Beneath the Blonde (20 page)

Saz wasn’t able to get a moment with Greg and Siobhan where she could tell them the news without involving Dan in the conversation and had to force herself to wait throughout the meal during which Siobhan, whose scant regard for the etiquette of traditional table manners had her eating sautéed potatoes and courgette strips with her fingers, animatedly told them all about the great dream she’d had while taking an afternoon nap. It had been a sense-and-sex dream featuring the steward from the plane, Brad Pitt, a tiger cub and an empty yellow and blue painted building.

Even as she enjoyed the bright and brittle entertainment,
Saz quickly saw that Siobhan would no doubt flip from charm straight into fury if she told her the news tonight, so she jostled her off to bed as soon as she could. Siobhan readily went to her room and, once Dan had also done so, Saz managed a quick exchange in the hallway with Greg to tell him about the woman.

“She’s a New Zealander?”

“Or Australian.”

“Your friend couldn’t tell?”

“No.”

“Typical. British cultural racism at its best.”

“Sorry. But at least we now know the woman sending the flowers in London is Antipodean.”

“But we don’t know if she’s from New Zealand or Australia. Nor do we know that the woman you saw with Steve in LA was the same person as the flower woman in England.”

“No, we don’t. Unfortunately we don’t know anything for definite. But I just wanted to fill you in.”

“To let me know what you don’t know?”

“Yeah. Well …”

Greg shrugged, “I guess knowing what we don’t know is something more than we’ve had so far.”

Saz agreed and added, “I really do think we all need to be a whole lot more careful from now on. If she is a New Zealander, she’s going to be a lot less obvious than we are. And we ought to let Dan know what’s been going on. I don’t think it’s fair to keep all this from him any longer.”

Having reached agreement from Greg on that front, with a promise that he would tell Dan all in the morning, she then tackled him on the next issue, “And maybe you could do something to persuade Siobhan to talk to the police here?”

Saz noticed that Greg physically inched away from her, his face clouding over, “Well, I don’t know …”

“But this woman could be here. Now.”

“Yes, but as you said, we don’t know anything for certain.”

“Fine. Then tell them that. At least we’d have more people looking out for Siobhan. I mean, it’s ludicrous after everything that’s happened, with Alex and Steve, that she still won’t let the police know about the threats.”

Greg frowned and bit his thumbnail, “Look, Saz, you and I need to talk a bit about this. I think …”

Siobhan then appeared at her bedroom door wearing only a pair of Greg’s boxer shorts. She put an arm around Greg’s shoulders and pulled him away, slurring her speech in Saz’s direction. “Whatever it is, sweetheart, he can tell you all about it in the morning. I want him all to myself right now. G’night!”

She blew Saz a giggling giddy kiss and Saz went to bed alone and frustrated. In more ways than one.

To Saz, brought up in the rolling suburbs of urban Kent and transplanted for the past fifteen years to London where Hampstead High Street was thought steep enough to be a luge run, Queenstown was dauntingly beautiful. Siobhan looked at the view of the lake, the sun splashing itself across the water and whispered in awe to Greg, “You’re right. This place is amazing. It’s a bloody good thing Alex is dead—he’d have hated it.”

Peta had booked them into a B&B for the night—the luxuriousness of “Queenstown House” rather negated the title “B&B” in Siobhan’s eyes. Though they were now almost inured to posh hotels, the term B&B still recalled the unchanging imprint of five years stopping at orange and brown carpeted versions of cigarette-stale rooms the length and breadth of band-touring Britain. They weren’t exactly used to a landlady who offered them cocktail hour glasses of sauvignon blanc. Nor were they used to sleeping in rooms lit by lake view windows with fat feather pillows. Had they not been reeling from the messy deaths of Steve and the more cynical Alex, who would indeed have loathed spending two days in anywhere quite so perfectly the personification of Antipodean tourism, the three remaining members of Beneath The Blonde would have had a blissful time. Dan, however, was still in shock from the information Greg had given him on their flight south that morning. He was, quite naturally, worried for himself, feeling as he said “like some ignorant guest at an Agatha Christie hotel, just waiting to
be bumped off”. But while worry was one of the emotions he was feeling, his overriding response was fury at Greg and Siobhan for having kept him in the dark about what had been going on. As he said to Saz, “I’d never have agreed to come all the bloody way out here if I thought any of this was going on. This was supposed to be a holiday, a rest before we get into the really big stuff. Prancing about at the bottom of the world while some maniac makes up their mind about when’s the best time to do me in isn’t exactly my idea of a rest-cure. I feel safer at home than I do in this tourist trap.”

