Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities)

by John David Harding

  Jack surveyed the instructions again; he was certainly at a mild disadvantage. While all of his music was made in “happy mood” and there were little “political references” in his lyrics, preferring messages of “love,” the rest of the guidelines were more Paige's forte than his own. After all, she loved fast-paced songs that oozed with two-beat rhythms and comic or dramatic gestures.

  His blank piece of paper began to take the form of a love song to a lady who was carrying his baby. The question of marriage, the devotion to her and the tolerance he showed.

  Jack was writing a three-minute marriage proposal.

  Meanwhile, Paige's wet and naked bottom wriggled in time with the tune in her head. Fierce, angry lyrics about the Syrian refugees with a loud, rhythm-heavy baseline and an antagonistic chorus filled the blank white paper.

  Chapter LX

  Claire

  Lucinda relaxed on the “sun” terrace of her nephew's property. The sun hovered weakly in the sky, lightening if not warming the air. It was a fresh, and dry January day contrasting with the wet and wild day previous. Lucinda's own property didn't command such a panoramic view over the neighbouring countryside like Jack's did, and she took advantage of the spectacular views whenever she stayed.

  The terrace was spartan; the top of the mansion was accessible from the stairs and the patio area was about a few hundred feet square. The waist high railings shielded the three storey drop from visitors to the terrace, and the sun trap was surrounded by a handful of plants in big ceramic pots and four metal chairs.

  She stretched, lounging in one of the deep, wrought-iron loungers and sipped the fragrant tea from a delicate bone china cup. Jack had joined her briefly, before he slinked away to his recording studio to continue working on his track. He was adapting an unrecorded song, written for their previous album, into the three minutes EuroSong demanded. From his recording studio’s window, he could see the peachy behind of his girlfriend, poking from the kaleidoscopic colours which made up Paige's tent; it was the most colourful thing in her winter garden.

  In the Summer, Paige's garden was a riot of colour thanks to their gardener. The thousands of flowers lit up her patch of greenery like a South American carnival and it was an orgasm to the nasal senses. In winter though, the reds, yellows, blues and pinks had been replaced by dull browns and a dark greens. Thus, Paige's two-man tent was the brightest item on the immaculate lawn.

  The door rattled. Lucinda turned to watch Claire take a seat adjacent to her. She slumped in the seat, idly picking at her phone and sullenly looking at the horizon.

  “My dear,” Lucinda soothed, wiping the hair from the young lady's fringe. “What can I do for you?”

  “Nuttin',” Claire muttered. “Just bored.” She looked at Lucinda, resplendent in her dressing gown and sighed. “Jack and Paige are writing the tracks again and there is nothing for me to do. Hazel phoned the BBC yesterday and is talking to producers today and wants no help. Asking Jack or Paige if they want any help is like asking wild lions if they would like any assistance devouring that dead hyena. There's nothing for me to do!”

  “You could …”

  “Andre suggested that,” Claire answered. “If it’s what I think it is. I got so bored yesterday, I even messaged the utter bastard.”

  Lucinda smiled. “You must have been desperate. What did he say?”

  “He said he could take me out to lunch if I wanted. I didn’t. Well I did, but I didn’t. Then he said he’d come out to Surrey for a walk with me but I said no.”

  “Well, I was going to say you could take your Aunty Luci to the pub for lunch.”

  Claire smiled. “Pub?”

  “I'm sure you can handle with being in the same property as the hard stuff. I mean, I tucked away a few bottles of juice over the New Year fun and games and you were OK.”

  “No, it's just …”

  “C'mon. You were always the most fun of the band,” Lucinda chuckled, rising from the seat. “You were always the one who remembered that I'm undergoing a liver pickling experiment and needed to be topped up with local spirits. What was that clear stuff from Iceland?”

  “Brennevin,” Claire replied instantly. “They call it Black Death in Reykjavik.”

  “Why?”

  “No idea,” Claire replied.

