Besides, I’ve got … stuff to do here.”
“Oh, right, of course. I forgot you’re the top DJ now. Well, duty calls. I’m sure London’s hepcats can’t stand to have their morning coffee and muffins without your sexy voice telling them what’s what.”
I didn’t have the stomach to tell him I’d lost my job. “We don’t eat muffins for breakfast here.”
“Eggs and bacon, then. Whatever. Listen, babes, I have to run. I’ve got a photo shoot for some Brazilian mag in twenty minutes. Did you get my flowers? ”
“Yeah, thanks, Jus. They were lovely. Take care, okay? And don’t feel guilty about anything.”
“Okay, love you, honey. Get well soon,” said Justin, hanging up happily. I knew that I’d be forgotten again in an instant—being Justin Becker was a full-time job, one that didn’t leave room for unproductive emotions like guilt and remorse. But that said, he was, like the other two former band members, a good mate and a warm-hearted person, once you scratched beneath the vinyl of the pop star. I was glad that we had at least talked before I got to implement the Plan.
Funny how his career hadn’t been harmed by allegations of drugs, though.
Justin’s suggestion of a visit to the States gave me an idea. I dialed the number of my agent, Ron, and listened to a lengthy answering machine recording inform me that the offices of Pickett Management Services were currently closed, and if I left a message, they’d get back to me pronto.
“Ron, it’s Helena. Thanks for the card. I’m still in hospital, but I’m on the mend. I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to go and stay with my folks in New Jersey for a few months, until all the fuss dies down. Geoff Hadleigh’s fired me, but I feel like a break from work, anyhow. So please could you keep all my mail and any messages for me until I get back? I don’t know exactly when that’ll be, but I’ll call you. The main thing is to please not tell anyone where I am—just say that I’m away. Thanks. Bye.”
That should keep the press off my back, I thought.
Sandie Shaw
(GET YOUR KICKS ON) ROUTE 66
A FEW MONTHS AFTER SAM AND I FIRST MET, I SAW MY FIRST snowstorm. I’d woken up and opened my bedroom curtains to be startled by huge, fat, whirling flakes, bouncing off the glass and bumbling silently down to land on the place where the garden path used to be. And it wasn’t just the garden path—everything had been swallowed up: houses, trees, our street, and even, oh no, the spire of Salisbury Cathedral! I ran along the landing in a panic to tell my parents, but as was often the case, their bedroom door was forbiddingly closed.
“Mummy, Daddy, it’s snowing, and the spire’s gone! Let me in!”
There was a long pause. I rattled the door handle and it opened a fraction and then stopped, which meant that they had flicked across the catch. I caught a glimpse of its skinny upside-down beckoning finger on the other side of the door. A finger whose sole job it was to tell me to go away.
“Pleeease can I come in? I’m scared!”
Then my mother’s voice, blanket-heavy and slow, like the snow. The voice she used before she put her makeup on.
“Don’t be silly, Helena, the spire hasn’t gone. You just can’t see it because of the snow. Be a good girl and get yourself some cereal, would you? Put it in your Peter Rabbit bowl, and mind you don’t spill the milk. We’ll be down soon.”
“But why can’t I come in? ”
This time Dad spoke. “Your mother’s terribly tired, Helena. Please just do as she asks and go and have breakfast.”
I leaned my head on the door with frustration.
“I hate it when you lock the door!” I said, and stomped down the stairs, slapping each banister as I went.
After breakfast, once I’d had a bit of time to get used to the dizzying blur outside the window, I went to stand in the living room to get a better view. I traced the flakes’ descent with my finger down the windowpane until my
“Oh, right, of course. I forgot you’re the top DJ now. Well, duty calls. I’m sure London’s hepcats can’t stand to have their morning coffee and muffins without your sexy voice telling them what’s what.”
I didn’t have the stomach to tell him I’d lost my job. “We don’t eat muffins for breakfast here.”
“Eggs and bacon, then. Whatever. Listen, babes, I have to run. I’ve got a photo shoot for some Brazilian mag in twenty minutes. Did you get my flowers? ”
“Yeah, thanks, Jus. They were lovely. Take care, okay? And don’t feel guilty about anything.”
“Okay, love you, honey. Get well soon,” said Justin, hanging up happily. I knew that I’d be forgotten again in an instant—being Justin Becker was a full-time job, one that didn’t leave room for unproductive emotions like guilt and remorse. But that said, he was, like the other two former band members, a good mate and a warm-hearted person, once you scratched beneath the vinyl of the pop star. I was glad that we had at least talked before I got to implement the Plan.
Funny how his career hadn’t been harmed by allegations of drugs, though.
Justin’s suggestion of a visit to the States gave me an idea. I dialed the number of my agent, Ron, and listened to a lengthy answering machine recording inform me that the offices of Pickett Management Services were currently closed, and if I left a message, they’d get back to me pronto.
“Ron, it’s Helena. Thanks for the card. I’m still in hospital, but I’m on the mend. I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to go and stay with my folks in New Jersey for a few months, until all the fuss dies down. Geoff Hadleigh’s fired me, but I feel like a break from work, anyhow. So please could you keep all my mail and any messages for me until I get back? I don’t know exactly when that’ll be, but I’ll call you. The main thing is to please not tell anyone where I am—just say that I’m away. Thanks. Bye.”
That should keep the press off my back, I thought.
Sandie Shaw
(GET YOUR KICKS ON) ROUTE 66
A FEW MONTHS AFTER SAM AND I FIRST MET, I SAW MY FIRST snowstorm. I’d woken up and opened my bedroom curtains to be startled by huge, fat, whirling flakes, bouncing off the glass and bumbling silently down to land on the place where the garden path used to be. And it wasn’t just the garden path—everything had been swallowed up: houses, trees, our street, and even, oh no, the spire of Salisbury Cathedral! I ran along the landing in a panic to tell my parents, but as was often the case, their bedroom door was forbiddingly closed.
“Mummy, Daddy, it’s snowing, and the spire’s gone! Let me in!”
There was a long pause. I rattled the door handle and it opened a fraction and then stopped, which meant that they had flicked across the catch. I caught a glimpse of its skinny upside-down beckoning finger on the other side of the door. A finger whose sole job it was to tell me to go away.
“Pleeease can I come in? I’m scared!”
Then my mother’s voice, blanket-heavy and slow, like the snow. The voice she used before she put her makeup on.
“Don’t be silly, Helena, the spire hasn’t gone. You just can’t see it because of the snow. Be a good girl and get yourself some cereal, would you? Put it in your Peter Rabbit bowl, and mind you don’t spill the milk. We’ll be down soon.”
“But why can’t I come in? ”
This time Dad spoke. “Your mother’s terribly tired, Helena. Please just do as she asks and go and have breakfast.”
I leaned my head on the door with frustration.
“I hate it when you lock the door!” I said, and stomped down the stairs, slapping each banister as I went.
After breakfast, once I’d had a bit of time to get used to the dizzying blur outside the window, I went to stand in the living room to get a better view. I traced the flakes’ descent with my finger down the windowpane until my
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