“I deserved it. I deserved everything I got from you. I miss you though.”
“I ain't having you back,” Claire quickly replied.
“Oh I know. But even at Christmas. My folks were in the Caribbean and I had no-one to spend the festive time with. I ended up working at the soup kitchen our company helped to fund and then got teased about my First World Rich Boy Problems.” He did an impression of the young volunteers teasing him and Claire giggled.
“Did you really help out?”
“Yeah. Was there all day. Did cooking, cleaning, serving. And we didn't have a colour coordinated rota.”
Claire burst into laughter. “Yeah. I spent Christmas helping a young kid play the guitar. And having my parents lock the alcohol behind a door because they thought I was about to break in and get it!”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Silence followed. Both of them had something they wanted to say and neither of them could bring themselves to do it. Like two cowboys with loaded guns both pointing at each other, they were too scared to pull the trigger and too scared not to.
Claire broke the silence. “Thanks for the warning and the help in dealing with the press.”
“No problem. I'd like … if you want to … can we please at least be friends?” There was more silence as Claire took a deep breath.
“I'm not sure that's a great idea.” She confessed slowly.
“Yeah, silly idea,” Andre muttered. “Sorry.”
“No don't be.”
The awkward pause in their conversation was punctuated by a whooshing explosion above their heads that send coloured sparks across the night sky; they could see Ben and Jay streaking nearer the house and drinking spirits straight from the bottle as Jack looked on. “I better go,” Claire suggested. “It's cold out here and …”
Andre nodded, watching as Claire turned from the top of the step, and walk towards the house. “Wait! I know I've no right to anything but I am so sorry for what happened. So angry with myself what I did, and utterly devastated what I did to us and what I did to you. I know you will never trust me as a boyfriend but I'd want to be on good speaking terms with you …”
Claire turned to face him. “I'm seeing someone else.” Her voice was cold, and the tone monotonous.
“Really?” Andre muttered; his eyes fell to the floor. “Oh ….”
“No, I'm not. But that'll be what it'll be like. Every single time you see me with someone you’ll wonder. It’ll be worse when I have a new boyfriend as you'll be jealous and every time I'm with you my heart will say that I should take you back and my head is screaming no. I can't do that to you or to me. You haven't moved on, and to be honest, neither have I. To make us anything more than just acquaintances with complicated history would be inviting emotional turmoil. So no, Andre, I'm not seeing someone else. But you wouldn't be happy if I was.”
“I would …” She arched her eyebrow, but Andre couldn't see it in the half-light. Instead, he knew Claire was right and he reluctantly sighed. “OK. I admit, I probably wouldn't. But that's my issue not yours.”
“One day, maybe. But not now.”
“When?”
“I don't know.”
“Next year maybe?”
She laughed. “Nice try. But I don't know. When we can talk about relationships without hankering about the love that we lost.”
He watched from the shadows as she navigated her way past the flowerbeds and into the house. Morosely, she slumped on the breakfast bar. Paige passed her a glass of lemonade. “OK?”
“No. I need to do something.” Claire moaned. “Everything in my life is geared to remind me of my failures at the moment. My overdose causing my parents to put me on a lead and my failed relationship ensuring that I was publicly humiliated. Andre is still everywhere so I can’t forget it. Part of me doesn’t want to. Oh, and my failed attempt at making music by joining Nuclear Monkeys. They had a top twenty hit last week. What’s the point of me at the moment?”
“Make your own music,” Paige suggested. “Or go for a gap year and see the world. Or even go run one of our many businesses.”
Claire sighed in thought. “And what about you? I suppose you are going to have motherhood?”
“I want one last big thing before the baby comes. I'm told that they are quite the little time sinks and I might just have my hands full when the little one arrives. I was going to be in a sitcom but I got told that I was too demanding by asking that they don’t try and humiliate and parody naturism!”
Claire giggled. “What did you have in mind?”
