Beneath the Blonde (4 page)

“I think she is. Anyway, she cares about me.”

“I care about you.”

“I know. So admit that having a real job, one I can concentrate on …”

“One you need to go away for.”

“Yeah, that too. A job where I need to go away and look after myself will be good for me. You’ve been looking after me for ages. Earning all the money—”

“You had sickness benefit for a while.”

“Yes. That went a long way, didn’t it? Come on, Moll. You know I’m right. I’m not sick any more. Maybe I’m always going to be a bit tender, but I can’t hide behind you forever. It’s not good for us, for our relationship. And anyway, I don’t want to.”

Molly picked up her glass of wine and poured the rest of it down the sink. She kissed Saz’s shoulder and picked up a tea towel.

“I know it would be good for you to have a job you can get involved in. I know you need a job. I know I can’t keep you wrapped in cotton wool forever.”

“Not even silk suits.”

“Not when you rip them off at weddings, no. But this is different, Saz. You don’t know anything about music, about bands.”

“I can learn.”

“I thought you were there to detect, not to gain new career insights?”

“I’m being an assistant. I’m just helping. Being the runner, whatever. So I can find out what’s going on. Find out about them. If I see what there is to know, then I’ll know what there is to find out. Anyway, I won’t be doing the business thing much. They’ve got a band manager and a tour manager and they’ve got a PA working for them at the house. Alex’s little sister. She’ll do most of the work.”

“Right. And she’ll never ask you to do anything.”

“I’m quite good at office work actually.”

“And body guarding? You’re not exactly Kevin Costner.”

“Dances With Dykes?”

“I’m serious. All your work until now has been investigative stuff.”

“So’s this. It’s just in more glamorous parts of the world than South London.”

Saz rinsed the last of the glasses and continued with her attempt to persuade Molly of the value of getting back to work full-time.

“Look, it’s really not going to be that complicated, surely. I’ve just got to find out who’s been delivering the flowers to her. I can get Carrie to help out. She could do with the cash. Once we grab the flower sender, I’ll persuade Siobhan to make a complaint and then hand it all over to the men in blue. Here’s your stalker, deal with it.”

“So why doesn’t Siobhan just go to the police herself?”

“I don’t know. Shy. Private. She probably feels stupid to be worried. It’s not as if she’s actually being threatened as such, more like irritated, annoyed. Letters, flowers, that sort of thing.”

“Doesn’t sound very annoying to me.”

Saz turned her head to look at Molly, her yellow-gloved hands still in the washing-up water. “That, my darling, is
because you expect all flowers and surprises to come from me. What if you didn’t know who they came from?”

Molly kissed Saz’s upturned forehead. “I might find it a turn on. I might find it exciting. Like I’m finding you exciting.”

Saz turned to kiss Molly back. “Yeah, I know, there’s just something so goddamn sexy about a girl, a washing-up bowl and a pile of dirty dishes, isn’t there?

Saz extricated her hands from the sticky yellow gloves and Molly slid her own hand down Saz’s bare arm. Saz hooked her leg back between Molly’s and pulled her even closer. Beneath the knee, beneath the line of burn, Saz’s legs were smooth like Molly’s touch, Molly’s mouth. Lips to legs, to stomach, to breasts, to back, sweet pointed eye teeth clawing their way through scarred skin. Saz was bodypinned to the kitchen floor, newly laid slate tiles cold on her back. Molly found her experienced way through the clothes straight to the skin, the soft flesh, taunting Saz’s body with her fingers, her hands, whipping at Saz’s centre with her rope of long hair, the two of them as the same shudder. Saz’s body joined Molly’s, centring herself on her lover and into the slate and into the cold of the kitchen night and, after the sweat and the holding and the last turn away from the hot two-body cave, eventually into sleep.

Hours later Saz and Molly pulled themselves from the cold kitchen floor, Saz complaining that their new tiles should have an anti-sex warning, and stumbled through the dark flat into their bed. As Molly stroked Saz to sleep, Saz mumbled, “You won’t miss this when I’m away, will you? At least you won’t have to look after me all the time. That’ll be a relief, won’t it?”

Molly smiled into Saz’s hair, “I love looking after you,
babe. I’ve always loved it. It’s my favourite thing. Which is why I know it’s a great idea that you should go.”

