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This is where I will be posting most of my writing from now on, as I think there's a wider audience. So if you like what I post on here, like me there to carry on reading...

The Beauty of Love

I think there's some
misconceptions
about love; some things that need
to be cleared up.
You don't spend every day
walking through fields and
revisiting the place  that
you first met.
There're rarely flowers
or chocolates
and if you don't kiss for three days
it doesn't mean you're going to die.
And there are days when
you can't stand the sight of
their face.
And days when you just
want to be alone cos
you were working late and
were out late with
people who they don't approve of.
And you've got your head in the toilet and
they're stood in the doorway
screaming their head off and
you're screaming too.
But the point of it is
that when you dump your
sorry self
into bed,
they're the one
who brings you that glass of water.
And when you're home
alone, and outside it's
dark and cold and there's
nothing on TV,
you've always got that person
to call.
And it's that person who
knows every tiny molecule of your
being, and
who has seen you at your worst,
and your lowest and your cruelest
and who still picks up the phone
to just listen.
And even if,
the next day,
you can't stand the very presence
of each other, or argue over
how, whenever your friends are over,
you act like different people,
or how you always
organise everything and if you'd just
show some initiative for once
in your life then
etcetera, etcetera,
you know it won't last.
Because when you crawl into bed at night,
they'll be there.
And you'll put your arm around their chest
and kiss their neck
and say
goodnight, love.
And that's the twisted, crazy, evil, fucking
holy beauty
of love.

Rose Gold

Take off your rose
tinted glasses.
Let me see your eyes
see the world for what
it really is.

You tell me I'm blind
But you're the one
who can't see
The beauty that you find
In reality,

Cos the moon ain't
rose gold.
The moon is silver
and cold. Like
love stories we used
to be told.

Sitting at the Bottom

I'm sitting at the bottom of
the shower.
Been sitting here for almost
half an hour and I
don't think I'll be moving
soon.

And it's not a hangover or
illness or
any personal vendetta against
your civility, I just
don't think I'll be moving
soon.

I've tried to read,
I've tried to sleep and
I've tried to be
in company but I
don't feel like it today.

I can't tell you why,
I wouldn't be able to
if I tried.
I know you're only trying
to help and
I know I'm thinking only of
myself but I can't
help
that.

So I'm sorry,
I promise
I'll try to be better tomorrow.
But for now please
just let me sit
at the bottom
of the shower.

The Girl in the Yellow Dress PART TWO

She was greeted by flashes and cheers and lights and applause, the usual. She shook the guy’s hand and was unexpectedly required to kiss him on the cheek. He beckoned her to the sofa.

            ‘Just listen to that reaction!’ he shouted over the noise.

            ‘Aw well thank you so much that’s really sweet it’s an honour to be here I love London.’ She tightened her lips.

            ‘Wow. Lola Lily everyone!’ It started again.

            ‘Thank you so much that’s so sweet.’

            ‘Alright, alright, settle down everyone.’ He laughed. ‘So, Lola. First things first, how are you finding our capital?’

            She clapped her hands together. ‘I love it, yeah. It’s so beautiful and exciting.’ Time’s Square reappeared in her head. Burning, desolate. An explosion? ‘And everybody’s so, like, sweet. Yeah.’

            ‘Really? I don’t find Londoners particularly sweet!’

            Laughter. An explosion in New York? In New York City?

            ‘Well, they’re sweet to me.’ She smiled and blinked twice.

            ‘So, the reason you’re here- your new album’s out next week, your third album in three years, and that’s called...’

            There was an awkward pause before she registered that she was expected to finish his sentence for him. ‘Erm, The Other Half.’

Cheering.

Pre-release reviews had been published yesterday. Lola’s ‘Other Half’ is a side of her we’d never like to see again: passionless, predictable and produced to high heaven. I fear this might be all there is to the shallow pop princess.

            ‘Great, yeah, great stuff. So, tell us about that name, The Other Half. What does that mean to you?’

            ‘Um, I guess it just, you know, shows that there’re two sides to every story, and to every person. And it’s about expressing parts of me that people may not have necessarily seen, you know. So yeah, it’s kind of about that.’

