Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities)

by John David Harding

  “Oh, your aid concert.” Claire hesitated and looked apologetically at her friend. “Sorry, can't tonight.”

  Paige forced a smile. The diminutive firebrand passed an envelope to her friend. “Just in case you change your mind. We’ve hardly seen you since we split.”

  “Thanks,” Claire muttered. “Another time, mebbe.” She looked up and put a couple of banknotes on the tray with the bill. “I’ll give you a lift to the station.”

  The two women were photographed leaving the bistro by a brazen photographer. A few minutes later, Paige got out of Claire’s expensive 4x4 at the grimy Underground station and Claire drove home to her large ten bedroom mansion on the north London border.

  She stripped and dived into the indoor swimming pool, traversing the water multiple times until her limbs tired and ached; then she opened a bottle of wine from her waters’ edge mini-bar.

  She sat in the shallow end, leaning against the cold tiled sides as the pale yellow liquid sunk down her gullet, and the water lapped at her bare skin. The bright sun burnt through the glass ceiling of her pool and she soaked in the warmth of the last drops of Summer sun.

  Her phone beeped again; the only sound to punctuate her splashing, the soft buffering of the water and the gentle hum of the pump. She pulled herself onto the tiled floor and crossed the room to her jacket pocket, pulling out the expensive slab of mobile electronics into her wet hand. She ignored the text message from her ex-boyfriend, deleting it with a swipe of her finger.

  Yet, the sight of his name on her phone triggered something within her; a reminder of her loneliness, and the tug of lapsing into a forgotten state by all. No longer was she surrounded by friends and loved ones, but abandoned by fate to an existence of boredom and inward isolation.

  His name evoked memories; Claire and Andre had lived together for three years in a city-centre riverside apartment. Back then it didn’t matter that Jack and Paige lived in Surrey, over 25 miles away; when they did their recording sessions she would stay with her bandmates. Back home, her apartment was always a hive of activity; they had no end of visitors and friends, but when Andre left her life and she moved to the suburbs, she was left with a huge void to fill. Now, her closest friend was Jack’s Aunt Lucinda, a mere 20 miles away from her expansive mansion and Paige was further away than ever. Years of jetting around the world had played havoc with her social life. She felt isolated.

  She typed the name of an on-line hookup site onto her phone's marketplace, downloading an app and creating a profile with a semi-obscured photo of the naked woman and a wonderfully vague description:

  Bored 21-year old woman, wants to enjoy some company and laughs tonight. Loves rock music and partying.

  The first response came as she opened the second bottle of wine, the next three came minutes after that. The app was relentless, dozens of men offered salacious, lewd and obscene replies to her profile. She ignored most of them, but “bored_emit” - a 24-year old with ginger hair and thick-rimmed black glasses replied too; they lived in the same town.

  Am bored too. Fancy a drink at the new rock bar in town?

  Claire did.

  * * *

  Two hours later, she sat listening to a local band abusing their instruments through their session as she waited for her “date” to arrive. He was late, and Claire was already on her fourth drink.

  “Oh my God!” The words reached her ear as the alcohol flowed through her lips. She spluttered, recognising the shocked man standing in front of her from the photo on the hookup app. “Wh ..”

  “Fuck! You're Claire Baynes. The Claire Baynes. The best guitarist in the … country. Fuck me, is this a wind-up?”

  Claire sighed. “Emit?”

  He towered above her sat on the stall; his wiry body and thick black-rimmed glasses gave his appearance a studious look. His T-Shirt was faded, from a rock concert a few years previous. He wasn’t dirty, just scruffy. “Where are the hidden cameras?” He asked, looking around the bar with a paranoid glint in his eye.

  “What cameras?”

  “The hidden cameras. This is definitely a prank show. Amazing though.”

  Claire shook her long, black hair free and groaned, staring up at the ceiling. “This isn’t a prank show. I came out for a date and a drink.”

  “Really? I went to see so many of your concerts. I loved your solos and … I can't believe this. You're like a Rock God. Or Goddess.”

