Stars

by Sophia Bennett

She gives me a watery smile. ‘If it did, though, I’d want someone to be there. I’d want to know someone cared. If I was at home now I could at least do something for Mum. Help her. I’ve tried so hard to escape from it all, but, if she needs me . . .’

  She hunches over her cup and despite the chic hair and the Tom Ford shades on top (actually Chanel, now I look closer, she’s got new ones), she looks small and lost.

  ‘Gloria’s the grown-up,’ I say. ‘She’s supposed to look after herself.’

  ‘But she can’t, can she?’ Jenny whispers. ‘And meanwhile, here I am. Every day I wake up in that incredible house and I go to the rehearsal studio and sing those songs . . .’

  ‘You said that’s what Gloria wanted you to do.’

  ‘It is what she wanted me to do. But Edie’s right about that too. It’s just an excuse. I should come home with you. I know it, really. There will be other chances. Maybe not like this one, but . . . something.’

  She gives me a sad smile and takes my hand in hers. I can sense she doesn’t want me to talk any more. We watch the bears together for a while. They don’t do much. They’re pretty boring, actually. One of them is giving me a funny look and I have a nasty feeling he’s mistaken my fake fur bomber jacket for a tasty seal. Luckily, he seems too lazy to do anything about it.

  Jenny’s more impressed than me.

  ‘Don’t you love their energy?’ she says. ‘Isn’t it awesome?’

  If she means awesome in the sense of non-existent, I totally agree. But at least the bears are cheering her up somehow. Gradually she seems a bit more positive and gets a hint of her bounce back. She checks her watch.

  ‘God. Rehearsal in an hour. I’ve got to get to the theatre. Still want to come?’

  ‘Of course!’ I say. But she can see me hesitate.

  ‘Go on. Invite Edie too, if you like. She might as well be there.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, and get my phone out.

  The theatre turns out to be two minutes from Times Square. I sit in a seat near the back, thinking ‘oh my God oh my God I’m two minutes from Times Square’, while around us, total chaos gradually turns into something resembling a song rehearsal, which is what it’s supposed to be. You’d hardly know it, though. The place is overrun by TV people and electrical equipment. Every time the guy at the piano tries to start playing the song, he has to stop because the sound is wrong, or the lights, or something else entirely. Through it all, Jenny stands beside the piano, looking serious and focused, but holding it together a lot better than I’d have expected after the whole polar bear experience.

  ‘Did you tell her I said hi?’ Edie asks me anxiously, arriving with two bags of books and posters from the Frick. Turns out it’s an art museum. I thought it probably would be.

  I nod. ‘She said you were right anyway,’ I say. ‘She understands about Gloria. Honestly; more than you know. In fact, I don’t know how much longer she’ll be sticking this out.’

  Edie breathes a long sigh of relief and smiles in Jenny’s direction.

  ‘Thank goodness. I really didn’t think she’d listen to me.’ Her smile spreads to a grin and her whole body seems to relax. She starts watching what the TV people are doing and I can tell that her Edie super-brain is already trying to work out how to make a TV programme. Just in case she ever needs to know.

  After two hours of technical fiddling about, Jenny finally gets to sing her song all the way through, uninterrupted. It’s called ‘My Other Life’ and it is a sad, haunting tune. Jenny seems to do OK, as far as I can tell. Her cheeks are glistening, so I think she managed the tears.

  ‘OK for now,’ the TV head honcho shouts. ‘Take fifteen, people.’

  Everyone seems happy. Various people head for the exits. Jenny heads straight for us.

  ‘You were great!’ I tell her. ‘The song’s amazing.’

  Jenny smiles gratefully.

  ‘Is that it?’ Edie asks. ‘Where’s Mr Ward?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not even here yet,’ Jenny says. ‘That was just the warm-up. In fact, look, he’s just coming in. They’re going to tape him talking about the song. Then I’ll have to do it again in front of him. But let’s go outside while we’re waiting. I need a bit of fresh air.’

  We walk to the street corner. Ahead of us is a square with tall, elegant trees. It’s full of tents, builders and activity.

  ‘Look!’ Jenny says. ‘That’s Bryant Park. They’re just dismantling New York Fashion Week.’