            ‘Ah, great stuff.’ He licked his lips and leaned forwards. ‘Because, I thought it might be an actual other half, as in a possible man-friend on the scene.’

            Lola smiled and blinked again. ‘Um.’ She laughed a little and played with her fingers. ‘No, no, nothing like that at all. It’s just about me. It’s a very personal album, you know.’

            ‘Great, so we can go on a date then, yeah, since you’re in town?’

            The audience roared with laughter. He raised his eyebrows. She smiled. ‘I’m hard to get, I’m afraid.’

            More laughs. Her Mom had probably tried to ring about the explosion. She’d think Lola didn’t care.

            They went to a break, even though it wasn’t even live. She was tempted to run back and grab her phone (Martin had been so shifty) but she was pinned down by make-up vultures armed with brushes. Afterwards, talk turned to Lola’s single.

            ‘Yeah, Daydream. It’s just about, when you just really want that certain someone with you even though, you know, they’re far away.’ Her mother’s arms embraced her in the square, whispering in her ear; thank goodness, thank goodness, thank goodness. ‘Erm, so it’s kind of a love song, but it’s really dance-y and fun too.’

            ‘And sexy!’

            She laughed. ‘Well, thank you very much.’

            ‘And this sexiness raises a lot of eyebrows...’

            It was funny, in a way. A whole universe of stars and planets and galaxies and stuff. The Earth was only miniscule. And then a whole bunch of different lands and countries and continents full of billions and millions of different groups of people. And then England was just one of these places, and London was such a tiny, tiny part of England, tucked away at the bottom. And then there were thousands of people in London, all living their own lives and doing their own thing, and she was just one of these people, one tiny little insignificant speck out of thousands of other specks in a tiny little city on an island made up of hundreds of tiny cities which was just one tiny island out of all the other islands on the planet which was just one tiny planet in a whole system of planets which was just one little galaxy in an infinite abyss of galaxies.

            And everybody wanted to know about Lola Lily.

            ‘And you’re filming the music video to Daydream right here in our very own merrie ol’ England, aren’t you?’

            The audience cheered.

            ‘Yes, yes I am. You know, seeing as summer’s coming to an end I wanted a video which was very cool and, like, atmospheric and crisp. And England seemed perfect.’

The audience laughed for some reason.         

‘It’s certainly crisp,’ said the guy.

She checked her nails, ran her hands through her hair, counted the ceiling tiles and attempted to work out the ratio of males and females in the audience. Her heart beat faster and faster in its cage with each droning word of the poorly dressed man. Snippets of his questions penetrated her conscious as she tried to fight away the image of her mother’s face.

Her mother, bathing her in front of the fire.

‘...back to this whole sexy image thing...’

Her mother, clutching her hand as they walked in the woods.

‘...any big names or collaborations on the record...’

Her mother, hugging her after her first television performance.

‘...yourself in ten years time...’

Her mother, burning to death.

‘...if you know what I mean, eh?’ He winked.

She smiled and readjusted her dress. She nodded repeatedly in agreement - he had now taken on a more serious tone, possibly discussing a rumour about her, maybe, she wasn’t sure. She placed her hands beneath her thighs and tugged down the back of her dress, re-crossing her legs and making the fabric rustle.

Her mother’s face remained imprinted in her mind, first smiling, laughing, pouting and leaning in for a kiss. Then snarling, shouting, her eyes wide with fury, why Lola why didn’t you call? Tears fell from her eyes like waterfalls and the anger turned to sorrow and then, in a flash of white, fear. Screams, help me.

HELP ME, LOLA.

Lola shook away the image. She would ring her after this. Straight after; no more taking shitty excuses from Martin. How would he like it? She tried to imagine Martin calling his mother, or a wife. The image wouldn’t stay still in her head, it didn’t make sense. His voice sounded too harsh, too direct. A man’s voice turned soft when talking to their main woman. She pictured her father when he would ring her mother, his voice changing instantaneously from speaking to Lola to speaking to her. A change of pitch. A key change, like two thirds of the way through any standard ballad.

Dolores, child, I am sick to my stomach of dis craziness, I swear to - Hi! Hi Sweetness how are you?