While Saz tried to reassure Dan that she didn’t think it was quite that bad, she could hear the uncertainty in her own voice and knew she hadn’t done much to calm his fears when he announced he intended to spend the rest of the afternoon locked in his hotel room and that he thought he’d just like to fly home the next day if possible.

Saz found herself wishing she too could just throw a tantrum and retire to daytime TV and the view, but Siobhan was having none of it. She had convinced herself that even if the stalker were a New Zealand woman—and she forcefully pointed out that neither Greg nor Saz knew this for certain—they’d only been in the country for forty-eight hours and without prior knowledge of their schedule no one could catch up with them quite so quickly. Saz’s comment that, as Peta had confirmed all their flights and arrangements on the Internet, their plans were open to anyone who knew how to look, was brushed aside as Siobhan flounced upstairs to demand that Dan accompany them on a quick sightseeing trip before dinner. The four of them then went out for a wander around the small town, an incongruous group to be tour bus partying. Dan was strained and silent, Greg alert and holding tightly on to Siobhan and Saz still angry with Siobhan for yet again refusing point blank either to speak to the police or even discuss the matter. Only Siobhan was
having a good time, her incessant chatter and bright manner belying any worries at all. Saz thought she was behaving like a small child on Christmas Eve, rushing headlong through one day to get to the big event the next. What she wasn’t clear on was what on earth Siobhan had found to be so happy about.

After early evening drinks at the hotel, Siobhan insisted they spend the evening at the Tex-Mex restaurant they’d passed in their afternoon walk. Though Greg had been hanging out for Chinese food, they were all pleasantly surprised by the vast portions and the speed and sexy charm of their waiter who took it into his head to flirt outrageously with first Saz, then Siobhan. And then, much to Greg’s chagrin at being missed out, he spent the rest of the night proffering larger and larger portions to Dan—which at least cheered Dan up a little and brought a semblance of a smile to his face. Saz stayed sober throughout the meal. Unable to relax at all, she’d positioned her chair flat against the wall from where she could easily view both the main entrance and the kitchen door and she spent the whole meal scanning the room for tall women with very dark or dyed black hair. Half way through the first course she remembered Steve’s woman in LA and her own experiences with peroxide and extended her gaze to include any woman in the room over five-foot six. There were only three, sitting at a large and raucous table together with a selection of lads. All of them were American, all drunk and all very loud. Saz kept an eye on them anyway.

Dinner finished and three jugs of margaritas down, Siobhan lurched from her seat to join the regular Wednesday night band. After a quiet, slurred word with the lead singer she took the mic. Despite three moderately successful singles in New Zealand, Beneath The Blonde weren’t exactly megastars in his home country, Greg having refused point blank all the record company’s attempts to make any publicity
mileage out of his being born there, but Siobhan’s voice was known. Known and noted. And while nobody really cared or noticed as the tall, lean woman slightly stumbled her way up to the raised corner where the musicians were standing, they immediately sat up and took notice when, after three introductory bars, Siobhan’s voice rang out loud and untamed, clear over the now silent heads of the stunned diners.

Even without the wig and the clothes and the makeup and despite the hollow dark rings under her eyes from combined nerves and jet lag, Siobhan could make the whole room shut up and pay attention with just a single held note, breath catching and voice cracking as she let each moment fall from her mouth. Which is what she did for four more Beneath The Blonde songs. Then, after a heart rending version of “Diamonds and Rust”, she left the band to return to their set and came clattering back to their table to fall into Greg’s arms, hiding her face in his neck as the applause of sixty knives and forks on plates rang out into the street.

