by Terry Tyler
No doubt Alison bloody Swan was a wonderful singer, too, and could write fabulous songs.
She knew she couldn't bear that.
She looked at the photos of her, instead.
She couldn't help it; she tried really hard not to because it was like torturing herself, but every time she looked at that pretty-pretty face she found herself imagining those lush, pouty lips around Dave's cock.
No doubt Dave did exactly the same.
CHAPTER NINE
They'd gathered in the back room of The Bandstand public house; Melodie, Ariel and Thor.
"I've lost four pounds already!" Melodie shouted in Ariel's ear, as Thor reached the crescendo of 'Flying High' which, Ariel had to agree with Ritchie, did sound quite a lot like 'Freebird'.
"Well done," said Ariel. She knew she was supposed to congratulate this feat, but Melodie had a pretty fantastic figure anyway - she'd achieved the impossible: a sylph like body with enormous tits. Ariel looked down, for a moment, at her own thirty-four As, and wondered if she ought to have a boob job, as Melodie had done a few years back. Somehow, though, the thought of having bags of alien matter actually inserted inside her body terrified the hell out of her.
The song drew to an end and Dave leapt down from the stage.
"So, what do you think?" he asked Ariel and Melodie. "Is that the one we do for the audition, then?"
Band practice was now geared towards preparation for Raw Talent only; it wasn't necessary to do gigs all over Christmas and New Year, Boz said, because everyone would be too busy sicking up turkey sandwiches over the relatives they only saw once a year, to come and see them.
"It was fabulous!" said Melodie, and clapped her hands.
"Do you want my honest opinion, or do you want me to tell you how great you are?" Ariel asked.
"The former," said Ritchie, walking over to join them.
"Okay." Ariel thought for a moment. "Try that power ballad. You know, the one about the Viking leaving his wife and child. The words are good. You sing it with emotion, too." About Janice and Harley. "I reckon for the first audition you'll do better singing something that showcases Dave's voice and song writing skills - and it's got that great guitar solo that Shane does, too."
"Yeah, she's right, your Mrs," said Ritchie.
"I am indeed, although I'd rather you didn't refer to me as 'Dave's Mrs'," said Ariel. Oh, stop looking so offended, Dave. "Yeah, I didn't realise Shane was such a good guitarist until I heard that."
Melodie beamed round at them all. "I think you're all just brilliant!"
"Thanks," said Dave, and smiled at her. "You never know, the judges might all be like Melodie!"
"You can forget that," Boz called from the stage, scratching his ear with a drumstick. "They'll be looking for things not to like, like all A&R men."
Shane leant on the microphone stand. "So, d'you want us to run through 'Cross The Sea' now, then? Or is someone else going to have a go next? Ariel?"
"Yeah - yeah, okay," She reached for her guitar case. "Unless you want to go first, Mel?"
"Oh, no, you go next!" Melodie said. "I haven't made up my mind what to sing yet!"
"What are the choices?" said Dave. "Maybe we can help - it's good if we all give each other a bit of direction, isn't it?"
"Yeah, our Pete calls it 'bouncing some ideas around'," Ritchie said. "Unless you're going to do a Whitney Houston or a Mariah Carey, Mel, like every other female talent show contestant in the world, ever, in which case you can get someone else to listen to you."
Melodie went pink underneath her fake tan. "Oh. I was going to do 'I will always love you.'"
"I wouldn't," Ariel said. "Your voice isn't big enough. No, don't look at me like that, I'm not being bitchy; mine isn't either! I'd do - oh, maybe a Christine Aguilera, or Pink, something more contemporary."
"Right," said Melodie, looking a little confused and slightly out of her depth.
"Have you got anything else ready?" Dave asked, quite gently. Nice of him, Ariel thought; Melodie gave him one of her best sexy, pout smiles, the ones she usually reserved for men she fancied - or who might be able to further her career ambition, such as it was. Ariel gave her cynicism a mental slap on the wrist; there was nothing wrong with using your talents, was there? They were all out to succeed.
