Certainly she had worked hard to get there; nobody could deny that. From the age of five she had been dancing and singing at various after-school and Saturday clubs and had spent every spare minute practising the skills that had ultimately catapulted her to semi-stardom. And she had missed out on so much along the way. In place of friends she had had rivals; in place of play she had had hard work; in place of love she had had stern encouragement; and in place of education she had had ceaseless scales and dance-steps. But in the end it had all been worth it. She had steered her steady course toward glamour and celebrity and now, finally, she had arrived. And how she did love the glamour of it all: the exclusive invitations, the famous faces, the flash of cameras and the screaming fans; why, even buying a pint of milk from the corner store had become a thrilling adventure. Just so did her youth slowly pass upon a merry-go-round of concerts, parties, hotels, paparazzi and the steady adoration of her devoted audience. But alas, had she looked up glamour in a dictionary she would have known it was nothing but a hollow enchantment, a spell cast upon the naive and unwary by those potent forces who silently plot in the background, maintaining the status quo whilst making themselves oh-so-very rich.
Meanwhile, each morning at 10am her assistant, Jamie, arrived wherever she happened to be staying, with coffee and the morning’s press cuttings and magazines. These she read through with all the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning, and with every photograph, every mention of her name, her colour seemed to ripen, just a touch. But then one day, on a crisp October morning in Seattle, at the age of 27, the previously unthinkable happened.
“Jamie . . .” There was the smallest hint of anxiety in her voice. “Jamie!”
An over-enthusiastic and richly moustachioed young man entered the sitting room of her hotel suite through a Japanese-style sliding screen, although on this occasion his enthusiasm was channelled more towards cowering.
“Jamie. Have you got this morning’s cuttings?”
“Erm . . . no Amanda . . . We couldn’t get hold of . . . errr . . . there’s been a problem . . . with the delivery . . .”
Amanda gave him a look, the kind of look that is impossible to describe but were you ever to receive such a look you would know it immediately.
“Are you lying to me, Jamie?”
He seemed to stoop just a little lower, and cast his eyes to the floor.
“Err . . . yes Amanda.”
“Well what the . . . ! Is there something you don’t want me to see?”
“Yes . . . and no . . .”
“Then spit it out boy!”
“There weren’t any.” The words burst out like the cap on an over-pressurised boiler.
“What?”
“There weren’t any.”
“What? . . . not any?”
“Not a single one.”
“What? . . . but that’s . . . impossible! . . . not even . . .”
“Not even the smallest, most cursory of sideways backhanded comments. Not one.” Now he was beginning to enjoy the moment, though not so you, or rather she, would have noticed.
“Oh,” and her face seemed to measurably contort as if trying to fit around the alien idea. In the silence that followed it was easy to imagine the creaking sound a wooden bridge might make in the moments before its collapse. Then suddenly the room erupted in a chaos of shouts and breakages. Jamie had seen this happen many times before and wasn’t the least bit thrown. Experience had taught him to stand back, wait for the inevitable exhausted calm and then address the situation. He glanced at his watch. Later he would note how long the tantrum had lasted in his diary.
Now she was in tears. Six minutes, forty two seconds. The calm would be here soon.
When it arrived, ten minutes, thirty seven seconds after her tantrum had started, she was sat on the edge of the sofa, rocking back and forth repeating over and over “What am I going to do?... What am I going to do?” Jamie looked down at her. She was visibly paler, and seemed somehow smaller than before. He sat next to her on the sofa, reaching across with a comforting arm, and at its touch she crumpled into him. He cherished these brief moments, and took a minute to soak it up.
“Right,” said Jamie, suddenly appearing decisive and authoritative. “The first thing we do is get you a new publicist. Hell, let’s get you a whole firm of publicists. That’ll be all it needs. You know how the game works. We’ll simply up the ante.” And then he launched into a stream of uplifting rhetoric which, though utterly meaningless and therefore not worthy of presentation here, she nonetheless found most comforting and he considerably enjoyed purporting.