‘...obviously, something like that is just tragic, innit?’ She snapped back into focus. The guy had a really solemn face on now. ‘And, as someone who is obviously very emotionally attached to it, it must be really hard for you to hear something like that. I mean, am I telling the truth, is it extremely upsetting for you right now?’

She sighed. What the frickideedoodah was he talking about? She leaned forwards. ‘I mean, yeah definitely. It’s really sad. It’s a really sad thing to hear, definitely.’

‘Exactly, it’s awful. It must be like someone just taking away something you hold so dear- ’

Oh here we go. Jesus. It was the old Lola-Lily-Pays-Someone-Else-To-Sing-Her-Songs rumour. Hardly tragic.

 ‘I suppose, but, you know, I think when it comes down to it, it’s just a case of moving on and not letting it get to you.’ The guy shuffled, spluttered slightly, but she was in her stride. ‘People will do really crazy things to get people down so you’ve gotta, you know, not let them do that. So, I mean it is sad but, I don’t think people should dwell on it at all. I’m certainly not. I’m already way passed it so I think everyone else should just, you know, follow my lead and,’ she shrugged cutely, ‘get over it!’

The entire building was silent. The audience loomed before her like a wall of statues. Blank, wide eyed faces. The guy behind the desk was staring at her open-mouthed.

Oh. Sweet. Jesus.

The guy snapped out of his stupor slightly, his eyes darting to the burly men behind the camera. ‘Okay, interesting. Thank you. Erm, Lola Lily everybody.’

The only sound as she left the room was the clacking of stilettos on tiles. 

Her Royal Highness

A hotel room. It is well-decorated but messy. The duvet has been thrown off the double bed. The stage is lit very brightly. A woman sits at a large and glamorous vanity, looking in the mirror. The vanity is littered with make-up, tissues, magazines and empty glasses. There is a closed door at the back of the room. The woman is elegant and middle-aged with black hair, red lipstick and wearing a satin dressing gown.

HENRIETTA     Gin is magnificent. Timeless, one may say. From Hogarth to Gordon’s; crisp, fresh, never dull. (She chuckles) And wine. Oh, wine! Full and dark and deep. When has anyone ever questioned wine, I mean, truly? It is staple. Iconic. It is fruit made poison, and yet how we love it.

It gets better with age, wine. That’s what’s so magical. The longer it lives, the more we crave it. Wine does not fade away, it grows stronger.

She finishes what is left of her current drink. The lights dim slightly.

I was snatched by a man with an eye for beauty. It’s always a man. He told me I was beautiful, and rightly so. I was the most beautiful woman in the world.

As she speaks she plays with her face in the mirror: pushing up her skin, nipping it, pulling her eyebrows and sucking in her cheeks.

The Queen. Henrietta Regina Hawthorne. They got the nickname from my initials. See, people were clever back then. Not like now, chasing the skirt of any half-brained smile that takes their fancy. No, now I – I was something special. It’s so tough to make it in New York, not everyone can do it.

Voices mutter behind the door. She turns to face it. The voices ask each other what she is doing. She turns away, choosing to ignore them. She drinks. Her speech becomes faster and more passionate.

You need that special something and by God I had it. I broke all the records: fastest selling cover, most internet searches, Sexiest Woman, Most Beautiful Woman, Most Powerful Woman. I was everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It takes a lot. Yes, people hop on for their fifteen minutes but it takes real skill to form a career - a lifestyle – out of it. Oh, and I did just that, I did exactly that. A million dollars for one shoot. Four photographs. Four. Each one worth two-hundred-and-fifty grand.

She walks across the room and picks up a half empty bottle of gin. She walks back to the vanity where she sits and pours herself a generous glass.

They loved me, the public. They couldn’t get enough. I couldn’t leave my house without getting a hundred photographs taken, each one ending up on the front of a magazine which would then sell thousands of copies. (She drinks) I was a drug. An industry. Without me the business was nothing.

She picks up a magazine and stares at the cover.

It’s a daring colour to choose, white. It could have been dull and drab. (Beat) But there she is. Sparkling in the snow. And of course, of course she’s nude. Nude yet distant. Undressed and yet completely naive.

She takes a large sip from her drink. The lights dim slightly.

Everybody’s favourite. Young. Fresh. Perfection. Pure as the driven snow. That’s what they all say, even here.

