Stardust Diaries 2007
Page 2
Once the firemen had gone and we were in the process of cleaning up, Twinks let slip he’d had a chat with the lady fire person. Her name was Helen. He had made discreet enquiries as to whether any of her colleagues were gay and single and looking for an affair. He had two candidates in the offing, Lulu and me. We were described as: a slightly paunchy, he overindulged at Christmas, but could easily be whipped back into shape, thirty something and a rather dim, dizzy, but sweet and desperate, twenty something.
I was outraged and told him he'd better be winding my key. He does that you know. He loves to get me going, wicked little toad he is at times. He was serious. He had given Helen his mobile and home number and told her to pass it on to anyone interested. He would then give out details and make arrangements. I told him he'd better be teasing about pimping Lulu and I or there would be hell to pay.
We were watching telly later on when his mobile rang. I confess I blanched as he let out a theatrical squeal of delight upon answering it.
“Hello, yes, I know Helen, and yes I can arrange a date. Which one do you fancy the sound of? The paunchy one or the desperate one?”
I lunged for him, wrestling the phone from him, barking into it, “who is this?” It was a bemused Lulu. I could have happily slaughtered Twinks on the spot. However, it's hard to stay annoyed with someone who is almost crying with laughter. I settled for walloping his backside with a cushion, which made him laugh even more.
For a few days after the Christmas break in I didn't think I'd ever see Twinkles smile let alone hear him laugh again. He was so depressed. The incident tarnished the glitter of the season for us. We spent Christmas night in one of the guest rooms. My mother, Maryann and Lulu came over on Boxing Day to lend a hand with the clean up process, while my dad fixed and secured the source of the break in, the French windows in the dining room. The vandal had forced them to gain access to the house.
Twinks refused to get out of bed that day. I was worried sick. After the single scream of horror on discovering the mess, he hardly made a sound or spoke a word. He lay curled up in bed with tears pouring like silent rain down the pale landscape of his face. It was heartbreaking.
Only a few of his everyday items of female clothing escaped the carnage. Maybe the nutcase who did it ran out of time. Perhaps he/she had to be somewhere, Christmas lunch with friends and family, or tea with the vicar perhaps? All of his glamour items were annihilated, including a beautiful nineteen twenties jet and crystal headdress that had been my main gift to him on Christmas morning. I bought it from an antique shop in Bristol on one of my work jaunts down there. I enjoy rooting around antique shops. The headdress had cost a small fortune, but I knew he would love it. It had been a struggle to keep it secret until Christmas. I wish I'd given it to him when I bought it now, at least he would have got to wear it a few times before it was crushed beneath a spiteful foot.
The object of the exercise seemed to be pure destruction. The only thing missing was the wedding gown Twinks had worn on the evening of our ceremony. There was no sign of it amongst the rags and remnants. Maybe it had been taken as a souvenir. Nothing else had been stolen.
The police went over the scene thoroughly enough and asked questions we'd answered before. They suggested we invest in a decent alarm system, something I implemented as soon as I could. They refused to speculate on my hypothesis that our anonymous correspondent had carried out the break in. They claimed it could have been anyone. The implication being that people like us had enemies queuing up to do us an ill turn.
This month marks two years since the arrival of the first poison pen letter. At the time I hoped it would be a short hate campaign. I never for a moment envisaged it dragging out into years, though from research I’ve conducted it seems it isn’t uncommon for poison pen vendettas to drag out into long periods of time. In many ways we’ve adapted to it. Upon arrival of a letter we exchange eye rolls and more often than not shove it unread into the drawer on the hall table.
I’m convinced our persecutor carried out the break in. I think whoever sends the notes suspected we'd become a little blasé and wanted to stir us up a bit. Choosing Christmas Day seems significant given the religious tone of most of the notes. We haven't actually had one for a while. I think all in all I prefer the correspondence to personal house calls. I believe the invasion of our personal space, even more than the physical damage they did while in it, was an objective. The physical damage was testimony to the invasion. It was saying ‘I was here.’ Even more chilling is that whoever did it must have been watching the house waiting for an opportunity.
