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Authors: Stephen Price
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it’s Annalise.’
‘Who?’
‘Annalise!’
‘Doll! Howya doin’?’
‘Good, thanks – you at a party?’
‘Do bears make sweet, sweet love in the woods? Come on over!’
‘I’m in France… making a film?’
‘Wow, yeah, right. And howzat goin’ for ya?’
‘Good. Where are you?’
‘Some hotel. The Regency, I think.’
‘I meant, which city?’
‘Uhhh… Bristol. We got two sell-out gigs. Tonight went down a storm, your boy was only great.’
‘That’s why I’m ringing – I can’t get Jimmy on his mobile. Can I speak to him, please?’
‘He’s round here somewhere, hold on.’ She heard him yell, ‘Guys! Where’s Jimmy? Britain’s hottest acting talent wants a word!’ She heard hoots and jeers and thought, not for the first time, what a complete and utter arsehole Driscoll was. He came back on, ‘Juzza minute, doll. Lemme see if we can lo-cate him.’
She could picture the scene. The band and their male hangers-on would be sprawled across the biggest suite in the hotel. On the sideboard, there’d be more alcohol than anyone could ever hope to drink and, scattered across the tables, a mess of ashtrays, spilt grass, cigarette papers, rolled-up banknotes and white smears of cocaine. Dotted around the suite, girls plucked from that evening’s audience would be preening, sitting in groups giggling or attempting to wrap themselves around a band member. Someone’s iPod would be blaring, the TV would be on with the sound turned down and everyone would be fooling themselves into thinking they were having a really wild time, before falling into either a stupor or one another for the night. She was glad Jimmy wasn’t in that suite.
‘Hey doll!’ Driscoll again. ‘Jimmy must have, like, wandered off somewhere, ’cos he’s not in his room.’
‘What room number is he? I’ll try him later.’
‘He’s uh, four… four… now, lemme see, what is it… four-eighteen?’
‘And you’re in Bristol for another night?’
‘Yeah, the Academy. We gonna rock this town again, only even harder.’
‘ Tell Jimmy I rang.’
‘Cool in the pool. Maybe we could come over and hang out. You got a pool where you are?’
‘No, there’s no pool where I am.’
‘Heyyy! There’s one right here in this hotel! In the basement! You should come over!’
‘I’m in France.’
‘Nice one.’
‘Goodnight, Donnie.’
‘Rock’n’roll!’
She hung up, thinking – not for the first time – how odd it was that a band that sang songs about saving the environment should have an old-fashioned rock pig like Driscoll managing their affairs. Still, that was Jimmy’s business, not hers. She rang international directory enquiries, had herself put through to The Regency Hotel in Bristol and asked for room four-eighteen.
‘I’m sorry,’ a young female clerk told her, ‘but I have a do-not-disturb order on that room.’
‘I’m the partner of the person staying in that room – he’s expecting my call. I need to speak to him, please.’
‘I’m sorry, but I do have a do-not-disturb order on that room. I can take a message…’
She was so tired and fed up that she nearly said, ‘Hey! I’m Annalise Palatine the actress, now put me through to my boyfriend, you fucking little moron!’
But she killed the line instead. She frowned at the handset.
It had been just over two years, but so much had happened in that time, it seemed like a lot longer.
As with most people, she had first seen Jimmy Lockhart standing on a stage – in her case, at The Fridge in Brixton. She had just finished shooting a period costume drama called
La Belle Joanna
, about Whistler’s mistress Joanna Hiffernan, and the wrap party had shifted from a Caribbean restaurant to the nearest nightclub. Only half-listening to the drunken gabble from several cast and crew, she had noticed the lanky young singer, almost as thin as his microphone stand, his face invisible under a mop of red hair. There had been something about
‘Who?’
‘Annalise!’
‘Doll! Howya doin’?’
‘Good, thanks – you at a party?’
‘Do bears make sweet, sweet love in the woods? Come on over!’
‘I’m in France… making a film?’
‘Wow, yeah, right. And howzat goin’ for ya?’
‘Good. Where are you?’
‘Some hotel. The Regency, I think.’
‘I meant, which city?’
‘Uhhh… Bristol. We got two sell-out gigs. Tonight went down a storm, your boy was only great.’
‘That’s why I’m ringing – I can’t get Jimmy on his mobile. Can I speak to him, please?’
‘He’s round here somewhere, hold on.’ She heard him yell, ‘Guys! Where’s Jimmy? Britain’s hottest acting talent wants a word!’ She heard hoots and jeers and thought, not for the first time, what a complete and utter arsehole Driscoll was. He came back on, ‘Juzza minute, doll. Lemme see if we can lo-cate him.’
She could picture the scene. The band and their male hangers-on would be sprawled across the biggest suite in the hotel. On the sideboard, there’d be more alcohol than anyone could ever hope to drink and, scattered across the tables, a mess of ashtrays, spilt grass, cigarette papers, rolled-up banknotes and white smears of cocaine. Dotted around the suite, girls plucked from that evening’s audience would be preening, sitting in groups giggling or attempting to wrap themselves around a band member. Someone’s iPod would be blaring, the TV would be on with the sound turned down and everyone would be fooling themselves into thinking they were having a really wild time, before falling into either a stupor or one another for the night. She was glad Jimmy wasn’t in that suite.
‘Hey doll!’ Driscoll again. ‘Jimmy must have, like, wandered off somewhere, ’cos he’s not in his room.’
‘What room number is he? I’ll try him later.’
‘He’s uh, four… four… now, lemme see, what is it… four-eighteen?’
‘And you’re in Bristol for another night?’
‘Yeah, the Academy. We gonna rock this town again, only even harder.’
‘ Tell Jimmy I rang.’
‘Cool in the pool. Maybe we could come over and hang out. You got a pool where you are?’
‘No, there’s no pool where I am.’
‘Heyyy! There’s one right here in this hotel! In the basement! You should come over!’
‘I’m in France.’
‘Nice one.’
‘Goodnight, Donnie.’
‘Rock’n’roll!’
She hung up, thinking – not for the first time – how odd it was that a band that sang songs about saving the environment should have an old-fashioned rock pig like Driscoll managing their affairs. Still, that was Jimmy’s business, not hers. She rang international directory enquiries, had herself put through to The Regency Hotel in Bristol and asked for room four-eighteen.
‘I’m sorry,’ a young female clerk told her, ‘but I have a do-not-disturb order on that room.’
‘I’m the partner of the person staying in that room – he’s expecting my call. I need to speak to him, please.’
‘I’m sorry, but I do have a do-not-disturb order on that room. I can take a message…’
She was so tired and fed up that she nearly said, ‘Hey! I’m Annalise Palatine the actress, now put me through to my boyfriend, you fucking little moron!’
But she killed the line instead. She frowned at the handset.
It had been just over two years, but so much had happened in that time, it seemed like a lot longer.
As with most people, she had first seen Jimmy Lockhart standing on a stage – in her case, at The Fridge in Brixton. She had just finished shooting a period costume drama called
La Belle Joanna
, about Whistler’s mistress Joanna Hiffernan, and the wrap party had shifted from a Caribbean restaurant to the nearest nightclub. Only half-listening to the drunken gabble from several cast and crew, she had noticed the lanky young singer, almost as thin as his microphone stand, his face invisible under a mop of red hair. There had been something about
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