"I could do 'Beautiful'," Melodie said, looking a little doubtful. "I think I know all the words to that."
"Then take it away, Beautiful!" said Shane, and jumped down from the stage.
Melodie's singing lessons had paid off, Ariel noticed; there was more depth to her voice, now. Still, though, she seemed to be concentrating more on the sexy flick of the hair, the come hither look at the imaginary camera, than the actual song. And she forgot the words half way through.
"Thank God that's over," she said, when it was. "I hope I don't have to do too much of the singing bit when I'm famous." She giggled. "Pity I didn't get accepted for Big Brother, instead!"
"Yeah, just think, if you had, you might be married to some B movie actor by now!" said Ritchie. He laughed and looked round. "One of them who marry glamour girls to convince everyone they're not gay!"
"You're up next, Ariel, pet," said Boz, patting her on the shoulder.
"Sure." Ariel took the stage and started to sing 'Grey', the song she'd penned after Frankie broke her heart. She didn't know why, but while she sang it she had to stop herself crying; so stupid, and so odd; she'd stopped loving him years ago. It was only after she'd finished the song, and the others were clapping, that she realised she'd been thinking not only of Frankie, but also of what Janice Brown was going through, at the moment; and how Dave might feel if she put an end to their current relationship, too.
"That was fucking excellent, hinny!" said Boz. "Wasn't that great, everyone?"
"Yeah, it was," said Melodie. "I hate to say it, babe, but you're much better than me! It's about Frankie, right? When you're interviewed, you can tell everyone all about how he broke your heart, and everyone will feel really sorry for you and buy all your records!"
"Fuck that," said Ariel, and felt a stab of extreme irritation. She'd told Melodie about Frankie in confidence, ages ago; was she so stupid that she didn't realise she might not want that sort of thing bandied about in public? Or had her quest to become the dumbest celebrity in the world removed any last shred of intelligence, along with her cellulite?
"I didn't know he broke your heart so badly you put it into a song," Dave said, quietly. He looked at her, searchingly; Ariel looked away. She didn't even want to think about that sort of emotion, let alone talk about it. What the fuck was she doing, singing about it?
"I ain't so sure," said Ritchie. "About the song, I mean. If you don't mind me saying, Ariel."
"No, that's fine," said Ariel, relieved to have the subject changed. "Constructive criticism is always welcome."
"Right. Well, I just thought that, well, you should do something a bit more, sort of, well, y'know, jaunty. Like, that other one you sung when we were at that women's lib bint's creative workshop."
"'Hey You Over There'," said Ariel. "Rubbish title. I'll have to change it."
"Yeah, I know what he means," said Shane. "You can get enough of those powerful emotional songs, can't you. Sometimes it's better to do something a bit more up tempo so that people can rock out to it!"
"Mm, I think you're right, chaps," Ariel said. "Okay, I'll go home and work on that one, then."
Yes, this was a better idea; also, she'd be less likely to burst into tears in front of the judges if she sang that one. Heartbreak, indeed. Who needed it?
Was that why she wouldn't let herself love Dave again? The thought struck her, then. Hadn't occurred to her before. Ha! She hadn't realised her emotions were so textbook!
Dave took her guitar from her as she walked down the steps at the side of the stage. "Do you want to come home with me after we finish up here?" he asked.
She smiled at him. The trouble was, she did. "Yeah. Sure."
Oh dear. So mu
ch for leaving him alone for the sake of Janice and Harley, eh?
***
Janice informed both Max Stark and Carolyn about the impending evening out with Tom. She'd heard about the horrors of blind dating, about internet lunatics who ended up stalking their dates, about serial rapists who placed advertisements in the lonely hearts columns in newspapers - she knew how important it was that her whereabouts be known.
Harley was staying overnight with Carolyn. She'd bought a new top, a silky, midnight blue affair with a draping cowl neck, to go with her black trousers. Her hands sported a smart French manicure with acrylic nail extensions, to make them look less like those of a hardworking mother and waitress who never remembered to use hand cream. She'd never indulged in such a thing before; they felt very peculiar and it was hard to pick things up, but, oh, they made her look and feel so glamorous.