She points to the magazine cover.

Snow White Girl. (She laughs) Well, not nearly as good as the Queen. (Her face falls) But this, this cover. The snow, the arrangement. So simple.

She finishes her drink without taking her eyes off the magazine.

And that look – her eyes.

She begins flicking through the pages, showing the audience each page and pointing at them. Her voice becomes more frantic.

These photographs. A close-up, just beauty. And her smile. Sweet, innocent, of course. Dancing in the snow, trying to seem carefree. And this one. Signing the magazines of little boys. Seven of them. They look at her with complete devotion, clearly staged. Black and white. So elegant. She’s so elegant.  Perfect, it’s perfect.

She puts down the magazine and pours herself another very large glass of gin. She pauses for a moment before speaking, as if building up to something.

         

Too perfect. She shines too brightly. (She drinks) Queens do not share their thrones. Queens take action. I-

The voices behind the door grow louder. A man’s voice becomes distinct.

MAN BEHIND DOOR (angry) What is taking her so long? 

Henrietta stands up and then sits again. She closes her eyes tightly and drinks deeply. The lights dim further.

    

HENRIETTA     She was on the television just this afternoon, several channels at once. News stories, photographs. She was interviewed by Oprah. Oprah. A full hour long special. And that little slice of meat, that little bitch. She says she doesn’t smoke, never has, never will. Never drinks either. (She makes a toasting motion with her glass and drinks) Oh, and this is the best part. She refuses to have sex until she’s married.

Henrietta laughs harshly and rolls her eyes, putting down her glass and clapping her hands together. She runs her hand through her hair, making it stick up oddly. She stands up and begins to pace, still laughing.

No sex before marriage. It’s brilliant! What a brilliant, brilliant lie. The tramp’s probably already had one terminated. But no, she wears it well. (She raises her voice) Pure as the virgin freakin’ snow!

She laughs again, almost hysterically. She walks back to the vanity and picks up her drink, carrying it with her as she continues to pace. Her body language becomes more expressive and violent, causing her dressing gown to drop on one shoulder. Her words begin to slur.

This is the th-thing, hmm. This is the thing. The thing that nobody realises, or, no, they do realise it, but pertend – pretend - not to. Here we are, a modern, forward-thinking society, yes? Yes. Possibly. But no! See, with the new minnellium came a new wave of misogyny. (She drinks) It’s true! Think about your successful women: actresses, singers, dancers, actresses, TV celebrities and, yes, models. Think about today’s stars. What do they all have in common? Beauty, yes. That’s always been the case. But now the pressure’s up. You need to be beautiful AND skinny AND sexy and yet completely, utterly, completely naive.

She sits down at the head of the bed and faces the audience. She drinks. The lights dim further. By now, the stage is very dark and Henrietta is almost indiscernible. Her voice is quiet.

And what is missing? What is left out of this picture of idealitic femiminity? Power. Nobody wants power anymore. (She hiccups) Nobody wants a queen. People want a girl. (She laughs a little) And the irony is that by showing no power the girl takes it all. The world is her mirror; it’s all about her. It only tells her what she wants to hear.

She stands up in the darkness, walking closer to the front of the stage. She becomes angry.

But I have power too. I have power! I am the Queen ... act ... command. They ... suffer the con- the consequences. She will suffer the consequences. Soon-

There is a sharp knock at the bedroom door. At the same time as the noise, the lights flash back to their original brightness. Henrietta seems disorientated. She stumbles over to the vanity and puts down her glass before walking to the door and opening it. A man stands on the other side dressed in a shiny silver suit. His hair is slicked back and he appears frustrated but controlled.

HENRIETTA     (smiling) Oh, Michael! Hello darling. I feel like I ... haven’t seen you in-

MICHAEL       What are you doing? They’re waiting for you downstairs. (He looks at his watch)

HENRIETTA     Yes, yes I know. I know. Sorry, I’m sorry, Michael. Eveething’s a bit ... (She gestures to the room) Do you like a drink?

MICHAEL       (Looking her up and down with disdain) No, no I don’t.

Henrietta’s face falls. She attempts (and fails) to neaten her hair, wiping it from her face. She re-ties her dressing gown.

