for getting her through the day’s schedule. Her latest album’s global release called for her to promote songs throughout Asia after similarly crazy whistle-stop tours throughout Europe and the United States. Next would come the full-blown stadium tour; she had seen the draft schedule and the list had exhausted her before she'd got halfway through it. Not to mention the new album awaiting release.
Thanking the caller, she stretched with a smile. Meg. The unassuming, self-effacing mystery of intellec
t, complication and intrigue. Playing the pavement. Enjoying Ikea. Cute come-ons and witty remarks. She had that secret smile – something inside her, a hidden glint, a spark of excitement. A light only ignited by someone of a similar persuasion. Two strangers giving life to each other. Like a sense of adventure. A desire to take on the world. Because that’s what she saw in Meg, someone yet to find their true self, and even though their lives were markedly different she felt in her a kindred spirit, a lone wolf running free. Both independent women, yet both needing that link of connection, not to stifle or suffocate, but to know someone was there, beside you, running at the same speed.
Honey rolled her eyes at herself. Why was she being so dreamy? She smiled. She knew why. She was in that romantic phase of intellectual lust. She wanted to know more, she wanted to know everything. Why was Meg the way she was? What were her hopes, her dreams, her desires? And yes of course the lust was physical too, she’d widened her eyes the very first time she’d opened the door, but for her the pull was about what the eyes couldn’t see. Her life left her surrounded by models and stage stars, purportedly the world’s most beautiful people, but for her beauty didn’t come in flawless skin or arched eyebrows, it came in an aura, a sense of someone’s being, and Meg’s aura was delicate, it was fragile. She smiled. It was hidden. Her walls had been high. But they’d get there, she thought. They’d get there with phone calls like this.
Pulling open the top drawer of the bedside cabinet, she found the poem and number. The words were soft and the writing was gentle, exposing the bravery it took to put pen to paper. Meg wasn’t a weak person, more likely a strong force to be reckoned with, but these lines gave a glimpse into the tender soul hiding behind those curious eyes. She lifted the receiver and started to dial, butterflies building in her stomach as they had when she was younger and asked to call her mother’s glamorous friend with the instruction to confirm an invitation, or double check travel arrangements. Looking back now, Honey was sure her mother had a team of people already in charge of everything, and Diana was always on the phone to Daphne anyway, so the idea that her ten-year-old daughter would have to call and confirm plans seemed laughable now. Her mother liked to see her blush. That’s what it was. A misguided idea of affection, her mother needling her afterwards and ruffling her hair.