She was ready twenty minutes before the taxi arrived, pacing up and down the living room, drumming her shiny new nails on the window sill, wishing she still smoked.
When she got there, sick with nerves, she pushed open the door of Angelo's trattoria, and looked around; only two other tables were occupied, apart from a long, noisy table at one side of the room; obviously an office Christmas party. She and Tom identified each other almost immediately, and he stood up to greet her.
"Janice!" he said. "You look lovely!" He kissed her on the cheek, then held her away from him; she studied his face. He was much, much better looking than his photo portrayed. Taller than she'd imagined, too. Wow! And he was interested in her?
"It's so nice to meet you!" she said. "I was a bit nervous, were you? It's a funny situation, isn't it?"
"Funny, but good." His dark eyes crinkled up when he smiled; Christ, he was gorgeous! Why was a man who looked like that meeting strange women on the internet? Didn't he have them flocking to him, wherever he went? He gestured for her to sit down. "I ordered champagne." He laughed. "No, I'm not trying to be flash! I just thought this was a bit of a special occasion, and special occasions need champagne, don't they?"
"Yes!" she said. "Yes, they do!" How wonderful! Nobody had ever taken her out to dinner and bought champagne before!
Tom filled both glasses and handed one to her.
"To a very special evening!" he said, his smile lit up by the warm glow of the candle light.
She clinked her glass against his. "To a very special evening!" she agreed.
Two hours later she was sitting at Max Stark's kitchen table, tears rolling into a mug of coffee.
She'd had her first doubts even before she'd finished her tomato, avocado, mozzarella and fresh basil starter.
It was something about the way he talked about his previous internet dating disasters, of which there were clearly many.
These women who went on sites like Dating Direct, he said, all they were looking for was a husband and a new father for their brats. They said they wanted fun and adventure, but that was only a carefully worded lie to hook the man in. He couldn't stand women who went on about their brats all the time, you know? Why would he be interested in some other bloke's kid? That was why he'd started to look for a new relationship on social networking sites - he thought the women on them might be less desperate. He was right; well, he'd found her, hadn't he? He'd smiled at her, then, and she didn't know whether to feel honoured or angry. Did that mean she wasn't supposed to mention Harley?
"Haven't you ever met women in the normal way, then?" Janice had asked. "In the past - I mean, just going out with your mates, to the pub - or through work. That's how most people meet their partners, isn't it?"
He'd made a strange sound then; a sort of world-weary half laugh and half snort. "Work? You're having a laugh. Most of the silly little floozies in the estate agency world are only interested in you if you own the company and drive the right sort of car. And pubs? You're joking. All those 'ladettes' doing their 'here come the girls' thing, competing with the men for how much booze they can ship down their necks? No, thank you very much. They go out dressed up in their underwear, then they complain when a man shows a bit of interest. I mean, why have your bum on show if you don't want it pinching?"
Janice was quite shocked by the vehemence of his reaction. She was mollified somewhat, though, by a wink and a laugh after the last outpouring, and then a swift reversal of mood as he complimented her on her choice of outfit.
"I like women to look like women, you know? Like you do; you look beautiful and feminine and demure. Can't stand it when you take a woman out and she dresses up like some slapper, fluttering her eyelashes at the waiter, you know?"
Well, no, Janice thought, she certainly wasn't doing that. They finished the champagne in what seemed, to Janice, like record speed, though she'd only been poured two small glasses. The waiter brought forth a bottle of Chablis, offering Tom a little to taste; he nodded with approval, and then frowned when Janice was asked if she would like to taste it, too.
"I've already told you it's okay," he said, "now, can you get a move on with our main courses?"
Janice had smiled at the waiter apologetically, and he'd scuttled off; Tom looked at Janice across the table, with an eyebrow raised.
"Fancy him, did you?"
"No - no!" The candlelight on his handsome face made him look, for a moment, almost menacing.
Then he smiled. "Don't worry, I'm only joking. I can tell you're not the sort of woman who'd go on a date with one man and flirt with another. You've got class."
