Nothing But Trouble

by Matt Cain

  She watched the girls peer at her like she’d said something stupid.

  ‘Well, if you change your mind,’ Trixie mouthed slowly, ‘I always carry a few wraps in my bag. So if you need a boost just say the word.’

  ‘All right, darlin’,’ Lola said, anxious to move the conversation on. Then she remembered something else that might give her a boost. ‘Oh, Amina!’ she shouted through to the lounge.

  ‘Yeah?’ replied her assistant, popping her head around the door.

  ‘What happened to that present from my mum?’

  ‘Oh yeah, just a minute.’ She disappeared and then came back holding the box covered in Spice Girls wrapping paper Lola’s mum had given to her.

  ‘Thanks, darlin’.’ She tore off the paper to reveal a big box of Turkish Delight, which she could see from the label had been bought from the same bakery in Tooting that she and her mum used to visit after picking up her mum’s dole from the jobcentre next door. Every fortnight they’d bought themselves exactly the same box and had sat on the bench outside chomping their way through the sugary sweets – and for just a few minutes Lola’s little head had filled with fantasies of her mum telling her she wasn’t going on to her dealer’s but had decided to give up drugs and be a normal mum after all. A normal mum who loved her daughter.

  The memory brought tears to Lola’s eyes. Oh come on, darlin’, don’t get upset now. You need to stay focused! You need to get back in the zone!

  ‘Are you all right, Lola?’ asked Amina.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said, knuckling the tears out of her eyes. ‘Sorry, I don’t want to ruin my make-up. But do you mind if I just have a quiet minute?’

  The girls stepped back and busied themselves as Lola looked at her reflection in the mirror and tried to regain her composure. She opened up the box and popped one of the sweets into her mouth, biting into it and feeling the gorgeous goo slither and slide around her tongue. It tasted exactly as she remembered – and so much better than all the other brands of Turkish Delight she’d bought or other people had given her since. It reminded her of how far she’d come since she’d been that scared and lonely little girl sitting on the bench with her mum outside the bakery in Tooting. It reminded her of the last time she’d seen her mum and how she’d felt truly loved by her for the first time in years. And it reminded her of how happy she was that her mum had finally conquered her addiction and was gradually rebuilding her life. Just that morning she’d texted Lola to wish her good luck and say how much she was looking forward to seeing the show. Well, Lola now felt inspired to give her a show she’d enjoy – and deliver the performance of her life.

  She slowly closed the box and put it to one side. She’d save the rest for later; it would be her little treat to herself to celebrate the success of the show. She looked again at the label on the front of the box and smiled. It was the best present ever – and a much better pick-me-up than any coke. In fact, it had given her just the boost she needed to dispel her self-doubt and see her through to her big entrance. Because she could do it. She was good enough. How could she not be when her mum believed in her? How could she not be when her mum loved her?

  She looked at a clock on the wall. It was six thirty. There were just two hours to go until she burst onto the stage.

  *

  Freddy looked at the famous O2 Arena lit up against the night sky. With its distinctive yellow spikes poking through its white domed roof he couldn’t help thinking it looked like some weird kind of spaceship, which for some unfathomable reason had touched down next to the Thames. And tonight it looked even weirder than usual as its canvas roof was being thrashed by sheets of heavy rain that ran down it in torrents and flowed into the drains. It was an eerie, ominous sight. He shuddered at the realization of what he was about to do. Oh please let me be able to pull it off . . .

  He listened to the sound of his breathing as the Channel 3 News van beamed its way through the security barriers and onto the forecourt. Everywhere he looked there were posters of Lola, animated advertisements announcing the opening of the tour and groups of fans who’d arrived early and were hiding under umbrellas singing her songs. If only they knew the danger she’s in . . .

  Behind the steering wheel Big Phil spotted the Channel 3 News satellite truck and swung the van round to park up next to it. Freddy remained in the passenger seat and watched him jump out and race through the rain to chat to the engineers. He already knew they’d chosen to broadcast from a position in the scene dock that was near enough to the stage to look like it was in the centre of the action but far enough away for his own microphone not to be drowned out by the sound of the music. Although he had no idea what he’d be saying into it. If everything went according to plan, his original script would be redundant. But he’d have to worry about that later. First he had to act against the instincts of any good journalist and take decisive action to kill his own story.