HENRIETTA     I’m just getting ready, Michael. (She laughs nervously) A lady needs her pampering, you know.

MICHAEL       You’re beautiful, Etta. I’ve always told you              that.

Henrietta smiles and sighs with relief. She throws herself into Michael, clutching his chest.

HENRIETTA     Oh Michael! Lovely, lovely Michael. You know, you’ve always made-

MICHAEL       (pushing Henrietta away, visibly angry) It’s my job to tell you that, Henrietta. As your agent I am obliged.

Michael produces a comb from inside his jacket and combs back his hair. Henrietta turns away from him, stepping further into the room.

HENRIETTA     Yes. Yes but, it’s more, really. Much more, true, so true, isn’t it? Caring. I know that-

MICHAEL       It is also my job to tell you that your reaction to my new client was simply unacceptable. You must accept that I have a job to do and money to make, and sadly, Henrietta, you are not making me that money, and she is. She’s younger, sexier, fresh, more popular, and if you don’t up your game you’ll be swigging gin in hotel rooms for the rest of your life.

Henrietta stares at him, wide-eyed.

This shoot will make or break you, Henrietta. Don’t fuck it up.

Henrietta moves her mouth, as if trying to speak.

God woman, you stink. (He sighs) Just get a shower. Be downstairs in five minutes.

There is silence as the two look at each other for several seconds. Michael leans against the doorframe and looks her up and down again.

              It’s a shame they can’t stay young forever.

He leaves, slamming the door behind him. Henrietta winces at the noise and makes her way back to the vanity, where she sits and finishes her drink. Mascara runs down her face.

HENRIETTA     (whispers) Good Housekeeping (shouting, looking up at the audience) Good Housekeeping! My career will make or break itself due to a photo shoot for Good Housekeeping? This is it, this is what I am reduced to. Not, not, not Vogue, Barper’s Bazaar, Time, InStyle. No, no no no, Good Housekeeping, that’s it. My moment, my chance. Good housekeeping!

She pours herself yet another drink, finishing the bottle, and picks up the magazine before she begins pacing the room again. As she sips the lights dim once more.

(calmer) They asked her how it felt, being on Vogue, and she said strange. (She laughs) Strange? That’s it. Not magnificent, elating, ex-extraordinary, no. Strange. Fucking. Brainless. Fool. It’s not right. It’s not right that someone so stupid should be so loved.

She begins to shout again, drinking every few seconds and causing the lights to become dimmer and dimmer.

I had it all. Beauty, power and brains. I refuse to play the part of the virgin. I am not innocent, I am sinful and commanding and strong.

She falls to a crouching position, looking up at the audience, crying and shouting.

I am the serpent in the garden! Take my fruit and ruin yourselves! Become wasted like me.

She tries to rip the entire magazine in two, but cannot muster the strength. Instead she starts tearing the odd page out and scrunching it up and throwing it behind her as she speaks.

I will never be as white as snow. Someone had to do something. (She stands) And it was me. I took it upon myself - courage - smart about it. I picked the perfect moment. No one, no one, can be photographed all the time.

She rips the cover off the magazine and screams in frustration as she tears it into small pieces. She drops what’s left of the magazine and stands on stage silently for several seconds, breathing heavily. Then, abruptly, she walks over to the vanity, wiping her eyes. She sits, picking up a lipstick and reapplying it shakily.

It’s the, erm, the industry, really. A complete... a complete lack of loyalty. Uh huh. No respect for the veretans, the venerats, the, erm, the veterans. No respect for the veterans of the industry.

She laughs to herself, finding her stride again. She stands and walks back across the room and picks up another, unopened bottle of gin, which she opens and pours herself a drink from. She returns to the vanity and tries to sit down on the stool but falls to the floor. She continues to speak unfazed, drinking deeply. The lights dim further.

Why do they need NEWER models, anyway? What’s so great about youth? I have more than youth, more, I’ve experience. Uh huh. I’m like wine. Potent. (She laughs) It’s about power, really, isn’t it? They think they’ve got it, but I have got it. I’ve got the power. I’m the Queen, the Queen! I command! I- (She pauses) I’ve spoken of this already, haven’t I? (She drinks) I have the power now. I have won it from them in this game. Life is but a game. A fairy story. I have written my own confusion. Conclusion. They’ve got no choice but to choose me- he fails, if he should fail... I have my pack-up blan, my tricks. (Beat) I am the serpent in the garden. I trust no one.