“Have been asked to do a benefit gig next month for some local charity who have been affected by the evil slash 'n' burn policies of these cunts in Government. We'll raise some cash to fund families and so on.”
Claire nodded. “You and your free shows. I don’t suppose you’d need a guitarist?”
“Of course, but it’s only one night. I don’t suppose I can squeeze in an album before the baby arrives, but being on stage is so …”
They were interrupted by the drunken Lucinda stumbling into the kitchen. “You brother-in-law,” she said. “Went and said I had nice tits for a GILF. Can I slap the little fucker?”
“Don’t hold back,” Paige replied with a giggle. “I was thinking of doing it myself earlier. Save me a job.”
“Excellent,” she cried. She scowled at the two women. “What's this you’re talking about all glum for. Oh yeah, you're not boozing. Don't worry, I'll drink yours so you don't miss out.”
“I don't suppose a liver charity could be part of your benefit gig,” Claire joked.
Lucinda screwed up her face. “Another benefit gig? God, help me. Ok, I’ll only ever say this when I’m drunk.”
“Which is every night,” Paige quipped.
“Which is most nights,” Lucinda retorted. “I stay sober on Jeffrey’s birthday, as he died from liver cancer. April 19th every year. In memory of my third husband. Or fourth. Anyway, stop doing every benefit gig you get asked. People ask you because you always do them and never turn them down. Even when it’s not convenient. Soon the only place people will get to see Paige sing is shit talk shows and benefits. And you’ll end up turning into Bono.”
“Hell no!” Paige squealed. “We pay our taxes! I ain’t nothing like Bono.”
“You do end up doing a lot of benefit gigs though,” Claire said, as Leah entered the room and nodded towards Paige.
“Oh, you doing another one?” Leah asked.
“I got asked by a local charity,” Paige replied and exhaled sharply. “Because it’s fun being on stage, and I don’t have a tour to look forward to ‘cause we ain’t doing one and the only other idea we’ve had is sodding EuroSong. Which is a shite idea.”
“Why?” Leah asked.
Paige groaned. “I don't think we’ll win EuroSong. Too many people hate us to vote. Polarise opinion, they'd say. And …”
“EuroSong?” Lucinda cried. “Are you three really thinking of getting back together for EuroSong?” Claire hesitated for a moment and Lucinda drunkenly continued. “Wow guys! Genius idea!”
“What?” Paige squealed.
“C'mon on. The UK ain't won that for decades. And you'd be awesome. I love it!”
“Really? You think that? Are you that pissed, already? Jeez, Luci!”
“No, I think it’s a great idea too,” Leah said.
“How much have you had?” Paige snapped.
“And I think it’s a fantastic idea,” Claire said. “And I’ve not had a drop.”
Paige looked at the expressions on each of the three women in turn. “Fuck. I need a drink. You can’t be serious.”
Chapter LVIII
Hazel
“I'm still not sure about this.” Paige scowled as she slouched across the encompassing armchair, her legs draped over one arm rest, her back resting against the other. Jack had designed their cinema room when their house was refitted, and the room was dominated by an eight foot wide scr
een at the front of the long, rectangular space. Angled backwards were two rows of three arm chairs with by a long comfy sofa at the very back of room.
The chairs were black, covered with dark leather that was cold on Paige's skin; she had forgotten her fluffy towel that she normally placed over the cool furniture to sit on when their cinema room was used.
Jack looked at Claire; they occupied the space at the front of the room and next to their popcorn dispenser. His laptop was resting on his knees as he sat on the floor; his face illuminated by the feint glow of the screen in the half-light.
“It'll be fine,” Jack soothed and smirked at his girlfriend. “You get your own way on everything else,” he reminded her with the unspoken subtext. “At least hear us out on this one.”
Hazel held her sister’s hand in the seat; Paige paused, exhaled sharply and then berated her sister for not adhering to her naturist demands inside their media room. It was a cheap, if not uncommon, complaint she made about her sibling.
