Midnight Lamp (49 page)

Slaves-for-the-night were arranging bouquets, funeral-home ranks of them.
Fuck
. How did that get past my radar? She considered throwing a tantrum.
I don’t like cut flowers, everyone knows Fiorinda hates dead flowers! Get them out of here!!!
. But nah. I am not psyched-out, this is childish. A bunch of long stemmed pink roses, old fashioned roses with thorny dark stems, threw her for a moment. Her father had sent pink roses, exactly the same kind, to her dressing room, one very bad night long ago—

‘Who sent all the flowers?’

‘I’m not sure, Miss Fiorinda. Everything’s been through security, they’re still holding the cards and packaging. Would you like me to get a list?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

I am not psyched out. You know about me, and I know about you.

She was being coifed by the wig person when Puusi Meera swept in, wearing green and gold and some amazing emeralds. Her entourage filled the trailer, backing Fiorinda’s attendants into the bathroomette.

‘Now Fiorinda, I know you want to be alone. It’s no joke, r-r-revving yourself up to go on stage again, I can imagine, after the ordeals you have been through. And such a big crowd! Do you know, the old Bowl might be genuinely sold out this time? But me, you have to see. Let me look at you!’

Puusi had been a little frosty since her protegée returned from the dead. Possibly she felt that suicide (which never looks bad on a star’s resume) was enough of a trick, without Fiorinda having the cheek to come back and reap the benefits in person. She took Fiorinda’s hands and raised her to her feet, a tinseltown cocktail of malice and sentiment glowing in her great liquid eyes. Fiorinda was then left standing, on the auction block as it were, while Puusi settled resplendent, in an armchair vacated by the wig-person’s assistant.

‘Hm. This is one of your famous party frocks.’ It was the smouldery-opal dress that Sage and Ax had bought for her. ‘Very young, very little girl, which you are
not
quite… And the wig just like your own style, messy-natural. Mm, what else?’

‘This is it. I don’t do costume changes.’

‘That’s sweet, and brave, but it’s not what the people want, you will be so little and far away, and they will not think they are getting their money’s worth.’

‘I’ll be okay. I have Sage to light me. There’ll be spectacle.’

‘I had forgotten he does lights. How charming that you people do all your own chores.’ Puusi’s beautiful brows drew together. ‘Is he well? I think he’s looking peaky again… But you have no jewellery.’

‘No, I—’

‘You were probably going to wear costume jewels. You have no money, and the studio is so stingy. I thought of this, and I have come to the rescue. You will wear the earrings I gave you. Sit down, sit down, I will do it.’

Puusi beckoned, one of the entourage people proffered a casket. The goddess herself clipped the diamond and ruby falls onto Fiorinda’s ears, took up a brush and comb and arranged the borrowed curls so her gift was displayed to best advantage. ‘And this necklace, which is valuable and only a loan. I want it back.’ She fastened a diamond dog-collar, and shook her head in tender pride. ‘What has happened to the house with the bloodstained walls? Or that skinny yellow-faced girl who came to see me, and told me how she tried and tried but she could not scrub away the dirty shame of the past? You are
free
now, aren’t you, Fiorinda?’

‘Not right this minute. But I plan to be.’

‘Good, good. I thought so, I can see it. Now up, stand up again, let everybody see.’ The entourage murmured appreciation. Someone opened champagne, and everyone toasted each other. Puusi and Fiorinda moved off camera to one of Fiorinda’s sofas, ‘You
are
looking well,’ said Puusi. ‘Very spunky, and your skin is much better. Are you getting a lot of sex?’

‘Spunk to my back teeth. Puusi, would you do something for us?
Can
you persuade the studio not to call the movie Runnymede? I know it isn’t a big deal. I wouldn’t say this to Harry, but it’s only a little virtual biopic, it will come out and nobody will think twice. But Runnymede is going to sound so daft at home.’

The name change had happened at committee stage. None of the execs had liked
Rivermead
, they didn’t think it was historical enough: so the birthplace of the Reich had been moved to Surrey, and located where the Magna Carta was signed. The English were past caring: poor Harry was very upset.

‘Oooh.’ Unexpectedly, for a moment, a human being looked out of the goddess’s eyes. ‘One river, two places, that’s
very difficult
for movie folk.’ They laughed, and chinked glasses. ‘I will do my best!’