She stands quickly, and begins pacing. By now the stage is very dark. She carries her drink with her, taking regular sips.

It needed to be done, it was necessary. Necessary. I did what no one else could. I reminded them, they needed remembering, reminding. Remind them just how much I have given them, they have taken it all. (Her voice becomes quiet) But what if it is discovered? What if the trail- might lead back, back to me? (She drinks) No. No, no. It cannot.

A faint spotlight hits the back of the stage, beyond Henrietta. It reveals the Snow White girl dancing around the room, smiling. She wears a white dress, with long dark hair down her back. Her arms are clutched to her chest. Henrietta faces the audience.

A favour, I did her a favour really. One day they would get rid of her anyway, and that- that is the cruellest of ways.

The Snow White girl suddenly appears distressed. She removes her hand from her chest to reveal an enormous stain of deep red. Henrietta continues to face the audience, as she speaks the Snow White girl looks around for help, but remains silent.

They would stab and stab, stab, stab. Rip out her heart and lock it away. A complete, utter, cold loss of interet, interest. (Her voice rises as the Snow White girl falls to the ground. The spotlight disappears.) Put her out. Put her out. Put her out of her misery before they do. Before the misery. I am, am a saint. An act of mercy. They needed to remember-

Henrietta freezes, she appears shocked. She sits at the top of the bed, facing the audience. The lights slowly grow brighter, until they have returned to their original intensity. When she speaks her voice is loud and cracked.

              (whispering) What was it he said?

She looks around pleadingly at the audience.

              (shouting) What was it he said?

She stands and walks over to the door and opens it. (The memory of) Michael stands on the other side. He leans against the doorframe in exactly the same position he was before he left previously. He looks her up and down in exactly the same way. He speaks in exactly the same tone, word for word.

MICHAEL       It’s a shame they can’t stay young forever.

Henrietta slams the door shut and runs back to the bed in a panic. She once again sits at the head of the bed, facing the audience.

But she- she, she will, she will be. She will always be young! (She pleas to the audience.) What does it take to be famous, hmm, truly, truly famous? Forever. What does it take to be remembered? (Her voice is panicked) How, how how how, how does one stop a star from fading? Oh no, oh no, don’t tell me! (She begins to cry) How does one keep it bright?

Behind her, the Snow White girl stands and stares out into the audience. She makes gestures of bowing and curtsies, smiling silently. Henrietta lies down on the bed, still facing the audience. Tears stream down her face. Her voice is quieter.

It is too late. It is done. The only way to live forever is to die young... they will never forget, she will be the one. Tradegy, tradegy... Tragedy is a fast pass to eternal song. Oh God, oh God, oh God. (She raises her head and finishes her nearly-full drink, the lights dim completely.) They will be telling her story for centuries to come.

             

The stage is very dark and quiet. All that the audience can hear is Henrietta’s whimpering and a shattering as she drops her glass on the floor. There is a sudden knock on the bedroom door.

              ENTER!

A spotlight falls upon the door as it flies open. A burly man in a black suit stands imposingly. He clutches a small box from which a trickle of blood drips. He faces the audience and his voice booms. He is all that is visible on the stage.

HUNTER        I have seen to the deed, your Highness, we have won.

HENRIETTA     (whispers) Oh god, oh god

The spotlight disappears with a crack. The stage is silent and completely black.

What have I done?

The Girl in the Yellow Dress PART ONE

The final drag was soothing. She flicked away the butt as she walked. Some kids in school uniforms, definitely several years younger than herself judging by the bad acne and overproducted hair – overproducted? Was that a word? Mental note: look that one up back at the hotel – anyway, they noticed her and started screaming. One of them grabbed her hair. She tucked it beneath the collar of her Chanel coat.

            Lola Lily! Oh my God, it’s Lola Lily!

And the madness started again.

Greasy hands reached for her. Paul pushed them back. The walk to car was always a total nightmare. She did not smile for them. Losers.

Whaddya fink of London, Lola? It was the bucktoothed dweeby girl at the front speaking.

