Love Song

by Sophia Bennett

  He caught me staring and his lip curled as I flushed to the roots of my hair.

  Stop noticing the hotness of the band, Nina. Step away from the hotness of the band.

  I tried to focus instead on whatever was going on between Angus and Jamie. Something had definitely gone wrong between them. I had a sense that ‘something’ liked green tea and employed me. Which was probably the reason Angus obviously didn’t like me. Apart from the fact that I didn’t seem to understand the word ‘towel’, and I was taking up valuable jet space that could have been used by a modelicious groupie.

  ‘Nina’s so fascinating,’ Sigrid said, turning to him with a flirtatious smile, as if he was keen for a conversation – which he so clearly wasn’t. ‘Tell him about your family, Nina. She has so many brothers and sisters I lose track. Aw’ living tah-gevver in li’l ol’ Croydon.’

  She said the last line so weirdly that I wondered if she was about to have a coughing fit. Then I realized she’d been attempting some sort of a Cockney accent. Which felt kind of rude. But her face still wore its angelic smile.

  Angus’s sneer was very eloquent, however. The extent to which he Did. Not. Care. About my family was written all over him.

  ‘And will you and your lovely assistant be travelling with us all the time?’ he asked. His voice was clipped and tight. I’d never felt such hostility from someone I didn’t even know.

  ‘Not all of it,’ Sigrid said smoothly, ignoring the menacing edge to his voice. ‘I have such a busy schedule, don’t I, Nina? But I’ll be joining you for the interviews. I mean, they’re begging to talk to me and Jamie together. They practically said they wouldn’t do them if I wasn’t there.’

  She gave Angus a wide-eyed, innocent look, but there was triumph behind it.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I do look forward to hearing what you have to say. Your presence is so essential to our music.’

  ‘It’s not about the music,’ Sigrid answered smoothly. ‘It’s about the story. Right now, Jamie and I are the story. Anybody can play guitar.’

  Angus scowled so furiously it looked as though his eyes were going to shoot lasers right through her. He glared at Jamie, hoping for a reaction, but either he was asleep by now, or faking it.

  I AM ON A PRIVATE JET WITH THE POINT AND THIS IS REALLY AWKWARD.

  I picked up Sigrid’s phone and buried my head in her Instagram settings, trying to ignore the poisonous atmosphere that swirled in the air like the notes of a thousand break-up songs.

  ‘And so, tell me, how do you find French girls?’

  I watched the band squash together on a small black sofa in a Paris TV studio, talking to a female French presenter who was gazing in wonder at each of them in turn. We’d driven here straight from the airport, chased by cars of excited fans.

  ‘I find them everywhere. They’re delectable,’ Connor said seductively, staring right back at her.

  The presenter flushed and checked her notes.

  ‘And do you have any message for your fans here in France?’

  ‘You have the greatest football league in the world,’ George said, grinning into the nearest camera. ‘No, wait. That was yesterday. Where are we?’

  There was laughter in the studio. Connor jabbed George in the ribs. ‘You can do this, mate. Concentrate.’

  George put a hand in his frizzy hair and gave a comedy frown, as if he was just playing up for the cameras. Although, having seen him earlier, it wouldn’t at all surprise me if he really couldn’t remember what country he was in. Angus started humming the ‘Marseillaise’ and the others joined in.

  ‘Oh yeah!’ George grinned. ‘La France. Home to my favourite drink.’ He paused for a beat. ‘Orangina. Je t’aime, la France. Also, I’ve run out of yellow jelly babies. So if anyone wants to bring some to the gig tomorrow …’

  The presenter giggled. And, watching them from behind the cameras, I was impressed. Under the lights, they did a brilliant job of being the band of happy friends the Pointer Sisters dreamt about. It was going to be hard to tell Ariel what they were really like.

  ‘And Jamie …’ The presenter paused, looking into his grey-blue eyes.

  ‘Yeah?’ At the mention of his name he fixed his gaze on her. She gulped, and temporarily lost track of what she was saying.

  ‘You … um … you have a lot of fans here in France.’

  ‘I believe so.’ He switched on the Mona Lisa smile and all the women around me gave an audible sigh.

  ‘You’ve made many of them very sad.’

