Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities)

by John David Harding

  Paige looked at her designer watch and snorted. “The train was late.”

  “Liar,” he said accusingly. “You forget how long I’ve known you.”

  “She ignored the comment, and ordered a drink from the barista. They exchanged pleasantries and Paige spent half-an-hour explaining what she was, and was not, doing with her life.

  Danny's life, and especially his love life, was complicated enough to warrant another half-an-hour and a further coffee. Paige expressed her usual disapproval and sympathy for his poor relationship choices, before the chatter lulled.

  “Who's your agent now?” He asked.

  Paige shrugged. “Andre technically. We had a notice period so that although we've sacked him, he can still claim a percentage of our earnings and we can’t sign with anyone else. We've got a weird situation …”

  “… an impasse?”

  “Yeah, that as well,” the red-haired singer dismissed. She smiled. “I ain't had too much work anyway. Worked on a couple of duets in recording studios, and done game shows but I'm sort of waiting for the notice period to pass before I release a solo album.” He cocked his eyebrows. “Oh, that and the fact that I haven't written my solo album. Or recorded it. But apart from that, it's just the legal bullshit as to why I haven't released it!”

  “Little things.” Danny leant back on his chair and rubbed his nose. “There was a little reason why I wanted to see you.” His eyes narrowed and he bit his lip. “I'm working with Big Talent Productions,” he confessed. “And we're making a sitcom for Channel 4 called In the Bluff.” He pulled a thick folder from his bag and put it on the table. “It's a working title. But it's a Fierce Creatures meets Hi-de-Hi in a naturist camp.”

  “And … you want me to review the script for accuracy and then ignore all my comments in the name of comedy.”

  “I wouldn't disregard your comments.”

  “Eighty-three percent of 175,” Paige retorted. “Year 5 Maths.”

  He smiled at her; it was her usual reply to such statements and the memories of two eleven year-olds squabbling over some numeracy was warmly comforting to them both.

  “I want you … well the casting director would like you to try out for the part of Violet.” Paige glanced up from the red folder. “I know. It's acting, but hear me out. The story is this family inheriting their father's business empire. And the youngest son is left the naturist colony which none of the children knew he owned and it's the story of Martin getting to grips with running the place.”

  “I've never been to a naturist campsite which resembles Hi-de-Hi.”

  He sighed. “It’s not finished yet. They don’t like Episode 5 and we are only at a draft stage, but we think it's going to be pretty good. And Violet is the youngest daughter of the woman who runs it. And the love interest for Martin, the lead character. We are shooting in May, June and July, so we can arrange to brush up on your acting, but you used to love doing the school play and there are loads of singers who cross over into over entertainments. And finding actors and actresses who want to do naturist scenes is really difficult. It'll be natural for you. Being naked around cameramen and other people.”

  She smiled, tapping her fingers on the red folder. “OK,” she muttered. “I'll think about it.”

  “You’re not planning on doing anything else, are you?” He joked, but Paige wasn't.

  Chapter VIII

  Paige & Claire

  “He’s what?” Paige’s eyes widened as she sat opposite her friend, getting dressed in the small Ibiza bedroom.

  “An obsessive fan. I mean, proper went half-way ‘round the world to see us. Went to so many gigs. He spent the entire time telling me how good I was, how amazing I was, how beautiful I was, how smart I was and so on.”

  “So when’s the second date?”

  “There isn’t one. I played the guitar with him for an hour or two,” Claire admitted, ignoring the evening of drink, guitar playing and casual sex with Emit. “But there’ll be no second date.”

  “Why? This guy loves you already. He sounds like he’d do anything for you.”

  “And that’s the point. You think I want someone being my slave and doing whatever I want and not caring about themselves.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Well not to me. Andre and I were equals. We both earned lots of money and acted as equals. We had a monthly rota of who cooked on what day, and who had to do the clothes washing and ironing and so on. We lived as equals.”

  “A rota?” Paige asked incredulously.