Lucinda sipped her tea, sitting behind the two sisters. Hazel smelt the unmistakably feint odour of alcohol from the seat behind, and shot their chief executive a sullen look. Lucinda didn't see it in the darkness.
“EuroSong,” Jack announced. He pressed a button on the palm sized remote control to dim the lights completely and the screen lit up behind him with the display from his laptop. “It’s been going for sixty years and consists of fifty European countries each submitting a song to be performed live at the venue of the last winner's choosing. This year it will be in Stockholm.”
Paige murmured discontent. Jack glanced up at her and she snarled. “It'll be cold in Norway. I might not be able to sing properly. Oh well, maybe next year if they hold it in the Mediterranean!”
“We are not asking you to sing in Norway,” Claire said to her friend. “As you should know as you’ve been there. Twice. Stockholm is the capital of Sweden,” Claire corrected her with a sly grin. “And the city is nowhere near the Norwegian border.”
“Indeed,” Jack continued, ignoring the scowl of his partner. “The UK is one of six countries who get an automatic bye into the final. Forty-four countries will be competing in the semi-finals for twenty places in the finals. This year they are conducting a public ballot-cum-judging panel vote to decide who gets to represent Britain. This will be on Saturday 6th February. In London. Which just for Paige, is another city not in Norway.”
“I haven't checked my diary.”
“You're free,” Jack told her and smiled at his errant girlfriend. “So far we’ve not seen that there are any confirmed acts who will be attempting to get the UK’s vote.”
“The website just says TBC under ‘candidate acts’,” Claire added. Jack pressed a button on his laptop and the screen flashed to a map of Europe. Claire rose to her feet and extended a cane. She pointed at the top half of the screen. “And just for Paige, Sweden is here.”
“Oi!” Paige squealed. “Objection remains. It’s still cold.”
“Anyway, there are complaints every year that there is bloc voting. This is true,” she continued and circled Britain and Ireland, before pointing at Malta. “Britain gets points every year from Ireland and Malta. As do the Scandinavian countries and the Eastern European bloc. Cyprus and Greece trade good scores too. But …” Jack pressed a button and a list of the previous winners flashed onto the screen. “… a good song always wins EuroSong.”
Paige burst into the laughter. “No. No-one takes it seriously. It's a joke. Look who we sent in previous years. Engelbert Humpledinck, Bonnie Tyler, Blue. I mean Blue. Seriously, guys.”
“Paige, that is the problem. The rest of Europe takes it seriously and we don't. And then we get highly dischuffed when they win and we don't. Take it seriously and …”
“But we will be a laughing stock,” Paige snapped unceremoniously.
Claire crossed her arms and sighed. “A long time ago, this really awkward red-haired fundamentalist quoted Ghandi at me. First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you and then you win.” Paige shrugged at her friend. “When we started the Bare Necessities, no-one took us seriously as artists, we were a naked gimmick. Then they laughed at us and condemned us, but people were listening to the music. And the whole thing about us just attracting people because there was naked singers disappeared when we got the most radio airplay for weeks 'cause who cares what the musicians are wearing, or not wearing, when all you can do is hear them and not see them. And then they fought us. The arrests, the establishment fighting us. But we won. We had three albums and three worldwide tours in the space of three years. We won.”
“And …”
“What I'm saying is, is that we're used to being laughed at, ignored, condemned, despised, argued with, fought against and generally being warriors. That's what we do. Hell, Paige, that’s what you spend your life doing. Our path in this industry and to fame and fortune has not come easily. We've had to fight every inch of the way, and do it with everyone laughing in our faces. So what does one more battle mean? So what, we have another chance to prove people wrong. You love doing that.”
Paige hummed; the call to her militant tendencies was appealing. “Maybe. OK, so we just pick a good song from our last album and give an epic performance. Miss Simmons and her band of travelling lunatics can probably do that.”
“Errr … no. There are rules.”
“What rules?”
