“I don't have an aunt. Well not one we talk to. Do you mean Jack's aunt?”
“Yeah.”
“The free-spirited alcoholic tried to blackmail you into what?”
He scowled. “You know! You sent her to get me to vote for you.”
“You think you were blackmailed into supporting us?” Paige asked, disbelievingly. “Is that what you're saying?”
“Yes,” he snapped; he wiped his forehead and threw the CD onto the table in front of Paige. “But I'm not going to be blackmailed. She didn't get what she wanted.”
“What did she blackmail you with?” Jack asked. “Although I can guess.”
“My support for you tonight and Paige doesn’t sue me for my refugee article.”
Paige looked at Hazel and then Jack. “What refugee article?”
“The one where I supposedly broke the Race Discrimination Act and Refugee Relations or something want to sue me. And you’re going to fund them.”
“I wasn’t.”
His speech quickened. “You lie Paige. You lie. I have a good deal lined up and me being sued will kill it. I’ve done what you asked. And now leave me alone. As if you sue me, I’ll expose you as the cheaters you are.” He pointed at Paige, and looked at Jack. “If that bitch tries to take me down, I'll take you all down with me,” he snapped. Paige grabbed hold of his outstretched finger and twisted it, causing him to squeal in pain.
“We didn't send her, if she came at all. And I am not planning to sue you. Now, sling your fuckin' hook.” Paige released her grip and watched the ex-newspaper editor scurry from their presence. “What does he mean, if I take him down?”
“Paranoid,” Claire muttered, but Lucinda's actions had left a bad taste in Jack's mouth and she had given Peter Moran a weapon to use against them.
He snatched the CD and slung it on top of his bag. He would listen and speak to his aunt later. The encounter with the judge had soured the mood, and much of the elation was dampened by the revelation that Lucinda may have tried to cheat.
They were summoned to the stage with the bubblegum presenters who welcomed them with excited squeals. The dramatic music with strong beats started as the producers tried to create tension before the “big reveal” when the viewer vote was added to the celebrity vote.
Paige squeezed Jack's hand. Her fingers were shaking. The field was narrowed to the final two: the band stood opposite Ashleigh, trying hard to suppress their anxiety.
The dramatic pause filled the airwaves until the presenter squealed loudly, “The Bare Necessities!”
They embraced Ashleigh and then played out an encore of their winning song.
Paige, to everyones relief, was off to Sweden.
Chapter LXIX
Claire
Ten weeks of madness followed that night. Claire stayed for a few nights at a time at Paige and Jack's house as they interspersed rehearsals, set design, interviews, research and briefings from the BBC.
Paige had a couple of pregnancy scans; the foetus was growing at good rate, and she had her due date set as May 24th. The ultrasound was inconclusive when Paige asked about the gender of her child; it stubbornly refused to allow the ultrasound technician see between it’s legs.
This amused Jack greatly as he teased his girlfriend one the way home from the hospital. “Possible that your child may have more inhibitions than you!”
“Pah!” Paige snorted. “But if we don’t know the gender we’ll need to keep the nursery unisex. I have a Nursery Consultant coming so you’ll have to be around on Tuesday. And we need to talk nannies or au-pairs. I was thinking we could possibly pick up an au-pair in Stockholm while we’re there. Don’t the Swedes lead the way with au-pairs.”
“They may do.”
“And they are hardly going to care about naturism. Those Swedes are uninhibited as they come.”
Jack rolled his eyes at his partner. “We can talk about au-pairs, after we talk about marriage.” Paige groaned. “After all, if there’s naked strange women in my home then I should at least be married to one of them!”
“I’ve told you,” Paige barked. “After Stockholm. After baby. And then we’ll talk.”
“OK. It’s that my father was …”
“I don’t care what he says,” Paige barked. “Or Harriet. Or anyone. We will talk about marriage after I’ve stopped looking like a whale!”
