Chapter 3
I must warn Matteo. I must.
But I can’t.
One, he’s deeply immersed in the creative process, 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 you, 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 excitedly, thrusting a phone full of photos of Ken outfits on Pinterest at me.
‘He’ll absolutely die,’ agrees 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 practically 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. We wouldn’t dream of it, honey. But he might have an issue with all The Dollz piling over. As much as I adore them, they can be a bit of a handful. Especially Liberty and her wandering vagina,’ Ged 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.
Ged and Liam are famous micro-managers. 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 texts from The Dollz ping into my phone. We have a group WhatsApp because during the summer we did a gig at the Benidorm music festival, and I lost them all. I found them riding around on camels one minute before we were due on stage. I am immediately transported back to them handcuffing me and Matteo together and him having to accompany me out on stage.
Gah!It was so bloody INCREDIBLE. I felt high. Flooded with endorphins. I have never felt more alive in my entire life.
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 if we all own pink Stetson hats, pink glitter thigh-high boots and pink Daisy Dukes for the Barbie-themed week as her 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 rich American billionaires as she can manage. Especially if they have those 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 gone to great lengths to arrange for us to be together. 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 who is well known in the music industry for being a perfectionist and a tyrant. Her name is Birdie, and 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 glamourpuss 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?’
‘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 Gauloise cigarette holder and twanging her fishnet stockings at him as we speak. But I fully trust Matteo 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 to 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 broody musicians, not for dark and broody 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. He has 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?’ 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 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. Ripples from the River Tyne are reflecting off its mirrored panels. Hordes of people are hurrying to pile suitcases and garment bags underneath the carriage, 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 the 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 shirt with my tears. I can feel a coachful 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 –’
He stops talking because he has possibly just remembered the time, not so long ago, that I was actually booed off stage for crying too much while singing Adele covers. It was a tough gig. Cubes of sheep’s cheese and many garlic-infused olives were thrown at the stage. We all thought it was harsh, but Ged said that he’d be annoyed too if it was his wedding.
‘You’re just tired. What do we always say? Face the fear and do it anyway,’ Liam says. ‘You’ll be amazing. Remember to smile, and you will light up the stage. You’ve got this, Connie. You auditioned for years. You might as well give it a go.’
He’s right. I spent too long trying to follow in my mother’s footsteps as a classical singer just to feel closer to her. I temporarily lost sight of what I might want from life. At least, if I give this a go and I’m no good at it, I can tick it off the career goals list.
BEEEEEEEP.
Someone makes a loud ‘ahem’ sound. ‘We are all waiting for you. Is there some emergency? Can I be of any assistance?’
A tall, impatient-looking man dressed in an expensive casual suit with a designer T-shirt, Converse sneakers and a loose scarf around his neck walks towards us.
‘I’m Luke. You must be, Connie?’
I sniff up my remaining tears, wipe my nose discreetly on Liam’s jumper and nod back. How fecking embarrassing.
His gaze very subtly flickers from my face to my legs and back again. Blink, and you would miss it. But I didn’t blink, and I’m not sure I’m making a very good first impression. His face gives nothing away as he reaches into his breast pocket to retrieve a very soft, but more importantly, brand-new looking handkerchief. He gives it a gentle shake, revealing it is monogrammed with swirly initials. Bowing slightly, as though he’s just graduated from an 1850‘s school of gallantry, he offers me it.
I gingerly take it and begin to mop at my tears in a genteel fashion. Maybe it’s to do with classical music but everyone always seems to behave more formally.
Dab. Dab. Dab.
‘Thank you,’ I sniff. ‘That’s very kind. There’s no emergency.’
‘Well, in that case, can I prise you two love birds apart? We do have a rather important opening night to perform this evening.’
‘Oh, we’re not lovers… no way,’ says Liam a tad too forcefully. ‘I already have a fiancé. A much better one. I mean a different one. A more manly one. One that’s much more emotionally stable.’
I look up at him. Who is this helping?
‘Congratulations,’ Luke says briskly, bowing his head again. ‘He’s a lucky man. If you could say your goodbyes quickly and follow me over, we’d all appreciate it.’
Liam grins back. He likes this sort of chivalry. We watch Bridgerton together. He totally loves anything to do with swashbuckling, firm thrusting buttocks and men in frilly sleeves.
But then, who doesn’t like a sense of whimsy? Prior to meeting Matteo, I was watching the Bridgerton buttocks scene on a continuous loop.
