Idol

by Carrie Duffy

  A thought suddenly occurred to Nick, and he began to speak before he could stop himself. ‘Why don’t you work with us on a track? It’d be awesome.’

  ‘Work with Phoenix?’ Jenna exclaimed, hardly able to believe what he was saying. It was her childhood dream come true! The opportunity to record with her heroes, to see the masters at work – and, of course, to spend an insane amount of time with Nick Taylor …

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, would the other guys want me?’

  A sly grin spread across Nick’s face. ‘Yeah,’ he drawled. ‘We all want you.’ She looked so cute standing there, those huge, green, baby-doll eyes full of insecurity. On the one hand, she was a ball of energy, bristling with confidence and a mesmerizing sexuality, yet there was an air of vulnerability that couldn’t be hidden. He felt a strong urge to take her in his arms and protect her, and an equally strong urge to take her in his arms and fuck her brains out. Don’t think about that now, he warned himself, feeling himself start to get hard. He would come back to that later, when he was banging some groupie.

  Jenna blushed, glancing away in embarrassment. He was ridiculously handsome, able to make her dizzy with a single look. ‘I’m such a huge fan,’ she rambled. ‘I’ve always loved your music, right since the beginning. This would just be a dream. I mean, I’d cancel everything to work with Phoenix.’

  ‘So is that a yes?’ Nick laughed.

  ‘Yes!’ Jenna exclaimed, her excitement impossible to hide as they clinked their champagne glasses to symbolically seal the deal. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’

  2

  Sadie Laine was curled up on her sagging single bed, in the boxroom of the East London house share she rented for an extortionate fee. The walls were damp, the paint was flaking, and the mattress she was sitting on smelt faintly of mould. It was not, Sadie thought with a growing sense of frustration, the kind of place she had dreamed of living when she was a child.

  The old-fashioned TV blared in the corner. No swanky flat-screen for her, just an enormous monster of a thing that was a hand-me-down from her parents and took up all the room on her tiny dressing table. Sadie squinted at the screen as she wrapped her duvet tightly around her and snuggled into it. Her long, slim legs poked out of the end, and her feet were swathed in thick, pink socks. The radiator was on the blink again, and the landlord hadn’t yet made good on his promise to fix it.

  Sadie let out a sigh as she pushed a few stray tendrils of hair away from her beautiful face. Her dark, glossy hair was roughly pulled back in a messy ponytail, perfectly framing her fine, angular features, but the crease between her eyebrows gave away her anxiety.

  It’s not fair, she thought miserably, as she watched the glamorous scene play out on the TV screen in front of her. Breaking off another piece of chocolate from the slab beside her, she popped it into her mouth, not caring that she’d already tripled her daily calorie allowance.

  Sadie was watching the highlights of the MTV Europe Awards, where at this moment Jenna Jonsson was speaking into the camera. She looked incredible as she chattered excitedly to the interviewer about how thrilled she was to have won. She threw out some inane cliché about how all of her dreams were coming true. Sadie pursed her lips and pressed mute on the remote.

  All of Jenna’s dreams might have been coming true – life wasn’t working out quite so well for Sadie.

  For as long as she could remember, all Sadie had ever wanted to do with her life was dance. From the moment she had slipped on the obligatory pink leotard for her first lesson in the local church hall, she knew she had found her passion. Growing up in the London suburb of Streatham with her younger brother and sister, there wasn’t a lot of money to spare, but her parents scrimped and saved, working extra shifts to ensure their beautiful, gifted daughter could pursue her dream.

  It soon became clear that she was seriously talented, and by the time she hit her teens she was already competing on the national circuit, winning prizes in every category. Jazz, Latin, hip-hop – Sadie was a natural at every style she tried. She loved the way she could get lost in the music, relishing the grind of learning the routine and putting her own interpretation on it to make it truly individual – a hair flick here, a sashay of the hips there. Most of all, she adored the adulation of being up on stage, addicted to the adrenaline rush that came with performing. It was the ultimate buzz.

