My Business, My Life
I take the band out, shake my head and my hair flies out like a mane. But I must be careful. I don’t want even a strand to touch my shoulder blade. Not yet. I love brushing my hair now that it’s grown so long, and the highlights make me look so much younger. It’s as if I’m nineteen again. But now I’m unfettered, not like the poor ‘filly’ who lived here ten years ago.
My mother never brushed my hair. Breaking me through acts of affection was not her method. I can still feel her presence in this apartment. The décor, like her bigotry, is hideously out-dated. This bulky, brooding dressing table will have to go. I feel her dark disapprobation oozing through its sticky brown varnish.
I tilt my head back and listen to the soothing sound of Steve’s singing. The notes skitter across the tiled surfaces of my ensuite, reverberating and melding together perfectly through the noise of running water. And it’s one of my songs. I should take Steve on tour with me! I haven’t settled on a support act yet, and I wouldn’t mind some more of his company. I laugh at myself and shake my head. So he’s hot and I find him attractive. But what do I actually know about him? He could be an axe murderer in his spare time.
‘I’m making some coffee, Steve. Would you like one?’
‘Yeah. Sounds great. Won’t be much longer.’
‘No rush.’ He may not have the greatest singing voice, but he certainly looks the part. I imagine his strong, heavily-tattooed hands and arms as he turns on my bathroom taps… the water flowing over them… accentuating the intricate patterns.
I’m amazed at how body art has taken off recently. It’s always been a thing with musicians, but now everyone seems to be getting inked – plumbers, politicians, footballers, hairdressers, shop assistants… I bet my bank manager’s hiding an incriminating image under his pristine shirt sleeves! My mother made her opinions on tattoos perfectly plain. ‘You’ll only regret it when you’re older and wiser, Beverley.’ But that’s rubbish. They’re not just fleeting fashion statements – more a celebration of an important moment in your life, like the one on my right ankle – a tiny heart cut in two by an arrow, flanked by the initials B and M.
I wonder if Mikey has had his removed.
I drift into the living room. Even with the high ceilings and open plan layout, my shoulders droop under the oppressive gloom. A musky, dank smell of maternal displeasure seeps from every crevice. I imagine how it will be, now that it’s mine… everything white and minimal, reflecting how my life is going to be from now on. Stripped back, pure and truthful.
I yawn, stretching my arms out, squeezing my fingers together. I always wake up feeling ancient after sleeping all night on my front. It’s so not my favourite position, but it won’t be for much longer. It’s eight thirty already and I can hear people moving about in the street. I won’t open the curtains until after I’ve got dressed. I clutch at the cold silk of my robe as it slithers off my shoulder. After my shower and breakfast, I must ring Joss to check where we’re meeting to discuss my comeback tour.
I’m getting that ‘fight or flight’ sensation at the thought of going onstage. My heart’s racing. I’m shivering… sweating. I always get it, just before the spotlight hits me. All you can sense is the swell of the crowd’s anticipation. It’s like a mighty wind ravaging delicate sheaves of corn. But the nausea vanishes as soon as you start to perform. My fans become my allies – my lovers almost. They clap, wave their arms and sing along whenever I demand it. That feeling of power is indescribable. Their acknowledgment, and approval of one’s work – it’s the culmination of the creative process. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I will get that feeling again. I know I will.
Going to stay with Nan in Cornwall was the right call when I’d suffered my breakdown. The vastness of the landscape had banished my introspection. And where else could I have gone? Not to this apartment, while my mother was still living here. Giving her the satisfaction of having her views vindicated. ‘You’re incredibly stupid for an intelligent girl, Beverley. You should be going to university. Why waste your life on something as ephemeral as fame?’
But it wasn’t fame that I’d sought. That was an unwelcome by-product. From being a minor act supporting the biggest boy band ever, to becoming the lead singer’s girlfriend… Everybody was talking about me, which was fine at first. Until the media started a campaign of destruction, making out I was cheating on him, twisting my words and actions. All untrue, but Mikey’s defence of me was never printed. Anyone I was seen out with became my new love interest. I tried the old tricks of using back entrances to clubs and taking taxis home alone, but the reporters managed to make stories out of that. Mikey’s fans began booing me when I went onstage. That’s what finally finished me.
But I’m still ashamed of what I did – creeping away that night. The stadium was half-empty for my set. All but my most stalwart fans were waiting for my set to be over with. They were there for Mikey’s group, and I was the enemy.
Enough of that – that’s history. The kettle’s boiled and I’m in desperate need of caffeine. Now where’s that old cafetiere of my mother’s? Once my tour is over I’ll rip out this kitchen, starting with the monstrous melamine kitchen units. Every vestige of that woman must go. I see black marble worktops. A state-of-the-art coffee machine.
