by Terry Tyler
This frenetic brain activity often threatened to combust when he was alone in Ritchie's flat, and he was never quite sure what do when it did, so when that happened he mostly just opened a beer and played his guitar.
***
"I like Facebook better. You get all sorts of weirdos trying to friend you on MySpace," said Melodie, flicking her long shiny hair over her shoulder and reaching for her wine glass. "Mind you, I get enough of 'em on Facebook, too. Anybody would think I was fair game!"
"Something to do with the amount of chest you're showing in your profile picture, I expect, dear," said Ariel.
Melodie gave her friend a playful slap on the arm, managing to combine this movement with a forward cleavage-showing motion. "If you've got it, flaunt it!" she said. "You never know when you're going to get noticed, do you? Or who by! I mean, people like Chantelle Houghton, and that Chanelle who was in Big Brother, the one who tried to look like Posh Spice, they're looking at making it in America, too, so why can't I?"
"Making it doing what?" Ariel asked.
"What?" Blank expression.
"Well, what have they got to offer? What are they going to do in order to make it? Sing? Act? Write comedy sketches? Sell innovative kitchen utensils on the shopping channels? Discover a cure for the common cold? Pole vault?"
Melodie shrugged. "I don't know. Just be celebrities, I suppose."
Ariel put her head in her hands.
"You flaunt away, gorgeous!" said Shane, and leaned back on his arm to get closer to Melodie, legs stretched out. "But anyway, Facebook and all that, it ain't the same for us. We're not on MySpace so we can do all that "how are ya hun lol xox" crap! This is business!"
"Hark at you," Ritchie said. "Like you know anything about business."
Shane laughed. "Don't need to, mate. Whose photo has got the most comments on our MySpace, then?" He looked up at Melodie and winked. "It's me online presence!"
Melodie tittered.
"Oh, yes, of course, you're such a babe, Shane," said Ariel. She stood up. "Anyone coming out for a ciggie?"
"Yeah, I will," Dave said, and jumped up.
Outside in the smoking shelter of The Romany it was chilly, the sort of golden autumn day Ariel loved. Early November left over from October, with the sun bright in the sky and russet leaves blowing around the courtyard. She buried her chin into the huge funnel neck of her thick navy jumper.
"I hope Jeff's going to get some heaters put in this shelter before the winter comes," said Dave. "I can see everyone stopping at home to drink if it's too bloody cold to sit outside the pub for a smoke."
"Yeah, that's probably why they started the smoking ban in July, to get us used to it gradually," Ariel said. She looked up at the sky. "I love the autumn, though. Wish I was spending it in Boston, or somewhere. Mass, not Lincs, I mean!"
Dave laughed, and lit both their cigarettes. "Are you working tonight?"
"Yeah. Five o'clock. I'd better make this my last drink."
"Working on a Sunday night. That's a bit rubbish, isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't mind. There's a quiz tonight, that's always quite good fun."
"Perhaps I could come to it. Me and Shane and Melodie, we could make up a team."
"Mm-mm, Melodie could answer the ones about celebrity romances, I suppose!"
They both laughed.
"Yeah, she's a bit 'nice legs, shame about the brain', isn't she?" said Dave. "I hadn't seen her in ages until just recently, I'd forgotten! Is she any good at singing?"
"Oh, she can hold a tune. Just about," Ariel said, and they grinned at each other. "You ought to bring Ritchie along tonight, too; he'd probably be a better bet."
"Not bloody likely. We did a quiz with him a while back and he was a nightmare; knew the answers to everything, or so he thought, and challenged the quizmaster about all the ones he got wrong."
They both laughed again. Then Dave took her hand. "Fancy coming back to my lair for a couple of hours before you have to get ready for work?"
Ariel smiled at him. He was looking particularly lush that afternoon, she thought; right at that moment she couldn't think of anything she'd like better.
"Yeah, why not?"
Dave's phone rang from the depths of the pocket of his leather jacket. He pulled it out, looked at it, and frowned.
"Sorry, I've got to take this."
He got up and walked away from her, across the courtyard and out into the car park. Ariel watched him. There was a lot of frowning going on.
