Chapter 3
I must warn Matteo. I must.
But I can’t.
One, he’s deeply immersed in the creative process right now, and two, I’m a wimp.
‘I think he’ll love the surprise element,’ says Ged to Liam.
They’re discussing my situation.
‘Imagine when he turns up to collect her, and there’s all of us standing top-to-toe in full Barbie and Ken.’
This is the first I’m hearing of the trip being themed. Of course it would be Barbie. Of course it would.
‘Wait until you see my white faux-fur coat and headband,’ Ged says to me excitedly now, thrusting a phone showing Pinterest photos of Ken outfits into my face.
‘Matteo will absolutely die,’ says Liam.
Yes, he might.
‘And he did invite us out to LA to see him,’ Liam says, casually rewriting history. ‘It’s basically next door to Vegas anyway.’
Could a four-hour drive be considered basically next door, though? Could it?
Ged nods. He’s not fully on board with Liam’s obvious crush and has sensibly not allowed him to switch out Harry Styles for Matteo lookalikes as his free pass.
‘And it makes perfect sense for us to be in Las Vegas,’ Liam continues.
It doesn’t, but go on…
‘I mean, it’s not like we’ll take up all of your time,’ says Ged.
‘We wouldn’t dream of it, honey. But Matteo might have an issue with all the Dollz piling over with all their drama.
As much as I adore them, they can be a bit of a handful.
Especially Liberty and her wandering vagina. ’ He shrugs casually.
He’s not wrong there. I, too, adore all five of the Dollz and their loud, vampish, uncontrollable thirst for cocktails and anything on two legs, but not when I was hoping to spend a quiet week trying to impress my new lover with how low-maintenance and sane I can be.
‘And it’s celebrity season in Vegas right now so who knows who we’ll bump into?’ Liam says excitedly before fixing me with a hopeful look.
By ‘bump into’ he means ‘who Connie will go to the ends of the earth, sell a lung or similar vital organ, do whatever is necessary to arrange for us to meet’.
Ged and Liam are famous micromanagers. Meticulous to a clinically obsessive degree.
But worse than that is their absolute devotion to the flamboyant pop icon Harry Styles.
I am going to have to find out if he is in town, otherwise I will never hear the end of it if we miss a sighting of him at a club.
But one thing I do know for sure is that I am not asking Matteo for such a huge favour on top of everything else. Maybe Nancy will have an idea.
While I get started folding the huge, heavy gowns, a string of WhatsApps from the Dollz group chat pings into my phone.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Tash wants to know if I can get my fella to pull some strings and get us a table at the Bellagio.
Not to do any eating. Just for the Gram.
She warns Cherry not to be messy if they share a hotel room.
She is sick of her rolling down her knickers four times a day with each costume change and just leaving them lying around on the floor like discarded croissants.
Liberty is wondering how we feel about pink Stetson hats, pink-glitter thigh-high boots and pink Daisy Dukes for the Barbie-themed week as she and Cherry are doing the outfits, and to leave it all to them.
She will tot up how much they spend and send me the total.
She also reminds us that she will be getting off with as many American billionaires as she can manage. Especially if they have handlebar moustaches that she says she is craving.
God help us. I hope Matteo is understanding after I tell him I’ll be working during the one week off he’s arranged for us to be together.
And that I’ll also be dressed as Barbie when not in my stripper outfits, and our dates will be centred around trying to track down a variety of pop stars at every opportunity.
How did this happen?
A message from Matteo flashes up. It says he will be switching off his phone for most of the week, which means he can only call me at random times, depending on how long the recording sessions last. He is working with a notoriously difficult producer called Birdie, who is well known in the music industry for being a perfectionist and a tyrant.
She doesn’t like the creative process to be interrupted by phones pinging or by the toxic radio waves they produce.
He uses an exclamation mark to signify that perhaps this is a crazy notion, but it’s the word ‘she’ that pops out and has me all a-fluster.
My brain immediately leaps to unsubstantiated and wildly inappropriate conclusions.
Matteo then sends a short follow-up voice note to say that he is really looking forward to seeing me. He has planned lots of exciting sightseeing trips and cool places to go.
I listen to his lovely voice a few times before I frantically google music producers in LA called Birdie.
Oh. My. Effing. Word.
She is a stunning glamour puss with curves in all the right places and a face that’s so perfect she could be next-gen AI. She has a string of accolades and industry awards. There are photos galore of her with famous rap artists and singers at all the cool parties.