  “Damn good stuff. It was like Satan had decided to make a spirit for the Hells Angels and accidentally let a Viking warlord oversee the distilling process. When you go next, please pick me up some.”

  “We’ll pick you a bottle, if we go back to Iceland,” Claire promised.

  “Just a bottle? You disappoint me! Now come on. I suggest you get dressed before we go to the pub. We are leaving in two minutes so you might want to get out of those pyjamas. Or maybe not, that’s very fashionable now, isn’t it?”

  Claire sighed. “OK. I’ll come with you! Only ‘cause I want to get out of this prison.” She gracelessly replied. Thirty minutes later two, dressed and vaguely well-presented, ladies sat in the corner of the village inn. Lucinda perused the menu and called the young waitress to the table.

  Since the day Jack and Paige had purchased their house, Lucinda had become a regular visitor to the pub. She knew Mary by sight and chatted to the landlord's youngest daughter, making the black-haired teenager giggle mischievously through mild-mannered teasing and lewd comments.

  Claire found it hard to concentrate on the menu with the two women giggling beside her. Lucinda asked after Mary's boyfriend and her parents; making idle chatter with the waitress while Claire surveyed the cardboard in front of her.

  “Bottle of the usual,” Lucinda ordered. “And my usual lamb hotpot.” Claire glared at her causing Lucinda to shrug. “I'll only have the one.”

  “What? Hotpot or bottle of wine?” Lucinda fleured, rubbing her eyes as Claire placed her order.

  “So, why aren't you writing your entry into EuroSong for Bare Necessities?”

  Claire shrugged. “I don't write music,” she muttered. “You know that.”

  “I know that every single album you'd write one or two songs that you'd put together and you'd get drowned out by Paige and Jack squabbling and arguing.” Claire nodded. “And so, you’d never get a look in.”

  “Either way, I don't have the experience.”

  “Or maybe you do.” Lucinda's voice was firm and unwavering. “Maybe you're the best songwriter this side of a John Lennon reincarnation but you never get to have your music aired to show the world.” She flicked her hair behind her ears.

  “Weren’t there rumours about the Beatles that Paul and John fought about their music. That's like Paige and Jack. The Simmons-Rees Montague pairing writes almost of all of our songs. I'm more George Harrison.”

  Lucinda laughed. “Here comes the Sun.”

  Claire looked around her. “What Sun?”

  Lucinda laughed louder, causing a few heads to turn towards her. “The Beatles track, here comes the sun.” She sang a few verses with a broad smile. “I loved it as a child. Here comes the sun, and I say it's all right.”

  Claire scowled, not understanding what Lucinda was inferring. “Beatles are not my era.”

  “Hey, they ain’t mine either.” The older woman sighed. “But it was written by George Harrison. Only for you, it should be Here Comes the Song.” She chuckled at her own joke. “Write one. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “I’m not sure …”

  “Claire, do you want to be bored this afternoon and all day tomorrow until we have the press conference Hazel is organising and then the choosing of the song?”

  “I've written a few but they never get past Jack or Paige.”

  “But they aren’t choosing. We all are. Hazel is putting together a panel of our friends to choose.”

  “But Jack and Paige are very talented.”

  “Single-minded though. Very single-minded. Although geniuses often are.” Claire didn't respond. “I’m going to bet Jack has deliberately adhered to every one of those rules and Pa
ige has deliberately avoided them all. I bet Jack will write a beautiful ballad and Paige will write an anarchist anthem. They are amazingly talented but they need to work together so they can tone down and even out each other’s excesses.”

  “So what you are saying is that this is a pointless exercise,” Claire replied.

  “No. I think it needs the moderating influence of Claire Baynes. And even if it doesn’t, instead of moping and being bored, why not write something?”

  Claire groaned. “Because, I'm not sure I can. Or I want to.”

  “Go on,” Lucinda begged. “Just try … for the Aunty Luci.”

  Claire saw the waitress out of the corner of her eye place a bottle of wine on the table and a single wine glass in front of her companion. “OK. On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “You stay as teetotal as me until we choose our entry.” Lucinda’s smile dropped from her face.