  Claire's mouth broke into an embarrassed smile. “Can you please sit down? Everyone is starting to stare now.”

  “Wow! That’s just …” His voice trailed into a stunned splutter as he sat on the adjacent stall. “I've got so many questions. This is just … wow! Like the best moment of my life, ever!”

  “Can we get over the fact that I may have once been in a band?”

  “Sure, sure.” There was silence for a moment as he clutched his beer. “But you're on that Dancing show. And I've got tickets to Nuclear Monkeys in Leeds and London. But only ‘cause you’re in it.”

  “Do you play the guitar?”

  His animated hands nearly knocked over his pint. “Nothing like you can. I'm saving up for a Les Paul like what you have but I'd never do it justice if …”

  Claire's eyes bored into him. “If you promise not to mention me being a musician or have fame for the rest of the evening, I will let you have one of my oodles of spare axes. I just want to get away from that life for a night.”

  “Your axe? Fuck. OK, this is a hidden camera show!”

  “Is it not possible for you to believe that people off the telly can be lonely too and want to meet other people? Is it that strange that we go on dates in wine bars?”

  “No. But you could spend time with whoever you want,” he replied, downing his beer. “I mean, whoever.”

  “I am doing.” Emit's eyes wandered as she spoke. “But that person wants to believe that I don't actually want to spend time with him. What's an internationally renowned superstar supposed to do?”

  “OK I get it,” Emit snapped. “So what it's like being on tour. And being with Paige? And on television?”

  “It's OK.” Her mind fleeted back to his profile. “What's is it like being an IT technician? Or a hillwalker?”

  “Nothing like as exciting as rockin' all over the world!”

  “Do you get to go home every evening to your house. Play with your consoles? Sleep in your bed? Swim in your pool?”

  “You have a pool?” He asked incredulously and then nodded as she waited for an answer to her original questions.

  “Then you realise that the myth about rock stars having incredibly fantastic lives is just that, a myth. It's a manic, helter-skelter life.”

  “But the naturism helps, right? I mean, I tried it last summer cycling through London and then in Ibiza at a beach. Paige always said naturism kept you lot sane.”

  “Ahh, bloody Paige,” she laughed. “Naturism never kept her sane! Sure, it’s an amazing way to spend the time. But a naturist band is still a band. And it's still trying to balance a manic lifestyle jetting all over the globe and in and out of music studios and music videos and shit.” Emit gulped as he adjusted his T-Shirt, resplendent with an image of a guitarist and an offensive slogan.

  “Fuck! Wish I’d worn one of my Bare Necessities T-Shirts now,” he moaned. “I’ve got loads!”

  “Do you think I want to spend all night looking at an image of myself on your chest?” He nodded and smiled at her in agreement. “Another drink?”

  “Shouldn't I get these?” He asked.

  She snorted. “'Cause you're the man? Fuck you, gender norms.” She slipped from the stool and waved a banknote at the barman, buying herself two drinks to Emit's one.

  Emit was smitten with the guitarist, and she warmed to him, once he had stopped retreating to his fanatical devotion of her musical prowess. They left the rock café drunk and meandered towards her large villa on the outskirts of the London suburb.

  He gasped as she idly walked up the private
drive, allowing the electric gates to close behind them. “So how much was this?”

  “More than a couple of million,” she calmly replied, unlocking the main door and disabling the alarm. “Where do you think all that money you paid to watch us went? Eh?” She smiled as he sauntered into her property behind her, taking in the impressive architecture. She opened the drinks fridge in the kitchen and removed four bottles of beer. “I'll show you my studio.”

  The recording studio was one of the biggest rooms of her home, taking up what was previously two bedrooms. She passed him a couple of beers and then opened a cupboard to give him an old Les Paul guitar. “As promised,” she said and gestured towards the soundproof booth.”Now, show me your talent!”

  Emit was too drunk to blush; his skewed glasses and glassy eyes were a reminder that he had tried to keep up with Claire’s drinking. He stumbled into the room behind a glass partition; she gestured for him to put the headphones on and to plug his guitar into the equipment while she absent-mindedly set him up to play guitar to one of the Bare Necessities songs.

