Nothing But Trouble

by Matt Cain

  ‘Urm, chest hair, urm, yeah it can be sexy, I suppose,’ she answered. ‘But only on the right man.’ She found herself wondering if Freddy Jones had chest hair and then blushed as if the interviewer could read her mind.

  ‘What’s your favourite food?’

  ‘Curry, blatantly.’

  ‘Which member of the royal family would you most like to get drunk with?’

  ‘Piece of piss – Prince Harry!’

  Unlike some pop stars, Lola didn’t mind the endless round of interviews and promotion. Harvey had explained from the start of her career that it was becoming increasingly difficult to sell albums – and pop stars were having to work harder and harder for their money. She’d always told herself that if she ever made it she wouldn’t moan about having to speak to journalists and would do her best never to send them away disappointed.

  Nevertheless, today she was finding it unusually difficult. Last night’s launch party had gone on till late and she’d only had a few hours’ sleep. After jumping into the pool she’d started on the shots, and the last thing she remembered was being carried down through the fire escape by security and dropped onto the back seat of a car waiting by the goods entrance. She’d woken up this morning wearing only one boot with her ripped minidress on back to front, a slice of lemon trapped down her cleavage and the taste of barbecued sewage in her mouth. Three hours later she was still suffering. In fact, she was so hung-over even her hair hurt.

  In the brief breaks between interviews she held her head in her hands and let out low, whimpering moans. When she closed her eyes she could actually see stars, like some kind of cartoon character after a comedy fight. Barbara had subtly left a packet of Smints on the table next to her, presumably because she stank of booze. She popped another couple in her mouth and sucked on them as hard as she could. By now she’d gone through so many she was starting to get wind. She stifled a burp and dropped a hangover remedy into a glass of water. Thank God I’m not on camera so I don’t have to look good, she told herself as she watched it fizz.

  ‘Who would you rather sleep with, David Cameron or Nick Clegg?’ asked a leather-skinned bald man who edited the showbiz section of one of the red tops.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ interjected Barbara from behind her desk, ‘but Lola doesn’t do politics. She’d much rather talk about the new album.’

  ‘OK, well, tell me about the song Tramp,’ the journalist went on. ‘What inspired you to write it?’

  Lola did her best to perk up. ‘Well, I suppose it was the frustration I felt about the fact that a woman who sleeps around gets labelled a tramp while a slaggy man blatantly always gets away with it.’

  ‘I see. And did you write it about anyone in particular?’

  ‘Yeah I did actually – my ex-boyfriend who was a total dick and cheated on me with some bird I was actually working with. Oh I’m sure you heard the story, it was all over the papers.’

  The journalist smiled. Like everyone, he knew about Lola’s fling with Fox Marshall, the neck-twistingly handsome guitarist in her last backing band. Fox was tall with wheat-coloured hair and bright blue eyes – and he was hugely talented, which Lola always found attractive. But he was one of those men who knew just how attractive he was and in her experience this always meant trouble. She should have stayed away from him from the start but had been lured into a steamy fling during a promotional trip to Denmark. And while she’d ended up falling in love with him, it had become more and more obvious that all he wanted from her was a bit of fun. When she discovered that he was also having fun with a dance coach he’d met on the set of one of her videos, she’d been devastated. And once the story had been splashed all over the tabloid press she’d felt like the whole world was laughing at her. At the time she’d been too upset to talk about it, but now it had inspired one of her best ever songs she felt differently – and was more than happy to open up.

  ‘Anyway,’ she breezed on, ‘Tramp is kind of my way of getting my own back on him – and telling the world what a wanker he was.’

  The journalist nodded, clearly thrilled with the turn the interview was taking. ‘And how would you like Fox to feel when he hears it?’

  ‘Oh I couldn’t care less, to be honest – I was over him ages ago. But I’m pleased I got a good song out of him. I’m only sorry I couldn’t come up with any lyrics about his tiny dick.’