I’m sure the perpetrator would delight in the effect their vile act had on Twinkles. It sent him into an emotional tailspin. On the day after Boxing Day I woke up in the early hours to find him staring intently into the dressing table mirror. Touching a hand to his face he then reached out and touched the mirror tracing his reflection. I asked what he was doing? He didn't reply. I got out of bed and went to him, resting my hands on his shoulders, asking again what he was doing. He broke his silence.
“All my life, whenever I’ve looked in a mirror, I’ve seen not just my own reflection, Jonathan, but hers too, Stardust Twinkles I mean. Even before she had a name she was there with me. She was born with me and she grew up with me. The mirror is where we meet as individuals. It’s where we meld and become one and it’s also where we part and become individuals again. Only,” he turned to me, tears shining bright in his eyes, “I can’t see her any more. She’s gone, Tarn. She’s debris that’s been cleared away and binned and maybe that’s where she belongs, where she’s always belonged, in the trash.”
I experienced a flare of foreboding, his words reminding me of the time he tried to give up being Stardust Twinkles after his father died. He’d wanted to discard that part of himself he felt was despised and disapproved of. Well not by me it wasn't and no one, least of all someone who didn't have the courage to make themselves known to us was going to do what Jonathan Lane's family had failed to do and destroy a fundamental part of his identity.
I stepped up to the bar as domestic dictator and did some bud nipping. Pulling him to his feet I gave him a little shake and then swung my hand against his bottom. “Enough of this pity party. You are NOT going to allow the sick spite of a faceless stranger to demoralise you. The only reason you can’t see the troublesome wench in the mirror is because she’s currently naked and waiting for you to buy her, within reason, some new clothes to make an appearance in. You’ll soon rebuild your wardrobe. You’re going to stop moping and get on with life.” I landed another smack to his backside. “Is that clear, Jonathan?”
“Yes, you beast.” He rubbed a hand over his bottom, his bottom lip almost tripping him.
“Good.” I pointed at the bed. “Get in and go back to sleep before I decide to give you a proper spanking.”
He scurried across the floor and leapt into bed. I followed at a more sedate pace. A beast I might be, but he still settled into my arms and we cuddled each other back to slumber land.
Me getting cross and being firm with him was what he needed. He’d had his quota of sympathy and to continue with it would only keep him immobilised in misery. He was better after that and started to pick up helped by a remarkable boost to his spirits from an unexpected source. I'll have to journal about it later, as he's demanding I stop being a keyboard gossip queen and give him my time, attention and prowess with a corkscrew. He fancies a glass of wine and a lap to put his feet up on.
9th January ~ Announcing the Murder of a Drag Queen
Say goodbye to Stardust Twinkles. I'm afraid his remaining time on earth is strictly limited. He is soon to be an extinct species. I'm going to murder him. My mind is made up. I'm going to kill him slowly and painfully and when he's dead I'm going to resuscitate him so I can have the pleasure of killing him all over again, and then some more. He isn’t at home at the moment. He’s sought sanctuary at Lulu's place, but I'll get him eventually. There is no place on earth he can hide from my righ
teous wrath.
What has brought on this violent desire to despatch the one I usually love? I'll tell you. Thanks to him I unwittingly ate a meal of stir-fried rat for my dinner. I've spent the last two hours periodically vomiting. I've been assured it will do me no harm and is actually quite nutritious. I don't care. The horrible fact remains. I ate RAT meat. I loathe the naked fat pink worm-like tails that rats have. Just writing about it has brought on another wave of nausea. I must go attend.
11th January ~ Twisted Ratatouille
I swear if one more person phones and says: hello, is that Tarn Swan I'm 'squeaking' to. I won't be responsible for my actions. I don't think there's a soul in the district who doesn't know about my rat eating exploits. The people at work are all in the picture. Mirthful tittering followed by offers of cheese whenever I showed my face yesterday morning confirmed Karen had let the cat, or rat, out of the bag. I could have strangled her.