Cold, Lola said without looking up.

Well bad about New York, innit? Some people jumped right out’a windows. Hey, ain’t that where you’re from?

If you don’t got nothin’ nice to say, den don’t be sayin’ nothin’ at awll, came her mother’s voice inside her head.

With one arm holding back the kids, Paul opened the car door. Lola flumped down into the backseat, removing her sunglasses and taking out her compact. She reapplied gloss - No.6, Cherry Plump. Stupid cold always left her flushed. After a coating of powder, she mustered an air kiss to the school kids, who went totally apeshit as per.

Paul swore under his breath while he searched for keys. Lola sank into the seat, sighing and folding her arms. ‘What was that girl saying about New York? Was she kidding?’

Martin’s head shuffled in the passenger seat and turned, grunting loudly at the required effort and furrowing his fat, desperately-in-need-of-a-pluck eyebrows so that they were almost fused together. He licked his chapped lips before speaking. ‘I dunno.’ (Lie.) ‘I think I heard something might have happened. A fire, explosion or something, but- ’

‘Explosion! Mom- ’

‘Nothing to worry about, though. We’re flying back tomorrow, hopefully- I mean- ’

‘Hopefully?’

He turned away, fingering his phone. ‘Planes are a bit haywire right now. Hard to get a flight, so- ’

‘Someone must be willing to fly Lola Lily home! Is Mom okay? Jesus, Martin, this is so typical YOU. No need to keep Lola in the loop, she’s only the freakin’ one makin’ the freakin’ music.’

Her voice reverted back to its thick accent, despite Martin’s constant encouragements to bury it.

‘Rein it in, Lola.’ His voice was cold. ‘We’re filming the video here next week anyway. Maybe it would be best to just stay here `til then. You know, soak up the culture.’

‘Have you spoken to my Mom?’

‘Lola, chill. It’s nothing.’

‘Martin- ’

‘Chill.’

She sat back, her breath shaky. An explosion? She would ring her Mom as soon as they reached the studio, just to say hi. Just to hear her voice. She remembered her sixth birthday, shopping with her Mom in the city. She had lost her in Times Square and cried for what felt like hours.

The school kids’ voices trailed after them as the car pulled away. I LOVE YOU, LOLA!

Lola was searching Times Square for her mother’s face.

DAYDREAM IS AMAZING!

A familiar silhouette, braids swinging, was running towards her.

YOU’RE SO BEAUTIFUL!

Her mother was smiling.

MARRY ME, LOLA!

Tears streamed down it.

YOU ARE MY IDOL!

Their tears mixed together as they embraced.

I WANNA FUCK YOU UP THE ARSE.

‘Oh my God, did you hear that?’

Martin shifted slightly. ‘Hmm?’

‘That boy. Gross, what a creep!’

‘Oh right. Yeah, I know.’

‘Well Jesus, Martin, don’t sound too concerned.’

He sported his usual scrunched-up expression. ‘Just forget it, Lola. These kids today... they’re stupid, you know.’

‘Don’t need to tell me twice. God. I’ll give him ‘arse’.’

Martin and Paul shared one of their typical she’s-so-stupid-sometimes smiles.

‘What?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Can I have my phone, please?’ She outstretched her palm swiftly, so swiftly that it would make him see that she meant business. He would look into her face and realise that without her he was nothing. He would apologise for taking too much control, hand her her phone, let her call her Mom, organize an instantaneous flight home and give her two weeks rest before they even thought about filming and promoting the next single...

‘No. Not right now.’

‘I need to call Mom, she- ’

‘I need you focused on this next interview. It’s the big one, Saturday night televised talk show.’ He made a rainbow motion with his hand. ‘We’re filming it today so they can edit.’

Their eyes met and she scowled purposefully. The night before, she had dreamt that she was trapped. Running through a field. A huge forest surrounded it and she longed to enter, to shade herself. But no matter how far she ran, she never got closer. Birds circled the sky, waiting for her to drop. They were hungry for her. She was encased, locked in a field of yellow flowers. Her dress became yellow too, it was engulfing her. She was rooted, sinking into the ground. The birds waited. At one point Martin drove past in an SUV, wearing sunglasses. She asked him to stop. He sped up, shouting back: Not right now.

