Chapter 9
9
SEPTEMBER 1990 – HONG KONG
Lisa
Lisa woke up and performed the same morning ritual as she did every day. First of all, check if she’s alone. Without opening her eyes, she did a quick pat of the mattress and established that there was no one next to her, so that was a good start. One morning last week, she’d woken to find a bloke from Denmark in bed next to her, who’d told her in broken English that after their conversation the night before, he felt they had a deep, spiritual connection. Since she spoke no Danish, and he clearly spoke very little English, she highly doubted his claims.
She held her breath, listening for any sounds in the bathroom. None. More good news.
Still without exposing her eyes to daylight, she felt along the top of the chest of drawers next to her bed, located her packet of Marlboro Reds, took a cigarette out using one hand, popped it in her dry mouth, then lit it with the lighter that sat next to the packet. Only after her second or third inhalation did she squint open her eyes and saw that the room was bathed in bright sunlight. She’d obviously forgotten to close the curtains again last night. In fact – she tried to rewind her mind, but nothing was coming – she’d obviously forgotten pretty much everything about last night. Not exactly an unusual occurrence, but still… damn, this had to stop. Two paracetamol next for the hangover, washed down with whatever liquid she could find. Yesterday, it had been a bottle of Tia Maria, but thankfully, there was a bottle of water on the floor next to the bed today. She knocked it back with the tablets, then pulled on the oversize white T-shirt that had been lying on the floor next to the water. She really had to clean this place up. Later. She’d do it later. First, though… She leaned back over to the bedside table, to the cassette tape machine that had sat there since she’d moved in, and as with every morning, she pressed play.
‘Hello,’ the voice of an elderly Irish lady came from the speakers, the same one, saying the same thing that she listened to every morning. An old voicemail message that she’d recorded years ago . ‘This is Netta Dixon. Don’t leave a message because I don’t know what to be doing with this damn contraption anyways. There. Are ya happy now, Lisa?’
Lisa felt the warmth of her grandmother’s voice wrap around her and heat her insides like a slug of Jack Daniels. In the background, Lisa heard a young eighteen-year-old woman laughing. ‘Aye, Gran, ecstatic. Welcome to the technology of 1985.’ Usually, she’d switched the machine off before she got to the bit where she heard her own voice. That Lisa, 1985 Lisa, was someone that she didn’t recognise, like a long-lost cousin that you only saw at funerals. That Lisa was the one who still had someone to call family.
‘I thought I heard you speaking to someone there.’ The voice from the doorway to the bathroom made her jump. A guy was standing there, tall, butt naked, long dark hair, familiar face… It took her a few seconds. He was one of the barmen at the Harbour Lights. No one ever stuck around there for very long, because they were usually backpackers who were working their way around Asia, just grafting for a few weeks in one place to get enough money to move on to the next. This one was Australian, by the sound of it. Or maybe a Kiwi. Her brain began filling in the blanks. After her set last night, she’d waited at the bar to watch Moira and Carina’s gig as she did most nights. At some point she’d got talking to the new guy behind the bar, he’d slipped her a Jack and Coke, then another, then another, and… vague recollection of being naked and rolling around this bed. Damn it.
A bang at the door saved her from having to explain, because it immediately swung open and Carina and Moira charged in. She really had to take the spare key off Carina, but her friend had insisted on it a few weeks ago when they’d been unable to wake Lisa because she’d had one too many drinks the night before and blacked out. Nate at reception couldn’t find the master key, so Moira had kicked the lock out of the door, and they’d barged in to find her sound asleep in the bath. Lisa still had no idea how she’d got there.
‘Right, that’s it!’ Carina had demanded that morning. ‘You have to give us a spare key for your room because every time this happens, I think you’re dead and I’m going to have to identify the body. I can’t stand the stress. I swear it’s giving me wrinkles before my time.’
‘I don’t need a fecking babysitter,’ Lisa had pushed back.
Carina’s right eyebrow had raised, and her hands had gone to her hips. ‘Oh really? So far this month, you’ve gone missing twice, thrown up in that plant pot, fallen asleep in the bath?—’
‘It was empty. It’s not like I was going to drown.’
Carina had ignored her. ‘And brought home at least one guy that I’m sure I saw on Crimewatch last year. Come on, darling, you can’t keep doing this.’
‘And we’re only saying this because we’re your pals,’ Moira had interjected. ‘And because I can’t ruin another pair of shoes kicking in your door.’
The warmth in Moira’s voice had been the thing that had swayed her. The new chick from Glasgow had only been here a couple of months, but she had one of those personalities that just made you feel okay when she was around. And it was a long time since Lisa had felt okay. Grudgingly, she’d had Nate at reception cut them a spare key and handed it over, a decision she was already regretting.