"Is everything okay?" she asked, when he returned.
"Yes," he said, and sat back down beside her. "This afternoon's cancelled though, I'm afraid. That was Janice. She wants me to go and see her grandma with her."
Ariel frowned, now. "Yeah?"
"Yes." Dave ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "Poor old bird's got Alzheimer's. Jan says she's been really difficult lately, dead argumentative, and Linda - that's Jan's mum - she's getting really stressed out with it all." He smiled at her. "She likes me, you see. Evelyn. I make her laugh. Sort of jolly her out of her confusion!"
Ariel took his hand and squeezed it. "That's really nice of you. Don't worry, I understand."
Dave kissed her. "Yes. Shame, though. I'm dead fond of the old lady, but I'd rather spend the afternoon in bed with you!" He sighed. "Mind you, I'd rather spend the afternoon in bed with you than practically anything! Oh, I'd better get off now, I suppose."
They stood up and walked back into the pub.
She'd been right to hold back, Ariel thought; it was clear that Dave was still a lot more involved with and committed to Janice and her family than even he realised.
Meanwhile, at number twenty-seven, Woodstock Close, Greyfriars Estate, Janice went upstairs to put on her make-up and choose a nice outfit while she waited for Dave to arrive.
CHAPTER SIX
Glynis Tooke's Creative Workshop
Jonah and Paulus, who together made up Barred of Stratford on Avon, had just completed their 'hilarious and irreverent' send-up of Hamlet, Twelfth Night and A Midsummer Night's Dream; this had been bad enough, but Glynis Tooke's monologue in which she ranted in a style more amateur than dramatic against her violent husband was positively excruciating. Ariel was up next; as she waited at the side of the stage she could see Dave, Shane and Melodie laughing; oh dear, they'd started on another round of drinks. Was she imagining it, or were certain members of the rather earnest looking audience aiming disapproving looks their way?
She'd met Glynis Tooke on a quiet Monday night in The Bandstand, the day after Dave had broken their 'date' (if you could call a couple of hours of 'neath-the-duvet gymnastics such a thing) to go and see Janice's grandmother.
Glynis had bounced in, eyes darting around, to ask if she might display a notice to advertise her Creative Workshop 'Open Mic' night, held every Thursday night at the 'Room in the Roof' above The Welcome pub.
"Well, why don't you come along?" Glynis had said, after Ariel showed interest and mentioned that she strummed a guitar herself, once in a while. "I'll just clarify; we call it an 'open mic' night, but it's not quite the free-for-all you see in some pubs when they put on this sort of thing; I do like to have an idea who's coming along, then I can suggest the order of play, as it were!" She'd taken a stool at the bar and ordered a half pint of bitter, then, and gone on to tell Ariel about her own credentials. After studying drama as a mature student she'd started the workshop to 'nurture creativity in others, help artistes find their muse, and women everywhere their inner goddess'. She offered to critique the performances of others if required, she said; she was keen to 'make a difference', apparently. All this was related whilst smiling so widely that Ariel thought her face might actually split in two, and twiddling her fingers through her artfully messy, dark curls.
Ritchie had sidled up to the bar while Glynis was talking.
"So it's not really an 'open mic' session, at all, then?" he said. "I mean, you can't just get up and sing a song or read a poem you've written, wit
hout running it past you first, is that right?"
Glynis blinked, turned to look at the deliverer of this query, and smiled even more widely. "Well, experience has taught me that this minimal amount of censorship works in the best interests of everyone; we don't allow anything that might be construed as sexist, racist, or homophobic."
"Right. Gotcha. So is it free to get in, like?"
"Admission is just a pound to the public," said Glynis, shifting on her stool, "but we do ask everyone who attends to make a donation to the Workshop, too."
"What for?" asked Ritchie.
Glynis looked at Ariel as if to say "who on earth is this dreadful man?" then turned to beam at Ritchie once more. "So we can keep the Workshop going, thus helping others to explore their potential - it's all about expressing ourselves; for some, performing in public can be a therapeutic remedy for feelings of negativity. It can be a truly cathartic experience."
"Well, how will me lobbing a few of my beer vouchers your way help you do that, then?"