“But you don’t and …”
“And while we are on it, will you stop saying that we haven’t decided where I’ll be giving birth. We have. It’s in that hospital. It’s about the only thing on my birthing plan.”
“But there’s a really excellent private …”
Jack stopped as Paige waved her finger at him; it was a sore point for him but Paige was insistent on using their local public hospital, much to Jack’s dismay.
They watched past EuroSong performances on a nightly basis; Paige objected strongly as they sat through hundreds of lacklustre performances, cheesy anthems and dire musical renditions but Claire insisted that they know as much about the competition as they could.
In addition, Claire had twice weekly sessions with her therapist, who saw none of the destructive personality that was present in their initial meetings. The EuroSong project had given her a sense of purpose that had been missing, and she started to rebuild her life with renewed passion.
Claire escorted Hazel to the court to watch Emit get sentenced; he pleaded guilty to dozens of offences and was sent to prison for seven months, albeit he had already served several weeks on remand. He wept in the dock, and Claire felt a tingle of regret as his puffy eyes stared at the gallery and the young guitarist.
He mouthed an apology, but it was meaningless in such a setting. He may have been genuine, but with the tears tumbling from the corners of his eyes and his hands shaking, she saw nothing but a dishonest man getting his comeuppance.
He stuttered and stammered as he spoke. He never meant to do any harm. He never meant to hurt anyone. But he had used his talents and knowledge of computers to do just that.
A victim impact statement from Ricky and Hazel was read to the court. Paige's statement was far from brief, and extraordinarily elegant. “Jack helped her,” Hazel needlessly explained.
“Helped her, as in wrote it.”
“Yeah,” the young agent giggled. “He has a wonderful way with words!”
Emit denied that he had been responsible for selling those photos and sex tape to the papers but Claire disbelieved his protestations. She believed he had betrayed her trust and had opened a window into Claire's life that she never wanted anyone to see. He had exposed her, but from his own camera, files and knowledge, not by hacking her private data. Claire had no victim impact statement to write: the only damage Emit had done to her was not the subject of his trial. She had neither forgiven nor forgotten what he had done to her and her friends with his greed.
The day after the trial, Claire went to see her ex-boyfriend at his expensive London offices. They sat, staring at each other across the table, both uneasy at the situation. It was a meeting that Claire had asked for, and Andre had readily agreed.
“If it's about …”
“It isn't,” Claire interrupted, taking a deep breath as a million thoughts orbited her mind. “It's …”
“Well, if you need …”
“I don't.” They looked at each other, before Claire looked away, taking a big gulp of the provided water, and wishing it was vodka.
“Here, have some rhubarb scones,” Andre offered. “I baked them specially last night.”
Claire gulped, her hands twitched towards the baked goods. “I need to sort out representation.”
“You're free,” Andre declared; the suited man through his hands into the air in surrender. “I owe you nothing, and you owe me nothing.”
“What's your shortest contract?”
The hum of the computer and the roaring of a speedboat's engine racing across the River Thames were the only sounds to fill the room as they stared
at each other; Claire expectantly, Andre disbelievingly. “You can't be …”
“Yes!” Claire snapped. “Yes I am considering this. Because even though I don't like you, this is business. You know us better than anyone else, and we might just need your help. And Hazel’s help. Because EuroSong is big. So it pains me more than anything to say this, but if we decide that Incredible Talents is the best place for our contract, how long do we have to sign up for?”
“Normally a year, but …” Claire's eyebrow raised as Andre flustered and took a deep breath. “How about to one month after EuroSong?”
Claire counted on her fingers. “Four months?”
“Yeah,” he said confidently, and leant back on his black leather chair, swigging water from the glass.
Claire snorted. “I remember you doing that and falling off.”
“Ahh well, I had a wonderful, gorgeous girl who pulled me from my chair. And this time I don't.” Claire looked away. “She's over the table from me.”
Claire got up from her seat. “This won't work if you keep reminding us both of what we had.”