  Then came the big one – the National Championships, held in Manchester. The prize was life-changing: an all-expenses-paid trip to LA, to spend four weeks working with street-dance stars Ghetto Angels. Rumour had it that, if your work was good enough, you’d be invited to perform with them at their next gig.

  It was an amazing opportunity. Sadie didn’t think she’d ever wanted anything so badly in all her life. Ghetto Angels were incredible, the hippest things in the dance world right now, and she knew that this could catapult her into the big league. She worked on her routine day and night, rehearsing the steps obsessively until she could do them in her sleep. She was the one to beat, the dead cert to take the prize. That was, until Jenna Jonsson and her pushy mother had shown up …

  ‘Knock knock,’ came a voice at the door.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sadie responded lazily, recognizing it as her housemate Carla.

  Carla poked her head round the bedroom door. She was a petite brunette with an English rose complexion and a body she could contort into positions that made men salivate. A fellow dancer, the pair had worked together one summer at a holiday camp. The show had been terrible – they’d got through it with good humour and a lot of alcohol – but by the end of the season each knew they’d made a friend for life.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ Carla crossed the room and plonked herself down, cross-legged, on the corner of Sadie’s bed.

  ‘Shit,’ Sadie replied succinctly.

  ‘Well I brought something to cheer you up,’ said Carla, brandishing a bottle of Smirnoff and two glasses filled with ice. Sadie’s eyes lit up. ‘But you have to share it with me,’ Carla warned her.

  Sadie poured them each a generous amount and mixed it with Diet Coke. ‘One Skinny Bitch, on the rocks,’ she grinned, passing it to Carla. She settled back against the flattened pillows and the two of them turned their attention to the television, where the EMAs were in full swing.

  ‘Makes you sick, doesn’t it,’ Carla observed, as they watched yet another superstar receive a gong from a fawning presenter.

  ‘Uh huh. All those happy, smiling, Botoxed-to-the-hilt, nauseatingly rich people,’ ranted Sadie, warming to her theme. ‘They’re just hypocritical, self-congratulatory, sycophantic wankers,’ she finished triumphantly.

  ‘Wish you were there?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Sadie agreed instantly, as the two of them burst into laughter.

  ‘You probably shouldn’t be watching this,’ Carla told her, as they re-ran footage of Phoenix receiving their Ultimate Legend award. ‘It’s going to make you feel even worse.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Sadie shook her head, making no attempt to change the channel. ‘Looking at Nick Taylor always cheers me up.’

  ‘He is amazingly hot,’ agreed Carla. ‘Especially in that suit. I bet he’s a total bastard though.’

  ‘Just my type,’ grinned Sadie, as she raised her glass at the TV screen. ‘I wouldn’t mind trying to tame him.’

  Carla smiled indulgently. Then the image changed again, and the tiny screen was filled with a full-length shot of Jenna Jonsson making her way into The Dorchester.

  ‘God, that dress is gorgeous,’ Carla enthused.

  Sadie snorted. ‘She’s overdone it with the Fake Bake, though. I mean, no one can actually be that colour,’ she sniped, as she took another slug of vodka. She was 23, the same age as Jenna, and yet the differences between their lifestyles couldn’t have been more stark.

  ‘Hon, you’ve got to get over it,’ Carla pushed gently.

  ‘I can’t!’ Sadie protested. ‘You know that. However hard I try, I feel like that was my big chance and I missed it. I’ll just be
stuck here forever. Ninety years old and still in this shitty little boxroom.’

  Her dance career had hit a lean patch that seemed never-ending. A few months ago she’d landed an ensemble role in a West End revival of 42nd Street; it promised a one-year contract, a prestigious venue and fantastic exposure. Sadie was ecstatic. Then, two weeks into rehearsals, the company had gone bust and the producer had disappeared off the face of the earth. Since then she could barely get an audition, let alone a job. She’d been trying to cover her rent by doing promo work, which was badly paid and soul-destroying. You name it, she’d promote it, usually while trussed up in some ridiculous tiny outfit or freezing her ass off on a street corner handing out leaflets. It was hardly the glamour she was longing for.