The following afternoon at 2:15pm they were sitting on expensive chairs in a large and rather plush office of the PR firm of Alcott & Filch. Mr. Filch himself was holding forth before them, explaining laboriously the many benefits of hiring his company. After five minutes Amanda impatiently butted in.
“So okay, we’ve had the hard sell, you’re on . . . so what’s the plan? What can you do? . . .”
“Hmmmm.” Mr Filch leant back in his chair and stretched out his legs. He smiled, just a little, causing his weaselly grey moustache to turn up awkwardly at the ends, and the large boil on his nose to redden. “Well, Miss Palmer, we can certainly get you back at the centre of things, for a time, but you have to understand, as with everything else, there are natural laws that govern the publicity industries. These can be bent, pushed to the very limits, but ultimately they cannot be broken. I am a great publicist, possibly even the best, but I am not a god. I can manipulate, but I cannot control . . .” Here he paused, for dramatic reasons.
“As I see it, your assets are worn out. Sure, you still have your talent, and your looks, for now, but nobody cares anymore. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, the CDs, the biographies and memoirs and photo-albums, the dress-up dollies . . . However extraordinary you may once have been, you have now been normalised. The quirkiness that once excited so much interest has become a tired cliché . . . It’s time to change the brand! Be dangerous again, unpredictable . . . go crazy, murder your mother, no, scrap that one . . . but do something utterly unexpected and out of character. I can get the cameras there. What happens next is up to you. But make it good. If you’re gonna maintain their interest it’ll have to be good. And you must be prepared to follow through . . . Think about it and get back to me.” And with that he turned to the side, picked up the phone and dialled a number. “And make it soon. Every day you’re out of the scene makes it trickier. I’ll be hearing from you.” Then he turned his back entirely and began talking on the phone, making it clear that the meeting was over.
For the following week Amanda kept herself largely unobtainable only deigning to see Jamie briefly each morning for any updates, but alas, no press cuttings. It was as if the tap had suddenly been turned off; not even the smallest of drips leaking out to pool at the grungy bottom of the sink. Whilst Jamie got on with the job of running the company that was Amanda Palmer, its namesake sat and sulked and mused and brooded as only a gifted prima-donna ever could. But even she eventually tired of self-pity, and by day ten of anonymity her resolve was complete: she would have to become dangerous, unpredictable . . . She would sell her soul to Alasdair Filch. It was her only real option, or so she felt.
The next day they were back on the expensive chairs in Filch’s office. Amanda leant forward to sign the theatrically oversized contract on Filch’s desk. Filch himself was sat bolt upright, gently tapping the tips of his fingers together, barely able to disguise the look of glee in his eyes, though his mouth remained reassuringly sour. Jamie sat back in his chair, a slightly concerned look upon his face, as if he had the smallest of reservations about the proceedings.
“So,” declared Filch, “Welcome to the family.” And he snatched up the contract, briefly checked the signatures and then placed it in a draw. “Well, let’s get started then. I suggest we set about this with some degree of urgency. Let’s say Friday. Get yourself down to Butter in New York, you know, the club. Hilton
and Lohan will be there, and doubtless numerous other pap-hunters, has-beens and wannabes. Check out who’s around, choose the most popular girl you can find and create a few minor scenes with her during the night. Keep it down though, you wanna just set the pan on the hob, don’t let it boil over. Then, as you’re leaving, turn it into a cat-fight. Try to get the other girl to throw the first punch if you can, but if not no matter. I’ll see to it that the cameras are there; spread a few rumours or something . . . You just make it good, and believable . . . And make sure they get the pictures they want. Get your skirt ripped off or something if you can. But not boobs. We’re not ready for that yet . . . yes, keep them in reserve for now . . . But some kind of wardrobe malfunction could be good . . . I guarantee you double page spreads if you get it right. Excellent! Let’s meet again then on Monday at 11 to discuss the results.” And the meeting was over.