“Sorry!” Andre cried. “Sorry, please sit down.” Claire sighed as she slouched back in the cold leather. “I know. You don’t want to go fishing that dead body out of the well. No-one does.”
“What?” Claire asked. “What dead body? What are you on about?”
“Something Paige said.”
“You two are weird,” she muttered. “Give me a sample contract now, and I'll take it back to Paige and Jack tonight.” His eyes narrowed. “And please, let's just keep this formal and professional. Treat us like any other client.”
“But you're not,” Andre admitted. “You're the best.” His lips curled as he pressed the button on the intercom and ordered his secretary to print off two copies of a four-month representation contract for the Bare Necessities.
“Naturally, Hazel will be our main agent,” Claire continued. “If she was with another agency then I'd be looking at them, but as she's with you and will not leave your employ then …”
“You know how to make me feel as wanted!”
Claire's eyebrows shrugged. “You're not. I'll be honest but you're not wanted. You're needed, because of our history and because you've got Hazel. Now I know Paige wanted Hazel to quit but she hasn't. She likes it here. And she's been to every one of our gigs, and been on every tour and so many of our appearances. She's part of the team. We trust her. We need her.”
Claire was interrupted by a knock on the door and Andre's secretary put two documents on Andre's desk. Claire took the top copy, and pocketed a couple of Andre’s scones.
“Claire, thanks!”
She turned away from him as she walked towards the door. “This isn't for you. Or me,” she said as she opened the door, holding their contract. “Keep this professional, eh?”
“Sure.”
And later that week, the band signed it. It took a lot of persuasion from Claire, but they needed an agent and they needed support. And that would best come from Hazel and Andre.
As much as Claire wished that he was no longer in their lives, they needed support.
Chapter LXX
Lucinda
Lucinda rolled the expensive whiskey in her tumbler, admiring the etchings on the crystal with her thumb. Her bare body stretched across the sofa, as the e-book reader in her hand complained for the umpteenth time that her device had low battery.
She swore as Paige entered the room. “Sorry,” she corrected and offered the young singer the bottle of 25-year-old single malt. Paige declined. “Oh yeah, the pregnancy thing.”
“The pregnancy thing,” Paige repeated. “And I don't drink whiskey. Ever.”
“Your loss,” Lucinda muttered. “This is like the tears of angels. And smoother than an underwear model's buttcheeks.” The drunken woman sighed as her imagination opened the thoughts of a naked male model along with Speyside malt. A smile crept across her face.
“What you reading?”
“En Belton,” she blurted out. Her e-book reader moaned one last time about low battery and replaced the book text with a request to plug it in to a wall socket. She discarded it with an annoyed tone.
“What's it about?”
“A murder mystery. It's about a murder in the Big Brother house …”
“Well that should be easy. All those cameras.”
“No,” Lucinda cried, her hands animated. “It's not. I'm about two-thirds of the way through but I've just found out that the person I think did it, was actually the victim.”
Paige hummed as she slouched onto her sofa. Jack's crazy aunt was spending an increasing number of weekends with them, but the hosts never tired of the company. “They wanted me to go on Big Brother,” Paige mused. “I think they wanted to see all the naked flesh, but I declined.”
“Politely?”
“Hell no!” Paige snorted. “It's about the only reply from the agency I insisted on writing!”
Lucinda mimicked Paige's voice. “Dear Sir. I am very sorry but I am not a complete attention whore. Please stick your fucking programme up your fucking arse. Yours, with kind regards and wishing you well, Paige Simmons. P.S. Don’t ever write to me again.”
Paige laughed. “Something like that. It's exploitative. It's exploiting the desire for fame. Everyone wants to be famous and everyone wants to hear their voice. After you've had that for awhile you want to go back to being able to curse and swear without making it into a newspaper. I never asked to be a role model. I just wanted to sing.”
“And you still feel trapped?”
“Yeah totally. Just there for the public's amusement. Like the Hunger Games, I'm Katniss Fucking Everdeen.” Paige hummed. “I mean Katniss is unbelievably cool, but we exist in an arena being watched all the time and expected to stab everyone in the back.”
