Authors: Emily Franklin
“Don’t worry, Love, we won’t forget you here,” Fizzy pats my back.
“Sure,” Keena says. “Pizza sounds good.” Then she remembers something. “But not on Tuesday. I’ve got…That night doesn’t work for me.”
“Not Tuesday. Fine,” I clarify as I’m waling down the stairs, away from my past life in the dorms.
“We’ll see you there,” Fizzy cups her hands in front of her mouth like a megaphone, though with her tiny stature, nothing is mega.
“Yeah,” Keena says. “And you can tell us what it’s like to live in splendor.”
On the way to the flat, I detour to HEL (the good kind, Clementine’s coffee shop).
“What does HEL stand for, anyway?” I ask her when, without so much as an invitation or nod, she sits down at my swinging table and begins to chat.
“The real deal is that it used to be
Hello, Darling!
which sounds so naff now but at the time was considered very hip. Then people started called it
darling
, or
darls
, by which point it become this — what’s the term you use now — mosh pit of a scene. A veritable who’s who of everyone in rock, magazines, music, or fashionable hangers-on.”
“It’s funny, because
Hello, Darling
sounds so sweet and cute.”
“Well, right, my point exactly. So then everyone wanted to be hard and rough and punk, so darling was out and it was all, meet you at hello.” She laughs. “This was way way before Jerry Maguire and the you had me at hello bit.”
“I’m sure…” I sip my foamy coffee and delight in the café life here. It’s as close to Slave to the Grind as I can get and just being here must register with my inner being as a calm, safe haven. Note to self: dependence on caffeine and café comfort is a tolerable habit, provided I can keep up with the costs of coffee. This one’s free, though, since Clementine won’t let me pay for anything. “So now it’s HEL — with one ‘L’?”
“A lot of time has passed — in the eighties it was HD, but then people thought that meant hard drugs. So…” She stands up and pulls me outside to the sign. She gathers up her bat-sleeved ruby colored top and climbs onto the bench so she can reach the sign. “If you brush aside the ivy like this…see? There are two Ls. But one got smothered in the plants. I think HEL is here to stay. Unless these ivies grow more and then it’s just HE.”
“Is darling under there, too?”
“No, no — this is the second sign — the first one is in the Hard Rock Café — haven’t you had the privilege of dining there and seeing it?”
We sit in the chilly air until Clementine’s hands go pure white and she complains, “It’s too cold to sit here — come back in.”
“I did go to the Hard Rock, but I didn’t see the sign. It was kind of crowded.”
A server brings us a fresh round of hot drinks, plus nibbles of spanikopita, Greek triangles of spinach and feta that are so good I find myself making a meal of them.
“Are we on for a redo of the Bracker’s weekend?” Clementine asks.
“I have no idea — I haven’t been in touch with Angus or Monti — but I need to call them.”
“Leaving the dorms, are we?” Clem smiles.
“How’d you know?”
“I don’t blame you for trying — it’s a good thing to put yourself out there — but it’s not worth the hassle. Real art…” she pauses. “Is there real art anymore? I don’t know.”
I crunch and chew and watch her face for signs of what’s okay to ask. She has the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, and almost perfectly round, so she seems like an aged doll. Then I remember her record cover for
Like the London Rain
. “I listened to your album this weekend. Is that lame to admit?”
“It’s a great thing to say — you must be the only one in Britain to have it. Oh — wait — it’s the one at the flat, isn’t it?”
I nod. “It’s so good — you know that already — but you were so young. Your picture on the album looks like it’s from when you were seventeen or something.”
Clem’s voice gets quieter and she puts her coffee cup on the plexiglass table which sways in silence. “I was, Love. Sixteen. I lied and said I was seventeen — and the truth of it was that I did turn seventeen right after we cut the first single, which wasn’t
Rain
but
Didn’t You Always Know a Good Thing
. It wasn’t released as a single in the states, but it went to number three in the charts here.” She looks at me. “It’s pathetic, twenty years later — more than that — and I still remember every note, every review, every business fact and figure.”
I love the way the English say figure —not fig-gure, but fi-gah. It sounds so glamorous. “Do you miss it?” I make a gesture with my hands and hair that’s supposed to show the glamorous life but makes me look more like I’m in a shampoo ad.