  “A month in advance, obviously. So we could plan. Don’t you have that?” Paige shook her head as Claire shrugged. “Well sometimes I would cook even though it wasn’t my day to cook as a treat.”

  “Oh you rebel, you didn’t?” Paige teased. “That’s just sheer craziness.” Claire snorted and spun in her short white dress.

  “Is this OK for Ibiza clubbing?”

  “Sure,” Paige replied aimlessly and glanced at her crumpled red dress on the bed, making little attempt to have it adorning her body. “So what happens next?”

  “I’m going to live a little. Go wild. You said to play the field a bit so I will.”

  “I told you to spend more time naked, live a little and enjoy yourself. Just don’t do something stupid,” Paige muttered as she lay on the single bed, facing the ceiling.

  “Says the girl who’s been arrested, how many times?”

  “A couple,” Paige replied, airily. “I’m from South London. You expect a few tugs from the rozzers when you grow up ‘round our way.”

  “If you don’t get dressed, you’ll get arrested if you go out tonight.”

  “In Ibiza? I doubt it,” she replied and reluctantly grabbed the screwed-up garment before sitting up and slipping it over her head and pushing it down to her thighs.

  Hazel’s hen party started at the exclusive villa with shots of spirits and glasses of weird cocktails; none of the women present knew how to make the recipes but poured intensely vivid liquid into jugs to make dazzlingly alcoholic beverages.

  When they’d finished their bottles of spirits, the dozen inebriated women staggered into the bars and clubs of the Spanish resort, open to party animals for drunken revelry and debauchery.

  They blended into the mass of European visitors: a desperate mixture of bibulous men and women falling in and out of the clubs. Paige returned to the villa with Hazel and two of her friends at 1am; her sister was too befuddled to understand the world around her and Paige tucked the young bride into bed with a bucket by her side.

  “She OK?” Her friend asked.

  “She’ll be fine,” Paige muttered, taking a glass of wine onto the balcony and slouching in the chair. The hum of the partying streets carried through the cloudless night and Paige took in lungfuls of the night time air, throwing her designer dress over balcony to bathe in the gentle zephyrs cascading over her.

  “Are you always naked?” The voice asked.

  “Pretty much,” Paige answered, stretching in the chair and closing her eyes to feel the cool rush of the wind on her skin. “When I can. It’s … heaven. Sheer heaven. I don’t like clothes.”

  The voice replied, but Paige was only listening to the cacophony of partying below her. Her imagination sizzled with images; her body sliding into a hyper-relaxed state of dreams and sleep.

  Paige woke with a jolt when a bird landed on her hand and the wine glass slipped onto the floor with a crash. “Fuck,” she squealed, shivering in the cold, morning air. The Sun waved at her from behind a cloud and the bare woman opened the patio doors to walk into the villa. “Hi,” Paige murmured at a couple of Hazel’s friends talking in the kitchen, buttering some toast. “What time is it?”

  “Eight thirty.”

  “Christ. I slept on the balcony all night. I’m going to get some sleep in my bed,” she moaned.

  “Ummm... Claire’s brought someone back,” the voice tentatively told her as Paige took another step towards her bedroom.

  �
�Well actually it was two guys,” the other friend added. “She was desperate to pull someone at the club.”

  “I’ll leave them to it. Have you got any toast left?”

  They nodded. “Then let’s have some. And then I’m having a very warm shower. My limbs feel like cold stone statues.”

  * * *

  The naked girl groaned, stretching her tired muscles on the bed as her body stirred itself from slumber. Warm sunlight bathed the ornate bedroom from the window with a bright orange glow and drew huge shadows over the three naked bodies.

  Cliare’s fingers slid over the exposed skin of another. Her eyes widened immediately as the mystery person returned her fleeting touch. “Err, hello?”

  His fingers tapped across her bare torso, his expression warm and inviting. “Hiya babe.” Her gaze followed the creased mass of cotton sheets, eyeing his hirsute body and slender frame. His fingers twisted between her thighs, caressing the young lady’s skin and pushing his hand closer to her intimate areas.