  We look, then Edie squeals. Beyond the tents and trees we can just see something else. The top of the Empire State Building. This is SO cool. I give Jenny’s arm a squeeze.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies,’ says a voice behind us. ‘Can I grab a word, Jenny?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jenny says.

  It’s the guy who played the piano for the rehearsal: Marty, the musical director. He’s small, intense and more than slightly frightening. He’s hardly said a word all morning, but he’s been watching Jenny intently and I’ve noticed that he hasn’t smiled once. They go off into a little huddle, and Edie and I lurk nearby, pretending we can’t hear every word they’re saying.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Jackson and he agrees, we’re still not getting it,’ Marty says, linking his arm through Jenny’s and leaning in close.

  Jenny looks worried. ‘I’m doing my best.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ Marty says. ‘I don’t want your best. I want something you don’t even know you got. It’s not the notes any more. It’s not the pitch or the modulation. They’re all fine but they don’t matter now. It’s what’s inside of you.’

  Jenny looks hurt and confused.

  ‘Look, I’m only telling you this because I think you got something special, doll. Something extra. A gift. It’s what Liza had. And Barbra. All the greats. But you gotta dig deep. You gotta find a part of yourself that’s raw and you gotta pull it out and share it. Not everybody can do that. Most people don’t even want to. I keep nearly seeing it, but then you pull back. Today I want you to show me, OK? And Jackson too. Show us you can do it. Otherwise we got just another song there, and that’s a shame, ’cause it could be special and personally, I think Jackson deserves better.’

  He gives her a pat on the back and strides back to the theatre. Jenny stays where she is, looking after him. Edie and I cluster round her, for support.

  ‘I’m sure Jackson likes you just the way you are,’ I say. Oops. I realise I’ve just given away that we heard everything. But I needn’t worry. Jenny doesn’t seem to have noticed.

  ‘Who’s Liza, by the way?’ I ask.

  ‘Minnelli,’ she says, automatically.

  ‘And Barbra?’ Edie adds.

  ‘Streisand,’ Jenny says, striding ahead. Edie and I have to jog to keep up with her. By the time we get back, she’s so completely wrapped up in what Marty said I don’t think she even knows we’re there any more.

  We take our seats at the back of the theatre, and she goes down to the stage, where she looks lost in thought while the TV people check all their equipment again. This time, Jackson Ward sits at the piano. Slowly, Jenny walks over to join him. She moves as if she’s treading through treacle. When she gets close to the piano, Jackson gives her an encouraging smile. A guy with a TV camera trains it on Jenny’s face. Someone calls for silence. Then Jackson starts to play.

  Twice, Jenny sings the first few lines of the song, and Jackson stops her. She would have had to stop anyway. Her cheeks are already glistening and her voice is cracking. I’m really not sure she’s up to this amount of pressure. Perhaps it’s a good thing she’s coming home soon.

  The third time, she gets halfway through before Jackson stops her again. He talks to her in a low voice and plays a couple of bars, as if to show her something. She nods.

  The fourth time, she sings the song all the way through.

  Except, I’m not even sure that it is the same song. Before, it was sad and haunting. But now it’s not sad – it’s way more than that. It’s tragic. The way Jenny sing
s it, you feel the pain in every heartbreaking note. You’re sure she’s not going to make it, but gradually her voice grows and grows until at the end it’s completely filling the theatre, soaring round us and through us, tingling with new determination.

  I feel the tingle right the way up my spine, and the heartbreak sits in my chest. I suddenly know how I’d feel if Liam were to break up with me right now. The final note ends and the theatre rings with silence. Jackson Ward looks astonished. He glances across at Marty, who nods slightly. Then Jackson turns to Jenny and says, ‘Again!’

  So she does it again. Same voice. Same heartbreak. Same triumphant, soaring final note and gentle sigh.

  For several seconds, which feel like several minutes, nobody moves. Then Jackson smiles at Jenny. She’s looking drained and shocked, but this seems to cheer her up a bit.

  Suddenly there’s whooping. Various people who’ve been standing in the wings come forward to clap and cheer. Marty rushes over, lifts her off the ground, kisses her forehead and says ‘Yes!’

