“If I let you give a speech at my wedding, will you let me leave my lunch? I’m really not hungry.”
“You can’t go cycling on an empty stomach.”
“I’m not going cycling, remember? Ricky was … err … frightened of me falling off and hurting myself before the wedding.”
“Yeah, right! I’ve got the bodypaint and the bright blue wig and the sunglasses so you don’t have to appear as Hazel Simmons. So have some carbs and protein, go for a little cycle ride and you’ll improve the definition of your thighs and calves. And he’ll like that.”
“Can I just hold your clothes this afternoon. You know, while you exhibit yourself?”
“Sure,” Paige giggled. “But you’re still riding naked, whether you hold our clothes or not! You loved it last year. You know, when you were with Gavin.” The waitress put two drinks on the table and Paige put her fingers around her hot coffee. “And look at the weather. It’s bright sunshine now and the wind has died down. This is the last summer date on the calendar for our monthly cycle ride and it’s gonna be beautiful. Lucinda’s coming down too.”
Hazel wavered. “But I haven’t got a bike.”
“Borrow one. C’mon. Since Bare Necessities split, I’ve hardly seen you. All that work for Andre and spending time with Ricky.” Paige’s eyes narrowed. “You never did tell me how you two met.”
“Andre. You know he represents him. He had a bit of a meltdown one day, so we went to see him, and after it all calmed down, Ricky took me out to lunch and it just blossomed from there.”
“Just so quick,” Paige muttered. “Five months from first date to wedding reception. And so soon after that plumber too. Who was really soon after …you know what I am saying.” Paige sighed. “It’s just Jack and I have gone years from first date and we ain’t anywhere near a wedding reception.”
“Yeah well …” Hazel muttered. “I do things differently to you. We can’t all be like you.”
“Now, about this bike ride. I promise not to tell Ricky.”
“Will it shut you up?”
“Nothing can manage that!” Paige joked; the small café gave generous portions, and Hazel picked at her salad before Paige paid the bill.
Thirty minutes later they were standing in the centre of Regents Park; far away from the bustle of the other start points. A friend from a local pressure group had brought Paige’s bike in the back of his van and he lent Hazel a spare bicycle; decrepit and battered, the bright red ladies bike had hundreds of scratches, dents and marks.
It looked forlorn alongside the pristine vehicles Paige, Lucinda and their secretary now owned, until Paige swapped.
The picture of Paige with a battered bicycle was tweeted by Paige. It was retweeted by many, including an account on Twitter, run by a fan and dedicated to posting updates on Paige’s public activities. It came with a snide comment, ridiculing the state of the multi-millionaire’s vehicle. Paige had blocked “PaigeWatch” long ago, but the obsessive account was followed by millions of people. “Some people feel threatened by confident women,” was Jack's assessment of the account and after several arguments between Paige and the anonymous tweeter, she followed his advice and ignored the troll.
Paige watched with a smile as her sister disrobed and they became adorned with body painted slogans that eschewed the oil-dominated culture of society.
Paige passed her battered phone to a passer-by and all four of them posed for a photo beside a tree in the London park.
Secretly, Hazel hoped Ricky would never see that picture and know that it was her; he didn’t like it when she disobeyed him.
Chapter IV
Claire
The buxom girl laughed as the professional dancer pirouetted elaborately. His bright leotard clung to his body as he pirouetted gracefully before coming to rest with effortless ease.
“You. You do this next week!” The Russian gestured at the impressed guitarist, giggling in front of the two cameramen and award-winning dancer.
Marian was a former world champion; his legendary status within his own community of top dancers could provide him and his family with only a smattering of the income the television company could offer parading his talents in front of critical judges with unconvincing and uncommitted dance partners.
Claire Baynes was just the latest in a long list of celebrities that had adorned the prime-time television show over the past five years; all of whom had entered the competition with only a smattering of dancing ability and mostly with even less desire to learn.
The guitarist was no different; she made ambiguous promises to the camera and gave the audience what she thought they wanted to hear, but her promises of commitment and dedication to the show were empty.
It was a living for him and self-promotion for the celebrity, uncoordinated in her approach to his dance routine while he pretended to care about coercing and teaching her.
An hour after the cameras left the dance studio in the suburbs of London, Claire departed. They had filmed the segments required for the show and their unpracticed choreography would wait for another day; Claire had a prior engagement.
The black-haired woman hailed a minicab to take her to Central London. Her mobile phone pinged and beeped constantly during the ride. She responded to the text messages and e-mails, ignoring the Twitter messages.
The bar was expensive and exclusive. A mild nod of Claire's head towards the doorman gave her entry past the queue of people eager to get in, despite her shabby clothing. “You're late!”
Claire said nothing, catching the barman's attention with a wave of the head. “Same again for her, and I'll have my usual. Two of them.” The banknotes placed upon the bar paid for the drinks.
Lucinda stuffed her mobile phone away as Claire sat opposite her at the high table, wriggling on the stool. “How's the dancing?”
“Boring,” Claire admitted honestly. “Fuckin' boring. Don't know why I let myself get talked into it.”