Don’t leave me here alone.

‘I need to ring my Mom.’

‘I know what you’re like; you’re the worst listener in the world. Once you get on it you’ll never get off.’

‘I need to make sure she’s- ’

‘After.’

She slumped back again, flipping open her compact.

‘No need for that,’ said Martin. ‘You’ll be getting hair and make-up done.’

She flipped the mirror shut with a crack. The vein in her temple throbbed. ‘And what else am I supposed to do, Martin? Hmm? Talk to my own mother? Nope, apparently not. Oh well, guess I’ll just apply some make-up, oh wait, no, can’t even do that! You’re just so - ’

Martin exhaled heavily through his nostrils, making his gross moustache hairs flutter. ‘I’ve spoken to your mother.’ The words came out all strung together in a rush. His eyes shifted back and forth and his voice shook a little as he spoke. ‘She’s, she’s fine... Now- now drop it, okay?’

Lola blinked, ‘Really? Well, what did she say? Is she-’

Martin drew back his lips and bared his teeth. ‘Damn it Lola, she’s fine, alright? So how `bout we discuss what you’re gonna talk about at this interview, hmm?’ He readjusted himself, wiping the sweat from under his nose. ‘Now, we’ve already sent the guy the preapproved questions: album, single, influences, video. No personal stuff, relationships etcetera. Does that sound alright?’

She shrugged moodily. ‘Sure.’

‘Good. Now remember, you’re not trying to be sexy. You’re young, you’re having fun, and if you’re sexy, hey, you’re sexy. But it’s not the aim. We need to keep that wholesome vibe.’ He looked her up and down and scratched his wiry chin. He probably had a hard-on right at that moment. Gross. ‘Oh, and enough about this whole ‘hardships of a black female thing’, okay? We’re still on damage control from the Smithson interview. Got way too heated. You can’t isolate a whole demographic like that, Lola. Remember, most people are white.’

‘Most people are not white, Martin. Geez.’

He smiled at her and reached back to stroke her knee, edging slightly into thigh territory. ‘You’ll be great.’

‘Voilà!’ He took several steps back, embarrassingly shiny loafers squeaking on the tiles. ‘You look fabulous, Miss. Lily.’

            She looked up, able to see clearly without a flurry of brushes in her face. Lola Lily stared back at her from the mirror: perfectly tousled hair, ginormous eyelashes and large neon pink lips to match her dress. Her cheeks sparkled with a sprinkling of glitter.

            ‘Thanks, Anton. You’re the sweetest.’

            Martin poked his head around the door. For the hundred-millionth time that day, Lola prepared herself to tell Martin she would not do the interview until she spoke with her mother. She would not believe it until she heard her voice for herself. ‘So, what’s the schedule?’

             ‘We’re headed to the green room first. You’ll just have to sit and watch the others being interviewed; you’re on last, naturally. There’re usually four guests but they’re giving you double time. Come on then.’

She strode along the corridor with her arms swinging at her sides, having long ago mastered the art of walking in stilettos.

            The process of watching the other interviews left her distinctly unfascinated. She kept zoning out, eyeing the bulge of her phone in Martin’s pocket, only to be brought back by a mention of her name, at which point she would have to smile and put on a laugh.

            The presenter was ... interesting. She couldn’t work him out. His suit was too shiny. Very `80s sad disco. His hair was long at the front but short at the back, in some kind of weird reverse mullet-slash-curtained look. Tragic. And he spoke with a slight lisp. He was kind of funny though, when she paid attention.

            She sat slightly removed from the other guests. Martin on one side; Paul and Anton on the other. Guest One, a middle-aged author, said nothing to her, but the second guy - Sam? - gave her a smile and mouthed the words I love your new song. Clearly gay as the day is long.

Even the interviewer seemed bored by the author-woman, and before Lola knew it Possibly-Sam was shaking the guy’s hand and saying thanks for having him, as if he had been allowed to play out at a friend’s house. The audience seemed to like him. They cheered pretty loudly, a solid 7.5.

 But then the presenter said something about welcoming his next guest. Exploded onto the scene three years ago. 30 million record sales. Only nineteen. Ladies and Gentlemen.

            LOLA LILY.

            And the crowd went fucking mental.