Love Song

by Sophia Bennett

  The limo stopped and I saw that we’d arrived at Christian Dior. Sigrid’s mood instantly lifted. She was never down for long. ‘But tonight’s gonna be fantastic.’

  ‘You mean the gig?’

  ‘No. After. The party.’

  When we got back, a hairdresser came to the suite to give her glossy locks his full attention. As he worked, she got me to film a clip for the Backstage with Sigrid website.

  ‘I’m not really a party girl,’ she told the camera with her wide-eyed look. ‘Like Jamie says, all we need is a house, and a view, and each other. But …’ She indicated the sound of singing still coming from the Pointer Sisters outside … ‘I think, omigod, what would those girls do if they could listen to the best DJs and dance with Jamie and really have that experience? They’d be so psyched. It would be incredible. And I get to live that.’

  She paused and smiled a saintly smile.

  ‘So I feel I owe it to them to look my best, and really enjoy it, and let them see that, because in a way, I’m doing it for them, you know?’

  I pressed the button to end the video.

  ‘Did you get that? Did it work OK?’ she checked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I told her, wondering exactly how grateful Ariel would be when she saw this.

  ‘Oh, Nina, you’re a marvel,’ she smiled. ‘Wha’ would I do wivout you?’

  She said the last words in an odd voice. But I wasn’t concentrating. I didn’t think much of it at the time.

  Once again, she didn’t ask me to come with her to the show, or the party afterwards, which was being held upstairs, back at the hotel.

  ‘We’re leaving early,’ she said. ‘I need the luggage to be ready by six-thirty. That means packing tonight.’

  It took me a moment to work out what she was saying. That meant me packing for her tonight. She wasn’t informing me of her plans – she was giving me instructions. Sigrid could be subtle that way.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll get on to it.’

  ‘Oh, and I was thinking about a gift for Jamie,’ she mused. ‘I forgot earlier. I like to get him a little souvenir in every place we visit. Something local. We’re in France, so …’

  ‘Cheese?’ I suggested. ‘A map of the Paris Metro?’

  She stared at me, unimpressed. ‘I was thinking of a Matisse.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She outlined her budget. ‘Just a limited edition. Nothing special. Jamie likes modern art. He’s so … cultured. Matisse is like my favourite French artist now, after Picasso.’

  ‘Erm, Picasso was Spanish.’

  The look she gave me would have shrivelled the Eiffel Tower.

  ‘And it’ll look good in the workout studio back home. Make sure you get one with a lot of blue.’

  It was late in the evening when I put the finishing touches to the last of her trunks and cases. The job itself was super-unglamorous, but at least when Sigrid wasn’t there I could do it with MTV on in the background, dancing my way around the suite. And hopefully I could make it sound more impressive when I told everyone about it next term.

  With some help from the hotel concierge, the Matisse had been duly delivered by a local gallery a couple of hours earlier. It sat in the bedroom, waiting to be presented. A limited edition, numbered, seated nude. Iconic. Beautifully framed. And very blue. When you work for a celebrity who already has everything, it’s amazing what people will do for you.

  As I came out of the suite, I bumped into several people carrying bags and black silk bedding. One of them was Oliver. All of them looked stressed.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked. ‘Can I help?’

  Oliver sighed. ‘Yeah, thanks. We need to do this fast. Angus is moving suites.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s decided the one we gave him is the one Princess Diana used before she died. Take this, will you?’

  He handed me one of the guitar cases he was carrying as we half ran down the corridor.

  ‘And is it?’ I asked. ‘Princess Diana’s?’

  ‘No, definitely not.’

  ‘So why does he think it is?’

  Oliver laughed. ‘Rock-star psycho logic. You get used to it. He says it gave him a “bad vibe” last night. The only other suite big enough that’s available is on the floor above. Which, ironically, is closer to the real Princess Diana suite than this one, but he’ll never know. We need to have the new one ready before he gets tired of the after-party.’

  ‘No problem.’

  It took a few trips to take everything upstairs, where hotel maids were busy making the new bed with Angus’s favourite black silk sheets and spraying the room with his favourite scent of black orchids.