  ‘OK blud,’ said Spike, leaning towards him from the back seat, ‘what’s the plan?’

  For the entire journey Freddy had been pretending to rehearse his lines in his head whilst the truth was he’d been mulling over this very question. ‘Right mate, me and you need to split up. I need you to go with Phil and shoot actuality of the fans arriving, the dancers warming up backstage and all the stuff we agreed with Barbara.’

  ‘OK, man. But what’s the point if we’re going to kill the story?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it – we don’t know if we can yet. But while I’m trying I need you to make it look like we’re doing what we’re supposed to. We’ve no idea who this anonymous source is so we can’t risk anyone getting suspicious. Not even Barbara.’

  ‘Genuine. But what will you do, man?’

  He pressed his lips together firmly. ‘Well, I looked online and the technical director’s someone called Vlad. I’m going to get in there and find him and show him the email about the screens. Hopefully that will get him to switch the footage. That is, if Harvey hasn’t spoken to him already.’

  Just then his phone pinged and he scrolled through to read a text from Harvey. It said that he was really sorry but he hadn’t been able to get hold of anyone so was rushing across town to join Freddy at the O2. Unfortunately though he was stuck in traffic and wouldn’t be there for at least an hour. Shit.

  ‘OK, so Harvey hasn’t got hold of the techie guy. But let’s not panic – I’ll just have to do it on my own.’

  ‘But how are you going to do that if you can’t tell anyone what’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Freddy frowned, rooting around in his bag for his backstage pass and hooking it around his neck. ‘That’s the part of the plan I haven’t got to yet.’

  ‘Well, good luck, man. If anyone can do it, you can.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. I only hope you’re right.’

  *

  Inside the O2, Gloria could hear the sound of the rain lashing against the roof. It sounded like something out of a disaster film. Well, she couldn’t think of anything more appropriate. She’d cast Lola as the victim in the biggest disaster movie imaginable, and if she could just pull off this final step in her plan, tonight it would be having its world premiere.

  She texted Vlad to ask him to come to her dressing room and then sneaked across the arena to his technical booth. But when she looked through the small window in the door she saw another two engineers hanging around talking about football. She listened for what felt like ages while they compared the form of their favourite teams, using the pronoun ‘we’ as if they themselves had made some sort of contribution to their success. For fuck’s sake, can’t you talk about this outside?

  Just as she was beginning to despair, the two men decided to go for a fag break. Thank fuck for that!

  She stepped to one side and once the men had rounded the corner slipped into the booth and shut the door. Her heart was thumping; after that little hold-up she knew she didn’t have much time to switch the footage on Vlad’s computer and cue up her own carefully re-edited version.
She inserted her memory stick and looked at the instructions Clinton had scribbled on a piece of paper, deleting, dragging and clicking until she read on the screen the words he’d told her to look out for.

  ‘Edit complete. Would you like to render your changes?’

  Too fucking right I would.

  She hit the Render button and was told she’d have to wait thirty seconds until her changes had registered. As she stared at the screen she began picking at a hangnail on her thumb. Oh come on! Hurry the fuck up!

  The computer erupted in a loud sound she didn’t recognize but Clinton had told her that would mean her substitution was complete. She felt a surge of joy and wanted to whoop out loud. But she stopped herself and remembered to exit the screen so Vlad wouldn’t be able to tell anyone had tampered with his work.

  ‘Gloria?’ came a voice from behind her. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  Fuck!

  Her heart hammered in her chest as she turned and saw Vlad. ‘Oh hi, honey,’ she managed to smile, ‘I was just killing time while I waited for you.’

  He creased his forehead. ‘But I thought you asked me to go to your dressing room?’

  ‘Well, yeah, I did, but I got bored waiting so I thought I’d surprise you here.’

  He didn’t look convinced. ‘But I went round there as soon as I got your message.’

