I’d been sitting on the hotel bed for the past half an hour with an A4 sheet of paper and a pen that kept drying up, trying to come up with content for the documentary. Every time I’d get anything that was approaching a good idea, the pen refused to write, and I’d have to scribble on the bottom of the page to get it working again. Maybe it was a sign. Éire TV wanted four half-hour shows, but I was worried I wouldn’t be able to drag this out for five minutes.
Still, at least I now had a room of my own to come up with hopefully-good-ideas in. After a night on the floor, I went down to Reception and ranted and raved at an elderly man in torn brown cords, who it transpired was the youth’s granddad, Buck, and the founder of the family business. When I say ranted and raved, I did it in a nice way, because I couldn’t possibly rant and rave nastily to an elderly man who looked as congenial and welcoming as this fellow did. He had the sunniest of smiles, crinkly eyes, and a general air of benevolence about him. I explained my predicament to him, and not only was he horrified that the bed had broken on us like that, but also that Colm had not just given me the bed in the first place. And then not to give me the bath when the bed snapped – well, he was obviously a bad egg, that Colm, according to my new best friend. Luckily, the class of ’78 was checking out today, and Buck said he would give me the penthouse suite for the price of a single room to make up for my tribulations. He was almost foaming at the mouth in excitement as he described the room – king-sized bed, a VCR with a case full of VHS tapes of classic 70s movies, a vinyl record player with a stack of seven and twelve-inch records, an entire bookshelf full of 70s books, pictures of Taxi Driver, The Godfather, Rocky and other classics adorning the walls, etc. I heard the words “king-sized bed” and was happy with that. He also promised to give Colm dirty looks if he crossed his path, so overall I was happy with the outcome of my subdued ranting and raving.
And just as he handed me the key to my suite, the lost luggage that I’d written off as never to be seen again was delivered by taxi to Reception. Perhaps Buck was some sort of good luck charm.
I wasn’t having much luck with this list though. My so-called good ideas were all absolute shite. I crumpled up the A4 sheet, fired it across the room and picked up the phone.
“Yes?”
“Friendly as ever, Colm. I hope you’re not in a mood, because I want your help.”
“With?”
I launched into my predicament. I’d grudgingly started speaking to Colm again after the bed incident, only to end up giving him the cold shoulder yet again when he told me, amid fits of laughter, that he’d been the one who’d recommended to Éire TV that we stay in this hotel, purely because he was into all things 70s (as if I hadn’t known that from his clothes). Imagine, we could have been somewhere decent instead of this kip if he’d kept his gob shut. Now, though, I had no choice but to speak to him again for work-related reasons – plus, getting the penthouse suite had abated my anger somewhat.
“I have no idea where to start,” I said when I’d finished explaining. “Any suggestions?”
“Here’s an idea. Next time, don’t agree to something unless you’re happy with the conditions.”
“Ah, Colm! I’m being serious – I need some clever ideas here!”
“I’m serious too. I have enough to do between the camerawork and different projects I have to manage remotely. You knew before you came out here that Amanda wouldn’t be able to make it.”
“Yeah, the day before we left! I could hardly back out then!”
“Of course you could have. You just chose not to.”
“I chose to keep my job! Isolde would have my ass out on the street if I’d let her down after the flights were paid for!”
“You didn’t even call her and discuss it.”
“You don’t bloody-well know Isolde!” I barked. “It would have been pointless. Just like this conversation.” I banged the phone down. Jesus! He was unbelievable!
I was glad I was in the room of his dreams, while he’d been put in the smallest single room in the hotel.
I flopped on the bed, and tried to put all thoughts of Colm and his negativity out of my mind. If only I knew a few people here, or had a few contacts that might help me to brainstorm. The only people I’d met here were that crazy crowd from LVTV, and I could hardly call them friends . . .
Hmm. A mad idea came to me. They might not be friends, but I’d be pretty confident that they would remember me all the same . . .
Several phone calls and long periods of time on hold later, I wasn’t quite so confident. I’d eventually managed to get hold of Lindy’s extension number, but it went straight to voicemail – and I’d been given the distinct impression that she was available when I’d been put through to her department. I’d left a stumbling “It’s your old friend Andie here – surpriiiiiise!” type of message on her machine, and had asked her to call me – but chances were, she probably wouldn’t. There was only one way to sort things out. I left the hotel and hailed a taxi.
Ten minutes later, I was at the entrance to the LVTV studios. It was located in a huge glassy office block at the north end of the Strip, the type that gives you vertigo looking up at it. A security guard nodded politely as I entered the foyer, using the opportunity of the nod to take in every last detail about me, no doubt. The foyer was divided into separate reception areas for each enterprise hosted by the office block. I saw a sign for LVTV over a reception area to my left, and made my way towards the receptionist.
As I approached, I grew nervous. If Lindy hadn’t taken my call, she might well tell Reception not to let me through to her office either. If she didn’t, that was it – my crazy plan was shot to shreds. I was getting quite fond of it, and didn’t want it to end this way.
“Yes?” A snooty-looking bespectacled brunette eyed me.
“I’m here to be interviewed by Lindy,” I said.