  ‘OK, time’s up!’ Barbara butted in. She shot Lola a steely look and tightened her mouth.

  ‘Sorry, darlin’,’ Lola frowned. ‘I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’

  The truth was that Lola was glad she’d left the journalist with the bombshell about Fox’s tiny dick – not that it was strictly true. In fact, far from it. But maybe reading about his inadequacies in the tabloid press would teach Fox a lesson. And you never know, maybe this means he won’t be able to hurt anyone else like he hurt me. She wondered if Freddy Jones had ever hurt anyone. She doubted it. Which meant he could be just the right man for her . . .

  ‘Tell me about the song Miss Chief,’ asked the next journalist, an overweight brunette wearing a badly fitting bra that made her look like she had four boobs. ‘What kind of message are you hoping it sends out to your fans?’

  ‘Well, it’s all about empowerment,’ began Lola, trying her best not to sound pompous. ‘I wanted an anthem to make my female fans feel strong and confident – and inspire them not to stand for any shit.’

  ‘Sounds very admirable,’ the journalist nodded. ‘And is it about your break-up with Fox Marshall?’

  Lola smiled. ‘Not exactly. I wrote it when I found out my assistant had sold the story to the press.’

  The woman nudged towards her. Lola knew she had to give each journalist something slightly different for their articles to have maximum impact – and it looked like this one was taking the bait. ‘So what happened exactly?’ she asked, her head cocked in interest.

  ‘Well, some so-called “anonymous source” blabbed all the gory details about Fox cheating on me,’ Lola chirped. ‘So first of all I was gutted about being dumped, but knowing that someone close to me had flogged the story made me feel even worse. So my manager came up with this idea: he planted three slightly different pieces of fake gossip with three different people he suspected of being the leak. And it turned out the story that ended up in the papers came from my assistant – so we sacked the silly cow.’

  There was a nervous cough from the corner of the room and Lola spotted her new assistant Amina reaching for a glass of water. A quiet, shy girl, Amina had only started working for her earlier that month and until now had had no idea what had happened to her predecessor. Finding out was obviously coming as something of a shock.

  Lola acted quickly to reassure her. ‘But it all worked out fine in the end,’ she beamed at her from across the room, ‘because I’ve got someone much better working for me now. My new assistant Amina’s way too fierce to do anything like that. And I’m sure she’ll be sticking around for a long time yet.’

  Amina gave her a grateful smile and went back to tapping on her iPad.

  ‘And how about Mess It Up?’ asked the next journalist, an intense-looking man who sounded like he was whispering and shouting at the same time. ‘Don’t you think it sends out the wrong message about binge-drinking to your young fans?’

  ‘No,’ Lola answered firmly. ‘Mess It Up’s about how I feel when I want to get drunk and messy. I’m not saying anyone else should.’

  ‘But isn’t it irresponsible to sing about drinking and make it sound cool?’

  ‘Not at all. Everyone knows I’m anti-drugs but young people need some way of going out and letting their hair down. And don’t tell me you don’t like messing it up sometimes?’

  The journalist tried his best not to smile.

  ‘Oh come on,’ she teased, ‘I can blatantly see that naughty twinkle in your eye.’

  She nudged him on the shoulder and he gave in to a big grin.

  ‘Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, doll,’ Barb
ara said once he’d left. ‘You can play the press like a Steinway grand.’

  ‘Even when I’m hung-over,’ Lola shot back with a mischievous wink.

  ‘Even when you’re hung-over.’

  As another journalist came in she reached for the Smints and popped three in her mouth. She sucked on them hard and braced herself for the next question.

  ‘Where’s the weirdest place you’ve ever had sex?’

  It really was going to be a long morning.

  *

  Freddy hit Play and gazed at the screen as an obviously drunk Lola hiccupped and swayed her way through last night’s interview.

  ‘You know, I probably shouldn’t tell you this,’ he watched her say, ‘but the song’s about my mum’s holiday to Spain when she was fifteen – when she came back up the duff with me.’