“Didn’t you ask me that once before?” she studies my face. “Swear I’ve known you in a past life — or seen you. Anyway. No. I suppose, in my odd ways, I’m trying to tell you that it’s a horrible, horrible business. They plucked me — literally — plucked me from nothing and made me this little starlet.”
“It doesn’t sound all that bad,” I say. “Not that I’d know, but you lived a dream…”
“And that’s what you’re left with. Me, Monti — every other used-to-be. We’re a clan you don’t want to be in. Once you’re not doing the thing you got famous for, there’s not much else. Except the money.”
“Where would you be if you didn’t find fame and fabulousness?” I ask.
“I’ve thought about that a lot. A lot. And you can’t know, of course, what the different paths of your life have meant.”
“Right. Didn’t Milan Kundura write something like that?” I think for a second and say, “That you can’t know what to want because you only live once? You can’t compare your life now with any life you had before, and you can’t make your future life better.” I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping I don’t sound pretentious.
Clemetine puts her hand on my shoulder, “Quite right.”
I’ve noticed that
quite
over here is more akin to
exactly
whereas at home it’s more like
sort of
. Note to self: add it to my growing list of slang translations to remember. Further note to self: actually write down said list in journal rather than letting it roam freely in the vast expanse of other trivia in the mosh pit of my brain.
“Enough about me — I’m just an old bag of air. What about you — Miss Love.”
I cross my ankles and bring my legs back under the toadstool chair. “You mean what do I want to be when I grow up?” I say it like I’m five years old and then try to answer her without being entirely sure of what to say. “Easy answer? A singer.”
Clementine’s mouth twists as if she’s licked a lime. Fruit on fruit. “How about the not easy answer.”
I can feel my defenses rising, even though this is supposed to be friendly chatter, so I try to be calm and laid back. “The uneasy answer — not uneasy like nervous, but the longer answer is that, unlike everyone else I know, I’m becoming less and less sure.” My mug of coffee is cold now, the spanikopitas eaten, and my Sunday afternoon gloom and doom has set in. “Why is it that I feel like I’ve known my whole life what I want to do and who I want to be but now that I’m actually getting closer to it, I’m not sure I want it.”
Clementine leans towards me, “Have you been offered a recording contract or something?”
Blush-cough combo. “No, not like that.”
“Oh, good, I was going to have to send you back to America —can’t have you waste all your talent on actual singing.”
“You’ve never even heard me — how do you know I’m talented.”
“Your reputation proceeds you — I am an honorary member of the Piece clan, like you. That, plus I got to hear you sing my song, remember?”
More blushing. “Again, feel free to tape my mouth shut.”
“It was a lovely rendition. But now I’ve gone and interrupted you. Go back to what you were saying.”
“It’s just…when I was six I used to have my dad tape all these songs from the radio so I could memorize them, okay? And then I’d perform them for him and my Aunt Mable — who’s probably my biggest fan.” Pause for me to shove the teary worry back into my throat so I can explain. “And I love singing.”
“Do you write your own stuff?”
I nod. “I do. I try to. Not the music, though. I’m not skilled enough — I haven’t taken much theory or composition. The lyrics are my forte — and I wouldn’t want to be one of those singers who…”
Clementine wrinkles her nose conspiratorially. “…who sing someone else’s songs, you mean.”
“Shit — sorry. I know Like the London Rain wasn’t yours — but that’s not what I mean. That was a different era…” Now I’ve made her sound old and unoriginal — the hits just keep coming.
“Don’t be sorry — you’re in the right. But you should know that I
did
have my own stuff, and I thought I
was
recording it. But they made two tracks — nearly a whole other album of my songs, my real songs, but never released them.”
“Is that why you stopped?” I have to get going but if I don’t milk the conversational cow for all it’s worth now, I might not have the chance again. If Arabella were around she might be bored with it or I might feel — I don’t know — inhibited from talking freely. Only about this. I’d tell her anything else (oh, um, except for my sordid scandal with her brother), but for some reason it feels funny to think about mentioning all my doubt to her when she’s so sure of her own path to stage and then screen fame.
“You know what? It’s not! Can you believe what a sad sack I am? You always think that you’ll stand up for yourself and not let the high-ups run you down or control you, but the fact is — or was — that I was desperate. I got shown a world I’d never even thought about being a part of, with jets and fancy feasts and fame — and then suddenly I couldn’t live without it.” She sighs and for one second I think she might cry. Surreal. “I never learned how.”