Glynis took a deep breath. "We have to hire the room, pay the barmaid, advertise, that sort of thing."
"Don't cost you nothing to advertise. You just came in here and asked Ariel if you could stick the poster up on the notice board."
Glynis beamed widely; her eyes glazed over. She looked at Ariel. "Could I have a packet of dry roasted peanuts, please?"
Ariel gave her the peanuts. "On the house. Ritchie, get lost," she said. "Glynis, it's a great idea, and of course I'll be happy to give you a donation. There's nothing like that round here."
"There!" said Glynis. "Thank you, April!"
"It's Ariel."
Glynis put her hand over her mouth and giggled. "Whoops, sorry!"
Ritchie handed his empty pint glass over the bar. "Same again, please, April." He turned to Glynis. "Okay, say I'm interested. If I come along on Thursday with me bass guitar, how will you help me nurture my creativity?" he asked.
"By providing you with the platform from which you can display your art to our audience," Glynis said, after swallowing a mouthful of peanuts rather abruptly, and stretching her mouth to the outer reaches of her cheekbones once more.
"Right," said Ritchie, handing Ariel some change for the pint she'd just poured. "Well, I've found my muse, I reckon, but I could do with a bit of nurturing, so if I turn up you'll let me play, will you?"
Glynis put her head on one side. "We can certainly talk about it!" she said. "What's your genre?"
Ritchie took a large gulp of his beer, and wiped his mouth with his hand. "Hardcore Nazi death metal," he said. He started to walk off, then looked back, over his shoulder, and winked. "See you Thursday."
"I'm sorry about that," said Ariel, as he walked away. "He's harmless, really."
Glynis beamed at her. "Well, he's certainly lively!" she said. "So we'll see you and your guitar at the Workshop, will we?"
"Sure," said Ariel. Why not? It wasn't the Purple Turtle, Camden, but she wanted people to hear her songs, didn't she? "What's the form; a little bit of poetry, some music, that sort of thing?"
"Oh, we cater for many tastes!" said Glynis. "You know, we like to be a bit quirky, a bit different! It's always a good evening. I look forward to seeing you - bring some friends!" She looked round rather nervously; Ritchie was now slamming his fist against the fruit machine. "Er, everyone welcome!"
Ariel discovered why everyone was welcome when she, Dave, Shane and Melodie turned up at the Creative Workshop Open Mic evening the following Thursday.
She'd never been in The Welcome public house before, and it didn't look as if anyone else had, either. There was one person in the bar, a ruddy faced gentleman in a loudly checked jacket and a purple shirt with wide lapels who looked, Dave said, as if he'd been there since 1975. Up the dark, narrow staircase they found Glynis and her fellow performers packed into a small area next to a six feet square stage. The audience consisted of about forty people squeezed around tiny tables, balancing on stools, clapping as a young man with a goatee beard wearing a black turtle necked jumper and dark glasses read some free verse from a piece of crumpled paper.
"How can he see what he's reading?" Shane said. "Bet he's making it up as he goes along!"
"Ssh!" whispered Dave. "Have to say it sounds like it, though."
Ariel hadn't noticed, while they were in The Romany, that Dave and Shane were actually quite inebriated; whilst in the company of other leather jacketed beer swillers they'd merged with the scenery, but in this tiny room with the Creative Workshop aficionados they stuck out like vegans at a pig roast. To make it worse, Ritchie had turned up during Glynis's outpouring.
Now, the lady herself perched on a stool at the front of the stage, flushed with pride from accolades after her five minute rant in which she'd rather self-consciously called her absent ex-husband a "useless cunt", causing great mirth amongst her disciples. Ah yes, the token usage of the 'c' word, in an educated middle-class accent, guaranteed to provoke a response now that the 'f' word no longer shocked anyone. Ariel was surprised Glynis's inner goddess didn't consider the use of the slang word for female genitalia as a form of abuse to be offensive, but who was she to question such art?