Puusi and her crowd departed. Fiorinda discarded the earrings and the collar. Her wig was taken away for finishing touches and the make-up team set to work: buffing and burnishing, smoothing and blending. Your teeth are English but
fine
, they assured her. You are so natural, these strong brows, so wonderful, just a light, a very light… The room reflected in the mirror reminded her of the luxury flat where her father used to fuck her: heaped with the presents that she couldn’t take home. And to think, once I
wanted
to end up here, cosseted like a queen-grub, Bleggh. It was my only aim in life. She wondered how much of her revulsion now was really down to the fear of becoming a magic psychopath. And how much was down to the bitter disillusion of that twelve year old kid?

He doesn’t love me, he never loved me.

The trailer had screens instead of windows. No sound, but without moving her head she could see the cowled stage. Ax was playing now, in his fine red suit with his Fender: isolated by the lights so he seemed alone, on the stage that was actually
crawling.
He looked very serious. Her stomach clutched. Not long now.

‘Miss Fiorinda? We’re all finished.’

‘You can call me Fiorinda if you like,’ The face in the mirror, to her disappointment, did not look unearthly lovely, just looked like Fiorinda with a high gloss. ‘If you call me Mizz anything, it’s
Ms Slater
. I’m not a variety act.’

‘I’m sorry, Ms Slater, er Fiorinda.’

She’d put the diamonds back in the casket. She changed her mind, took out the earrings and clipped them on. I remember every face, everyone who brought me here. I fill myself, I fuel myself, I’m a holocaust, I’m a firestorm.

Among the dewy planters of a VIP enclosure, Allie and Dilip, noncombatants, had been cornered by tv folk. ‘Don’t you often get the feeling that decisions affecting your career are being made in the bedroom?’

Dilip, grinning: ‘No, we have the distinct impression they have better things to do in the bedroom. Or anywhere else they consider semi-private!’ He wouldn’t be on stage, but Fiorinda’s return had been a tonic. Maybe DK wasn’t quite knocking on heaven’s door.

‘They’re in charge because we want them to be in charge,’ Allie was finding the tone hard to maintain, considering what was really going on tonight. ‘It’s a democracy, we voted them into power, we love where they’re taking the band.’

What band? An opportunist concoction that had never existed.

A big, jowly man had the next turn. ‘What do you think of the situation in Uzbekistan, Ms Marlowe?’

‘It’s an appalling tragedy.’ Allie didn’t miss a beat and didn’t elaborate. You can’t stop them talking about their favourite topic. The Oil Wars, the awful complicity of the House of Saud: and
still going on
, despite everything. Vile, sickening, senseless waste of lives and resources, but you can’t say that. Can’t say anything un-American, you just can’t. You say the most anodyne thing and move on.

Dilip, (sigh), picked it up. ‘It’s a spat on the upper decks of the Titanic, while the ship goes down by the bows. To those of us below, already in the lifeboats, this behaviour simply looks bizarre, an understandable madness—’

Allie tried to kick him under the table but failed, and then thank God the break was over, they were no longer needed, live transmission returned to the stage.

Last call. She checked the full length mirror, and knew that she was having one of those redhead nights. It wasn’t the make-up, or the borrowed curls (which felt disgusting), it was an electricity. The dark opal bodice fitted like a glove, her skirts were glittering embers, smoky feathers; and the cowboy boots, chestnut stitched in aubergine, excellent. Puusi was right. Fiorinda of the party frocks was so over, so nauseating in this high-gloss version, MOR chanteuse. But for tonight it worked.
Never in doubt,
she murmured: grateful to the goddess for injecting a bracing dose of professional needle into this stunt. Here I am. From abused child to global star. It didn’t work out quite the way I hoped, but
here I am
. I made it, mummy. I made it, Rufus. Are you proud of me?

‘The men band together,’ she said, softly. ‘The women are driven apart.’

‘You look
great
,’ the make-up artist assured her, misunderstanding.

The wig-person gave her a hug and whispered, ‘Puusi’s a
bitch
.’

‘I didn’t mean Puusi. Well, here I go. Thanks fer everything.’