“Maybe that’s part of the problem. It’s like you have to start so young to get anywhere but then by doing that you don’t know how to live a regular life.”
Clementine stands up and offers two hands to me. I hold hers and she pulls me into the back room of the café. All over the walls are push-pinned photos of celebrities at HEL. “This is what I’m left with,” she says and points to the pictures. “Memories and my café. Not that I’m complaining. I live quite well from the royalties — unlike many of the others who got ripped off along the way, I was too scared to spend much — I took the free offers and banked the lot I made.”
“Smart.” I glance at the wall where Burt Bachrach has Clem on his knee, where Monti and Mick are arm in arm, where Duran Duran is giving the camera lens the finger, where David Bowie in nearly all of his incarnations stands willowy with his hand on his hips, where those Keane boys are smiling, coy. I stare at the photo of Bowie with Natalie Portman for a long time, wondering how they met or why and what the story is or was.
“Bowie fan?” Clem asks and moves some papers around on her desk.
“Big time,” I say.
“A voice like sandpaper and glue,” Clementine says and looks to see if I know what she’s talking about, which I do.
“Song for Robert Zimmerman,” I say. “Bob Dylan, the king of all lyricists.”
“That he is,” Clementine says and points to the man in question on the wall captured in photo with his eyes closed. “Off you go, now.” Clementine shoos me out suddenly.
“I’ve used up the well of wisdom?” I ask as I back out the door.
“This well’s never dry — but you have work — and I have…a café to run. Now, I’ll see you at Bracker’s for the long weekend, right?”
“Right — Bank Holiday Weekend. Who could forget?” I smile at her and reach for a couple of pound coins which, when I offer them, she makes a face like I’m overly flatulent, which I’m not. At least not at present.
En route to Arabella’s (Arabella’s=Monti’s=Mine) I retrace the conversational highs and lows. Enlightening, yes. I could be discovered and swept up instantly in an Idol moment. But disheartening, too. Even though the industry has probably changed, the truth is if I got offered some crazy deal right now I’d have to decide what to do — college or contract — and…pointless! What a pointless argument to have in my head with my own self. Focus. I need to focus on what’s really happening, part of which is my ever-growing pile of work, part of which is my gnawing need to see Asher.
I am overwhelmed with that romantic itch that makes it impossible to sit still. So much so that I actually get off the bus a stop early and walk the rest of the way just to try to give my racing pulse a real reason to quicken. Just the mere thought of him leads me to a question. THE question. Will I? Would I?
Would I — given the right scenario — sleep with Asher Piece? Could I get ahead of myself more?
Before I can further investigate my trepidations and expectations, my feet bring me to the flat and by flat I mean face to face with Arabella.
“Bloody idiot!” Her voice is loud and exasperated.
“Sorry,” I say for no reason save for the guilt in my head and the lust on my loins. A gross image. Loins still makes me think of beef or pork and while they’re tasty with a dried fruit reduction sauce like Mable makes, it’s not something I associate with sex.
“Not you — it’s Tobias. He’s just crap. You saw him the other night. Passed out, useless — but I didn’t come meet you and Chris and Tobias just couldn’t have been bothered to so much as lift a finger to help clear up much less deign to speak to me…”
I shift my big bag higher up on my shoulder. Maybe now’s not the best time for me to move in. I want to be supportive, but Tobias is hardly living up to the fairy tale image Arabella projected back at Hadley last term. “Is he worth it? Really — wait — before you get defensive — and I’m the queen of defensive — just think about something Mable told me once. Guys don’t change.” I put my bag on the front stoop and hug Arabella. “They say they do, but once the magic of the first weeks or months…”
“Try years…”
“Fine. Years — and that’s like a decade for us. I’m just saying that you’re this incredible person.” We stop hugging and Arabella flips back her thick brown hair. Even sad, she’s gorgeous. “You have everything — and he’s a bloody idiot not to take you for granted.” She pouts and then puts her hand in front of her face to do an old drama trick, flipping her frown into a big grin while keeping her eyes steady. It’s harder than it seems and it shows how much of a smile is in the eyes, not the lips.