God, I'm stiff. I put my hand to the base of my spine and press between the vertebrae. I’m being stupid. Over cautious. But my tattoo artist did warn me against knocking it, so lying on my back isn’t an option. He’d said the scabs would crack and open up, leaving lines of bare skin showing through the inking. And everything must be perfect on the first night of my tour. The success of my new album depends on it. My life in Cornwall, writing material for other singers, will finally be just an interlude.
I wonder what happened to Mikey. He never tried contacting me. Never answered my calls. Perhaps, when I’d gone, he blamed me when the press turned their vitriol on him instead. They threw everything at him – accusations of sex with underage fans, drug taking, loutish behaviour. Then his band split up. I used to imagine that he’d come looking for me… that we’d start singing together. Stupid of me. My life back then was never going to end happily.
But that’s all about to change. No more hiding away in Cornwall, writing material for other singers. After nearly ten years, I’m back in the real world. I love my new music – upbeat, optimistic and too personal to give away. This time everything will be fine. If I’m discreet, the media will leave my private life alone. Of course they will.
Steve is moving around in my bedroom. ‘In here,’ I call. ‘Coffee’s ready.’
His mobile’s ringing. ‘No problem, I’ll be over in five,’ he says as he struts into the room. ‘No time for coffee, Bebe. I’ve got to go. Pity. Smells good!’
I watch him closing his old and battered leather holdall – a ‘mantique’ that fashion-conscious men are buying as weekend luggage. Not that Steve will have acquired his in the King’s Road or Camden market. His will be the genuine article, handed down by his father, and his father before him.
‘Hey, it’s dark in here. I’ll open the curtains before I go.’ As he moves towards the window, shots from my past detonate, momentarily paralysing me. By the time I’ve reached his side to try and prevent him, blinding flashes explode in our faces.
The paparazzi are back.
I sink to the ground and automatically cover my face with my hands, but it’s much too late.
‘That’s going to look suss, isn’t it?’ Steve says. ‘What do you want me to do? Is there a back entrance?’
‘There’ll be somebody covering that. Anyway, your van’s in the street,’ I say.
‘My dad’s got the van. I came in the car.’
‘Oh hell! Just go out the front door and say nothing,’ I say. ‘They’ll make something out of “no comment” if they have to.’
‘Will do, doll. See you later.’
I take myself to the sofa and curl up small. It’s all happening again. How did I think it wouldn’t? I can see the headlines being created right now: ‘BEBI HALF NAKED WITH MYSTERY TOY BOY’. I’ll cancel the tour and go back to Cornwall. My fans will hate me and the new album will be a flop. I’ll ring Joss later and tell him, but for now I need to escape.
The phone’s ringing. I open my eyes and sit upright. Strips of noonday sun are snaking through the open curtains. My unfinished coffee has taken on a mottled, pallid hue.
It’s my agent. ‘Great news, Bebi! You’ve gone viral. Tickets for your tour are completely sold out. Where have you been hiding that guy? He’s hot.’
‘Emergency plumber,’ I mutter.
‘Nice try, babe.’
‘No, really. I called him out early this morning. My shower was leaking, bringing the ground floor apartment’s ceiling down. The neighbours complained, and you know me. I don’t even know where the stopcock is.’
‘Never mind. May be true, but nobody’s going to believe you, and that’s all that matters. Don’t deny it! Why put energy into something that doesn’t need illuminating, eh? Just take the publicity and be grateful.’
I surprise myself by laughing. Joss is quite right. Beverley’s private life will never be newsworthy, but it won’t hurt to allow Bebi to enjoy the odd bit of manufactured excitement. Who is she really but a mirage – a displaced image for people to interpret in their own way?
‘Right Joss! Now it’s fixed, I’m hitting the shower. Where are we meeting for lunch? Somewhere fashionable, I hope.’
Bebi will drink, laugh and flirt with him in the most outrageous manner, inviting speculation from all the lurking hacks. She’ll play the role of ‘bad girl’ – and relish it.
There’s a sudden, sharp itching across my right shoulder blade. The scabs protecting my tattoo are beginning to fall off. I mustn’t scratch. Very soon it’ll be ready to show the world. I’d known exactly what to ask for when I’d visited my tattoo artist in Plymouth. I can see it now. As I go into the dance routine for my culminating track My Business, My Life, my beautiful swallow will flash up on the massive screens at the rear of the stage. As I flex and relax my shoulders, my little bird of freedom will open and close its wings in time to the beat.
This time next week I won’t just fly, I’ll positively soar.