  “Teetotal? Stay off the wine.”

  Claire laughed. “I mean wine, gin, beer, cider, stout, vodka, rum, schnapps, Black Death, cocktails, whisky, bourbon. Anything with an alcohol content.”

  Lucinda shook her head, and gulped. She wagged her finger at the smirking lady in front of her. “You. You’re a bloody sadist you are.” She looked around the pub and pointed to the waitress’s brother in the corner of the eatery with his girlfriend. “Please take this beautiful, gorgeous, delightful red to Luke. And please can I have a coffee.”

  Claire raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Yeah. And if you don’t deliver something as beautiful, gorgeous and delightful as the wine I’ve just foregone in 48 hours time, I will put itching powder in your knickers.”

  Chapter LXI

  Jack

  The news conference was busy but there were a handful of empty seats in the venue, unlike their last announcement. That day, they had taken over the biggest media room in the city and still had broadcasters who had wanted to cover the event but could not be squeezed into the room.

  Jack remembered that day well; the venue was a spectacular neo-classical building. The sense of relief, tinged with disappointment, that he felt from the moment he woke that day, was a new experience. Unable to feel excited or happy he just had a smooth sense of calmness that the manic lifestyle which had gripped them for three years was pausing. For three years they all had the green light; from that day, life was on amber.

  This time, he was waiting for the green signal again. He knew what being in the public eye meant. He knew the lifestyle he was re-adopting.

  The conference bustled and the voices chattered; the upmarket hotel had rented the band their banquetting suite and two, slightly nervous musicians waited at the front of the hall, sat on the chairs.

  Paige joked with a friend in the front row; the lady from a musical publication who had once interviewed her was involved in deep discussion with the musical star sat on the adjacent chair. Paige was like that: meet her once and then either a friend or foe for life.

  Jack smiled but read through his notes. To their left sat Hazel. She looked the picture of professionalism in her pale business suit. All the major networks and musical publications had sent representatives, and Hazel had performed an admirable job in gathering together a suitable press release.

  The Bare Necessities still garnered plenty of attention. Jack sat on the podium, hiding most of his nudity. Paige wandered between the invitees; she always did at their news conferences.

  Jack used to joke that their news conferences never started on time, because Paige had never picked her way through the throngs of journalists. Many of the hacks knew Paige well and she wandered amongst them as they milled about the room before the appointed 1pm conference.

  “Paige,” Jack hissed as she discussed waxing with a female journalist. They giggled. “Paige!”

  She muttered, stepping away and walking alongside the wall to the front of the stage

  “We have one thing to announce,” Jack said into his microphone; the cameras focused on him as Paige manoeuvred herself to sit down beside him and the designated spokesman continued. “We, the Bare Necessities, are coming back together for a single purpose. We are going to enter the BBC EuroSong contest with a view to representing the United Kingdom in the forthcoming EuroSong competition in Sweden.”

  Claire cleared her throat. “The forms went in yesterday to the BBC so we are just waiting to see if we will be selected as one of the finalists.” She smiled broadly; her eyes caught the sight of Lucinda beaming from the back of the room at the three naked band members.

  “Yeah, we've got this great song. One which we think ticks all the boxes.”

  “When are you releasing it?” A journalist asked; the bright lights of the flashes illuminated the room around them.

  “We will be singing it live at The Song for Europe …”

  “… if we are chosen as a finalist,” Jack added. “So, to the thousands and thousands of letters after we split up, the Bare Necessities are back, hoping to do the country proud.”

  Hazel smiled. “We should add, that the band has no plans to reform. The song will not be released if we are not selected for The Song for Europe. This is a one-off.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “This isn’t us reforming. We just want to represent the country.”

  “Let’s hope the BBC selects us as a finalist,” Paige added, and smiled at her sister. Hazel hoped to encourage their fan-base to pressurise the BBC into including them as a contestant; the band just had to wait and see if their fans really wanted to see them back together and competing at EuroSong.