“That's agents for you.”
Claire looked away as she slurped her cocktail on an empty stomach. Her eyes fell upon a couple of lads laughing by the jukebox and she made brief eye contact with them.
“I was dating the agent at the time. Bastard.”
Lucinda held her large glass of red wine aloft. “Well cheers. To Claire on Dancing Superstars. May your leotards not be wonky and your tangos not be terrible.”
“Not being terrible is all I need to aim for! I'm only doing it because talented people told 'em to fuck off! Eight hours a week commitment they promised me.”
“What dance is it this week?”
“Fuck me if I know,” Claire cried dismissively, downing the second cocktail and running her hands over her face. “I’m hitting the road in December with Nuclear Monkeys?”
“Oh, the ones with the weird songs and funny outfits?”
“Them the ones. They opened our gigs last year, pretty epically. Their guitarist quit so Ethan's asked if I want to do their UK tour with them. I said yes, so I need to have been voted off the dancing show by Week Nine. Although, looking at what Marian's got planned, I'll be lucky to be in the show by Week Two! And I ain't got time for Dancing Supertwats and band practice.” Lucinda nodded. “Be back in a mo.” She stumbled from her seat, walking to the long, empty bar that adorned one side of the nightclub. “That's good vodka there,” she said pointing towards the Finnish brand of three bottles. “How much for a bottle?”
“I'm sorry, but we sell per single or double, not …”
“You sell bottles of wine, how much for a bottle of vodka?”
“I'm sorry, but …”
Claire interrupted. “About 30 singles at a fiver each. That's … way too much Maths.” She pulled her purse from her pocket and counted £200 in notes on the bar. “Something like that. Now give me a bottle please. You can have the rest as a tip.” He hesitated, glancing for his supervisor. When he saw his boss was not within sight, he reached behind the open bottle of expensive spirit for the untouched bottle.
“This is a one-time only deal.”
“Best make it two bottles then,” she mused and counted another stack of notes on the bar. “I'm going to need ‘em.”
Claire stumbled back to the table. “Normally we have mixers,” Lucinda suggested.
“Don't be silly!” Claire unscrewed the vodka and drank straight from the bottle, “Heaven,” she screeched as the fiery liquid scorched her throat. “Absolute heaven!”
Which were not the words used as Claire's drunken photo appeared in the gossip column of a national newspaper a few days later.
Chapter V
Jack
Jack's car glided into the private car park, dark and dreary. The only illumination came from the distant street lights wearily punching harsh fluorescence through the rain, and the scarlet brake lights of other vehicles.
The rain battered on his car windscreen, thundering onto his executive sedan relentlessly. He straightened his tie in the mirror, slipped a mint into his mouth, pocketed his keys and stepped out into the stormy twilight.
The dim lights of the hall stood across the puddle-strewn tarmac and the founder member of the Bare Necessities ran through the rain storm towards the shelter the small gathering offered.
A large gentleman welcomed the international musician to the hall; medals of office glistened on the town mayor's scarlet jacket, matching the sparkling glint in his eyes. “Come Jack,” he bellowed, embracing the young man with deep affection. “Come in.”
The statuesque man was a giant, in more ways than one. A large frame was appended by a rotund disposition, giving him a Hagrid-style appearance, without the shaggy hair. He possessed stature, drawing eyes and attention to his words and behaviour. Above all, he was a political giant: inside and outside of his own party. The town mayor for over a decade, and a councillor for considerably longer, Sir Hugh Roberts-Burgess dominated proceedings in the hall.
His warm-hearted embrace towards Jack was no surprise; Jack's father and the mayor had a generation of shared history, and the young musician counted the imposing figure as a family friend.
The hall was spartan, but functional. Bare brick was covered by a handful of dog-eared posters while two electric heaters bolted above the main door did little to warm the room, but plenty to raise the volume. The uneven wooden floor had seen a lifetime of use and the pitted grooves in the timber showed where feet and chairs had tattooed their presence.
It was the first of the hustings for the centre-right party to select a new candidate for the local ward, for a local by-election in November. The incumbent had died, and the ward was a safe seat. Whoever the local party activists chose as their candidate would be almost certain to win the election.
The post came with little monetary reward, but Jack had warmed to some of Paige's “causes of principle.” She performed at benefit causes for pro-naturism, anti-censorship and, often, anti-Government rallies. She donated money to legal challenges and became embroiled with political activism.
He may have disagreed with some of her ideologies, but it awakened political ambitions in him and his fortune allowed him to offer his time without the need to be recompensed.
It was the first rung on the political ladder; it enabled him to seek political office and start to network within the party. Their MP had made noises about retiring at the general election in 2020, and local politics gave him the opportunity to be in a position to be considered as a candidate in the national elections.
His opponents for the nomination, to be decided in four weeks time, were Lucy Reynolds, a lawyer, and the Ian Westley, the husband of another councillor.
They were both in their thirties; they both had long memberships of the political party and appealed to opposing sides of the activists. He'd done his homework.