‘I’ll take these,’ Luke says in an authoritative manner, as he heads back to the bus with two of my four heavy cases. We watch him stride powerfully away, filling out the suit as though it was tailor made for him. The fabric strains against his shoulder blades and biceps as he carries my luggage as though it weighs nothing at all. He has the broad back tapering to a slim waist and hips silhouette of someone who buys a gym membership and actually uses it. Frequently. He barks orders to the other coach drivers which jolts me into action.
I hug Liam goodbye and assure him I’ll be okay. ‘A week will fly by, and we can keep in touch on the WhatsApp to put together the wish list for the Vegas schedule,’ he says, helping me carry my suitcases to the coach.
Ah. The schedule.
The schedule that I promised to do and send to everyone.
The schedule that can’t be done until Nancy gives me the exact dates, times and locations of all the venues we will be singing at in Vegas.
The schedule that must include a daily itinerary of pre-moon activities that we can do dressed as Kens and Barbies.
The schedule that must also include me trying to magic free time out of thin air to spend with Matteo, who has specifically taken precious time off work so that we can spend a romantic week alone undisturbed.
My heart begins to thump loudly in my chest. At least this mild panic attack about Vegas is taking my mind off my current predicament.
‘Your driver is a bit of a looker,’ Liam says, nodding towards the coach where he is waiting with a phone glued to his ear. ‘What is it with you and hot, bossy men? You’re like a magnet. Let’s hope they’re not like buses.’ Liam drags his eyes back to mine. ‘Anyway, love, you’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.’
I hope he’s right.
BEEP. BEEEEEEEP.
‘Christ. I nearly had a heart attack,’ shrieks Liam.
Luke has raised his arm towards us and is pointing to his wrist.
‘What were you saying about hot, bossy men?’ I say. ‘Come on, let’s get a move on.’
Liam carries one of the remaining cases to the coach for me, while I drag the other over, and we squeeze them in with the others. Multiple sets of judgemental eyes are peering down through the long windows at us, causing me to feel on edge.
Liam reaches out to give my hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Ignore them.’
But when I begin to climb the steps of the coach, Luke swoops in, holding out his hand to help me up as though it’s a horse-drawn carriage. He might be a bit impatient but least one person on this coach will be nice to me. I give him a wobbly smile and dab gently at my cheek in an endearing way. It was very thoughtful of him to give me such a high-quality handkerchief.
He clears his throat. ‘If your intention is to keep us waiting so that we know you’re the star of the show, then a word of warning,’ he says in a low voice, edging Liam out of the way. ‘We’ve seen it all before.’ He maintains eye contact for a little too long. ‘Punctuality is a mark of respect. And the Maestro does not like to be kept waiting.’
His words stop me in my tracks. My eyes flick behind me to an open-mouthed Liam. He too looks a little alarmed.
‘That was absolutely not my intention,’ I say, snatching my hand from Luke’s to hurry up the stairs, past the empty driver’s seat. He has put me right off bus drivers.
At least the bus is only half full, so there is plenty of space. I just have time to rush towards the back, to put some distance between us, when Luke follows me down the aisle.
‘Do you mind?’ he says, plonking himself right down across the aisle from me before I can answer.
Yes, I do bloody mind.
I look around. All the seats surrounding us are empty. Instinctively, I look out of the window to see Liam watching with his mouth gaping open as though I’ve just been kidnapped.
I just have time to mouth, ‘What the…?’ when the bus engine roars to life and with an almighty jerk we set off.
‘Shouldn’t you be driving the bus?’ I say to Luke. My phone begins pinging exponentially seconds into the journey. It’ll be Liam.
Luke is staring at the phone in my hand. It feels rude to answer it mid-conversation. Especially as he’s just, for want of a better word, told me off. Ridiculous to think that I’m giving social etiquette top priority, but as I’m panicking over what to do, he lifts his gaze to mine.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
‘Don’t mind me,’ he says in a facetious tone. ‘You’ve obviously got more important things to do than focus on this tour.’
Gah!
‘And you’ve obviously got more important things to do than drive your own bus.’
This tit-for-tat is beneath me.
He studies me with an intense gaze. The azure blue of his eyes are framed with thick dark lashes for such a blonde-haired man. He does not look impressed. ‘Do I look like a bus driver to you?’
I deliberately look him up and down with a casual shrug, which seems to irk him more. He’s right. Too well dressed for a bus driver, but perfectly dressed for a pompous jazz musician, serial killer or worse, an opera-critic.
Just my luck.