And so on Friday night Amanda found herself stalking celebrettes at Butter. She had easily overcome her initial reservations about the plan, and indeed Jamie’s, after all he was really just a minion; his opinion was only occasionally required, and even less frequently acknowledged. He was under strict instructions to wait by the exit and not to interfere under any circumstances. She was treating the evening as a piece of improvised theatre, and as such had entirely emotionally disconnected from the events she was about to instigate. Of course, being Amanda Palmer, Manda as the press liked to call her, she could approach anyone she liked without fear of cold shoulders. But who should she play? Who would make the best victim to her manipulations? Who was the most popular amongst this evening’s many celebrettes? . . . And then she saw her principle target. Madonna, Princess Madge herself. Perfect. So much to provoke her with. Her age alone would probably be enough. And it might mean she leaves earlier than some of the more youthful amongst her fellows. Yes, that would indeed be perfect, and she made her way towards the crowd of wannabes, wannabeseenwiths and other glamour-moths that surrounded Madonna. She elbowed her way through.
“Madge my dear, so good to see you, you look awesome!”
“Oh, Amanda, what fun.” And they did the whole French mock double kiss thing.
“No really, you look fantastic. I mean, look at the two of us. Who’d ever guess you were twice my age?” And so the baiting began. Over the following few hours Amanda truly discovered the bitch within; taught it all the subtle airs and graces, refined and nurtured it, then let it out into the world with the precision and elegant accuracy of a master. Indeed, so perfected were her jabs and spars that to report the details here would seem inappropriate lest it mar the memory of a once-great artist or inspire entirely the wrong kind of behaviour amongst the younger generation of lady readers. Ever dutiful, Jamie sat quietly near the exit, patiently watching from a distance, appalled at what he was seeing. At one point drinks were thrown, though none of the liquid concerned reached its intended target. Then, finally, at around 1:15am, Madonna and her entourage left with Amanda following closely behind.
As the door to the outside world swung open they were greeted with a torrential hail of flashes. Amanda seized her moment, shouting at Madonna:
“You ******* ****! You’d **** your ****** for ********!! ****** ******** *****!!!” She was correctly assuming that words don’t come out in photographs.
The insult hit its mark with all the pointed perfection of a beesting. Madonna reacted instinctively, swinging round and catching Amanda on the cheek with her fist. Amanda then responded by grabbing Madonna by the hair and the two engaged in a wrestling match during which Amanda somehow contrived to have her skirt ripped off. All the while they were screaming expletives at each other like angry chimpanzees. And then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Madonna was gone. Amanda suddenly became once again aware of the photographers and grabbed for her skirt, which was on the floor nearby. She was crying. She was happy. The cameras kept flashing.
The following Monday, at 11:04 am they were ushered into Filch’s office.
“Ah, Manda, do come in. Splendid work. You’ve seen the papers I assume?” He was almost grinning, though it came across as more of a grimace, and the boil on his nose had vividly yellowed.
Amanda had indeed read the papers. She had read the articles over and over, and drank up the pictures as if they were the elixir of life itself. Generally they were sympathetic towards her in their portrayal of the “incident”, but she didn’t really care what they were saying so long as it was about her. That was all that really mattered.
Filch held up a spread from the Boston Herald. “MADGE MAULS MANDA!” the headline declared, and there were four pictures: the first showing Madonna’s impressive right hook; the second and third of the pair of them locked in a vicious bear hug; and the last of Amanda, in tears, makeup streaked, trying to preserve what remained of her dignity whilst reaching down for her ripped off skirt.
“Oh yeah! It was fun,” she replied, and her face became one large grin. She took the seat closest to the desk, whilst Jamie meekly sat in the other chair, which had been moved some distance away, by the wall.
“And you certainly picked the right girl. She was delighted. Even sent me a thank you card.”
“What? She’s a client of yours too?”
