Beneath the Blonde (11 page)

Saz saw Siobhan and Greg to their connecting rooms, glad to see that Siobhan’s near insobriety was likely to give her a good night’s sleep. While the boys regularly went to bed and fell into the drunken sleep that affected them after eight or nine pints—thirteen pints if it was what Alex called “pissing Euro-lager”—for Siobhan, carrying her secret worries, sleep had recently been proving as elusive as success was now becoming effortless. While she ordinarily used a little drugs or alcohol to smooth her life in London, she did so, despite appearances, with a great deal of care and only when her schedule promised her at least a day to recover. Nordic vodka, however, was taken to be the kind of exception you made when it just wouldn’t do to offend your hosts. So for once she crashed into a dreamless sleep, with the kind of inebriation that made Alex’s nights so worry free. Then again, she never had to deal with his daily whisky, wine and bitter hangovers either.

The break in Helsinki and Siobhan’s apparent lack of nerves had done the band a great deal of good. Other than a scary moment when Siobhan saw a flower seller coming at her in the market loaded down with yellow chrysanthemums—a flash of panic swiftly noted and calmed by Saz and Greg—nothing untoward had happened. Whether it was just the difficult telephone system at the hotel or the fact that Interflora can’t always deliver the same day, there hadn’t been any calls or yellow roses to disturb the star’s sleep. And in seeing Siobhan less tense, having had a real “girl” conversation about her relationship with Alex and in getting a chance to laugh with her, Saz found she was starting to
quite like Siobhan. Like her and looking forward to spending the next day with her.

As she explained to Molly in the nightly phone call that connected her to their world—what Saz increasingly saw as the real world—”It’s not that I’ve stopped thinking she’s the most irritatingly contradictory person I’ve ever met, it’s just that sometimes those contradictions are quite charming.”

“Such as?”

“Such as expressing horror and disgust at eating Santa’s little helpers and then whooping like a banshee every time one heavily padded male body slammed another into the ice.”

“So it’s not only hippy dykes who have coin tossing views on eating meat and blood on the street?”

“Hell no. Siobhan’s more fiercely anti-meat than the hippiest Hackney dyke you know.”

“Hate to tell you this, Saz, but I don’t think I know any Hackney dykes. Judith and Helen eat meat—well, Hells eats fish and Judith doesn’t eat pork, but kosher’s not quite the same as vegetarian, and Carrie sometimes is veggie but then she lives in Camberwell, not Hackney …”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do. And I know I don’t want to waste our phone calls talking about Siobhan bloody Forrester. I know she’s your job but I have to admit that I’m getting a bit …” Molly’s voice faded on the other end of the line.

“A bit what?”

Molly sighed and said quietly, “I’m jealous.”

“What of?”

“You keep talking about her.”

“Siobhan’s straight as.”

“So’s Madonna. Doesn’t stop her using girls like us when she thinks it’ll do her good.”

“Come on, babe, I have to spend time with her. That’s what they’re paying me for. And at least liking her a bit
makes it more enjoyable than hating her a lot. Would you really rather I was having a crap time?”

Molly laughed. “Yeah. Actually I would. Sorry, but I’d love you to be having such a crap time that you’d get on the next plane and fly home to me. I miss you and I want you and if you’re nibbling on Rudolph burgers you should be doing it with me, not them, and I just want you here. I want to be us.”

Brought back to the reality of her relationship, Saz chatted a little longer to Molly about nothing and everything. The upholstery material they wanted to recover the sofabed and what movie they might see when she got back and the fact that Molly wanted to spend every minute of the rest of her life with Saz, ideally in person and not on the phone.

Five minutes later Saz put down the receiver and looked out of her tiny hotel window at the harbour. Despite having calmed Molly’s fears, she could find no comfort herself in the wind-battered water as she climbed into the sterile, narrow single bed. She turned the television on for a semblance of company and glared at CNN for a while and then turned out the light. She lay alone in the light of flickering American blue and tried to sense Molly beside her. They’d lain so long in the same embrace that sleeping alone now felt like amputation.

Later, fitfully asleep, Saz stretched out in the night to scratch the ghost itch of Molly’s hand on her arm, thigh, face, but there was no hand and no touch, just the aching left unscratched, turning slowly from itch to ulcer.