  They spent the next three hours naked, getting blindly drunk while playing guitar and then swimming with a complete stranger she had met off the Internet, before they engaged in risky, unprotected sex by the side of the pool; both of them too drunk to consider the consequences of their actions. They collapsed, an hour later, in slumber, ready for an awkward conversation the following morning.

  Chapter VII

  Paige

  The vast stadium was full. 80,000 fans filled the stands and most of the pitch to watch a dozen live acts for their entertainment.

  The giant arch was illuminated emerald green, reflecting a viridian rainbow into the London sky; pictures of the stadium would go viral on social media.

  Paige waited backstage with the scores of talented entertainers; their dressing rooms in the labyrinth bowels of the stadium. She smiled at a young couple. “First time at Wembley?”

  The Scottish couple nodded and Paige, dressed in just a long T-Shirt, sat down opposite them. “Have a drinkie,” she advised. “If you’re nervous, and it feels false then you'll lock up. I choose to go naked as I can't perform with this shit on.” She pulled at the white garment and sipped from her glass of water.

  “Thanks.” Paige looked through the running order; she was the first act due on stage. The producers offered her the opening slot due to her nudity and the expected cooler weather in the late autumn evenings. There was only so much their stage heaters could do.

  “Paige Simmons and House Band,” a voice called behind her, from the end of the Green Room. She held up her hand, not turning to face the voice. “Paige Simmons? Has anyone seen Paige Simmons?”

  “I'm here,” she shouted. “I'm not that bloody short.”

  “Five minutes then you’re up.”

  Paige turned her hand into a thumbs-up sign to show that she had heard and understood, and smiled at the Scottish couple. “Good luck out there. All for a good cause.”

  They muttered their appreciation, and Paige got up from the sofa, putting her empty glass on the table.

  “Hi Paige.” Her blood chilled at the familiar voice. She ignored it. “Paige.”

  She glanced over to the source. “You're not within hitting range,” she moaned. “Want to come any closer?”

  Andre shook his head. “I know what your capable of.”

  “Good. Although I’m happy to give you a demonstration.” She spoke icily, not showing any emotion to the hesitant man.

  “I’ll pass.” He sighed. “Have you seen Claire?”

  “Maybe.”

  He came within a few yards and pulled at her arm. She shook it off, but reluctantly followed him to the edge of the room, away from the noise and chatter. “How is she?”

  “Angry. Broken. Angry. Upset. Angry. Betrayed. Did I mention angry?”

  “I didn't mean it all to happen like it did.”

  “Well it did,” Paige snapped. “You upset one of my friends really badly. And the only reason why I'm not hurting you right now is that I don't want to be arrested before I go on there and raise some money for a far more deserving cause than having your sorry ass begging for mercy as I pummel you.” She grabbed hold of the agent's tie and pressed it into his throat. “But if you stop me, or speak to me again. If I fucking see you again, I will hurt you. And enjoy doing it. Stay well away from me. Stay further away from Claire. Do you understand?”

  He gulped as he nodded.

  “And that includes text messages asking her for a drink or to try again. Leave her alone.”

  “Paige Simmons!” The organiser called and Paige had time to raise her left knee sharply into the crotch of their former agent before backing away from the stricken man and striding towards the stage.

  The concert was to raise money for refugees and the left-leaning singer gleefully took to the stage. She criticised the Government at length as her backing band prepared themselves for her cue. No member of the ruling political party was spared her ire as she tore into their “cruel actions” and “disgraceful policies.”

  “We are not at home to Mr Heartless,” she called, and spun around to see that her band were waiting for her to end her tirade. “Oh, and one more thing.” She turned to face her audience, put her hand on the hem of the T-Shirt, adorned with the logos of the charities that would benefit from the gig, and in one smooth action discarded the flimsy garment into the adoring crowd.