“What's brought this on?”
“It’s my child,” Paige began as she rubbed her belly; the distension was clear. “Is my child, going to have any sort of childhood or will they be like Michael Jackson's brood and always be in the public eye? I want my little one to grow up and be able to get into trouble without everyone knowing.”
Lucinda smiled. “And of course there is the name.”
“Exactly. I can't pick a baby name book because my child has to be named after something unique. I need to take a wander down the fruit section of my supermarket – Peaches, Apple, Clementine, Maple and all sorts. I want a fighty name. Something that sums up war and power.”
Lucinda hummed. “Really?”
“Yeah really. ‘Cause there is nothing in life you get for free. You have to fight for everything. And Paige means page of a lord. It's subservient. It means slave. My sister is named after a fruit-bearing tree. They are safe names. I want fire and brimstone. I want … Caesar if it’s a boy and Boadicea, if it's a girl.”
“Wow! Right, ummm … that's a bit crazy, and I'm tanked. Who, apart from the East Anglian queen is called Boadicea?”
“Vicar of Dibley. She was Boadicea Geraldine Granger.” Paige giggled. “I don't know. I don't want my child to blend in at school. But still have some privacy from the press, obviously. Does that sound messed up to you?”
“No,” Lucinda muttered. “Not at all. What does Jack say?”
“We've … ummm … had some artistic differences.”
“You do surprise me!”
“He wants safe, normal names. And I don't. I like Boadicea, it's very English. Or Imelda as that means powerful fighter. Or something that isn't just 'flower' or 'hope' or 'princess' which Jack wants.”
“But she will be his little princess if she’s a girl.”
“Which is what I don’t want.”
“What's brought this on?” Lucinda enquired, swirling the whiskey around her glass.
“We've been designing the nursery today. And the au-pairs room. We’ve got a Nursery Consultant in, and they were talking about name plates for the door. We've ordered the baskets, and tables and cots and blankets a
nd colour schemes and all that stuff which I am apparently supposed to care about. Easy. And then we spent three hours on the name. I have a nursery being decorated next week and then delivered two weeks later. Which is cool. Just no baby yet. Or a name. Or a gender as both my sprog and now Jack wants me to have a surprise.”
“And you let them get their own way?” Lucinda laughed.
Paige nodded. “Yeah, for once. I can’t do much else until the baby is born as it stubbornly refuses to show the radiographer it’s bits.” She shrugged as she yawned. “Sorry,” she cried through her yawn. “I need to get to bed.”
“But it's only 9pm! I'm not even on my sixth dram.”
“It’s bloody tiring growing humans.”
Lucinda snorted. “OK. Good night then.”
“Night. And pass my regards onto your liver,” Paige joked as she rose from the chair and sleepily left the room.
* * *
The large and expansive conference suite at the exclusive hotel, nestled within the Surrey countryside had been the venue for prestigious weddings, dignified funerals and lavish ceremonies. It had been visited by almost 100 heads of states and a dozen sitting monarchs in its 200 year existence. It had never, ever, been the venue for a EuroSong Send Off Party.
Lucinda had fell in love with the splendid architecture and imposing sculptures the moment she had seen the endless ballroom. The polished floor reflected the room as the sunlight streamed through the open windows. It smelt of elegance; the general manager reeked of inhibitions.
He had initially baulked at her description of her booking as a “party” and instead she referred to it as a “celebration” or “gathering” for “the most dignified of guests.” She purred as she ran her eyes across the bar menu.
“I see you have a passable selection of whiskies and wines,” she loftily added in response to the list detailing a huge collection of alcoholic beverages.
“We have one of the finest selections of wine, champagne and whisky in the county.”
Lucinda hummed. “It's passable for outside London, I s'pose.” She made a few notes in her leather-bound notebook, ensuring that every minor criticism she could find was duly noted and identified with a sneer.
Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities) Page 29