The gig in Estonia was a spirited affair in a huge marquee in the old town square of Tallinn. Sponsored by two different breweries, the main aim of the young, mostly male, punters seemed to be to imbibe as much of the proffered liquid as possible and then use the alcohol-fuelled energy to propel themselves towards the stage. The numbers of young men flinging themselves against the flimsy plywood dais increased in direct proportion to the amount of flesh Siobhan revealed as she disrobed through each number until, at the end of the gig, she stood on the stage in just a pair of gold platforms, tangerine hot pants and a see-through silver shirt, while the swaying structure beneath her looked in imminent danger of collapse.

Flushed and breathless from the gig, Siobhan was given just five minutes to swallow a quick glass of vodka and then Greg whisked her back to the hotel where a selection of local journalists were waiting to dissect her precious thoughts. The boys were going on to a restaurant—Alex to drink, Dan to eat and Steve to ply with wine the Estonian beauty who was taking seriously her role of “hospitality hostess”. Tiana had turned down the chance of coming to Estonia at the last moment to go to a photo shoot in Milan and Steve was making the most of his free time. Not wanting to cramp Steve’s style, and not interested in yet another night fending off Alex’s drunken aggression, Saz went back to the hotel alone to spend an hour or so on the fifteenth
floor where the plate-glassed sauna looked out over the dark Baltic and the scarcely lit city.

Fifty minutes later she was loosely wrapped in a sweat-drenched towel, trying hard to breathe while the Latvian occupant of the sauna poured still more water onto the heat, taunting the westerner by making the air a burning hot liquid which attacked her lungs almost as fiercely as it did her skin. She had just quit the blistering steam cabin and thrown herself into the long, cool pool in the ante-room when Greg came in. He carried glasses and a bottle of white wine, water quickly condensing on the outside of the bottle.

Saz, suddenly shy of Greg seeing her scarred body, stayed under the water, “You’re having a party?”

Greg shook his head, “Not exactly. I got bored listening to Siobhan give the same answers to the same old questions, so I left her to finish up. She’s just got one more to deal with. We’ve asked if we can have the sauna to ourselves for an hour or so.”

“Oh, right. Sure. I’ll leave then.”

“No, don’t. I meant all of us. I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but they’ve said we can turf out any other guests—there’s another sauna next door—and have our own little band party. I think we deserve it, the gig tonight was fucking brilliant.”

“A party with just the one bottle of wine?”

“No. Alex is in the bar sorting out a delivery. He has a more winning manner with the staff than I do.”

Saz, who knew that Alex’s manner just involved larger bribes and more shouting, forced herself out of the water. While she didn’t exactly feel like exposing herself to Greg, she was even less likely to enjoy Alex’s scrutiny of her scars. “Are all of them back?”

“Nah. Just Dan and Alex. It seems that Shagger Steve’s scored with the local talent. He’s confined to bed.”

Saz picked up her towels and headed for the door, “Well,
I’ve been here for a while really, I might just go back to my room.”

Greg looked at her, taking in the scarred backs of her legs and quickly diverting his gaze, “Sure. That’s cool. But if you wanted to get dressed and come back for a few wines and the view, you’d be more than welcome.” He stretched an arm past the wide, clear windows, “We might as well make the most of all this.”

Smiling at his sensitivity, Saz nodded, “Ok. Thanks, I will. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

Alex was struggling up the stairs with five more wine bottles as she left. He acknowledged her with a grunt and then called out after himself, “Check Siobhan out, will you? I think that journo’s probably boring her to death. They’re in the bar.”

Showered and dressed, Saz went down to the bar to look for Siobhan, who caught one glimpse of Saz and immediately stood up and called her over, mouthing a quick “save me” over the head of her intrepid interviewer. The man Siobhan introduced as Torril was probably in his mid-forties, tall, broad, very big and very dull. After the other journalists had left, content with the usual answers on how, who, where and why, he’d stayed on to ask Siobhan exhaustive questions about her training—none; her background—traditional; and her ambitions—vast. He had just launched into his third page of notes when Saz walked in. Siobhan told Torril that she was the band’s general assistant and dogsbody. Saz was only too happy to sit obediently and listen to Siobhan’s answers. Anything that would give her more info on Siobhan was welcome and she knew that the businesswoman side of the pop star would keep Siobhan answering questions until even her ambitious patience was exhausted. Saz listened politely as the eager man faltered out his next
question. “And you are happy then, from what you have said, to be a sex star?”