  I join in with the clapping, because now I understand what the gift is – the one the greats have. And Jenny’s got it. She dug deep and found lots of it. It’s still in the air above our heads somehow, like glitter, reminding us what we just went through with her.

  Jackson gets up from his piano stool, puts an arm around her and leads her gently off the stage. As they head out, Marty checks with the TV guy.

  ‘Did you get that?’ he asks.

  ‘Hell, yeah!’ the man says.

  Marty nods, satisfied.

  I turn to Edie, who’s still standing, transfixed, beside me.

  ‘Did you see that?’ she asks.

  ‘Hell, yeah!’ I say, grinning.

  ‘I mean, did you see her expression? Did you realise what she was thinking?’

  ‘Er, no,’ I say. ‘Wasn’t she just thinking about singing?’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Edie goes on. ‘I just can’t. She had exactly the same expression as she did in Mr Ward’s house, when I told her about Gloria. That same pain. She just took it and used it. For a song.’

  Edie turns on her heel and walks straight out of the theatre. I’m back in my usual position of not knowing who to let down most – her or Jenny. But I decide that Jenny needs me more right now. I watch Edie go.

  When I eventually find Jenny, she’s on her own, drinking a cup of green tea in one of the theatre dressing rooms and looking slightly less out of it than she did when she finished the song.

  ‘How do you feel?’ I ask. ‘I mean, it was totally amazing, of course, but are you OK?’

  She looks up and nods. For a moment, she looks embarrassed. Maybe she’s thinking about Gloria too. But then she takes a deep breath and smiles.

  ‘I feel good,’ she says. ‘I think I nailed it. Jackson seems to think so. He said that’s the ten o’clock number sorted. And Marty’s happy at last. So yes, I feel good.’ Her smile falters slightly. ‘You know I was thinking of coming home, but I guess they need me here too.’

  She looks apologetic. For once, I know what to say.

  ‘Of course they need you,’ I tell her. ‘And of course you’re staying. You can’t not do . . . that thing you did. It’s a gift. I’m really pleased for you, honestly. And your mum will be so proud of you.’

  Jenny bites her lip. She suddenly looks a lot older than eighteen. More like a twenty-five-year-old queen with a lot to think about. But she manages half a smile.

  ‘Thank you, Nonie.’ She shakes her head and takes a deep breath, glancing round the room for some excuse to change the subject. ‘Hey, that’s nice.’

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Your bag,’ she says. ‘Cool design. I noticed it yesterday. It’s cute.’

  The air in the room clears a bit, as we talk about bags instead of singing.

  ‘Crow did it,’ I explain, and tell her about the Victoria thing. ‘It’s really useful.’

  ‘Maybe she could send me one,’ Jenny says.

  I promise I’ll send her a whole pile of them. Maybe someone in New York will see them and want one. You never know.

  Outside, I decide it’s time to head for the apartment. This is where I need Edie, whose ability to read maps is fifty times better than mine. However, I do the best I can. I start off down Broadway, or at least I assume it’s Broadway. It seems to be going in the right direction.

  Then I notice that I’m walking on Ralph Lauren. Well, not him exactly, but a round plaque in the pavement with his name on it, and one of his sketches engraved into it. Nearby is Halston, then Diane Von Furstenberg. Each plaque explains it’s the Fashion Walk of Fame. I look up. I can’t be on Broadway – if I was, it would be the Theatre Walk of Fame, surely?

  A nearby street sign says Seventh Avenue – not Broadway, but close. I realise I’ve wandered into the Garment District. That would account for the bin I just passed full of abandoned mannequin arms and legs that someone was trying to sell off for $5 each. Also the shop selling braid and trimmings, and the multiple vans unloading racks of clothes in plastic bags. There were clues. I just didn’t spot them.

  A thought occurs to me. I must be near the MIMOs’ headquarters, on West 37th Street. Five minutes later, I’m standing opposite a red-brick building with gleaming, freshly polished windows. Busy fashion people are rushing in and out, usually armed with giant coffees. I suddenly wonder if I could get an internship here one day. After all, I’m an expert in getting coffee now. And it would mean I could stay near to Crow.