Now that her room had been invaded for a second time, all she could do was roll her eyes as Carina gave her new friend his marching orders. ‘Sorry to interrupt your little rendezvous, but we’re Lisa’s lesbian lovers and we’re the jealous types so it’s time to go,’ she said, in a voice that left absolutely no doubt that she wasn’t to be argued with. Lisa just shook her head. This was better than the time she said they were religious evangelists, recruiting single men to their mission. Or CID looking for drugs. The poor bloke who’d been with her that morning had almost fled out the window.
What Moira had in warmth and humour, Carina had in no-nonsense authority. Just about everyone who met her thought she was mildly terrifying, but Lisa knew she was all posh bark and no bite.
Stretching down from the bed, Lisa picked up his jeans and T-shirt from the floor and tossed them to him. He disappeared into the bathroom and emerged a minute later, pulling on his second trainer as he hopped towards the door. At the threshold, he paused. ‘I’ll erm, see you at the bar, I guess,’ he said to Lisa, giving her what he probably thought was a sexy wink, and saying, ‘By the way, last night was?—’
Moira cut him off. ‘I will kill you stone dead if you finish that sentence in front of us.’ He left, unwilling to test the threat.
Carina closed the door behind him and then rounded on Lisa. ‘You officially have the worst taste in men. I beg you – please pick them when you’re sober.’
Lisa was in the process of lighting another cigarette, so she didn’t answer until the tip flamed red. ‘You two are like fecking storm troopers, you know that? I’m sure that there’s a planet somewhere that needs you to defend it.’
Moira plumped down on the end of the bed. ‘Ignore her, Lisa. She’s just jealous because she hasn’t had sex for a month and her mother has cut off her allowance.’
Carina rolled her eyes. ‘I’m trying to pretend I don’t care that I’m skint. Makes me seem more badass. But my Clarins Flash Balm is almost done, and I can’t afford to replace it.’
‘Bob Geldof needs to hear about that,’ Moira said, straight-faced. ‘He’ll have a whip round going in no time.’
Despite the fact that the paracetamol hadn’t kicked in on her headache yet, that made Lisa laugh. And threw up a memory too. Her and her gran, watching Live Aid on TV. ‘Lisa, love, go phone that number and pledge them a tenner. If they don’t send it to those poor kids, then maybe that Geldof lad can use it for a haircut and a shave.’
‘What about your parents? Are we going to get a visit from them?’ Moira asked. ‘Can’t go any worse than Carina’s mum.’
Lisa flicked her ash into the ashtray on her bedside table. ‘My mum died when I was a kid. No idea about my dad. I was brought up by my gran. She was more than enough to replace them.’
Lisa watched Moira’s face crease in sympathy. This was exactly why she didn’t tell people about her life. She’d known Carina for months before she’d shared her story and even then, she’d made it clear she never wanted to discuss it again. Obviously Carina hadn’t shared the information with Moira, though.
‘I’m glad you’ve got your gran,’ Moira said, emotion oozing from her words. Lisa almost couldn’t bear to say the next bit but there was no point in holding it back. It would come out at some point.
‘ Had ,’ she said. ‘ Had my gran. She died almost five years ago.’
‘Oh no, Lisa, I’m so sorry.’
Lisa stubbed her cigarette out, as Moira went on, ‘You don’t want to talk about this, do you?’
‘Not even a bit,’ she replied honestly.
Moira nodded, instinctively understanding. ‘Okay, well, we love you. And that’s why we’re asking you to stop bringing home random guys just in case one of them really is the bloke that was robbing post offices on Crimewatch.’
‘Point taken,’ Lisa promised. ‘Okay, I’m just going to shower, then I’ll be ready. Where are we having breakfast?’
She watched Carina and Moira make some kind of weird eye contact.
‘What? What did I say?’
Carina broke the news. ‘It’s 4p.m. That’s why we came to get you. It’s almost time to go to work.’
Lisa groaned. This was the fourth or fifth missing day this month. ‘Well, dinner then,’ she shrugged, trying to act like that wasn’t freaking her out. ‘You guys decide. I’ll be back in a minute.’
She made her way into the en suite, turned the water in the shower to hot and stood under it, leaning forward, her hands splayed against the tiled wall.
God, her head hurt. If her gran could see her now, she’d be horrified. Netta had been so worried that Lisa would go the same way as her mum – alcohol, drugs, overdose, dead at twenty-five – that she hated to see her drink any more than two glasses of Babycham at Christmas.
This had to stop, she knew that, but it didn’t help that the only time she felt good, the only time she didn’t hurt, was when she was too drunk to feel the pain. That couldn’t be an excuse any more though. The booze had to go. The men too. She had to clean up her act and she had to start now before she got herself into something she couldn’t get out of.