“And you are?”
“A singer.” The words just fell out of my mouth.
“Ah, you’re Misty!” The snooty looker suddenly became a smiler. “Misty, I gotta tell ya, I just adore your new single. So, this is what you look like!” Her smile faltered somewhat, as if I fell somewhat short of her expectations.
Something you should know about me is that I might be a former model, but I’m the most dishevelled-looking one anyone is ever likely to encounter. I just happen to be tall and I scrub up well, but that’s where any resemblance to a model ends on a day-to-day basis. I usually wear flat shoes. I brush my hair back into a ponytail every morning, because it’s easier to maintain that way. GHDs are a nuisance and a safety hazard, so I steer clear of them (a friend of mine had a car accident once when she turned around on her journey to work and drove home to make sure she’d unplugged her GHD, and that was enough of a sign for me that they were bad news. Of course, she had unplugged the bloody thing). I never wore make-up, because that would mean I’d have to go to the effort of taking it off every night before I went to bed. Life was too short. So this look of disappointment was not one that was new to me. And obviously, a singer was expected to look a lot more glamorous than I was.
“Yes. Yes, this is me. Misty.”
“Lindy’s expecting you, but you’re slightly early. But hey, I’ll call her now, and I’m sure she’ll be available.”
I nodded. Yes, this was a good development. I’m sure if Lindy came face to face with me, she’d be more willing to give me a chance.
Snooty Smiler hung up the phone. “Lindy’s actually away from her desk at the moment, but I left a message with her colleague to come down to you as soon as she gets back. Why don’t you take a seat? And there are some cans of soda in the fridge to your left if you’d like refreshment.”
“Thanks,” I said, moving promptly to the fridge. “Do you have some chocolate too?” I know, it was cheeky, but I was starving.
“No.” She had her snooty look back on again.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said innocently as I clicked open a can of Diet Pepsi.
“I’m not,” she said.
I opened my mouth to explain that I’d meant no offence, but she’d buried her head in a document in a conversation-over manner. I had a feeling Snooty no longer cared for Misty’s first single. Oops.
Seconds later, a door to my right burst open. A tall man with very big shoes and bulgy eyes made his way over to me, his hand outstretched.
“Misty.” Another one who evidently had no idea what Misty looked like. “Nice to meet you. Come with me.”
“Em . . . I’m here to see Lindy . . .”
“Yes, but as you’ve arrived early, we’re changing the order of your schedule – Lindy’s not free for another fifteen minutes. We were going to record your song for next week’s Top Pop after your interview with Lindy, but we still have an audience here from another show we’re recording, so let’s just do it now and get it over with.”
It wasn’t an ask, but a command.
“But . . .”
“Misty, we’re working to really tight schedules here.” He held the door to the right open for me.
“Listen, em . . .” Feck, he hadn’t even told me his name, and maybe I was supposed to know it. “There’s something you should know . . .”
“Walk and talk, walk and talk.” His manners were obviously on a timer, because it seemed he’d had enough of opening the door for me as he marched through it himself, leaving it swinging back in my face. I now either had to go through the blessed door to explain to him that I wasn’t Misty, and hope he’d see the funny side, or make a run for it and lose my opportunity to meet Lindy.
I ran, but down the corridor after him instead of out of the building. And you needed to run after this guy – his long legs had already eaten up half the corridor. “Hang on, there’s been –”
“Dave! Oh, thank God!” A small, tanned blonde almost knocked a door to the left of the corridor down flat in her haste to get through it. (Maybe it was a team-bonding thing they had going on here with their door-opening routine?) “Rita Ritchie’s collapsed! She’s due on The Daily Dish in two and a half minutes, and we’ve nobody to replace her!”
“What? Oh, look, just get Sandie to talk crap about something to fill in the time, Rachel. That’s what I pay my presenters for. Now, I’ve got to go –”
“Rita vomited all over Sandie just before she collapsed – Sandie’s had to go to get a change of clothes.”
“But that’ll only take a few minutes!”
Rachel looked increasingly nervous as she watched the seconds ticking away on her watch. “Oh come on, you know what Sandie is like – plus, Rita hurled all over Sandie’s hair too. She’s gonna be out of commission for at least twenty minutes. You gotta do something, Dave!”
Dave’s face went purple. “What do I pay any of you for, if I have to sort everything out myself?” He turned his violet head on me.
I tried not to shrink backwards – the combination of his height, his temper and his purpleness was scary.
“Forget the recording. You’re on now.”
“What?”
“Look, nobody watches that show you were doing the recording for. You know it, I know it. This show is much more high profile.” He looked me up and down. “Pity you’ve no time for hair and make-up, but we’ll have to make do.” He grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me through the door Rachel had exploded from – manhandling law cases obviously being the furthest thing from his mind in a time of crisis.
“Rachel, get someone to put on Misty’s backing track – it should be in the system as she was due on another show later. Quick! Move, move, move!”
“No!” I wriggled furiously away from his grasp. “You don’t understand!”
“This is no time for nerves. Pull yourself together.” He grabbed my shoulders again and forcibly led me onto the stage.