“Oh they’re all my clients . . . Now! Next step. We have to move fast at this stage to build up momentum. Do you take any drugs?”
“No . . . well, other than the occasional bit of pot.”
“Hmmm. That’s not really . . . well we can keep it in reserve . . . Would you? Or pretend maybe? Would you care if the papers said you did?”
“Errr . . .”
“No. Wait. Got it. Perfect. The mystery just adds. We’ll check you into the Betty Ford Clinic. Just for a few days. Not make any comment why. Let them speculate. I’ll arrange your arrival for 2pm tomorrow. And don’t worry, they won’t treat you or anything. It’ll be like a five star holiday . . . You’ll love it. They’ll love it. The paper’s will love it. We’ll all love it.”
“So you work with them then? The Betty Ford Clinic?”
“No. Not with them. They’re also clients. They have a suite set up for situations like this. It’s good for them, it’s good for you, it’s good for me . . . we’re all happy! . . . I’ll call them now. And, naturally, let a few other people know too. See you next Monday then. Say midday . . . precisely, mind.” And once again Filch turned towards the phone and the meeting was over. As they left, both Amanda and Jamie noted that he had seemed unusually jolly on this occasion. Amanda took this to be a sign that things were going particularly well. Jamie, on the other hand, was just a little bit suspicious. However, knowing what all this meant to Amanda he chose not to air his concerns.
The Betty Ford Clinic was indeed, as promised, much like a five star hotel. Her suite was luxurious, self-contained and in an entirely separate building from the treatment blocks, which was something of a relief as Amanda most definitely did not wish to mix with the “addicts”. But most importantly, she had all the relevant papers and magazines delivered each morning, and thus spent much of the rest of the day lying on her bed drinking hot chocolate whilst flicking through the many pages, reading all about her stay and the various speculations that surrounded it; for in her brief period without publicity she had learnt to value it all the more. As Sunday evening loomed signalling the end of her stay, she displayed a clear reluctance to leave, only checking out at the very last minute. It had all been very refreshing; to be talked about without having to even do anything . . . Filch certainly seemed to know his business.
The next day, at precisely twelve o’clock, Amanda and Jamie were ushered once again into Filch’s office.
“Ah, Jamie, dear Jamie . . . I have a little job for you.” Jamie was somewhat surprised as this was the first time Filch had addressed him directly.
“Take this to the address on the front,” and he held out a large padded envelope. “It’s important . . . for Amanda.”
Jamie looked at Amanda and her eyebrows said �
�do it”, so he took the package and made for the door.
“Be quick mind. It’s rather time sensitive.”
Once Jamie had left Amanda noticed that there seemed to be only one chair on her side of the desk. She turned her attention to Filch. His nose had swollen up to almost twice its usual size and his lip bristles were coated in what she hoped was cappuccino foam.
“What was that all about?” she asked, hastily returning her thoughts to Jamie, before her disgust at his appearance showed.
“Oh, just a little insurance policy, to see he plays ball . . . You’re going to have to get of rid him you know. He has qualms, and in this business you can’t afford to have qualms . . .” and he let out a little chuckle of self-satisfaction. “Right, so, where were we? . . . oh yes, how was Betty Ford? Good, I hope.”
Amanda began excitedly gushing about her stay, though it was clear that Filch wasn’t listening.
“Well, we certainly generated a great deal of speculation,” Filch continued. “Now we deliver the payoff. The public does so love a fallen angel . . . the only question remains . . . what exactly is the nature of your fall?” He slowly chewed on the last sentence like a hard but delicious sweet toffee.
“Of course we can’t give it all away at once . . . we need to keep them guessing, but throw them a few scraps from the high table, a little something to keep up their interest . . . You ever been in any trouble?”
“What kind of trouble?”
“You know, with the law.”
“Not really. Got a few points on my license.”
“Hmmm . . . tell me, are you really committed to this? . . . I mean, just how far are you prepared to go?”
On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer Page 12