  Fuck! This ugly fucker’s not going to fuck this up now!

  There was only one thing for it; she knew what she had to do. She stood up and moved towards him. ‘Oh I know, Vlad, but I always get so horny before a show.’

  ‘Really?’

  She ran her finger along his belt. ‘Yeah and right now I’m so horny for you.’

  She gently tugged him over to the chair and pushed him down onto it. Just one more blow job and that would be it – she’d never have to degrade herself again.

  ‘Jesus,’ Vlad whispered, his mouth flickering into a grin as he hit her with a blast of TCP, ‘you’re so fucking sexy.’

  She smiled and lowered herself onto her knees before him. As he closed his eyes she quickly reached behind him and clicked out of the editing programme. The computer reverted to Vlad’s screensaver and she knew that her work was done.

  Well, almost . . .

  *

  It was nearly seven o’clock and Harvey was only just arriving at the O2. He’d had a disastrous journey across the city and at one point had been stuck behind a dustcart for the best part of an hour while a team of bored-looking binmen sauntered along collecting rubbish from both sides of a narrow street he’d only driven down to try and save time. He looked at his watch. There were just ninety minutes to go until Lola made her entrance.

  He’d forgotten his umbrella but there wasn’t time to worry about that now. He held his coat over his head and raced through the pissing rain, across the car park and over to the artists’ entrance. He thundered to a halt in front of a hard-faced security guard standing in the doorway chomping on an enormous bag of crisps.

  ‘All right, lad,’ he panted, trying his best to sound nonchalant. ‘I’m Harvey Sparks. Sorry, I’ve forgotten my pass.’

  The security guard shook his head. ‘Sorry, buddy. No pass, no entry.’

  ‘But I’m Lola’s manager.’ Well, at least I was until last week. ‘And I really need to get in and speak to her.’

  The man plunged his hand into the bag of crisps and jammed a fistful into his mouth. ‘Sorry, bud,’ he spluttered, spraying Harvey’s cheek with potato, ‘but I can’t let anyone in unless they have a pass. Not unless I get the OK from my boss.’

  ‘Tiny?’ Harvey’s face brightened; he’d hired Tiny himself and the pair of them had known each other for years. ‘Yeah, great, speak to Tiny.’

  ‘If you don’t mind waiting outside for a minute,’ the man said, guiding Harvey back into the rain and shutting the door in his face. ‘I’ll try and get hold of him now.’

  Through the glass door he watched the man slowly put down his crisps, make a big show of licking his fingers and then turn his back to him and start speaking into his walkie-talkie. Oh come on! Get a move on!

  After a few minutes the man opened the door with a smirk of satisfaction. ‘I’m sorry but your request’s been denied.’

  Harvey felt like he’d been slapped in the face. ‘But . . . But . . .’

  ‘If you really want to get in you’re just going to have to call the artist. I’m afraid she’s the only one who can override Tiny.’

  Oh for fuck’s sake!

  He didn’t bother to reply and stepped back under his coat and out into the rain. He desperately wanted to avoid calling Lola but what choice did he have? He’d repeatedly tried to phone Vlad, Barbara and Carlson but he didn’t want to call anyone in Lola’s wider entourage as he had no idea who this anonymous source was.

  With a heavy thud he realized what he had to do. He took out his phone and cleared his throat.

  He dialled Lola’s number and listened to it ring as he felt his trouser legs soaking up rain.

  It clicked to voicemail.

  Shit!

  He decided not to leave a message but instead to text her.

  ‘Lola, you’re in danger,’ he typed, realizing he must sound like a character in some over-the-top disaster film. ‘Call me urgently. And whatever you do, don’t start the show until you’ve spoken to me. Sorry, I wouldn’t be doing this unless I had to. Harvey.’

  All right, it might sound a bit dramatic, but there wasn’t time to refine the wording. He added a kiss and hit Send.

  Oh please read it, Lola. Please, please, please read it! His thoughts were interrupted by a cluster of camp male fans waving around pink umbrellas and belting out the chorus to Mess It Up. As he watched them skip towards the public entrance he remembered that at the very least he still had a seat reserved for the show; before he’d been fired he’d arranged to watch it from the front row next to Lola’s mum Karen. And he might have forgotten to bring his umbrella but at least he’d remembered his ticket.