I suppose I should be pleased I've been the cause of some amusement for my staff. God knows they’ve had little reason to feel joyful of late with the threat of re-location and lost jobs still hanging over them from last year.
All in all this has been a long week with one exasperating bloody thing after another. By rights it should be Friday and not only Thursday. I was supposed to go down to Bristol last weekend. I was booked on a flight, but Bristol airport was in chaos as a result of essential maintenance work on the runway. Apparently it was so slippery it was nominated as the venue for the ice skating championships in the next Winter Olympics. The trip was cancelled.
Our heating is still out of action. Twinks isn’t keen about hauling his arse out of bed at the best of times and the loss of central heating certainly hasn't helped matters. I lost patience this morning and resorted to whacking his bum. I told him if he didn't behave I was going to force him to wear ‘The Yeti’ about the house.
‘The Yeti’ was my Christmas gift from my aunt Helen. Mum’s words about me not wearing slippers finally registered and instead of the usual leather indoor footwear she bought me a 'warm' full-length dressing gown instead. It's hysterical. Twinks christened it ‘The Yeti’ as soon as I shook it free from its wrappings. He declared he would file for divorce if I ever wore it in his presence. It's made from cream coloured nylon fur fabric and is truly hideous. Twinks reckons she must have slipped into a time warp and bought it at a tacky nineteen seventies street market.
Poor aunt Helen, I was glad she wasn't around to hear all the rude remarks and giggles as we took it in turns to parade around with it on Christmas Day. Mum said it reminded her of a fur coat worn by Bob Hope in some vintage comedy film or other.
Getting back to heating. We’ve been quoted a price for a new gas boiler. It's being installed tomorrow. It's not cheap and it will effectively wipe a nought or two from our bank balance, but it's one of those things that have to be done.
On Tuesday morning the computer system at work suffered a major crash. All the department computers went down and the office essentially ground to a halt, as we waited for the IT support people to come and get us up and running again. I decided to head home and work from there. It was Twinkles day off, so I called to inform him of my intention. He was in a state of excitement and told me he wouldn’t be in when I got home because he was going out, which made sense I suppose. I asked where he was going and he told me he was going to the Dolphin Civic Arts Centre. It isn’t that far away from where we live. I ventured to ask why.
It seemed Natalie’s mild alter ego Kevin had a friend from London drop in for an unexpected visit. The friend was a performer, a professional no less, who tours arts venues and festivals with a one-woman show. Her agent got her a last minute booking at the Dolphin Centre after one of the advertised shows had been cancelled due to illness.
Kevin, basking in the reflected glory of having a friend in the biz had invited Twinks to spend the afternoon with them. Twinks of course jumped at the chance. He was going to lend a hand with stage props while Kev’s friend familiarised herself with the stage and went through a dress rehearsal prior to the one-off performance on Wednesday night. I told him to have fun and I'd see him when I saw him.
Once home I set up my laptop on the kitchen table and worked for an hour before hunger pangs interrupted my concentration. I needed sustenance. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. There was a covered plate in the fridge, which upon investigation revealed thin strips of raw chicken, obviously something Twinks had lined up as a dinner ingredient. We do tend to buy organic corn fed chicken so the slightly darker colour of the meat didn't worry me.
Being a kind hearted Top I decided I would take it upon myself to be the house cook for the day. After all there was no telling what time Twinks would get back and it wouldn’t be fair to demand he cook after a long day playing stagehand. I would have an early dinner and set his aside for whenever he landed home.
I decided to stir fry the chicken and slung it in a wok along with sliced peppers, mushrooms, onions, frozen peas, canned water chestnuts, a bit of soy, ginger and garlic and some pre-cooked frozen rice. I then settled down to a hot tasty meal in front of my laptop, leaving a portion of the stir-fry on a plate to microwave for Twinks whenever he hit base.