BACK
I take the band out, shake my head and my hair flies out like a mane. But I must be careful. I don’t want even a strand to touch my shoulder blade. Not yet. I love brushing my hair now that it’s grown so long, and the highlights make me look so much younger. It’s as if I’m nineteen again. But now I’m unfettered, not like the poor ‘filly’ who lived here ten years ago.
My mother never brushed my hair. Breaking me through acts of affection was not her method. I can still feel her presence in this apartment. The décor, like her bigotry, is hideously out-dated. This bulky, brooding dressing table will have to go. I feel her dark disapprobation oozing through its sticky brown varnish.
I tilt my head back and listen to the soothing sound of Steve’s singing. The notes skitter across the tiled surfaces of my ensuite, reverberating and melding together perfectly through the noise of running water. And it’s one of my songs. I should take Steve on tour with me! I haven’t settled on a support act yet, and I wouldn’t mind some more of his company. I laugh at myself and shake my head. So he’s hot and I find him attractive. But what do I actually know about him? He could be an axe murderer in his spare time.
‘I’m making some coffee, Steve. Would you like one?’
‘Yeah. Sounds great. Won’t be much longer.’
‘No rush.’ He may not have the greatest singing voice, but he certainly looks the part. I imagine his strong, heavily-tattooed hands and arms as he turns on my bathroom taps… the water flowing over them… accentuating the intricate patterns.
I’m amazed at how body art has taken off recently. It’s always been a thing with musicians, but now everyone seems to be getting inked – plumbers, politicians, footballers, hairdressers, shop assistants… I bet my bank manager’s hiding an incriminating image under his pristine shirt sleeves! My mother made her opinions on tattoos perfectly plain. ‘You’ll only regret it when you’re older and wiser, Beverley.’ But that’s rubbish. They’re not just fleeting fashion statements – more a celebration of an important moment in your life, like the one on my right ankle – a tiny heart cut in two by an arrow, flanked by the initials B and M.
I wonder if Mikey has had his removed.
I drift into the living room. Even with the high ceilings and open plan layout, my shoulders droop under the oppressive gloom. A musky, dank smell of maternal displeasure seeps from every crevice. I imagine how it will be, now that it’s mine… everything white and minimal, reflecting how my life is going to be from now on. Stripped back, pure and truthful.
I yawn, stretching my arms out, squeezing my fingers together. I always wake up feeling ancient after sleeping all night on my front. It’s so not my favourite position, but it won’t be for much longer. It’s eight thirty already and I can hear people moving about in the street. I won’t open the curtains until after I’ve got dressed. I clutch at the cold silk of my robe as it slithers off my shoulder. After my shower and breakfast, I must ring Joss to check where we’re meeting to discuss my comeback tour.
I’m getting that ‘fight or flight’ sensation at the thought of going onstage. My heart’s racing. I’m shivering… sweating. I always get it, just before the spotlight hits me. All you can sense is the swell of the crowd’s anticipation. It’s like a mighty wind ravaging delicate sheaves of corn. But the nausea vanishes as soon as you start to perform. My fans become my allies – my lovers almost. They clap, wave their arms and sing along whenever I demand it. That feeling of power is indescribable. Their acknowledgment, and approval of one’s work – it’s the culmination of the creative process. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I will get that feeling again. I know I will.
Going to stay with Nan in Cornwall was the right call when I’d suffered my breakdown. The vastness of the landscape had banished my introspection. And where else could I have gone? Not to this apartment, while my mother was still living here. Giving her the satisfaction of having her views vindicated. ‘You’re incredibly stupid for an intelligent girl, Beverley. You should be going to university. Why waste your life on something as ephemeral as fame?’
But it wasn’t fame that I’d sought. That was an unwelcome by-product. From being a minor act supporting the biggest boy band ever, to becoming the lead singer’s girlfriend… Everybody was talking about me, which was fine at first. Until the media started a campaign of destruction, making out I was cheating on him, twisting my words and actions. All untrue, but Mikey’s defence of me was never printed. Anyone I was seen out with became my new love interest. I tried the old tricks of using back entrances to clubs and taking taxis home alone, but the reporters managed to make stories out of that. Mikey’s fans began booing me when I went onstage. That’s what finally finished me.
But I’m still ashamed of what I did – creeping away that night. The stadium was half-empty for my set. All but my most stalwart fans were waiting for my set to be over with. They were there for Mikey’s group, and I was the enemy.
Enough of that – that’s history. The kettle’s boiled and I’m in desperate need of caffeine. Now where’s that old cafetiere of my mother’s? Once my tour is over I’ll rip out this kitchen, starting with the monstrous melamine kitchen units. Every vestige of that woman must go. I see black marble worktops. A state-of-the-art coffee machine.