  Angus had a favourite scent. How many bad boys of rock did that? There were so many things I wanted to tell Tammy, so we could laugh about them together. But after all the non-disclosure agreements I’d signed before I came out here, I didn’t dare talk until we were face to face and I could absolutely swear her to secrecy. There was a lot of weird stuff the general public was never supposed to know.

  Finally, Oliver looked around and decided the new suite was ready.

  ‘Thank you, everyone,’ he announced. ‘You’re free to go.’

  By now it was getting late. He looked at his watch. ‘Party time. Thank God. They’re always good in Paris.’

  ‘Have fun,’ I said, calculating how to get back to my room from here.

  He cocked his head to one side. ‘Come up with me. You’ve earned it.’

  ‘To the party?’

  ‘To the party.’

  ‘Am I allowed?’

  He stared at me and sighed. ‘You’re on tour with a rock band, Nina. And you ask me that question. You have a lot to learn.’

  Upstairs, a crowd of eager girls clustered round the entrance to the party room corridor, trying to assure tonight’s security guards that they’d been sent by one or other of the boys to ‘hook up with them later’. Oliver took my arm and helped to guide me through the throng.

  ‘But Jamie told me to come ’ere,’ a drop-dead-gorgeous model type complained to the nearest guard, in a French accent.

  ‘No he didn’t,’ he told her cheerfully.

  ‘’Ow do you know?’ she pouted.

  She watched with a classic death-stare as the guard checked my pass and Oliver’s, and let us through.

  ‘How did he know?’ I asked Oliver, as we slipped inside the door. ‘They do that sometimes, don’t they?’

  ‘Because there’s a code word,’ he said with a knowing grin. ‘Tonight it was “Nutella”.’

  I grinned back. This was another detail that Tammy would kill for.

  Inside, the lighting was low and there was a DJ on decks in the corner. Beautiful bodies in beautiful clothes gyrated on the dance floor as the room throbbed with a heavy beat.

  It was as if we’d stepped into an episode of Backstage with Sigrid, featuring The Point. Connor’s bright white hair was easy to spot near the DJ, where he was talking to a girl in strappy heels, while another in thigh-high boots wrapped herself around his waist. Occasionally, his eyes flicked to a TV screen up high on the wall nearby, where the soundless news story showed the band arriving in France, and the bassist himself adjusting his dark glasses as he waved from the steps of the jet. This, I suspected, was about as close to Connor-heaven as you could get.

  George was sitting at a pop-up bar, knocking back drinks and sharing jokes with the crowd around him. He spotted me and called me over, but I knew Sigrid wouldn’t approve. And already he had a glazed look in his eye. Tomorrow, someone in the entourage would be picking up the pieces.

  Oliver waved to someone across the room and headed in that direction. As we passed a group of candlelit tables, I spotted Angus deep in conversation. He certainly didn’t seem bothered by the thought of the people who’d spent the last hour relocating his room. He was talking to a man whose long dreadlocks were topped by an oversize beret. His white silk shirt was as dazzling as his smile. I had never se
en Angus look so eager and … respectful.

  Oliver saw me watching. ‘That’s Nelson Reed,’ he explained, following my gaze. ‘He’s a living legend. One of the greatest guitarists there is. He joined them onstage tonight. It was epic.’

  ‘And who’s the short guy in the suit on his other side?’ I asked, thinking he wouldn’t know, because next to Angus and the living legend, he looked very boring indeed.

  Oliver peered for a moment. ‘The President of France,’ he deadpanned. ‘He asked if he could come tonight. And those very pretty girls next to him, staring over at Jamie? They’re the daughters of one of France’s top film directors. Big Point fans. Their dad’s around somewhere. Actually, it’s the dad that Jamie asked us to invite. I’ll see if I can point him out to you.’

  So. Jamie Maldon liked French films enough to ask to meet a director. That was unexpected. I considered this fact while Oliver scanned the room. Everyone was so glamorous. This was definitely the most amazing party I’d ever been to – and probably ever would – but I felt self-conscious in my work clothes and my flat shoes. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d brushed my hair. If I was going to stay here for a while, I didn’t want to look too much like a wind-blown Shetland pony.