At half past five I closed my laptop, had a yawn and a stretch and was considering going for a nice hot shower when the doorbell rang. I opened the door to be confronted by a glamorous apparition dressed Eastern style with heavy eye makeup, an elaborate collar necklace, earrings and a stunning bejewelled headdress. The effect was somewhat compromised by the addition of a rather tatty duffle coat flung atop a shimmering sapphire blue sari, but then it was a chilly day.
I stared at the apparition, who gave me a ruby red smile and said you must be Tarn? I nodded, my curiosity evolving by the second.
The apparition held out a beautifully manicured hand studded with glittering rings and said, “I'm Tara, I've got a vowel where you've got a consonant.”
I was none the wiser, but smiled and shook the hand and said a somewhat tentative hello.
Tara grinned, twigging I didn't have a clue who she was. “I’m Kev’s friend, Tara Lott,” she bobbed a curtsey, “female impersonator, singer, exotic dancer and raconteur. I’ve come to feed Steve. Twinkles said he’d call and let you know I was on my way.”
I was even more nonplussed. Who the hell was Steve and why did Tara imagine he was at my house and needed feeding? I would surely have noticed a hungry man roaming around the place. “Sorry,” I said, “but who is Steve?”
It wasn't a man. Steve, Tara explained, was a python, one of two snakes she used in her stage act. Apparently he was a sensitive beast at the best of times and the journey north seemed to have upset him for some reason so Tara was keeping him quiet and using Julie, a Boa Constrictor, as her stage companion for the show at the Dolphin centre.
Kevin's mother had been spooked enough about having snakes in the house when Tara was there, even though they were safely fastened into their travel baskets most of the time, but she was adamant she was not staying alone in the house with a python while its owner was out. She didn't care if it was a sick python. It wasn’t staying in her house.
Tara was reluctant to take Steve to the theatre rehearsal fearing the charged atmosphere would upset him further. Snakes pick up on vibes very easily. Neither did she want to leave him in the car in case he got stolen. Enter the customary shining knight on a white charger, or high heels in this case.
Twinkles offered up our house as a quiet refuge for Steve. He was in the dining room, peacefully slumbering in his basket under the table. I blanched at that. I'd been home alone with a snake and hadn't known it. Why the hell hadn't he told me when I was talking to him on the phone earlier? What if it had escaped? Honestly he has no consideration.
STEVE THE PYTHON'S STORY~
Steve was born and raised in captivity. Show Biz was in his cold blood and so he was pleased and happy to join forces with the gorgeous Tara who had an affinity with reptiles and loved them dearly.
In desperation Tara resorted to buying pre-killed frozen rats, which she defrosted at need, gutted, skinned and filleted off the bone. Steve liked this safe delicacy and was happy again.
Steve usually gets fed once a week, so knowing her dance partner was due a feed Tara packed a couple of frozen rats into a chill box for the journey north. They were beautifully defrosted by Tuesday morning, but just as Kev's mum was reluctant to be left alone with a python so was she reluctant to have her lovely hygienic, recently fitted, kitchen used to prepare rat for its dinner.
You’ve probably guessed by now that Twinkles stepped in as white knight again. Tara came over to our place, prepared the rats, put the meat in the fridge and then they all trundled off to the Dolphin for rehearsals leaving Steve, who prefers to dine on an evening (he's just fussy if you ask me) in our dining room, under the table, curled up in his specially heated basket.
The plan was that at some point in the afternoon Tara, accompanied by Twinks would come back to our house and feed her pet in the hope it would cheer him up and settle him down.
Twinks, caught up in the excitement of being backstage, was reluctant to leave and knowing I was home decided Tara could make the trip alone. He was supposed to call me and put me in the picture, only, as I subsequently learned, something more important came up. The something more important was the stage manager. Calling me to say I was due a visitor took second place to bending the manager’s ear about any possible 'theatrical openings.'