  Otherwise, all their efforts in writing a song would be in vain.

  Chapter LXII

  Anonymous Lady

  He recognised her.

  He couldn’t remember where from but the woman seemed familiar. She sat on the low wall at the back of the recording studio car park as Ricky sauntered towards the lithe woman.

  She had been fantastically coy. She had left a message with the studio reception that she would be in the car park to talk to Richard Nicholls, or else she would go to the newspapers, before following up her threat with an SMS message direct to Ricky’s phone.

  “What’s yo playin’ at, Missy?”

  The woman smiled and gestured at the man. “Remember me?” He shrugged. “Paris? Three months ago? Krug Clos du Mesnil in exchange for some underwear.” She licked her lips as the realisation that the anonymous dancer from his concerts in Paris was standing in the cold car park. “And then that night. And the following morning. And the night after.”

  He gulped. “Yo’ …”

  She tucked her hair behind her ears and gestured towards him. “So this is how it’s gonna work. I have a story the papers would love to see. Ricky Nicholls the adulterer, mouthing off ‘bout his wife and tellin’ the world some of his secrets. About how he threaten to drop people from his shows if they didn’t sleep with him. Or the admission when he was off his tits on Coke most of the time. Or that he once beat up a girl he was dating. Or maybe we could have that following night when he couldn’t get it up.”

  Ricky grunted, forcing his hands into fists and breathing deeply. “Yo’ fuckin’ sho’ me some respec’. I ain’t ‘ad no problems gettin’ it up.”

  “Ahh well. You see that’s my word against yours. But not to worry, some men have problems … down there. Have you tried Viagra?”

  “Fuck you, fuckin’ slut. Yo’ ain’t got fuckin’ nuttin’ and I ain’t …”

  The dancer coughed and took a small tablet computer from her inside pocket. She tapped the screen and passed it to him. “You see, I only got the first four hours of our sex. Such a shame ‘cause my secret camera – on my handbag by the way which had a great view of the bed on that antique dresser so please do thank the hotel for that – only has a limited amount of recording time.”

  Ricky roared as he saw the image on the screen, throwing the tablet onto the floor. “Yo’ bitch. Yo’ fuckin’ bitch.” He screamed, jumping on the black
slab of electronics and yelling at the young dancer. “Yo’ ain’ ruinin’ me. Yo’ ain’t …”

  “When you are quite finished,” she interrupted. “You’ll see by the way, that the tablet was one that I actually nicked from your show. And it’s got a copy of my video but there are many, many copies.” Ricky glared at the provocative lady. “And if you lay so much as a finger on me, I will press charges and the price doubles. And if you think I’d agree to meet you here without there being a camera around here recording you, you’re as dumb as I think you are.”

  He spun on his heels, staring around the small car park. Six foot fencing lined the tarmac, with a low wall at the back of the yard and a public footpath behind it.

  “Where?”

  “Need to know basis only.”

  “Where, bitch?”

  The dancer sighed. “OK. In two days time, I am going to meet you at your solicitors at 1pm. They are going to give me a bankers’ draft for two hundred thousand pounds.”

  “Yo’ can fuck off …”

  She ignored his outburst, speaking clearly and firmly. “This will pay for my University tuition and I will give them a copy of the footage. I will sign a document that is a Non-Disclosure Agreement and I will delete all other copies of this video. I will not discuss anything about our tryst with a journalist or anyone else. Do we have a deal?”

  “Fuck you!”

  She smiled. “Ahh well, I have an appointment with the Herald in an hour. I know exactly what I can say. You see, my video gets me a seat with the editor and shows you and I were intimate. The actual story I haven’t decided. How about you admitted to me your secret gay fantasies.”

  “Yo’ fuckin’ …”

  “You have my number. You have exactly one hour to tell me that the deal is on and you would like me to sign an NDA or else I will be at the Herald later. Do you think I could say you wore my knickers later in the evening? I mean, it was clear from the video that when I was undressed I wasn’t wearing them and you took them out of your pocket. Think the Herald readers would like to read that?”