  Her first song was a cover of Ella Henderson's Ghost; the talented singer gave a high-energy repertoire of the song, accompanied by the understated musical talent of the house band. Ella Henderson was replaced with popular classics from the Bare Necessities three albums.

  All of her music she had chosen personally; they all had a fast tempo and she got to prance across the stage to revel in the beat of the music and exuberance of the lyrics.

  Her live performance was delivered with her usual sensational singing voice and she wooed the crowd easily with her impressive performance as well as her politicking. “Being naked is so awesome,” she cried as she finished her final song in the one hour slot she had been allocated. “One more thing,” she called as she glanced towards the sides of the stage. “I want everyone who thinks that calling refugees fleeing for their lives 'a swarm of unwanted cockroaches' picks up the phone, logs onto their computer and sends a formal complaint to the Daily Herald for Peter Moran's column today.” The boos rang out at the mention of her nemesis’s name. “What's that?” Paige said laughing. “He's … oh, that's quite unrepeatable. But you are spot on, he is. Anyway, enough of him, the next act is a really talented comedian, who would be a damn sight funnier without his clothes. Please give a warm welcome to Wembley to Oliver Wright.”

  The casually-dressed young Radio 4 comedian strode onto the stage, easily the largest venue he had ever played to, holding a microphone in his left hand as he waved to the crowd with his right.

  “Hello. Hello. Good Evening,” he shouted, raising his eyebrows at Paige walking towards the edge of the stage. “And thank you Paige. Me standing here without clothes would be hysterical for everyone. And it’s getting cold. I would not be doing myself justice!”

  The audience tittered. Paige waved as she slipped backstage. “The Big Fundraiser” had started well, and as the naturist, activist and socialist left the stage, she was richly cheered. Unbeknownst to the organisers, Paige, still naked, joined the crowd and enjoyed the variety of acts before being summoned for an encore.

  They raised millions from ticket sales, radio streams, and Paige even donated a six-figure sum herself.

  But for the first time in months, she had felt the surge of excitement and energy for performing live on stage. The adrenaline as she took her T-Shirt off and hit that first note. The feeling of the cool air kissing her body and shivering as her vocal chords hit the impressively high notes. She felt the rush of the crowd, the thrill of performing and buzz of being centre of attention.

  Sure, it was still fun to mak
e music in a recording studio but Paige lived for the live performance and Wembley had given her a platform to enthral and captivate an audience once more.

  The entertainer was entertaining again; and it pained her as she travelled home that there would be no second night. An anti-climatic end to a wonderful evening.

  * * *

  Paige travelled into the centre of London the following day; she read the free newspaper on the train and there were several pictures from the benefit concert including a couple of her on stage.

  It always amused Paige to read about her own performances, especially when they were flattering, and the young journalist who had “reviewed” the multi-million pound gig had written reams of purple prose about the event.

  While Paige was one of the biggest stars, it was a dozen acts who had given up their time and their money to perform and as such, the photographs and reviews were not just of Paige. This was no Bare Necessities gig, and it troubled her that Jack or Claire were not involved. They were exploring new worlds, and undertaking new adventures.

  The call from a former class mate had come as she was pondering her next chapter in her life. She had spent months trying to write the music for her first solo album but all she had was a dozen half-finished songs. She lacked the motivation to really finish them. The hiatus of the Bare Necessities had been messy; it lacked finality and Danny had suggested that she should consider something else.

  Danny had always been fond of Paige; his surname of Simpson put him next to Paige when the teachers assigned desks alphabetically, which many did in their secondary school. Eventually, it became a force of habit, and the two became friends.

  They drifted apart after GCSEs as they chose different subjects for A Levels but remained in contact, and communicated over the Internet before rekindling a less-virtual friendship a year ago.

  Danny embraced his friend as she strode into the coffee shop, in the heart of London. His long, dark brown hair was thick and unkempt, but he looked smartly shabby. His appearance with his leather jacket, stubble and glasses gave the impression that his messy hair was a fashion statement and not a by-product of laziness and a lack of punctuality. “You're late,” he said, smiling. “But then I expected that.