  ‘Oh? How?’

  ‘By announcing your engagement.’

  ‘Ah yes. I’m sorry about that,’ Jamie said, not looking or sounding sorry at all.

  She smiled. ‘But it is such a love story. Everybody wants to know about it. And we’re lucky to have your fiancée here with us today. Sigrid Santorini! Woo!’

  She stood up, raising her hands in the air to applaud, and Sigrid was guided on to the set. She gave the nearest camera her dazzling smile and there was a pause while she waited for the boys to scoot up and make space for her on the sofa. I noticed that even though space was tight, Angus moved as far away from her as he could get.

  ‘So, Sigrid,’ the presenter said. ‘What is it like to be in love with Jamie?’

  Sigrid looked down and batted her eyelashes. ‘We don’t talk about it much. We’re very private.’ When she looked up again, her eyes brimmed with sincerity. ‘All I can say is, what Jamie and I have is very special. We’re so blessed.’

  ‘Aah! You make such a cute couple. You have to tell me, what are your wedding plans? Who will you be wearing? Where will it happen? That’s what we all want to know!’

  Sigrid smiled a toothpaste-ad smile. ‘Oh well, you know … we’re so busy … we’re still making plans. Everyone says will it be a big Hollywood wedding, but we’re so not like that, you know? I picture us on a beach somewhere. Away from the paparazzi. That’s what brought us together – our love of the simple life. Isn’t it, baby?’

  As she talked, the Malteser flashed under the studio lights. Jamie nodded, looking serious. On Sigrid’s other side, I saw Angus roll his eyes.

  Sigrid’s idea of the simple life was obviously different from mine. After the visit to the TV studios we travelled through Paris in vans with darkened windows, chased by paparazzi on motorbikes and fleets of girls in cars.

  We arrived at the Ritz via the underground car park next door, to avoid the jostling crowds. As usual, the people we did meet turned their phones on Jamie to take a photo. Sigrid made sure they all got her best side.

  Upstairs, the silk-lined suite was bigger than the last, with chandeliers and blue velvet sofas everywhere. The balcony doors overlooking the Place Vendôme were slightly open, letting in the sound of Pointer Sisters chanting outside.

  ‘Really – can’t those girls just shut up?’ Sigrid muttered angrily under her breath as we walked inside. ‘I can hardly hear myself think.’

  But Oliver was already opening the balcony doors wider, and motioning to Jamie to come and see the crowd. He did, and as soon as the fans outside caught a glimpse of him, their screaming became ecstatic. The other boys heard the noise and came to join him. They stood together, waving to the noisy square, until the hotel management begged them to stop because it was disturbing the other guests.

  Meanwhile, I paused in the middle of the room to watch them. If anything, they were even hotter from behind. It was something else to add to my collection of interesting facts about The Point. Along with the fact that one was almost certainly an alcoholic, and two of them were barely talking to each other.

  By now it was lunchtime. Oliver announced that a special meal was waiting for them in a private room.

  ‘Forget that,’ Angus announced. ‘Who wants pizza?’

  The others agreed. Yes, we were in France, home of one of the greatest gastronomies of the world, and they had ordered the signature dish of Italy. There were no plans for them to go sight
seeing today because the crowds were too big outside. I began to abandon all hope of seeing the city, but the boys didn’t seem to mind. Soon afterwards, three of them were busy playing a game called Pizza-Frisbee, which they’d apparently invented in Japan. They hadn’t mastered the catching yet – just the throwing. I may not know much about Paris, but I do know the slapping sound fresh mozzarella makes against silk-upholstered walls.

  Jamie wasn’t around for this part. As soon as he’d eaten, he’d grabbed the nearest bodyguard and disappeared. He did it so subtly that I think I was the only person to notice him go. At least it meant we were spared the tension between him and Angus for a while.

  Connor abandoned the Pizza-Frisbee when he spotted a pile of cardboard packages stacked against a wall. ‘They’re here!’ he crowed.

  ‘They’ were a pair of drones with mounted cameras.

  He saw me staring. ‘They used some like these to film the crowd in Barcelona. Cool, huh?’