Siobhan sipped at her vodka, “A sex symbol? I suppose so. If it sells, right?”

The man nodded gravely, laboriously writing down her answer in what Saz assumed was Estonian.

“Yes. Sales. These are important to you?”

“Hell, yeah, I’m not just in this for the applause, you know.”

“No. Of course not. And you do not feel the need to protect yourself?”

“From what?”

“The public. Those who would take your … image too far?”

“People who believe in it?” Siobhan pulled her coat closer around her shoulders, covering a little of her bare flesh, “I can’t help what people believe.”

“You don’t think you are responsible for your image?”

“Well, naturally I am, I’m responsible for what I believe I look like. But I can’t be held accountable for what other people do with that. It’s obvious to me that the stage Siobhan is different from the real Siobhan. You’d have to be an idiot to think I went down the shops in my hot pants or that I really do fuck strange men for breakfast.”

Torril didn’t look up as he said, “You don’t? That is a disappointment.”

Siobhan shook her head, not quite certain if she was meant to be insulted, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand? What’s your point?”

He glared at her, “Of course you don’t understand. Girls like you. You never even think about what you do. All over the rest of the world and now here.”

“What?”

“You are not exactly what we hoped for from democracy.”

“I’m a singer, for God’s sake!”

“And, as if we didn’t have enough to deal with, you bring in your cheapness and defile our country. This was not what we stood up to the tanks for, your type pollutes us by simply being here …”

The last comment was too much even for Siobhan’s good-girl act and she pushed her chair back, “Look, I’ve got to go. Really. I’m tired, it’s been a long night, and I certainly didn’t come all this way for a lecture. If you’ll excuse me …”

As she tried to stand, the man reached out a huge arm, grabbing her wrist. Siobhan pulled back from him, but his grip was too strong and he twisted her arm, forcing her back into her chair. With his other hand, he reached across to clumsily stroke Siobhan’s hair, “You see, I had hoped that I might be able to educate you …”

Saz didn’t give him a chance to explain just what it was he was hoping to teach. She picked up Siobhan’s glass, quietly praising the choice of neat vodka and even more grateful that for once Siobhan hadn’t downed the glass the moment she laid eyes on it. She threw the contents straight into Torril’s face. The pure biting alcohol blinded him long enough for Siobhan to grab her bag and for Saz to pick up Torril’s notepad and the two women ran from the bar, Saz stopping briefly just to explain to the burly security guard that the large man rubbing his eyes and dripping vodka from his face seemed a little more drunk than was seemly in Tallinn’s premier hotel.

Having delivered Siobhan safely up to Greg in the sauna, Saz took the notepad to the desk clerk she’d befriended earlier in the day. When she asked him to translate the writing, however, she could see that she was in grave danger of mortally offending the embarrassed young man. Quickly explaining that it was a job for her boss and a matter of band security—and therefore vital that she know exactly what was detailed in the foreign language—he finally agreed to tell her, but only by writing a translated paragraph on the
next blank page. Reading over his shoulder, Saz could readily see why the poor guy was so red and flustered. Every second word was “fuck”, several lines detailed the finer parts of Siobhan’s anatomy and after a whole sentence of blatant—and very specific—porn, Saz thanked him and took the pad away. She returned to her room and put in an urgent call to the local booking agent to confirm just who Siobhan had been supposed to talk to that night. It didn’t take long for her to realize that Torril, if that was his name, should never have been there in the first place. She then went upstairs to the sauna to break up the party.

There followed an exhaustive discussion with hotel security until Saz could be assured that, having been safely ejected from the building, there was no chance Torril would get back in that night. And further, once locked in her room, Siobhan would be perfectly safe as the hotel would place a guard outside her door who would stay with them all the way to the airport the next morning. Siobhan was less convinced when she actually saw the guard, who looked more like a Russian mafia cliché than the man who had caused all the fuss in the first place. Greg was furious with himself for leaving her to talk to the press alone and before they allowed Siobhan to go to bed, he and Saz promised that any future interviews would only take place with either himself or Saz present.