  ‘Well, I’ll be stuck here with you,’ Carla tried to cheer her up. ‘Look at me – scraping by on the occasional bit of cruise-ship work, spending the rest of my time teaching yoga to a bunch of stuck-up, ungrateful bankers. And I’ve got a crap boyfriend,’ she admitted, in a rare moment of frankness.

  ‘At least you’ve got a boyfriend,’ Sadie muttered. Her love life was about as successful as her career – going nowhere fast. She seemed to attract a succession of bastards and losers and she was sick of it. She knew it was un-PC to admit it, but she wanted a real man – someone confident and successful who could take care of her. Gorgeously fuckable was always a bonus, too.

  ‘Oh cheer up,’ Carla teased her good-naturedly, as she poured them both another drink.

  ‘Make mine a triple,’ Sadie said morosely. Despite what Carla had said, Sadie couldn’t snap out of her dark mood. The image on the screen seemed to taunt her. Jenna Jonsson – young and beautiful, with the world at her feet. It reminded Sadie of just how far their lives had diverged.

  They’d known each other vaguely for years from the dance circuit. They’d never been close – mainly because Jenna’s domineering mother, Georgia, kept her well away from everyone else, worried that befriending the others would dull her competitive instincts.

  Then five years ago came the Nationals. They were both eighteen, both in their final year of eligibility for the competition. It was the break Sadie so badly needed, and she was prepared to do anything to win.

  So, apparently, was Georgia Jonsson. Sadie had seen her prowling backstage, her stick-thin figure poured into a low-cut dress, her ash-blonde hair teased up into a voluminous chignon. In her day, she must have been stunning. Now she was mutton dressed as lamb.

  Jenna took to the stage before Sadie, giving a competent performance that was nothing to write home about. Nerves had obviously got the better of her, as she made the occasional, well-covered mistake. But she looked fantastic, naturally, her blonde hair curled into ringlets and tumbling down her back, her revealing costume clinging to her newly acquired curves like a second skin.

  Sadie had been so nervous she thought she might be sick. The venue was enormous, bigger than anywhere she’d ever performed. But once she hit the stage, the tension evaporated. It was as though her body knew exactly what to do and she let the sensations take over, a joyous feeling of freedom that she surrendered to completely.

  Sadie had given the performance of her life. Technically she was perfect, but it was so much more than that. She danced with spirit and soul, her body moving like a dream. She blew the competition out of the water and she knew it. She could still picture it now – if she shut her eyes in the cramped bedroom she was transported back to that day, moving as though she was flying, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground. She’d been aware that no one in the room could take their eyes off her, the straight-laced judges in the front row captivated by her ability.

  ‘And the winner is …’

  Sadie recalled lining up on stage with the rest of the girls, looking out at row upon row of expectant audience members. Her heart was racing, but she was confident. She wanted this so badly, she could almost feel the hot Los Angeles sun beating down on her body …

  ‘… Jenna Jonsson!’

  Sadie gasped in astonishment. She remembered looking across at Dickie Masters, the head judge, with his shiny bald head and ginger moustache. He looked ridiculous – short and fat in a tweed blazer and crumpled trousers – as he beamed at Jenna, his jowly face so red it looked as if it was going to burst.

  Jenna seemed to be the only person more surprised than Sadie. Her mouth fell open; her face was a picture of confusion as she stared across at her. Sadie found that she couldn’t meet Jenna’s eyes. She looked away, found a knot in the wooden floor and concentrated her energy on that. That way, she could pretend it wasn’t happening.

  Jenna soon got over her reticence. She shrieked with delight, then burst into tears as they handed over the plane tickets. The next moment her mother was up on stage and they were posing for press shots with an enormous silver trophy. Jenna’s tears had been dried and she looked her usual radiant self, sandwiched between her mother and Dickie Masters. That was the last Sadie had seen of her – she and the other girls had been quickly shepherded off stage, expected to pick up their belongings and get out. Nobody loves a loser.

  Back in the changing rooms, the others had commiserated with her, said they couldn’t understand what had happened. A few of them went further – thanks to her mother, Jenna wasn’t popular on the circuit and the bitchy comments flew. Then one by one they’d left, leaving Sadie sitting alone in the changing rooms. She felt dazed as she went over and over her performance in her mind. Was it possible she’d been wrong – that what she’d felt inside was so different to what the judges saw? But then why had everyone told her she deserved to win? It didn’t make any sense.