Ian Westley was the husband of the deputy leader on the Council and possessed a moderate viewpoint. He spoke softly and wasn't a natural orator, but his profile was boosted by the success of his wife.
Lucy Reynolds was, to Jack, a far bigger threat. Her work on court cases opposing legal challenges to the Government on immigration and spending cuts had made her popular with the grassroots. She worked for a law firm that had been employed to oppose the campaigns Paige had funded. She was sharp and confident and in her bright, smart outfit dominated attention.
Jack mingled with the grassroots activists; shaking their hands and conversing as he discussed politics with the political membership. He listened to their concerns, agreed with them on local issues and spoke passionately about his love of the local borough which had been his birthplace.
Finally, the mayor's voice thundered across the hall, causing the chipped porcelain to rattle on the table and silence to fall across the hundred-strong gathering. It was time for the husting.
Jack took his position on the stage, sitting behind the microphone with the other two candidates, as a dozen rows of chairs were hastily assembled. His hands trembled slightly. He'd not felt nervous in front of an audience for years.
The Mayor gave a rambling speech, his voice bellowing in the small hall and echoing around the ceiling void as the speakers distorted his booming voice. The rain pattered angrily on the door and the windows, an unrelenting beat to the event.
Finally, after almost half-an-hour of ranting monologue, the candidates were given a minute to introduce themselves before the questions began. Jack was closest to the microphone and went first, recalling from memory the speech he had written.
“Evening. I'm Jack Rees-Montague and I'd like to be your candidate for this ward. I've tasted success before as a musician and I've toured the world. I've stayed in big hotels in New York and palaces in Africa. I've slept by the side of waterfalls and watched the sun rise to our music in the Caribbean. But this city is my home and this borough is my birthplace. It's here, and these streets that I come back to. I do that not because I have to as I can live anywhere, but because I want to.”
“To that end, we've funded music tuition within this borough and we've played benefit gigs a few miles from this spot. We helped save the local hospital when it was threatened with closure. We employ people as we invested in the local brewery and in the Rees-Montague factory. I care deeply about Purley, about Croydon and about London and that's why I would make a good candidate.”
He got respectful applause; no louder or more enthusiastic than the other candidates, but respect none the less.
The questions were pointed; did he believe in everything Paige did? How much time could he genuinely allow for Council business? How could he represent the borough when he actually now lived on the other side of the Council boundary, in the wealthy countryside, a few miles away? How could the multi-millionaire identify with the struggles of ordinary people?
The answers from other candidates played on his weaknesses too: they made reference to his naturism and his girlfriend's sabre-rattling. They inferred drug-taking and debauchery and hinted at his inexperience.
There was no knock-out blow to his chances, but the battle for the party candidate for the ward was fierce. If he thought his media profile would give him an advantage, he was mistaken and if he didn't understand the scale of his challenge before the husting, he certainly knew afterwards.
Chapter VI
Claire
“If you say that again, I'm going to flatten you!” Claire's robust response to Paige over a lunch to a mild suggestion the young singer had made, turned heads in the eatery. “I do not need to spend more time naked!”
They were already the cause of muted whisperings and clandestine photographs; her vociferous outbursts ensured she didn't blend into the upmarket bistro. “Works for me when I'm feeling frustrated.”
“I am not feeling frustrated. Just bored.” Her exasperation was clear. “I have a dancing show I'm no good at and can't do. I have a band who insist on long practices and there's some paparazzi who won't leave me alone. I just want to get out and enjoy myself.”
“You did that Monday night,” Paige teased. “A
nd it got you onto the gossip pages today! Jack showed me.”
Claire shrugged. “So what? I was in a band practice with Nuclear fucking Monkeys yesterday. All day. It was relentless. Did we ever practice that much?”
Paige nodded. “I think so. You two talentless fools couldn't just rely on my natural brilliance so you had to get lots of practice in!” Claire sniggered at her friend. “Jack saw Andre the other day and …”
“I'm not interested.” Her voice became firm and uncompromising.
“He said he asked after you. Jack asked me to pass onto …”
“I don't care,” she snapped, louder than before. “It’s over. I really don’t want to talk about him and I’d really love him to stop messaging me asking for a chat like we are old friends. You can tell him that.”
Paige put her fork down on her plate with a clatter. “I don’t talk to him any more. You know that. It’s just Jack who can stand him. And Hazel obviously. She keeps telling me he’s not the complete bastard I say he is. But I’ll tell one of those to tell him to stop. And you need to find yourself a new boyfriend. Move on.”
“Perhaps I already have,” she countered, wrapping her fingers around the end of her hair. “Perhaps I just don't want to tell the world!”
“Not likely. Jack reads the newspapers and he'd have told me if you'd been spotted on the gossip pages.” Claire giggled. “I know, he reads them every day. He says it's the best way of finding out what shenanigans I've been up to!”
“You? In trouble? Never!”
“Hey, I've not been arrested for almost a year now. Paris in October last year was the last time.”
“Really?”
“Yep!”
Claire leant back in the chair. “Well I've not been arrested either.”
“If you are free tonight, I have a ticket for Wembley,” Paige offered.
Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities) Page 3