Ariel wondered, too, if her songs were sufficiently out there enough for this particular audience; her lyrics were certainly nothing like "The Sassy Monologues" from which, she'd read on the poster, Glynis had chosen her performance for this week. If she sang 'Grey', which she'd written when Frankie left her, back when they were travelling and he fell in love with Sadie the Australian, they'd probably think she was a bit of a wimp. Not a strong woman. She thought she was, though, most of the time. A strong woman. She just didn't feel the need to write sassy monologues about it.
She sang 'Grey' anyway, and 'Hey You Over There', which was about wanting someone who didn't know you existed, and after the token five second smattering of lukewarm applause (not enough 'cunts', she supposed) she stepped away from the stage and headed over to her friends. As she did so, she heard a fat bloke in a white trilby saying, "Quite sweet little songs; rather pale, though. Shades of Dido, perhaps."
"More pseudo-Alanis Morrisette," said his companion, a woman in a purple Beatle cap, "though nowhere near as ballsy."
"Mm," said White Trilby, "rather ordinaire. Glynis could probably give her some pointers; she needs to turn up the wow levels a bit."
The 'wow' levels? Ordinaire? What the hell did he know? She felt like going over to ask him this very thing, but, of course, she didn't. Hey, it didn't matter if he knew nothing, though, did it? His opinion was as valid as anyone else's. He was simply a member of the public who'd been unimpressed by her songs.
They hadn't liked her.
The applause had been perfunctory.
She felt silly for having been a little bit excited about the evening.
This was the first time she'd played to an audience in months, and they'd found her instantly forgettable.
She felt silly, full stop.
Was she going to have to face up, one day, to the fact that she just might not be all that good, after all?
"Come on," she said to Dave, who was waiting by the door for her, "let's get out of here. Where are the others?"
"Oh, didn't you notice?" He was trying to stop himself from laughing. "We've just officially been chucked out. Ritchie went up to that Glynis woman and said that in his opinion her husband should have hit her a bit harder."
"Oh, no!" Ariel laughed, despite the appalling nature of Ritchie's comment, despite herself. The whole evening had depressed the hell out of her.
"Do you want to come back to mine?" Dave asked, taking her guitar case from her.
"Yes." She smiled up at him. Right now, there was nothing she wanted more than to curl up inside Dave's big, strong arms. At least Dave thought she was great, anyway.
But what if she really, really wasn't any good? What then?
***
Janice showed out the last customer of the day, observing the necessary social niceties as s
he did so, hoping that her tight smile looked genuine. Well, you couldn't say, look, how long does it take you to drink one bloody cup of tea, and why don't you stop that monster child from throwing bits of scone all over the floor? You couldn't, not really, and, alas, no-one ever took any notice of the funny-ha-ha sign on the wall that said "Children, please keep your parents under control. Adults who misbehave will be asked to leave." Perhaps it was too subtle for them.
She turned the sign to 'Closed' and removed the crockery from the table, then picked up a cloth. How could one cup of tea, a fruit scone and a Breakaway biscuit make so much damn mess?
Her head ached; she felt as though there was a tight band stretching across her forehead, stabbing into her temples at either side.
Janice sat down at the table, stared out of the window at the cold, grey, wet afternoon, growing darker by the minute, and for one horrible moment thought she was going to cry. Everything that had seemed okay for months, years, even, had become suddenly not very okay at all.
Dave didn't want her anymore. She was sure of it. She only saw him when she asked him to come round. Before Thor he'd still been so much a part of her and Harley's lives, but since this wretched band stuff had started up again he didn't come round to see her late at night, or even go home with her after a gig. He seemed really pleased to see her if she went to see Thor play, came over and talked to her and bought her drinks, but she'd watched him, and he was equally as pleasant to everyone. When he did turn up at the house it was to see Harley, not her. She was pleased he still did that, of course she was, but they weren't a real family now.
They hadn't slept together for weeks.
So if she didn't have Dave, what was there? Harley, of course, and her mum and her gran, but not much else. There wasn't much spare cash around, not even with Dave's money supplementing her meagre wages, Working Tax Credit and Child Benefit. She didn't have much of a life for herself, just the odd night out with Carolyn, and that was usually to see Thor playing, because Carolyn was still trying to get back into Shane's Calvin Kleins.
