Chapter 2
Cynorthwyydd Personol - Personal Assistant
Lucy
The glitter on Topaz’s eyelids is immaculate. His glare is not.
‘Come the fuck on, Lucy.’ He claps twice. ‘I want to go backstage.’
I keep my smile in place because it’s my job and because I’m good at it. ‘Topaz, you can’t. Not yet.’
His eyes narrow. ‘Says who?’
Says the schedule. Says security. Says the fact that if you end up in the wrong room with the wrong person and a camera catches it, I’m the one who’ll spend the next six weeks cleaning up the mess.
It’s already been a busy day – although when is a gala not hard work?
We’ve done the arena tour, we’ve done hair and makeup, I’ve already been down in the control centre twice to talk to the lighting technicians.
I’d only just settled on the sofa with a cup of tea and a limp salad, ready to tackle today’s to do list.
And now he wants to go backstage.
He taps the toe of one sparkly platform boot.
I snap my laptop closed, screw the lid onto my travel mug and abandon my pathetic lunch.
I didn’t want it anyway. Liar. My stomach grumbles an entire email of protest, but I’ll grab something at craft services.
They do the most delicious raspberry muffins.
If I text the team, they’ll save me one.
‘Girl,’ he says, draped against the doorframe like he’s about to peel off a glove and perform a burlesque show for me. ‘Move your arse quicker. You’re wasting valuable time.’
‘I know. Sorry. I’m coming. Just grabbing your water bottle in case we’re gone a while.’ I slide it into my tote along with my laptop and phone and shut the door behind me.
By the time I turn from the door to follow him, he’s already halfway down the corridor. The ridiculous height of his heels lengthens his already long stride, and it’s a struggle to keep up in my stilettos. Thank god I wore chub rub shorts, or my chunky thighs would catch alight.
‘Out of interest, why are we heading there so early? Not that it’s a problem, of course, but your soundcheck isn’t for another twenty minutes.’
The shimmer of his sequins catching in the fluorescent lights guide me while I consult his schedule again. Of course, I memorised it the day they sent it to me. But it’s always worth a double-check. Just in case.
‘I want to scope out the competition,’ he tells me.
‘It’s a New Year’s concert. You’re the headliner. It’s your night.’
‘Shush, Lucy. You’ll never be a performer so you’ll never understand. Everyone’s a rival.’
He’s right so I clam up.
He disappears around a corner in a crown of spring-loaded curls.
I tuck my phone into my bag and pick up the pace.
Topaz left to his own devices never ends well.
In Amsterdam last week, I stepped away for twenty minutes to deal with a costume issue.
By the time I came back, he’d demanded new earpieces, a brighter backdrop, and a different brand of bottled water.
Apparently Bar-Le-Duc was ‘wrong for his throat.’ They ran in circles dealing with his requests and the entire show started an hour late. Somehow, that was all my fault.
I’m the only one who can handle him, who knows his needs, and I’m the only one who can keep the show running to time. It’s super important that tonight’s show starts when it should. You can’t delay the stroke of midnight.
He flings open the backstage doors, announcing his appearance to absolutely everyone.
I thank the security guard who holds a door open for me, and flash him my pass.
Topaz darts around a stagehand, snapping a too-loud complaint that they’re in the way.
He climbs the first step to the stage, tilts his head to listen, but barely gives it a minute before turning to me.
He pouts. ‘Not Cai.’
Ah, that’s why he brought us here earlier than we needed to be. He’s on an ex hunt. I’ve spent plenty of events racing around places, trying to track down Cai so I can keep Topaz up-to-date. Even though Topaz is no longer interested. Apparently.
‘Maybe he had an earlier slot?’ I placate.
‘Find out.’
I dig my phone out of my bag. Although the event company didn’t circulate everyone’s schedules, I was given a contact to reach out to in case of any issues. This is an issue. A distracted Topaz doesn’t perform to his best ability and nobody wants to see in the new year with a lacklustre show.
Before I can dial the number, my phone vibrates. I open the first message without checking who it’s from. A picture of a brown-soaked baby onesie assaults me. Good job I didn’t eat my salad.
Giving my best friend my work number was a mistake.
Felicity
Fuck. My. Life!!!
Massive fucking poonami
Outfit fresh on five bloody minutes ago
Happy fucking New Year
I’m forever grateful I don’t have children and no matter how childish Topaz gets, I’ll never have to clean up poo.