  He pressed the Pause button and smiled. It was a great interview and he knew he’d nailed it. He breathed a sigh of relief. That’ll get the editor off my back – at least for the time being.

  That morning Freddy had come into the newsroom early to watch back last night’s live broadcast before starting on the new working day. He felt great, having left the party shortly after the interview, as was expected of journalists in case they saw something they shouldn’t. And he didn’t mind the early start as at the moment work was his number-one priority. For weeks now all the correspondents at Channel 3 News had been under pressure to up their game: ratings had been falling and a new editor had been brought in to revamp the programme. As the show’s entertainment correspondent, Freddy had repeatedly been told he had to nail bigger exclusives and be tougher on interviewees. Which was why at the moment he started every day watching back the previous night’s report and seeing if there was any way he could improve.

  He sat back and listened to the broad south London accent reverberating from his screen. ‘She probably just had a knee-trembler with some total stranger round the back of a nightclub.’

  Even a day later Lola’s candid confession raised a smile. And there was no denying her surprise pool jump made for terrific TV. Three of Freddy’s colleagues had already congratulated him on it in the lift up to the newsroom. It looked like nailing a high-profile interview had been just what he needed. And now he could sit back and concentrate on what was really on his mind – working out whether Lola had been flirting with him because she actually fancied him.

  ‘Freddy?’ He heard a voice calling out behind him. ‘Can I have a quick word?’

  He swivelled around and came face-to-face with the programme’s editor Hugh Badcock, an ex-army, dick-on-the-table alpha male with a beer belly he often stroked as if it were his proudest possession.

  ‘Yeah,’ Freddy replied. ‘Sure.’

  Lola’s flirting would have to wait. Finally he was about to get some praise from the big boss!

  Doing his best to suppress a grin, he followed Hugh into his office and sprung onto the sofa. The room was decorated with ethnic tat his boss had picked up on the road during his time as a foreign correspondent, photos of him proudly sporting a bulletproof vest in various war zones, and portraits of the three children he had with a minor aristocrat Freddy was pretty sure was some kind of Lady. The combined effect was to make Freddy feel like he was walking into one huge trophy cabinet.

  ‘So,’ Hugh began in his posh voice, lowering himself into the seat behind his desk, ‘what did you think about last night’s live?’

  ‘Oh I thought it was cracking, like.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ He began fiddling with his signet ring. ‘Hmmm.’

  Uh-oh, thought Freddy, he obviously doesn’t agree. He could feel his grin starting to wilt.

  ‘Well, I loved it when she jumped into the pool,’ Hugh acknowledged. ‘And it was great when she asked her mum to give up crack.’

  Freddy nodded expectantly. But . . .?

  ‘But that’s exactly when you should have gone in for the kill. Rather than backing off, that’s when you should have pushed her for more.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ he managed. ‘You do know I only had three minutes for the interview?’

  ‘Yeah but three minutes is plenty, Freddy. You know the rule – you warm them up off-camera first and then you go straight for the jugular once you’re on air.’

  By now Freddy could feel his whole body starting to sag. ‘Yeah, I know, but it was pretty difficult, Hugh. We didn’t have any time together beforehand – she was so pissed she only turned up at the last minute.’

  ‘Which reminds me – you should have pushed her on the whole pissed thing. Every time she mentioned it you looked embarrassed and changed the subject.’

  Yeah, well I’m hardly going to give her a hard time when I want to pull her, am I? He wondered how Hugh would react if he said it out loud – or if he confessed that as soon as he’d laid eyes on Lola he’d realized he hadn’t fancied anyone as much in ages. Not that he was about to when Hugh was making it perfectly clear he thought he was a crap correspondent in the first place.

  ‘But I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable,’ he attempted.

  ‘But that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do, Freddy. You’re a journalist – that’s how you get the best material.’

  Freddy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Regardless of how he felt about Lola, this was completely unfair: he’d delivered a great interview which everyone else loved and now for some reason his boss was having a go at him. Well, he wasn’t going to stand for it.