But Saz was asleep before she heard the permission granted.

Saz was sitting on the attic floor of Siobhan’s house, looking out as the heavy rain lashed across her view of the city. In just one night the weather had made its usual London leap from late summer sun to early autumn damp and she was delighted that at least this part of her job was to involve being indoors for much of the time.

Siobhan and Greg had each claimed a room of their own when they moved in. His was the basement; dark and padded, it was half studio, half playroom, the walls lined with recording gear and corners stacked three deep in guitars. On one wall was a red formica and chrome bar, on another a fifties’ juke box and a pool table stood in the centre of it all. Siobhan’s room was the converted attic. It was a stunning space, stretching the width of the house with windows all along one wall looking south down to the city. Siobhan lay on a double chaise longue—custom-made by an old friend of Alex’s and upholstered in padded gold and purple. The walls were pale lilac, and the room was carpeted in dark green for half its length, while at the other end, in front of a wide-screen TV with huge speakers, was a small wooden dance floor. Siobhan pointed to a shelf beside the TV on which were more than twenty exercise videos, “That’s how Siobhan Forrester gets ‘the body of an Amazon princess’. But with two tits, you understand. Every bloody morning I’m up here and getting on down with Cindy and
Claudia and Elle and all the other barbie dolls who wish their sculpted limbs were made from plastic and not sweat.”

“You don’t like gyms?” Saz asked.

“I like privacy. I like to be alone.” Siobhan whispered in a very bad Garbo as she rolled herself off the chaise, managing to crumple the sheet music she was studying as well as several copies of an incongruously paired
Smash Hits
and
GQ
. She opened a cupboard built into the sloping back wall, which turned out to be a small fridge and took out two short frosted glasses and then reached into the tiny freezer compartment and took out a selection of frozen vodka miniatures. She offered them to Saz. “Not that I’d do this if I was really seriously in training, but what do you say? Since it’s such a lovely Monday?”

Saz looked out at the rain weeping horizontally against the windows, at the gold-painted clock which read almost noon, laughed and chose the cherry vodka.

Saz had asked Siobhan if she could come over before she started her official job the next day so that she could get clear on exactly what she was supposed to know and, more to the point, just what it was she should be looking out for. Saz started by asking Greg about himself. He answered hesitantly, “Well, I don’t know that there’s that much of interest. My parents died ages ago. I was brought up by my aunt and uncle, got on with them well enough, but I just always knew I wanted to leave New Zealand. See the world.”

“To do the back-packing thing?”

“Not really. I pretty much came to London and stayed. I’ve been to Amsterdam a fair few times, bits of Europe, the States. But I was just interested in the music really. Alex and I started the band in ‘88 and since then, that’s been my main focus. Well, the band and Siobhan.” He added the latter
with a kiss to his girlfriend’s forehead and then got up to leave the room.

Saz looked at Siobhan, “Sorry, touchy subject?”

Siobhan shook her head. “No, you’re all right. He’s just not very good at talking about himself, that’s all. Basically, his family were really pissed off with him when he left New Zealand so young. He was only sixteen, after all. He didn’t really have anything when he came here. Did loads of crap jobs, lived in squats and put all his efforts into getting into music—not really the ideal career path for a number one son. Or nephew for that matter. He doesn’t like to talk about it much.”

Saz turned from the floor-to-ceiling windows, grabbing another handful of toasted cashews from the bowl at her feet as she did so. “OK. Fair enough. It’s unlikely that your stalker is a long lost cousin anyway. And your family?”

“Yeah, well my lot are cool. Really, they’re great. I love my family.”

“Do you see them often?”

“Twice a year, Easter and Christmas. That’s probably why they’re so easy to love.”

Saz nodded, “Absence certainly seems to make the heart grow fonder as far as families are concerned. What are yours like?”

“Very TV typical. One of those classic Liverpool Irish Catholic families they make all the documentaries about. And the soap operas. All the clichés, all the shouting, all the affection. And all the problems. Which is why all this is still so much like playing to me. Having this house, these things—it’s like having someone else’s life. And we got a really good deal with it too, because we so often rehearse in the basement, a whole chunk of the mortgage is paid for by the band itself. One of the good things Cal managed to sort for us.”

“There must be a payoff though?”