  But as Mum so kindly pointed out, they wouldn’t have me. Even as an intern. They have whole departments of people to do everything I do. And everyone here looks like they could make spreadsheets in their sleep. Actually, if I’m really honest, the place looks terrifying. All those people are relying on the designers to do a great job, so they can stay in business. If I was a sixteen-year-old from Uganda, I’d be pretty overwhelmed. Not for the first time, I wonder what I’m getting Crow into. But they say they want her, so they must be right, surely?

  When I get back to the apartment, Edie’s already there. She looks as tired and depressed as I feel.

  ‘It’s our last night,’ she points out. ‘Want to do anything?’

  Outside, the air is cold and crisp. We have Manhattan at our feet and hours to kill.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Not really. You?’

  She shakes her head.

  We must be the only unsupervised eighteen-year-olds in New York who’d rather stay in and watch movies.

  We search through Isabelle’s DVD collection. A lot of it is subtitled. She also has an unexpected thing for action films, particularly those involving aliens or Matt Damon. Edie, of course, wants something French from the 1960s and I want The Bourne Identity. We compromise on Green Card. Turns out, it’s about a guy (Gérard Depardieu – French, to keep Edie happy) who wants to come and work in New York, but can’t.

  I know the feeling. He should have been a polar bear.

  The next morning Edie is very quiet. She’s quiet while we pack – despite the sheer horror of trying to get all our stuff into two teeny-weeny little wheelie bags. And she’s quiet all the way to the airport, while we say goodbye to the amazing New York skyline. She’s quiet at the terminal, while I manage to sweet-talk the lady at the check-in desk to give at least one of us a window seat, and while I spend about an hour choosing between all the major fashion magazines in the world for the two that I can afford to take home.

  She’s building up to something again. She’s biding her time and as soon as we’re safely at thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic and I have nowhere else to go, she’s going to let it all out, I just know it. However, after two hours, two Vogues (US and French) and an episode of The Simpsons, when she still hasn’t said anything, I can’t take the tension any longer.

  ‘Er, Edie, is there something you need to tell me?’

  She turns her head from the window to look at me. She’s still got the clouds in her eyes. Slowly, she focuses on me.
/>   ‘No. I don’t think so,’ she says.

  I may have been dreading it for hours, but now I just need to know what it is.

  ‘About Jenny . . . ?’

  She sighs. ‘Oh. About Jenny.’

  Here we go. I don’t actually adopt the brace position, like you do when you’re about to crash, but I’m tempted. Edie on the subject of endangered rhino, or African villages without water or whatever, is a frightening experience. Edie on the subject of her own friend, who’s chosen to sing a song instead of comfort her own mother – well, I have to admit, I duck slightly.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says slowly.

  ‘Yeeees?’

  ‘I think I was wrong.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I say, shocked. I’ve never heard her say this before. And I’ve known her since we started secondary school.

  ‘After I’d stormed out of the theatre I came back to get you, but you weren’t there,’ she goes on. ‘Someone said you’d gone to see Jenny. I bet you were giving her some encouragement. Being a friend for her. I’m sure it’s what she needed. I didn’t do that. I feel a bit ashamed of myself, really.’

  ‘You do?’

  Edie nods and looks at me sadly.

  ‘I’m always so busy working out what people ought to do. But I can’t change them. They are who they are. I love Jenny. She’s doing what’s right for her. I should just let her do it. Don’t you think? Nonie?’

  I realise I’m staring. Just staring and not talking. I mean, Edie can surprise me, sure, but this is unreal. This isn’t Edie at all.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I sigh.

  This makes Edie look even sadder. ‘Really? God, am I so judgmental that you can’t even imagine me wanting to stay friends with Jenny?’

  Yes. She has hit it on the button. But of course I can’t say so.

  ‘Not at all!’ I say. ‘Of course not. You’re amazing.’

  She smiles at me.

  ‘And you’re lying. To be kind. Just like you always do, Nonie. I don’t mean you always lie – although you do a lot, you know. I mean, you’re always kind. You put friendship first. I should copy you more.’