  ‘Actually, Hugh, I’m not sure I agree with you. I only got those lines out of Lola because she felt comfortable and relaxed around me. And I only got the interview in the first place because her publicist knows she can trust me.’

  ‘But Freddy, you’re not a chat-show host. There’s no such thing as “relaxed” or “comfortable” on a news programme. For God’s sake, when she handed you her sunglasses it looked like you were some kind of couple on a beach holiday.’

  With a jolt, Freddy realized he’d forgotten all about the sunglasses. He’d put them in his bag for safe-keeping and then left without returning them. But maybe that was the point? Maybe Lola had given him the sunglasses precisely so he’d have to see her again?

  ‘From now on,’ Hugh continued, ‘this programme needs to be much harder. I’m just not sure you’re a good fit, to be honest, Freddy – at the moment you’re way too much of a soft touch. No wonder all the magazines call you the “housewife’s favourite”.’

  Freddy did his best not to wince; he hated that nickname even more than he hated the word ‘lovely’. Neither label was going to get him a hot girlfriend, which was what he really wanted right now. And listening to Hugh Badcock throw both of them in his face only made him think he’d been stupid to have imagined Lola might fancy him.

  Oh and what’s the point of arguing with him anyway? There’s no way I’m going to win so I might as well just grin and bear it.

  ‘OK, message understood,’ he conceded, gritting his teeth. ‘I’ll do my best to toughen up.’

  ‘All right, boyo.’

  Hugh always insisted on making fun of Freddy’s Welsh accent and it really riled him. He wouldn’t care but nobody in Wales called each other ‘boyo’ anymore – at least no one under the age of forty. But he didn’t want to be accused of being oversensitive so he forced out a weak smile.

  ‘Good man,’ nodded Hugh, standing up to indicate the meeting was over.

  For Freddy it wasn’t over soon enough. He’d started the day on a high but the last five minutes had brought him crashing right down to earth.

  *

  Lola gave a little chuckle; she was really starting to enjoy the day. By now she’d finished her print interviews and was just beginning a round of phone chats with major local radio stations around the country.

  ‘Who would play you in a film of your life?’ came a Liverpudlian accent down the line.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure I’d want anyone to play me,’ Lola replied with a wry smile. ‘I’m having way too much fun playing mys
elf!’

  She didn’t understand why so many pop stars had such a problem dealing with journalists: all you had to do was be yourself and they respected you, whatever you said. It was something she’d learned while making the new album – and opening up about her feelings for the first time. So far the reviews had been overwhelmingly positive so she’d decided to adopt the same policy in interviews.

  Lola’s problem was she could be way too honest – and left to her own devices would probably answer any question thrown at her. She’d already learned that journalists tended to leave their most direct personal questions till the end of their interviews, probably because by then they thought they’d warmed her up – and if Barbara pulled the plug they had enough quotes to work with anyway. But Harvey had always told her that there were some questions it was better not to answer, that there were some things it was best to keep to herself. And while she knew he was right, she sometimes struggled to put this into practice. Which was why he’d given her the nickname the Mouth from the South. And boy had she lived up to it last night.

  ‘How does your mum feel about what you said about her on live TV?’

  ‘Does she really not remember who your dad is?’

  ‘How did it feel growing up knowing you were a mistake?’

  As she did her best to deflect a barrage of questions about her relationship with her mum, Lola reasoned that family was probably one of the things she should have kept to herself. Sure, ex-boyfriends were fair game – especially when they’d dumped her. As were assistants looking to make some easy money on the side. But her mum should have stayed off-limits, however bad a job she’d made of bringing her up – and however pissed Lola had been when she’d done the interview. She wondered if she’d have behaved with a bit more self-control if she hadn’t felt that twist of attraction towards Freddy. Well, there was no point regretting it now – even though every journalist she met wanted to pick up on the story and come away with their own revelations.