Out of the shower, she dried off, brushed out her wild mane of hair and tucked a towel around her, before going back into the bedroom to get dressed. Carina and Moira had cleared the place up a bit, emptied her ashtray, folded the clothes that were on the floor, and they were now sitting on her bed, their backs leaning on the wall, working out a new harmony to Cher’s ‘If I Could Turn Back Time.’ Tonight, they were doing a Cher tribute night at the hotel, so Moira had been working on Cher’s greatest hits for the last week.
Lisa left them to it while she went into her wardrobe and selected one of her stage outfits. Long. Flowing. Usually black. Sometimes white or flowery. If Stevie Nicks ever changed her style, Lisa was going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe.
When she was dressed, they headed to a shabby but clean and cheap street joint that did amazing dim sum a few minutes away from the Star Ferry terminal. They were on their second round of the little pork dumplings, when Moira nudged her.
‘Sorry if I upset you earlier by talking about… you know…’
Lisa shook her head. ‘You didn’t. It’s just the way it is. Nothing I can do about it.’
The old familiar curl of loneliness began to tighten around her heart, and she pushed it away. She wasn’t alone. She had these two friends. She had her career. She had her music. And she also had a tiny voice in her head telling her that she was going to lose it all if she didn’t sort herself out. Her vows from earlier started replaying in her mind. It had to stop. She had to clean up her act. No more booze. No more blackouts. No more one-night stands. She could do this, she decided. Cold turkey. Starting today.
When they’d been fed, they took the Star Ferry across the harbour. As always, Lisa sat at the end of one of the wooden bench seats closest to the open windows, to try to catch a breeze in the 90-degree heat. A ten-minute walk at the other end got them to the hotel, and she was feeling hot, sweaty, but more positive than she had in a long time. Even the presence of the bloke from last night behind the bar couldn’t burst her new bubble of optimism. It was going to be okay. She skipped her usual pre-set double Jack and Coke, then, for once, filled the bottle she always took on stage with water instead of booze. Doing this sober felt weird and scary, but it had to be done.
Her new attitude of positivity and resolve lasted all the way through her set and the audience obviously felt it because they were all in: singing, responding to her energy, riotous applause after every song. The harmonies were clearer than ever and even Carina, over on keyboards, gave her a huge grin and looked impressed. By the time they came off stage, she was drenched in sweat and high on nothing more than life.
Carina went straight off to the loos to lose the Christine McVie wig and prepare for Moira’s set, but Lisa went to their usual viewing spot at the end of the bar. Moira was already there and in her ‘Turn Back Time’ costume – black thigh-high boots, fishnets, and black G-string body suit under a faux-leather bomber jacket that squeaked when Moira threw her arms around her. ‘You killed it, doll. Fricking incredible tonight. You even managed to take my mind off the fact that this G-string is giving me a friction rash in a place you don’t want to know about.’
Laughing, Lisa felt her face flush, but took the compliment. When Carina came back from the toilets, brunette again, the two of them hit the stage, Carina on piano and Moira opening with the number they’d been practising earlier. If Cher had been in the audience, she’d have taken her big sparkly head-dress off in appreciation of the vocals Moira was throwing down right now. She was fecking spectacular.
‘Hey, gorgeous,’ last night’s mistake drawled, leaning over the bar to get closer to her. ‘Usual?’
‘Nope. Just a coke.’ He didn’t even try to hide his surprise, but she didn’t care. In the cold light of day and sobriety, she’d already decided there would be no second dance with this one.
He slid the drink over to her and leaned forward again. ‘So I was thinking… How about I make the thirteenth lucky for you later tonight?’
She didn’t understand. ‘What do you mean? I don’t get it.’
‘You know, lucky for some,’ he answered, weakly now. He’d probably been practising that line for the last hour, and he looked crushed as he realised it had fallen flat. He gestured to the poster behind him, stuck with tape to the bar mirror.
Cher Tribute Night. 13 September.
‘Today’s the thirteenth,’ he said, ‘so?—’
She didn’t listen to the rest, because the curl of her demons was back, and it was squeezing the breath right out of her. Today was the 13 September.
The one day of the year that should be hers, should be special. But did something really exist when no one knew about it? Obviously not, because the black cloud that was suddenly enveloping her came with a reminder that not a single person on this earth either knew or cared that today was her birthday.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she told whatever his name was, sliding her glass of coke back towards him. ‘Can you put a double Jack Daniels in there? And sure, I’m up for a bit of fun later.’
Fuck being on the wagon. Fuck being alone.
It was hard to care about your life when you had absolutely nothing to lose.