She rubbed her bare arms, trembling in shadow just out of sight of the crowd, looking up at the hollow tiers, remembering this place as if she’d visited it in a dream. She was offered something and shook her head impatiently. Someone touched her,
don’t fucking touch me
. Who touched me? Oh, it was Sage. Nothing seemed real. She saw her path out onto the stage,
there
I will walk, guitar where it should be, good. How strange, this could be the last time ever in my life I stand like this, waiting to go on, looking into all those dark eyes—

Now we will do what you asked me to do, sister.

Fucked-up, falling-apart normality will be restored, with information-space science throwing up weird tech that nobody thinks twice about, and I will be alone again. People like Moloch will come after me. If there are other candidates, they will challenge me. But deal with the problem at hand… She summoned her friends, whose touch she could not endure, to her mind. Sage, my pilgrim soul, Ax, my darling guitar-man. Allie and Dilip, Rob and Felice and Cherry and Dora, Chip and Verlaine. Anne-Marie and Hugh; Doug Hutton. And so many others, every face, but now it’s time.

You won’t fold, Fat Boy? You insist on doing this? Let’s do it.

The futuristic technology marvel was over. The Chosen had bilocated from England, done their set and dematerialised. Just like
Star Trek
! After the break Ax came back with Sage (costume changed into black and white, jeans and singlets), and Fiorinda walked on. She picked up her guitar, donned it and gave the Bowl her calm little wildcat grin. ‘Good evening Hollywood!’

‘HI FIORINDA!’

‘Be patient with me, I don’t speak very good Californian. But you may well believe, I’m EXTREMELY pleased to be here!’

The second concert at the Hollywood Bowl would have mixed reviews. The West Coast music scene had ignored the first event, as (slighted) they’d ignored the English invasion, rating it as nothing to do with them. They took notice of the second show, and elected to find it dirty, fat, and impressive. They
loved
the big band, with Anne-Marie Wing and Smelly coming in for a special mention. The industry loved the tech feat, the US end of which had been handled by I-Systems, who were planning to develop b-loc; under licence. Some pundits who’d seen both shows preferred the first, and spoke of a dullness, a shadow on the second: some called the same atmosphere
a mood of dark intensity
. The Brits (sorry, English) were
fey
, it was said; both off stage and on. A Celtic term, something about forseeing your own death… According the live polls the audience had a very good time (with pockets of resistance). Easily as good as the last concert. The peaks came when the Chosen materialised, and when Fiorinda walked on and did ‘Sugar Cane Bow’. Towards the end of the Triumvirate set (basically Fiorinda on this occasion, with her lovers in support), as the material moved from the ballads to the dance tracks, the response of the biometric-wired sample went haywire, off the scale.

At last the three of them came to the front and stood wide spaced, Fiorinda in the centre. Ax had the Fender he’d been playing in his solo spot, Sage was empty handed, leaving his boards to run. The Angelenos yelled approval at the opening of ‘Strange Kisses’ from
Yellow Girl,
a favourite LA clubs dance anthem of this ‘English’ summer. The three sang, the fierce purity of her voice soaring above the men: holding out their arms to each other, and to the world out there,
send our defiance…

Strange Kisses

You are so beautiful and strange to me, I can’t believe this could be love

If this were heaven I’d be dancing here, There is nothing more I want-

Send

Our

Defiance

To the

World

Out There,

There is no fear of dying—

In this game,
In this	In this game,
In this	In this	In this game—

Sage had reduced his fx to a pulse and flow of coloured light, everything was in the rhythm, the voices, and the euphoria that possessed the crowd as it peaked, and peaked: until Ax and Sage stepped back, and Fiorinda, without a pause, broke into the swinging, sturdy dance that went with ‘Chocobo’, from her first solo album,
Friction.
The crowd didn’t know this one, it was Eurotrash, poppy sound and absurd lyrics about a big happy bird from a fantasy game; but they were with her. She danced, while her recorded voice blended with her lovers’ backing, rainbows whirling around her, arms and legs like pistons. She just
went on dancing
: while the thousands danced in place, until they could feel the world turning under them, until they never wanted to stop, just let Ax go on playing that guitar, let Fiorinda’s beat never stop, let the light and sound and colour never end. Go with it, take it away—