  “Please don’t,” she groaned, pushing his hand away with her left hand as she rubbed the bridge of her nose with her right. “Fuck, that hurts.”

  “Tired after last night?” He laughed as he sat up in the bed. “You were a fucking animal, babe!” Claire reached for an abandoned T-Shirt on the floor and covered herself before getting out of the bed, and tripped over another man sleeping on a blanket. “Mind Justin.”

  Claire stumbled against the wall, falling into the well-lit villa corridor with a groan. She felt her way along the wall before stumbling into the kitchen.“What the fuck happened last night?” She asked two person-shaped blurs at the table as she reached for a glass of water.

  Paige glanced at the dishevelled woman: her hair frizzy and ruffled, her make-up smudged and with streaks across her face and her eyes streaming. Her legs had bruises her arms criss-crossed with scratches. “You OK?”

  “No, I’m dead. Is that Paige?” Claire’s eyes focused on the source of the concerned voice, as her friend guided her into a chair at the table. “Did I drink last night?”

  Hazel’s friend laughed, glancing at Paige. “You had lots to drink, danced until 2am, chatted up the stag party and insisted on bringing some home with you.”

  “Fuck!” Claire moaned, rubbing her breasts through the T-Shirt. “I ache everywhere.”

  “Said it was for that bastard Andre. Hope he’s worth it!”

  Claire slumped forward against the table, hitting her forehead on a place-mat. “I hate my life so much.”

  Paige shook her head, turning to face two smirking men in the doorway of their kitchen. “See what you’ve done,” Paige shouted.

  “Hey,” the muscular man objected. “We just wanted some fun and she was well up for it.”

  “She was trying to undress us in the nightclub,” his friend added.

  Claire spoke. “I remember that.”

  “Fuckin’ sling yer hook,” Paige gestured at the two half-dressed men, escorting Claire’s companions from the villa. Claire whined as Paige forced pint after pint of water into the recovering drunk, while watching the guitarist slowly sober up.

  Later that day, Claire went home from the evening bar with a surfer: she was making the most of her new-found freedom and “making up for lost time” as she called it, downing shots of vodka and lewdly flashing her body to any man who wanted to look.

  And there were many, many men and women eager to look and take photographs of the out-of-control young musician.

  “This won’t end well,” Paige mused. “This won’t end well at all.” But there was nothing she could do to stop it. Claire was an adult and refused all attempts at trying to moderate her wild, rampaging behaviour.

  Fortunately for everyone, Claire had to leave the party on the decadent island early. She had a prior commitment on Saturday, and had a pre-booked flight to arrive in Heathrow for lunchtime. Which meant Paige did have to see her friend imploding with vast quantities of alcohol on the Spanish party island any longer.

  Chapter IX

  Claire

  The dress was tight and short. The gold garment twinkled in the bright lights of the dressing room as the make-up artist hid the tired lines on Claire's face.

  The rehearsals, those that Claire had managed to attend, had gone poorly; the dress rehearsal earlier in the day had gone even worse. The make-up artist had hidden the bruises on her leg from that final practice but Claire was still sore from her ungainly falls.

  She was still feeling the after effects of the partying in Ibiza and excessive consumption of alcohol. Her throat still felt angrily raw from the vomiting the night before, like someone had rubbed the inside of her throat with sandpaper. Her bloodshot eyes could not disguise the fatigue.

  But now, Claire was in the limelight; in front of a Saturday night audience, she would be making her dancing début. She had to look the part; the costume was intricate and bright, flamboyant.

  The shoes had long heels and unnecessarily garish adornments. The dress squeezed her body tighter than a pair of latex gloves over large hands, and the sequinned garment stopped a few inches below her waist. Black fishnet stockings adorned her legs, showing the marks the make-up artist had failed to conceal

  Her outfit was a million miles from her comfort zone: she adored light fitting or even no clothing, flat shoes and a well-made guitar to do her entertaining. How had she allowed herself to be talked into the farcical television show?