  Gradually the numbness faded, replaced by a cold, hard ball of fury that began deep in her stomach and spread throughout her body. She should have won. She deserved it. No one had worked harder than she had and no one had given a better performance. So what the hell was going on?

  Suddenly she jumped up, changing out of her costume in record time and snatching up her bag. She didn’t even bother to take off the heavy stage make-up, her face a riot of colour and sparkle as she raced out of the changing rooms and back through the main hall. It was empty now; the audience had left and the seats were being cleared away as the cleaners moved in. It seemed sad somehow; nothing like the glamorous, noisy spectacle it had been earlier. Sadie didn’t stop to reflect. She wanted answers.

  As she reached the judges’ room, she got them. The door was ajar and at first Sadie thought everyone had left. Then she caught a glimpse of Dickie Masters. He wasn’t alone. Pressed up against him, her hair flying wild and her skirt hitched up, was Georgia Jonsson.

  They looked so bizarre together that Sadie almost laughed out loud. Georgia towered above the diminutive Dickie – his nose barely reached her breasts; but that seemed to be just the way he liked it. His head was redder than ever, his face buried in Georgia’s cleavage as he made a noise that could only be described as snuffling. Georgia was stroking his smooth, bald head.

  ‘Oh yes, Dickie, that’s the way Mummy likes it,’ she purred.

  Dickie’s hands seemed to be everywhere, fighting to pull Georgia’s dress even higher. He squealed in delight as he encountered the top of her stockings, his chubby fingers running feverishly over the garter straps. Then his hands moved to his trousers, struggling to pull off his belt and unzip his fly as he released his white, flaccid cock. It hung, small and limp, from his Y-fronts. Georgia took it in her hand and squeezed. It instantly responded and Dickie shuddered.

  ‘That’s right,’ whispered Georgia, ‘Mummy will make it better.’

  Some instinct made her look up – right over Dickie’s head and straight at Sadie. Sadie expected her to cry out, to jump away in embarrassment. Instead Georgia had merely smiled, her expression triumphant. Then she had raised one stiletto heel and kicked the door shut in Sadie’s face.

  ‘Sadie, are you okay?’

  Sadie started, aware that Carla was looking at her worriedly. Even now, the memory of the anger
and injustice she’d felt was overwhelming.

  ‘It’s just so unfair,’ Sadie burst out, startling Carla with her ferocity. ‘Life, I mean.’

  ‘I know, hon,’ Carla sympathized. But Sadie was on a roll.

  ‘Aren’t you sick of all this?’ She waved her hand around, indicating the messy room with the holes in the carpet and the furniture that was falling apart. ‘This is not the life I’m supposed to be living. Do you know what I mean?’ she asked desperately. ‘I don’t want the nine-to-five grind, watching every penny with never enough to spare. I want excitement and glamour and hot sex with a gorgeous man who showers me with diamonds …’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ Carla told her gently.

  ‘What if I am?’ Sadie shot back, all her pent-up frustration spilling out. ‘I’m sick of living like this.’

  ‘So change it,’ Carla said simply. ‘You’re the only one who can.’

  Sadie fell silent, thoughtful for a moment. On TV the cameras had gone to a wide shot, showing Jenna Jonsson in all her glory as she waved at the crowd, signing autographs and blowing kisses.

  ‘You know what? You’re right.’ Sadie sat bolt upright, her eyes fiery. ‘I’ll show Jenna bloody Jonsson. Anything she can do, I can do better. I’m going to make it, Carla – all the way to the fucking top. And I’m not going to stop till I do!’

  3

  ‘Absolutely no way.’

  Gerry King stood frowning before Jenna, an imposing figure with his arms crossed firmly over his chest. In his dark Savile Row suit, his sandy-coloured hair flopping boyishly across his brow to disguise the fact that it was thinning at the front, Jenna’s manager looked younger than his 44 years, and the expression on his face implied he was not to be argued with.