“Well it has to be an original song and score. And it can't be any more than three minutes in length. The song can only be performed by six people or under, and that includes the dancers. And it can't be sexually explicit or prejudiced. And …”
Paige groaned, interrupting her boyfriend. “How many songs are three minutes or under? That’s stupid.”
“Ahhh, well,” Claire added. “When there are twenty-five countries, then if you limit them all to three minutes, then we'll get through them quicker than if you limit them to four minutes. Or five minutes.”
“Especially when most of them are crap,” Hazel interjected; Claire didn't disagree.
“I did some research,” Jack said, and the screen moved on to another Powerpoint slide. “… and winning songs have the following characteristics. The song is usually a duet or solo, but groups have won. Look at Lordi.”
“The Finnish rock band,” Paige swooned. “They were awesome.”
“Indeed. Should be a happy song in a major key with very mild or no political messages. A fast pace is good with a strong two-beat rhythm and a change of key for the final chorus.”
“Where did you find this?”
“Ahh, a professor wrote up his analysis on BBC for last year, and an old edition of Popbitch.”
Hazel whispered in her sister's ear. “The weekly e-mail that details all the trials and tribulations of the famous. You're often in it.”
Paige groaned. “So we are putting our reputation on the whims of a gossip newsletter and a professor?”
“Well no,” Jack said from his sitting position. “We need to get the vote first. Until then we aren’t staking anything.”
“Actually, don't you need a song first?” Lucinda asked. “I mean, it's EuroSong, isn't that the hardest part? To actually write a decent entry?”
Jack sighed; Lucinda had made an excellent point.
Chapter LIX
Paige
Jack and Paige squabbled; they argued over who should write their entry, before Hazel suggested that the group reconvenes in three days time, when both of the Bare Necessities songwriters could exhibit their work. The band could then democratically select a winner. Paige accepted this compromise, although only because she was certain of victory, and in the cold January rain she set up a pop-up tent in her garden so she could be “closer to nature” during the creative process.
She lay under the canvas; the algid rain splattered against her psychedelic tent as the songwriter licked the end of the pencil in contemplation. Her legs protruded through the flaps of the temporary structure as her
mind worked through a dozen musical permutations.
She had taken the instructions from Claire and then discarded them for two key reasons. One, they were a self-fulfilling prophecy. If every entrant adopted those rules then every song would fulfil the criteria outlined by Claire and the aforementioned professor. Then, every year the trend would get stronger. More winners would follow his blueprint, and therefore it would become an established correlation that the rules equalled success, but only because the option to select a winner that didn't adhere to the specified characteristics wouldn't exist as there wouldn't be any music submitted to EuroSong that didn't meet the contentious criteria.
Jack dismissed her argument. Paige didn't expect him to accept it. The other reason that she was so vehemently against adopting the blueprint for their song was because The Bare Necessities were rebels. Or Paige was. She saw herself as a musical Che Guevara who fought against the established order.
If The Bare Necessities meekly accepted that a EuroSong entry had to follow a specific pattern then they were sheep, and Paige was anything but a follower. She wanted to have a free-flowing upbeat song in a minor key without a key change.
Jack, on the other hand, was happily sat hunched over his desk, pencil in one hand and MIDI screen at another. He had the “golden rules” printed and tacked to the wall as reminders of the key components that his music must follow.
Paige and him had bickered over them before parting to each write a song, and Jack was determined that his entry must adhere to Claire's golden rules.
There was a competitive streak to them both; their last two albums had a near 50/50 split containing songs that Paige had written, and those Jack had written. While Paige favoured contentious political lyrics or emotional songs with naturist overtones, Jack was less controversial and neutral over his words. Paige tended to add far more dramatic key changes and powerful beats compared to his softer songs and mellower tones.
In truth, their music worked well together. They dovetailed elegantly in the albums and a powerful beat was a stronger noise when set against a slower, melodious harmony in the previous track.
Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities) Page 25