God, I'm stiff. I put my hand to the base of my spine and press between the vertebrae. I’m being stupid. Over cautious. But my tattoo artist did warn me against knocking it, so lying on my back isn’t an option. He’d said the scabs would crack and open up, leaving lines of bare skin showing through the inking. And everything must be perfect on the first night of my tour. The success of my new album depends on it. My life in Cornwall, writing material for other singers, will finally be just an interlude.
I wonder what happened to Mikey. He never tried contacting me. Never answered my calls. Perhaps, when I’d gone, he blamed me when the press turned their vitriol on him instead. They threw everything at him – accusations of sex with underage fans, drug taking, loutish behaviour. Then his band split up. I used to imagine that he’d come looking for me… that we’d start singing together. Stupid of me. My life back then was never going to end happily.
But that’s all about to change. No more hiding away in Cornwall, writing material for other singers. After nearly ten years, I’m back in the real world. I love my new music – upbeat, optimistic and too personal to give away. This time everything will be fine. If I’m discreet, the media will leave my private life alone. Of course they will.
Steve is moving around in my bedroom. ‘In here,’ I call. ‘Coffee’s ready.’
His mobile’s ringing. ‘No problem, I’ll be over in five,’ he says as he struts into the room. ‘No time for coffee, Bebe. I’ve got to go. Pity. Smells good!’
I watch him closing his old and battered leather holdall – a ‘mantique’ that fashion-conscious men are buying as weekend luggage. Not that Steve will have acquired his in the King’s Road or Camden market. His will be the genuine article, handed down by his father, and his father before him.
‘Hey, it’s dark in here. I’ll open the curtains before I go.’ As he moves towards the window, shots from my past detonate, momentarily paralysing me. By the time I’ve reached his side to try and prevent him, blinding flashes explode in our faces.
The paparazzi are back.
I sink to the ground and automatically cover my face with my hands, but it’s much too late.
‘That’s going to look suss, isn’t it?’ Steve says. ‘What do you want me to do? Is there a back entrance?’
‘There’ll be somebody covering that. Anyway, your van’s in the street,’ I say.
‘My dad’s got the van. I came in the car.’
‘Oh hell! Just go out the front door and say nothing,’ I say. ‘They’ll make something out of “no comment” if they have to.’
‘Will do, doll. See you later.’
I take myself to the sofa and curl up small. It’s all happening again. How did I think it wouldn’t? I can see the headlines being created right now: ‘BEBI HALF NAKED WITH MYSTERY TOY BOY’. I’ll cancel the tour and go back to Cornwall. My fans will hate me and the new album will be a flop. I’ll ring Joss later and tell him, but for now I need to escape.
The phone’s ringing. I open my eyes and sit upright. Strips of noonday sun are snaking through the open curtains. My unfinished coffee has taken on a mottled, pallid hue.
It’s my agent. ‘Great news, Bebi! You’ve gone viral. Tickets for your tour are completely sold out. Where have you been hiding that guy? He’s hot.’
‘Emergency plumber,’ I mutter.
‘Nice try, babe.’
‘No, really. I called him out early this morning. My shower was leaking, bringing the ground floor apartment’s ceiling down. The neighbours complained, and you know me. I don’t even know where the stopcock is.’
‘Never mind. May be true, but nobody’s going to believe you, and that’s all that matters. Don’t deny it! Why put energy into something that doesn’t need illuminating, eh? Just take the publicity and be grateful.’
I surprise myself by laughing. Joss is quite right. Beverley’s private life will never be newsworthy, but it won’t hurt to allow Bebi to enjoy the odd bit of manufactured excitement. Who is she really but a mirage – a displaced image for people to interpret in their own way?
‘Right Joss! Now it’s fixed, I’m hitting the shower. Where are we meeting for lunch? Somewhere fashionable, I hope.’
Bebi will drink, laugh and flirt with him in the most outrageous manner, inviting speculation from all the lurking hacks. She’ll play the role of ‘bad girl’ – and relish it.
There’s a sudden, sharp itching across my right shoulder blade. The scabs protecting my tattoo are beginning to fall off. I mustn’t scratch. Very soon it’ll be ready to show the world. I’d known exactly what to ask for when I’d visited my tattoo artist in Plymouth. I can see it now. As I go into the dance routine for my culminating track My Business, My Life, my beautiful swallow will flash up on the massive screens at the rear of the stage. As I flex and relax my shoulders, my little bird of freedom will open and close its wings in time to the beat.
This time next week I won’t just fly, I’ll positively soar.
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