  He just needed to get into the O2, even if it was through the front entrance. He darted through the rain and joined the flood of fans.

  *

  ‘Scrumpity scrumpity scrump.’

  In her dressing room Lola was midway through her vocal warm-up.

  ‘Scrumpity scrumpity scrump.’

  She listened to the recording Bella Figurini had made on her iPod and repeated her lines out loud.

  ‘Scrumpity scrumpity scrump.’

  She heard her phone ping with a text message and pressed the Pause button on the iPod. All afternoon her phone had been pinging and ringing but she’d ignored it; it was only people wanting to wish her good luck and if they needed to speak to her urgently they could always call Amina. Right now she needed to zone out from the world and focus on the show.

  ‘Do you want me to get that?’ asked Amina.

  ‘No thanks. But could you do me a favour and shove it on silent?’

  She watched Amina pick up the phone and kill its sound.

  Just as she was leaning towards her iPod to press Play she caught sight of Trixie firing her laser gun into the mirror.

  ‘This is cool as fuck! Make sure you fire a few shots at Jake!’

  ‘Oh I can’t be arsed thinking about him anymore,’ Lola shrugged. ‘And I’m pretty sure he’s got a new bird anyway. Here, you guys don’t know who it is, do you? I feel like I should speak to the poor cow – and warn her about what he’s like.’

  Belle, Scarlett and Trixie looked away guiltily and began fussing with clothes hangers and hair straighteners.

  Lola shifted onto the edge of her seat. ‘Hang on a minute. Is it one of you three?’

  ‘No!’ squeaked Belle. ‘I haven’t shagged him for ages. Not since you pulled him after the Hyde Park gig.’

  ‘Me neither,’ squealed Scarlett. ‘And I only shagged him once – the night we shot the Tramp video.’

  ‘I only shagged him once too,’ stammered Trixie. ‘After the party in
Club Class. But you did say you’d moved on . . .’

  Oh my God, thought Lola. All three of them have shagged him. They’ve all blatantly shagged him!

  She looked at her assistant and raised an eyebrow. ‘Amina, don’t tell me you’ve been there too?’

  ‘Sorry, no, I don’t really get what everyone sees in him.’

  ‘Well, don’t apologize,’ Lola piped. ‘You should be proud of yourself – it looks like you’re the only woman on the tour who hasn’t shagged him.’

  She glanced at the three girls shuffling around nervously and burst out laughing. The whole thing was suddenly hilarious.

  ‘So you’re not mad at us?’ ventured a contrite-looking Trixie.

  ‘God no,’ Lola snorted. ‘I think it’s piss funny. That man is blatantly such a tramp!’

  ‘Big time!’ agreed Trixie. ‘But he is a wicked fuck.’ She looked at Belle and Scarlett and the three of them gave in to a gale of giggles.

  Lola pulled a face. She couldn’t for the life of her think how she’d ever found Jake attractive. Or how she’d knocked back Freddy so she could carry on chasing him. Well, that was the last time she was going to make that mistake. Which reminds me, what’s happened to Freddy? Aren’t I supposed to be bumping into him somewhere?

  She looked at the clock. There was less than an hour till she’d be making her entrance on stage. If she didn’t bump into Freddy soon it wasn’t going to happen. ‘Actually, girls, do you mind if we move over to the wings now?’

  ‘What, already?’ asked Amina.

  ‘Yeah, I’m kind of getting itchy feet here.’

  Amina began to gather her things and Lola jumped out of her chair and onto her feet. It was time for her to tell Freddy what she should have told him yesterday. And this time she wasn’t going to back out.

  *

  Just a few metres away, Freddy crept along the brightly lit breeze-blocked corridor trying not to draw too much attention to himself. He wove his way through an endless carousel of dancers, musicians and roadies, all the time wondering if one of them could be the anonymous source trying to destroy Lola. If I could just find this Vlad . . .