“Will you just let go and shut up for one second!” I made a run for it again, but he caught me and guided me back.
“Do you actually think you’re going to have a long-term career if you act like this? Jeez. You’re lucky I’m around to save you from yourself, young lady.”
“And we’re on in five – four – three – two –” Someone to the left of Rachel whispered the one, and Dave made a run for it off the stage.
“And now, a treat for all you fans of great new music! We have Misty Moore joining us in the studio today! And here she is, with her brand new song! Take it away, Misty!”
The camera panned onto me. I froze. I knew I needed to run like the clappers, but my legs just wouldn’t work for me. And then, the song started, and guess what – I actually knew it. I’d heard it loads of times on the radio at home in the days before I left for Vegas without ever knowing who sang it, and Misty’s debut song was actually as catchy as hell. It was destined to be a big hit. So I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I’d always been the first one to volunteer for karaoke . . .
“On the scene, I’m a boogie queen,
Gonna keep me lean, gonna keep them keen . . .”
I watched as one set of jaws after another dropped to the floor. I was totally and utterly useless at singing and I knew it, but that had never stopped me before, and besides, there was no going back now. They wanted me to sing, and sing I would.
I got about halfway through the song before I heard the whispers of an emergency ad break. The writing had been on the wall after someone called out, “She’s not Misty!” and the audience started booing. I was only shocked that I’d managed to get halfway through the song before someone saw fit to stop me.
“Get her off!” Dave yelled at Rachel.
Rachel looked at me and swept her hands to the right in a brushing motion. Dave looked at her and threw his hands up in the air.
“Useless! You want a job done, you do it yourself.”
He was lunging for my shoulders again. I swatted his approaching arms.
“Look here! You forced me up there! I was practically kicking you like a mule to get you to let me go – and we’ll talk later about inappropriate physical contact, by the way – but you wouldn’t feckin’ listen. So get your paws off me and stop mauling me!”
“You’re saying this is my fault?” He looked even more incredulous than he had while I’d been singing.
“Of course it is. You’ve brought this on yourself, you big lumbering eejit!”
Rachel started to snigger, although I doubted that either she or Dave knew what an eejit was.
Dave turned his ire on her. “What are you laughing at? Go and do some work! That’s –”
“That’s what you pay her for, am I right? Do you ever listen to yourself, Dave? Oh, I know you like the sound of your own voice, but do you ever actually listen to the rubbish that comes out of your mouth?” A part of me couldn’t believe what was coming out of mine, but in for a penny . . . “I’ve only known you a few minutes, but I already know you’re a bully.”
His face was priceless. I was starting to enjoy this. It felt like a cameo in a soap. “And I don’t associate myself with bullies!” I announced in the most dramatic voice I could conjure up. I thought it was quite impressive, actually. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to be somewhere.” I finished my performance, my second in five minutes, with a faux-dignified flick of my hair over my shoulder, and clambered off the set.
Rachel winked at me as I walked past, and Dave just continued to stare at me in abject shock.
When I walked back out into the corridor, I had two options – go back the door I’d come through, or take another door at the opposite end and see where that led me. The adrenalin rush of my caterwauling episode made my mind up for me, and my feet carried me towards the other door – but as soon as I got there, I noticed that you had to swipe a card for access. Not much use when you were cardless. Now that I thought about it, I had vaguely noticed Rachel veering into the wall while Dave had been pushing me through the door – at the time, I had a notion that she must be of a sensitive disposition, and had found his behaviour too dreadful to watch. N
ow, it was clear she had been swiping her feckin’ card to aid and abet his mission.
She must have sensed that I was on the brink of thinking some seriously evil thoughts about her because, when I turned around, she was making her way through the studio doors and towards me.
“That was brilliant –” she started.
I cut her off immediately. “Do you know Lindy?”
“Lindy? Yes, I –”
“Can you take me to her?”
“I . . . I shouldn’t . . .” She took a look back towards the studio. When she turned around, her face was harder. “But fuck it. Come with me.” She produced the magic swipe and bustled me through the door, looking back as she took her turn at manhandling me. Despite her bravado, she was still obviously shit-scared of Dave, but I was grateful that she was in the mood for rebellion.
She led me to a desk, where I saw the top of a spine over a chair, and a waterfall of glossy chestnut hair that looked familiar.
“Lindy, someone to see you.” Rachel shot off to her desk, having done her bit and making it obvious that she was now abdicating from all responsibility.
Lindy narrowed her perfectly kohled eyes. In all the flurry of the news report, I hadn’t really noticed how gorgeous she was first time around. Intimidatingly so, even for someone like me who used to work with the leggiest, toothiest girls in Dublin. She was all bright skin and strong-yet-delicate features, a look that evaded most models.
“You.” It was said with something akin to hatred.
“Now, before you say anything else, I can explain . . .” I launched into my story. Lindy’s eyes narrowed further, so much so that I was sure she’d have a squint for the rest of her life after just a few minutes in my company. That, on top of the injuries she sustained in the bouncer brawl, surely wasn’t going to endear me to her.
[2014] Looking for Leon Page 8