Cai already forgotten, Topaz limbers up with a set of elaborate stretches in the middle of the floor, getting in everyone’s way. I should film him – in case his PR team needs it for his social media – but my phone pings again.
You better be at some fucking sexy New Year party doing blow with Elton John
Elton was busy. We're at Wembley. Big gala thing
With Topaz?
Of course with Topaz. Who else?
Up for a swap? Could do with a party. I'll wipe the shit off my sofa before you get here.
I can be there in an hour
Only if you write a lengthy complaint to the Ritz about the awful service Topaz had last night
Can you believe they didn't turn down his bed? Doesn't matter if we didn't check in until midnight, they should still do it.
Oh and you'll need to find his mother a birthday present.
Only she already owns absolutely everyting.
Then you'll have to reply to the fifty unread messages waiting in my inbox, ring the costume designer about tomorrow's show in Glasgow because no, the rhinestone crop top still hasn't shown up, and FINALLY brief the new make-up artist about the angle of Topaz's cats eye ticks.
If you're up for that then yes, I'll look after Izzy until the ball drops.
No bueno
Keep your snazzy fame job
Try and have some fun tonight though, yeah?
I have fun. We visited Amsterdam, Paris and Monaco last week. We Christmassed at the Fairmont. Every day is fun when you’re working for one of the world’s top pop stars.
If I reply to her again, I’ll get caught in a back and forth that could last all night. So instead, I switch to my inbox, determined to wipe a couple of items off the to-do list. I barely type the first words to the hotel’s general manager before Topaz interrupts.
‘Lucy? Lucy!’ he bellows across the room, and the stagehand standing next to him winces.
At least five others stop what they’re doing to glare at me.
There’s not much peace backstage at a concert, but they don’t need any more noise.
I cringe at the attention. Everyone’s eyes should be on him, not me.
Topaz waves me over then points at the stagehand.
‘She wants to wire me up. I told you it was worth me coming down a little earlier. Here’ – he shoves his phone into my hand – ‘hold this. Hey, lovely stage lady, do you know what time Cai’s soundcheck was? Lucy doesn't know.’
Bum – that’s why I had my phone out. I completely forgot to check.
It’s the only thing he’s specifically asked me to do since we got here and I ignored it to text my friend.
When I see her next, I’ll remind her again to use my personal number.
My work phone is only for emergencies. Poonamis are not emergencies.
The stagehand shoves the microphone and all its wires at me, then pulls a tatty piece of paper from her pocket. ‘Says yer Cai tested after lunch. First on stage. Must have missed him.’
‘I see,’ Topaz muses. ‘Does your little sheet tell you which dressing room he’s in?’
She shrugs again and takes the first of the wires from me. ‘Nope. My paper only gives me my jobs for the day.’
‘Lucy. Find out what room Cai’s in.’
‘He’s in room two,’ I confirm without needing to check. I’ve been locked in the most inane back-and-forth about dressing room allocations for the past month. ‘But it was empty when we walked past earlier.’
‘You know everything, girl.’
I lift my chin, grinning. I work hard to anticipate his needs.
Anything that might cause an issue is dealt with before it impacts him.
And okay, sure, I can’t remember the last time I slept without my phone in my hand in case he needed something in the middle of the night.
Or the last time I didn’t startle from a dream to double-check I’d booked the right hotel, or ordered the right strawberries – always from Wexford, never Hereford.
But it’s worth it to have the best job in the world and anyway, sleep deprivation is nothing a strong, black coffee can’t fix.
The stagehand lifts Topaz’s top, and he pulls a sharp breath between his teeth. ‘Cold hands.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ she replies, although she doesn’t sound very apologetic. She rubs her hands together and tries again.
‘Ow! Still cold.’ He arches away from her. I reach into my bag for my travel mug. Maybe a still-hot cup of tea will help warm her up. But he stops his wriggling, freezing on the spot with a loud gasp. ‘I don’t have the right trousers on, Lucy.’
I tug at my fringe. His aqua velour flares fit him perfectly.
Of course they do, they’re made only for him.
He refuses to wear anything off the rack and why should he?
I asked him when we got here if there was anything specific he wanted to wear this afternoon, so I could get it ready, but he said no.
Must have had something else on his mind. I should have dug deeper.
‘Well, that’s okay,’ I say in a voice too sugary sweet. Dad will tell me off about my cavities the next time I see him. ‘The mic will fit. Trousers are trousers, after all.’