She gestured at the large, noisy party on the other side of the room. "They're probably rushed off their feet with that lot," she said, in an attempt to change the subject.
"Yeah. Chose a good night, didn't we? I wanted this to be perfect, but it's hardly a romantic evening with that load of apes yelling the place down, is it?"
Why couldn't he relax? "Oh, they're just having a good time!"
"Hmm. Well, I wish they'd do so more quietly. Office parties ought to be banned. I never go to ours."
Their main courses arrived. Janice had chosen a chicken dish with pesto, tomatoes and more fresh basil, which she loved, but she found herself with little appetite.
"What's up, do you not like it?" asked Tom, as he shovelled down his veal and refilled their glasses; the bottle was already two thirds empty.
"Oh yes, it's lovely!" she said. "I'm just taking it slowly - you know, savouring it, because it's so delicious."
"That's good," Tom said, with his mouth full. "Bloody should be, it cost enough." Then he laughed; again, she felt herself exhale with relief. Again. Every time he laughed to indicate that he was joking about the last dreadful thing he'd said, she felt herself relax, physically. This was crazy. She was actually sitting there having dinner with a man who was making her feel horribly nervous.
"Tell me about what you do," she said, with false brightness. "Have you worked in estate agency for very long?"
Tom smiled at her, looking ridiculously dashing as he did so, and launched into a long, amusing monologue about his working life, with colourful depictions of the idiocy of vendors and purchasers alike, making her laugh with cruel anecdotes about how he'd got the better of agents from rival firms. They lingered over their food while Tom finished the bottle of wine and snapped his fingers at the waiter for another.
"It must be awful for you having to work in that café," he said, filling their glasses from the third bottle.
"Well, no, actually, I quite like it. Max, my boss, he's lovely, such a kind man, and I work with two other girls, too - Kim and Lisa - we have a good laugh. Most of the time I enjoy it; it gets me out of the house and I get to talk to adults, not just Harley."
"Really? I don't think I'd like it, having to skivvy." He gulped down the last piece of veal. "I do feel sorry for you single mothers. I suppose he left you high and dry, your kid's father, did he?"
Harley. His name's Harley.
"Well, no, I asked him to leave."
"Uh-oh. Doing the independent woman thing, eh?" He grinned at her.
"Not really. I didn't want us to break up, really, but it wasn't really working out, we'd been through a bad patch that was lasting a bit too long, if you know what I mean."
"Bit of an arse, was he?" He reached out and patted her hand.
She smiled. Perhaps Tom had a sympathetic side, after all.
"No - he's a nice guy, really, I just - "
"Waiter!" Tom looked around, and beckoned the young Italian man over again; he hurried across, looking as nervous as Janice felt.
"Yes, sir?"
"Could you get rid of these plates and bring us the dessert menu?"
"Of course, sir."
As he walked away, laden with the remnants from their meal, Tom laughed. "Bloody Latinos, can't stand them, can you? All reckon they're God's gift to women, eh?"
She laughed. "I suppose they do. I haven't really thought about it."
"Ever been out with one?"
"No - there's only been Dave, for years. We got together when I was in my early twenties, and I only had one long term relationship before him."
"Ah. You take relationships seriously. That's good. I haven't been part of a couple for quite some time. My last girlfriend, she was an evil little madam. Caught her in a hot clinch against a wall outside the pub with my best mate."
Janice was shocked. "God, that must have been awful. Was there a big row? Oh - silly question. I suppose there must have been!"
"Well, I sorted them both out, yes." He laughed, and stared over her shoulder, as if he was reminiscing.
Although she couldn't help wondering what form this 'sorting out' had taken, Janice felt a rush of sympathy for him. Perhaps they had some common ground, after all.
"I know how that feels," she said.
"Do you?" He patted her hand again. "That anger, it really burns, doesn't it? Did your ex do something like that to you, then?"
"Well, not exactly, but I thought we were going to get back together again at one point, and then I found out he was seeing an old girlfriend."