“Yeah,” Siobhan shrugged, “my life.” Then she smiled, “No, it’s not too bad really. The record company get to keep an eye on us and there’s no way we could have afforded all this before them.” She interrupted herself and smiled gleefully at Saz, “Actually, things are going pretty well right now, we could have paid for the lot ourselves … but why should we if they wanted to help? And with all these rooms, we realized we could have what we’d always wanted. A music room for Greg, the acoustics are good enough for rehearsals and because it’s the basement we don’t really disturb the neighbours. Then there’s the three spare rooms, our bedroom, the living rooms, kitchen, office and this”—she waved her arm around the room—”my boudoir. It’s important for the promotions people too—everyone knows Greg and I are together but we have to play it down a bit for the fans. We’re supposed to look as if we’re both eligible, apparently one Ben Watt and Tracey Thorn is enough in British music. So I get to have this all to myself. As different from the basement as possible and as far away from Greg as possible too—just in case we should happen to have a tiny tiff, you understand.” Siobhan laughed, throwing her head back on her long, arched neck and Saz nodded, thinking that if the huge screaming fight Siobhan and Greg had been having when she arrived twenty minutes earlier was a tiny tiff, then she didn’t plan on being around when they were having proper rows.

Over another vodka, Siobhan showed the letters to Saz. There were only three, each neatly printed up in a different font, but all on the same expensive creamy white paper. The first just asked how she’d liked the flowers and the second, while longer, was fairly innocuous, though Saz understood that it was enough to be concerned about. She herself would have been very perturbed to receive a letter that said, “I know what you feel like”.

She pointed this out to Siobhan who laughed and asked, “You don’t know much of our back catalogue, do you?”

Saz winced a little and answered, “Sorry. I don’t have a lot to do with ‘young people’s music’ these days. I was a Radio One girl once, but I always knew when the time came that I no longer cared about Top of The Pops, I’d be a grown-up.”

“And that’s now?”

“Now I listen to Farming Today and the start of the Today Programme while I run, then I usually go back to sleep for the rest of the morning.”

“So do I when I’m awake.”

“Go back to sleep?”

“Listen to the Today Programme.”

Saz sipped at her drink, the alcohol warming her more than was warranted on an early autumn morning, “I’d have thought you’d be a morning TV girl.”

Siobhan shook her head, “Too much bloody shouting far too bloody early for me. I do all my shouting on stage. Reallife I like to be as calm and quiet as possible. Mind you, they were very nice to us when we went on the Big Breakfast. I suppose you missed that too?”

“You suppose right. And so, in order to remedy this appalling lack of knowledge, I went out first thing this morning and harassed the assistant at Virgin …”

“Oxford Street?”

Saz nodded.

“God, that’s what I call dedicated.”

“No, that’s what you call desperate. I harassed this poor spotty girl until she found me not only the album—which, you’ll be glad to know, she was visibly shocked to learn I didn’t already possess—but also the two single CDs. I haven’t had a chance to listen to any of it yet. Sorry.”

Siobhan stood up and reached for an apple from the fruit
bowl on top of the television. “You didn’t need to buy them. I would have made you copies.”

“Isn’t that a breach of copyright?”

“Not as much as these letters are.”

She proceeded to explain to Saz how both letters quoted from Beneath The Blonde songs. The first letter was very short, the second was a virtual paraphrase of their first hit—a “my lover done me wrong” song, written by Alex and more than a little angry. Siobhan read the letter out loud, grimacing as she did so.

“Dear Siobhan, I know what you look like beneath the blonde. Beneath the dress. Beneath the knickers. I know what you look like. I know what you feel like. I know you, Siobhan Forrester. I won’t forget you. Don’t forget me.”

She then quoted the lines from “I Know You”. “See, the real words are ‘I know what you look like, beneath the dress, I know how you feel, dressing to empress’—with an ‘e’—that’s a very Alex line, you don’t know what he’s fucking talking about unless you read the lyrics. Then there’s some other stuff, blah, blah, blah … ‘bitch’. That’s it.”

Siobhan threw away her apple core and grimaced, “Bitch of course rhymes with witch; the boys weren’t quite as eloquent in the early days as they are now. Then it stops rhyming altogether and becomes this really fast, furious rant which I sing, if I do say so myself, fucking brilliantly.”