  Andre’s last act before they split; a present to his ex-girlfriend was a spot on an entertainment show she didn’t really want to be in, and couldn’t find the motivation to do. She trusted him to know her; he wanted her to step outside of her realm.

  She remembered his spiel; she needed show the world her human side, and embrace new experiences. She needed to try new things. Claire trusted him and said yes to the invitation. Claire had believed that he knew her. She cursed him and herself now.

  The sound of the audience penetrated the studio, filling every backstage room and corridor. Excited cries and enthusiastic applause as the first live show started and each couple were introduced to the fevered crowd, walking onto the stage confidently.

  There was the retired sports stars unable to step out of the limelight, out of work soap stars desperate for attention, daytime telly stars wanting to increase their profile, the loveable radio celebrity who had never been on television and two musical acts who once had number one hits and were now living on back catalogue royalty sales and investments.

  Claire was one of the musical acts and was no longer troubling the upper echelons of the charts. At that point in time, the only reason why Claire was on television was to be a dancing pony for millions of people.

  She was the last act to perform. Eleven couples performed dances as various as the Cha Cha Cha, Rumba, Tango, Jive, Foxtrot, Samba, Paso Doble, Waltz and Salsa. Claire and her partner watched from the Green Room on the monitors and as the excited couples received lukewarm or cutting comments from the judges.

  But they looked excellent on the screen; hours of practice evidenced in their video segments had led to competent performances in front of the nation.

  Claire felt sick.

  She hadn't practised with her dance partner as much as the producer wanted. They had barely practised at all, and she had missed the last four days of practice. Claire had other things to do; anything else do. She had done the bare minimum her contract had demanded and not a twirl more.

  The call for her to take to the stage sent her legs to jelly. The wait while the pre-prepared video segment played was agonising. She took some deep breaths as she sat on the table and chairs positioned at the back of the stage and waited for Marian.

  Marian, in his dinner suit, poised for the music to start.

  The voiceover thundered into the hall - “Marian and his partner, Claire Baynes, will dance the Charleston.” Warm applause obscured the first few bars of the house band and the lights descended upon the two dancers.

  Marian's
quick feet brought him elegantly to her table and she held out her hand for the young man to take; he pulled her from her chair.

  Their dance was uncoordinated. Claire knew she was ungainly and ungraceful while she was on the stage, and it looked worse when they later watched the video of her performance. Her hand movements were never synchronised with Marian's, and the heel flicks were even less coordinated.

  At least she didn't lose her footing on the ridiculous heels to add to the multitude of bruises that littered her body. Their routine lacked any of the more adventurous moves other couples added to their performance and the bumbling woman stumbled through the 150 seconds of ungainly dance moves.

  The applause was muted; they had not wowed the crowd, and Claire panted as the host guided them towards the judges.

  “Uncoordinated. Dire. Your hands never moved with your feet. Your flicks weren't high enough.” Claire tuned out of the scathing comments from the judges, each taking their turns to dowse their efforts with icy cold water.

  “You had no rhythm which is not something musicians normally struggle with. You didn't look like you were enjoying yourself out there.” Claire smiled.

  “I'd rather have been in the band,” she joked. “I can do the guitar.”

  “You can't do the Charleston.”

  “Nerves,” Claire muttered, and shot an apologetic glance at her dance partner and they walked from the stage. The results were a formality; Claire was voted off the competition and many on social media labelled her performance the worst in the television show's history.

  She apologised to Marian, and with most of the evening behind her, she grumpily walked into the London night as she read the messages on her 'phone.

  Paige had wished her luck, as had hundreds of her friends and acquaintances. And one from Emit sent via the dating app. “Hope you're OK. Want to talk about it? Fancy a drink?”

  “No,” she responded. “Need several. Come round in an hour.”