  ‘Where’s the Ladies?’ I asked.

  Oliver pointed to a distant door marked Femmes.

  Femmes. Even the toilets sounded glamorous at the Ritz.

  I made my way over there, moving in time to the beat of the dance track. There was a little lobby just inside the door, and I was about to pass through it when I stopped dead.

  It was much quieter here, and a voice stood out against the silence. I recognized it instantly. It was my mother.

  In Paris. How?

  At least, it sounded like Mum. I was rooted to the spot, heart hammering. Was there an emergency at home? Why else would she come here? Why hadn’t she called me?

  ‘As soon as I heard the word “Croydon” I thought Blimey almighty, this is my lah-cky day. Those Lahn-don accents are hilarious, don’t’cha think? I’m going to have to tone it dahn for the part.’

  The accent and tone of voice were Mum’s, but the words didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

  ‘I just ’ad to ’ave ’er. She’s bluddy perfect. Jay-mee calls ’er Blanket Gir’.’

  With a wave of nausea, I realized that it was Sigrid talking. About me. And it was my voice she was doing it in, not Mum’s.

  My body felt numb, but somehow my legs carried me silently across the floor. I peered around the lobby door. Sigrid was standing at a bank of mirrors with two glamazons beside her. They were touching up their make-up while Sigrid talked.

  ‘The last one was a disah-ster. This one’s not exactly ugly, but … you know British dentists, righ’? Hahahahaha.’

  She made a kind of rabbit face, with her upper teeth stuck over her bottom lip. I think she was trying to illustrate British dentistry. She couldn’t do the tooth gap, but she was goggling her eyes, and puffing her cheeks, and doing her best at not exactly ugly, but …

  She lapsed into her own voice as she stared at herself in the mirror, letting her face return to its natural, modelesque lines. ‘I mean, Kate rocks her bone structure, so we have that in common. And she married a rock guy. Omigod! Called Jamie! I just thought of that! … But she’s old now. And a different ethnicity. Like, I’m part Navajo, part Swedish, part Italian, you know? So I figure I’m going to need to swing this with the voice.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got it in the bag,’ one of the other women said. ‘So funny!’

  ‘Oh you think so? Thank you! Nina’s a goldmine.’

  My mind raced. I didn’t understand it all, but I’d got the gist of it. Sigrid hadn’t hired me for my fire-wrangling skills, or my cheap labour. She had chosen me because of a part she was going for, so she could copy me. I suppose it was easier than bringing a voice coach on tour.

  I thought back, and it all made sense. The way she perked up when Ariel said where we were from. The intense way she listened when I talked. She’d started off with that strange Cockney accent on the jet, but she must have been mimicking me all this time behind my back, getting better and better. She had a real talent for it, it seemed. By now, she had nailed me perfectly, like a butterfly with a pin.

  Did she do this to Jamie? Those Lahn-don accents are hilarious. The bunny-face. Did they laugh about me last night?

  Humiliation coursed through me, so hot I burned. I needed to get out of here. All those chats about my home and family, when I thought she was interested, she’d been studying me.

  Run, Nina. Run.

  I was ready to turn and go when the strangest sense of déjà vu hit me.

  Another party. Low lights and ‘Eden’ playing. Wandering around candlelit rooms, my tattoo fresh on my skin, looking for Jez, drunk with love, needing to talk about Aunt Cassie, needing him.

  His hand in Ria’s hair. The look he gave me. The sudden need to escape.

  That night, I’d felt the same sense of shock and shame. The same sense of panic.

  But that was love … and this was a job.

  I calmed my breathing and told myself to get a grip. I was Nina 2.0. So Sigrid was copying my voice? She was an actress – that was her job. And she was good at it. This time, I wasn’t going to crumble.

  Shaking, I turned on my heel and walked back into the party room. Sigrid came out soon afterwards with her new friends and walked straight past me, without realizing I was there. I watched as she scanned the room for Jamie and saw him surrounded by beautiful, long-legged French girls, busy taking selfies.