‘Who’s the goddess?’ asks Liam on his way to the kitchen. ‘Gorgeous hair. Is that neon coral or salmon pink, would you say?’
‘She’s Birdie DuPont. She’s a French music producer in LA,’ I say, trying not to sound too jealous.
Of course she’d be cool and sexy and French. She’s probably flicking her Gauloises cigarette holder and twanging her fishnet stockings at Matteo as we speak. But I fully trust him to resist the temptation and not give her stockings a second glance.
‘Good thing Matteo is locked away in a music studio,’ says Liam, sounding relieved. ‘I wouldn’t want that LA bombshell getting her hands on him.’
‘They’re working together,’ I say, a lump forming in my throat. ‘They’ll be shut off from the whole world. Locked in a studio making hot Latino music together.’
Liam looks again at the image of Birdie on my phone and then back up at me. He looks devastated.
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
* * *
Early the next morning, Liam drops me off at the Sinfonia with my huge suitcases.
I had a restless night tossing and turning, images plaguing my dreams of Birdie running off with Matteo in slow motion, hand in hand, through a cornfield at sunset.
She was perfectly naked and wearing only a large, floppy sunhat and a huge, satisfied smile.
‘There you go. That’s all of them,’ Liam says, rubbing his hands together like a cabbie.
‘And try not to obsess about Matteo and Birdie. She seems very professional to me. She clearly has a thing for dark and brooding musicians, not for dark and brooding music producers. And just because she’s a hot-blooded Frenchie and he’s a hot-blooded Latino, doesn’t mean that they’ll have amazing chemistry or be instantly attracted… ’
I pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘Please stop talking, Liam.’
It’s almost as though he is as upset about it as me. He has talked of nothing else. Has he also imagined Birdie blowing smoke rings at Matteo while lounging around in her sexy French underwear?
‘And just because they are both insanely good-looking and locked away together in a creatively emotive and sensual environment does not mean that one thing might lead to another.’ Liam looks at me with pleading eyes, almost begging me to agree.
‘You’re right, it doesn’t,’ I tell him. ‘Because Matteo isn’t the sort to cheat.
’ After all, I did rather find out the hard way.
And by hard, I mean, of course, embarrassing.
I was hurling accusations left and right at the time.
I could cringe thinking about it. ‘Not after that whole business with his cheating ex-fiancée.’
‘Did you manage to lock in that exclusivity agreement with him? That’s the crucial element,’ Liam asks as though he’s negotiating a peace deal in the Middle East. ‘Have you landed on a relationship status?’
I shake my head glumly.
Liam instantly rallies. ‘Okay. Let’s just focus on the positives. In less than two weeks, we will all be in Las Vegas together where you can firm up the fine print. The sooner we get you on this bus, Sinfonia tour done and back home again, the better.’
I stare down at the many cases in a daze as exhaustion sweeps through me.
Three are full of costumes, the other my day clothes, hair and make-up things.
Across the car park, two coaches are waiting outside the enormous shell-like structure that is The Glasshouse, International Centre for Music in Newcastle.
Ripples from the River Tyne are reflecting off its mirrored panels.
Hordes of people are hurrying to pile suitcases and garment bags in the coaches’ holds, before scrambling to get on board with a multitude of musical-instrument-shaped cases.
Within seconds, the buses have fired up the engines ready to go.
I feel panic rising from my stomach. Liam grabs my hand instinctively.
His eyes tell me he knows exactly what’s going on. ‘Breathe,’ he whispers to me. ‘Just breathe through it.’
Without warning, tears sting my eyes, causing me to take huge gulps of air into my lungs.
‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,’ I say.
‘What’s the point if my mam won’t even get to see me?
’ I bury my head into Liam and unexpectedly burst into tears.
I can’t do this. I have too many memories of watching my mother perform on stage. It’s all too raw, too fragile.
Liam envelops me in a hug. It’s warm and comforting. He says nothing as I soak his jumper with my tears. I can feel two coachfuls of eyes on me.
Beep. Beep.
‘I can’t do it. I can’t go,’ I manage between quiet sobs. ‘What if I’m not good enough? What if they expect me to be as good as she was?’
‘There’s nothing to be gained by letting them all down at the last minute,’ Liam says calmly. ‘Just go and do your best. It’s not like they’ll boo you off stage or any—’