Dan finished his drink and whispered pointedly to Saz, “Please note, our little songbird’s physicality isn’t quite the classic pose of the reluctant star.” And he indicated the clenched fist Siobhan was punching into Greg’s upper chest as being just the start of a pay back, since Greg had earlier bet Siobhan she wouldn’t have the nerve to sing tonight, the bet taking place just at the moment the plane took off from Auckland airport.

When Siobhan looked up and mouthed a sweaty and grinning “Yes!” across the table to Dan, Saz noted with disgust the stirring in her own stomach. She hoped it might have something to do with the char-grilled tuna steak and extra hot chilli sauce, but was rather more certain that the cause was now sitting opposite her, face flushed and beaming, chest panting and voice hoarse from doing what
she did best. And who was now doing what she did second best. Kissing the man she loved.

Saz managed to ignore her own inopportune lusts and listened to Dan while she waded her way through the small mountain of chocolate and coffee cream that was pudding. Relaxed from the alcohol and food, he shifted his attention from his immediate worries to those waiting for him back home. He told her about his break-up with Jeremy—and proved just how very much still in love he was with a bloke Saz could have told him to write off in about ten seconds. Jeremy was not out, not planning ever to come out and wanting Dan to pretend to be flatmates to his parents. All that and an inability to cope with Dan’s success in the band and complaining whenever they went away on tour—though not when Jeremy could come too. Funnily enough, Jeremy didn’t have a job of his own either. Or a flat, or a car. Though he was making good use of Dan’s while Dan was away.

Half hearing the story, Siobhan, two more margaritas down and even less tactful than usual, turned from her whispered conversation with Greg to butt in with, “Dan, you’re being so damn stupid. You’re too bloody nice for your own good. What are you doing letting that little creep stay at your place? He’s obviously a user and a liar and a coward.”

Dan had to agree, but when Siobhan had turned her attention back to biting the loose skin around Greg’s little fingernail, Dan leaned his head to Saz and whispered, “She can talk. We all know what’s best doesn’t mean we’re going to do it. I know Jeremy’s a bastard. A beautiful, charming, blue-eyed bastard. But I still love him. What does she expect me to do?” Saz shrugged, listening to him, but her eyes still travelled around the rest of the room.

Dan continued, “It’s like all the crap with this stalker. Everyone knows Siobhan’s wrong, we all want to tell the police, but, as usual, she’s the one with the power and she’s the one who’s vetoed the sensible solution. It’s all very well
to say do the right thing, when you have no intention of doing it yourself.”

Saz had no answer for him, nor did she much want to answer his questions about her own relationship with Molly. Dividing her attention between observing the room and watching Siobhan laugh with Greg, she would far rather torment herself with a perversely enjoyable guilty tension for Siobhan than answer questions about how she and Molly met. But she played with her dessert and gave Dan all the right answers. She professed her passion and love for Molly, all the while trying to ignore the little voice in the back of her head asking, three years on and routine setting in, if any of all that wonderfulness would prove to be enough to get her past this teenage infatuation with Siobhan. At the end of the evening, Dan managed a prolonged and probing goodbye with the waiter, then the four of them stumbled into a cab and up the steep hill to their beds. Saz was adamant that Siobhan should not walk the short and badlylit distance. She was teetering on the verge of picking up the phone and calling Molly to tell her everything and was therefore surprisingly grateful to see that while they were at dinner a huge bunch of yellow roses had been delivered for Siobhan. At least it sobered her up enough to realize there was no point in disturbing Molly just to tell her everything about nothing.

When Siobhan walked into her room five minutes later Saz was just wondering what to do with the flowers. In too much of a hurry to get the roses into her room and away from Siobhan, she hadn’t yet got around to barring her door. Siobhan stood, staring at her, mouth a little open, in surprise or inebriation, Saz wasn’t sure which.

“How lovely. For me?”

“Ah—yeah. They were outside your room when I came upstairs. I grabbed them while you and Greg were making coffee. I was going to throw them out.”

“Without telling me?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure, I hadn’t really thought about it yet, I just didn’t think you’d want to see them tonight, after having such a good time at the restaurant and everything.”

Siobhan’s head dropped and her hands started shaking, “Fuck it. Fuck it. We’re not even ok here.”