  She stiffened for a moment. For the first time, I saw what she usually hid so well: how exhausting it must be to know that most of the women in the world would steal your boyfriend in a heartbeat.

  She stalked across the floor like a model on a catwalk, lured him away from the crowd and took him by the hand on to the dance floor. She’d come second on Dancing With The Stars last year, and now she shimmied like a professional, owning her man and showing off her moves.

  Among a crowd of people, Jamie could be distracted and uncomfortable. He often looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else. But as soon as he hit the dance floor, he was at home. Every muscle relaxed and he moved as smoothly as she did, loose-hipped and self-assured. Soon the music took over and they drew together, eyes locked, twining and untwining, lost in the beat. Watching them was hypnotic. It took my mind off my burning cheeks.

  ‘Good, isn’t he?’ said a voice from behind me.

  I whipped round. It was Oliver again.

  ‘What? Um … yeah. I … um … I was watching them both.’

  ‘Course you were.’ Oliver peered into my face and his wry smile slipped. ‘Hey, you OK?’

  ‘Yeah. Absolutely.’

  ‘You don’t look it,’ he said. ‘Come and talk to us.’

  He led me over to a small group of people from the entourage, talking and laughing near an open window. One woman looked up as Oliver touched her on the arm. She gave me a friendly grin.

  ‘This is Nina,’ Oliver said to her. ‘She’s new. We need to be nice to her. And this is Cath. She’s wardrobe.’

  For a moment I pictured the furniture department at Ikea. ‘You do the boys’ clothes?’ I asked. I realized that I recognized her from the first night in their dressing room.

  Cath nodded. ‘Their stage clothes mostly. But their day clothes too, on tour.’

  ‘Oh, wow. That sounds fun.’

  She wrinkled her brow. ‘Not so much. It’s mostly getting sweat out of delicate fabric. You wouldn’t want to know.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ I smiled.

  ‘Oh, and nowadays, it’s trying to persuade Jamie not to go onstage in surf gear, or a loincloth, or whatever the Queen of Evil’s latest plan is.’

  ‘Who’s the—?’

  ‘Cath!’ Oliver nudged his friend.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did I mention that Nina’s the new assistant for Sigrid Santorini?’


  ‘Oh. Oh! Oh really? Right, well … that must be interesting,’ Cath blustered, flashing me a rigid smile.

  I sighed. ‘She’s the Queen of Evil, isn’t she?’

  ‘No, no!’ Cath insisted. ‘I was thinking about this other person who—’

  But before she could continue with this obvious lie, the person standing next to her turned round to join in. It was Jess, the PR girl who’d helped me out with Sigrid’s bag. She smiled at me.

  ‘Hey, are we talking about Sigrid again? Is it the jet?’ she asked.

  ‘What jet?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? She says that she and Jamie need to travel in their own private jet, so they have space to meditate between venues. When Angus heard, it made him want to punch something.’

  ‘No! Seriously?’ Cath said. ‘That girl is such a yoko.’

  ‘What’s a yoko?’ I asked. I was losing track of this conversation. Was Sigrid Queen of Evil and a yoko? Or was it some kind of acronym I should have heard of, like YOLO? (Or as Aunt Cassie would have said, carpe diem, which I seemed to be doing now.)

  ‘Yoko Ono,’ Jess explained.

  ‘Oh, that Yoko. The one who married John Lennon?

  She nodded. ‘Everyone says she broke up the Beatles. I mean, they were fine until Yoko came along, and then suddenly they were arguing all the time. John and Paul stopped talking. The best band ever fell apart.’

  ‘That wasn’t Yoko’s fault,’ Oliver retorted. ‘They were falling apart anyway. John was bored of the Beatles by then. He fell in love. He wrote some of his greatest songs for her. You can’t blame her for that.’

  ‘Of course I can.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’

  ‘Hey! They broke up fifty years ago,’ Cath laughed. ‘I can’t believe you guys care that much.’

  ‘The Beatles wrote some of the best music in history!’ Oliver protested. ‘Of course I care.’

  I loved how passionate they were about the music, but meanwhile the conversation had got me thinking.

  ‘So, has Jamie written any songs for Sigrid yet?’ I asked.