  I agreed they were. He used one of them to mount a hunt for Jamie, zooming from room to room and aiming for anyone who didn’t duck in time. After years of sharing the house with five slightly mad younger children, I was used to this level of chaos. In fact, it kind of reminded me of home, but Sigrid retired to bed with a headache.

  ‘I hate it when they get like this,’ she muttered. ‘It’s so childish. They only do it when they’re all together. The sooner I get Jamie to Hollywood, the better.’

  ‘Is he going to Hollywood?’ I asked, closing her curtains for her, as she’d requested.

  She paused for a moment before answering.

  ‘It’s an option,’ she said cautiously. ‘I know some directors who can’t wait to work with him. Don’t mention it, OK? For now he’s so into this band thing. Wake me when this is over.’ She flicked her hand, Sigrid-style, in the direction of the buzzing and slapping noises beyond the door.

  ‘Of course. Is there anything you need me to do while you’re sleeping?’

  ‘Instagram,’ she murmured, pulling an eye-mask over her face.

  This was good. I’d been taking pictures of my family for as long as I could remember, mixing them with words and images from the internet, making the moments into little collage stories. Every birthday and big event had its artwork. And small events too. These were always my favourites: Ariel hanging out on the sofa in a Dalmatian onesie; the look of shock and joy on Josh’s face the moment he learnt to freewheel on his BMX; little Lara blowing a massive bubble the size of her head in the garden and looking up, astonished, as it floated away into the sun-soaked sky.

  I used Sigrid’s phone to take several shots of shoes and handbags, and snazzily upholstered French furniture. But that got boring after a while. More intriguing, I thought, was the sight of Jamie’s acoustic guitar propped up against the bathtub, and the tops of all the Pointer Sisters’ heads in the square outside.

  Back in the corridor, the Pizza-Frisbee game was over but the mess had yet to be cleared away. I took some shots of that too, but realized that Sigrid would hate them, so I swapped her phone for my camera, which I always carried with me. Once I had the familiar weight of its body in my hand and my eye to the viewfinder, the world seemed to organize itself and settle in my head. Or at least, the craziness became art, not just bad behaviour.

  I was careful only to capture details, not people’s faces. I knew about Jamie’s ‘privacy thing’ – even though he wasn’t here. But the Hotel California was insanely photogenic. Light. Action. Madness. Watching it through the lens, I began to feel part of it all.

  Time passed. I rang up designers, as Sigrid had asked, and they fell over themselves to deliver their hottest outfits. Jamie returned and the boys went off to do more interviews and sign merchandise. Actually, they worked pretty hard most of the time. Despite all their fame and money I even wondered whether Dad had had more fun with the Massive Kegs.

  I was unpacking Sigrid’s goji berries in the kitchen area when I was startled by Jamie’s voice behind me.

  ‘I need you to keep Sisi busy this evening, from seven till eight-thirty. Keep her away from the suite.’

  I turned around. These were possibly the first words he’d addressed directly to me. He seemed tired and tousled, as if he could do with a sleep. Also, he was looking furtive.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I have no idea. Think of something. Look, I’ll text you when I’m ready. What’s your number? And don’t tell her I spoke to you.’

  I did as he asked, trying to play it cool and ignore Tammy’s voice in my head pointing out that I’d just given Jamie Maldon my number. Yeah – so I could assist him in some nefarious scheme. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t exactly have much choice.

  Not telling Sigrid that we’d spoken was easy, given the way he’d ignored me so far. What was more difficult was to think of some excuse why she couldn’t use her own room.

  ‘I have to get ready for tonight,’ she complained. ‘We’re going out to dinner. I need at least an hour.’

  I’d managed to persuade her to use the hotel health club to recover from a busy afternoon on the phone to her realtor in LA and trying on party clothes. But despite the fact that this place included a Chanel spa and a frescoed swimming pool, she’d finished early, and there were still twenty minutes to kill.

  ‘It’s George,’ I said, feeling totally guilty. ‘He came in to find Jamie and … threw up everywhere. I’m really sorry. They just called. The staff are still getting rid of the smell.’

  ‘Where?’ she ranted. ‘I’ll kill him! How dare he?’

  I’d have to apologize to him later.

  ‘I’m sure they won’t be long,’ I assured her. ‘They said they’d call back when they were ready.’

  Jamie hadn’t texted yet.

  ‘Go now,’ Sigrid instructed. ‘Make them hurry.’ She indicated her flawless, freshly-steamed, film-star face. ‘I refuse to go out looking like this.’

  I left her sipping a wheatgrass shot in the spa, and went back up to the Hotel California to warn Jamie he didn’t have long.

  My heart was in my shoes, because I had no idea what I’d find. What did rock stars get up to in hotel suites when their girlfriends weren’t there? I could think of a few things, and none of them were good. Whatever it was, I really, really didn’t want to know.

  Tonight, it was Paul standing guard in the corridor.

  ‘Can I go in?’ I asked, wishing I didn’t have to.

  He knocked for me, and nodded. The door was opened. Unwillingly, I stepped inside.

  And held my breath.

  The room had been transformed.

  Hundreds of tea-lights glimmered in mirrored holders. Most of the furniture had been moved aside, and a white-clothed table sat in the centre, set for two. A silver lace dress had been laid out in the bedroom beyond, next to a pair of her favourite shoes. The person who let me in was busy scattering the floor with pink rose petals, leaving a pathway to the door. The air was heady with their scent. Soon the carpet would be thick with them.

  A chef in his whites was at work in one corner, putting the finishing touches to a dish. Jamie sat by the window in a dinner jacket and jeans, with a guitar on his knee, strumming an intro to a song I didn’t recognize. He looked up when he saw me. A glimmer of candlelight caught the moles on his cheek.

  His eyes held mine for a moment and once again I jolted with the same sense of connection I’d felt at the meet-and-greet. But I knew now to ignore it. Girls must feel it for Jamie all the time – it was an accident of his face.

  ‘Special occasion,’ he muttered, in answer to a question I hadn’t asked. ‘She wanted to go out. But I can’t. If we do, there’ll be a riot.’

  ‘I …’

  I couldn’t talk. This whole scene was so … romantic. Most of all because he wanted to surprise her. He’d certainly surprised me. I stood there, spellbound. For once, Ariel had been right about Jamie. He was romantic, even if he went overboard sometimes with Malteser diamonds. He was nineteen, and he could b
e anywhere, with anyone, and he’d done all this for her.

  I stood there for a moment, just taking it all in. Then I noticed he’d stopped playing. I glanced across at him, and he was watching me. He seemed tense.

  ‘Is she annoyed?’ he asked. I nodded; he sighed. ‘I thought she would be. How long, François?’

  The rose-petal-scatterer looked up. ‘Five more minutes?’

  ‘Go and get her,’ Jamie said to me. ‘But come back slowly. We’ll be ready by then.’

  I backed towards the door, still taking in the flickering light, the scent of roses. Careful not to tread on too many petals, I left the room.

  Yet another impressive encounter with Jamie Maldon, I thought to myself as I descended in the lift. Go, Nina.

  It had all looked so enchanting – like something out of a film, or a dream. I wanted to tell him it reminded me of Shakespeare: Romeo’s heart, with a sprinkling of Puck’s magic. But as far as I remembered, I hadn’t said a word.

  The next day was a gig day. The boys did more interviews all morning and went to the stadium for the sound check after lunch. Sigrid left the hotel with me and a borrowed bodyguard to ‘get a feel for the culture of France’.

  By which she meant shopping. For expensive stuff.

  She was in a bad mood.

  ‘Huh. City of romance,’ she grunted a couple of times in the limo, glaring at the Champs-Elysées as we passed.

  ‘How did it go last night?’ I asked, sensing she wanted to talk.

  ‘It was our six-month anniversary! I wanted us to honour it, you know? He could at least have taken me to a decent restaurant. Fans wanna see that stuff. We could’ve been anywhere.’

  ‘He mentioned there might have been a riot.’

  ‘Tom Cruise managed it. With Katie.’

  She arched an impeccably threaded eyebrow. I had no answer to Tom Cruise.

  ‘And I couldn’t even get you to take a picture, because my face was like, nude. I was all puffy from the treatment. It was a disaster.’ She didn’t mention the meal, or the rose petals. I sensed from Jamie’s tension last night that he already knew he’d made a big mistake. This morning, he’d been grumpier than ever.