‘Then forget the spa. Bring a book.’
It was then that Emma said she would consent to come but only on the strict understanding that she would have her own room.
‘Of course.
Obviously
,’ Calvin replied. ‘Don’t you think I know the rules of this bloody game we’re playing by now? Bring something smart for dinner, it’s all a bit posh.’
When he had said goodbye to Emma he called Cliveden for the second time.
‘Yes, I’d like a second room please.’
They both arrived at the hotel around nine and retired to their separate (but adjoining) suites to change for a late dinner.
‘Can you hear me?’ Calvin called through the dividing door.
‘Yes I can,’ Emma cried back. ‘Stay where you are, I’m changing.’
‘Will you tell me what you’re wearing?’
‘You’ll see in a minute.’
‘No. What you’re wearing underneath.’
‘Calvin, you are beginning to sound ever so slightly like a horrible little pervert.’
‘I can’t help it. I’ve never had to hang around like this. It isn’t normal.’
‘Well, I’m not discussing my knickers with you so please don’t raise the subject again.’
Calvin tied his tie and wondered. Nothing in his adult life had prepared him for this kind of frustration. Either she really was as sweet as she seemed or else she was a brilliant manipulator who made his wife look like Sooty. Either way he found her irresistible.
Over dinner Emma asked Calvin about the show.
‘Did you dump Peroxide?’ she asked.
‘Yes. They sang quite sweetly but in the end . . .’
‘In the end their pain was better telly than their joy.’
‘Em, they can’t all win. It’s a lottery, I believe anyone who fills in a form is aware of that. God knows, people are so media-savvy these days, it’s like everyone’s a TV producer. Look at
Big Brother
, just a few series in and the whole nature of the programme changed. Those kids went on that show
knowing
how it was done and what was going to happen to them. The first lot were taken completely by surprise.’
‘You think Peroxide understood the process?’
‘Not entirely, obviously, but they had to understand that there were winners and losers.’
‘Did you notice how thin the younger one’s got?’
‘Yes, I did actually, and that’s another reason I was glad I’d planned their story the way I did. That girl’s a casualty, the last thing she needs is to become part of an industry that feeds on casualties . . .’
‘That’s a very convenient argument, Calvin, considering you’ve just fed on her.’
‘I’m serious. She’s clearly vulnerable to eating disorders, imagine what she’d be like if she had a record deal. Doing a 24/7 promotional schedule, three photo-shoots a day and a Nazi stylist at every one of them. You know what happens to young women in pop these days, it isn’t enough just to be able to sing. That little girl would have been chewed up and spat out in no time.’
‘Isn’t that exactly what’s happened to her?’
‘Hey, Emma, come on. Just because I’ve fallen in love with you doesn’t mean you get to put that shit on me. I make TV. I’m not Mother Teresa but I’m not Jack the Ripper either. Besides which, you worked on one and a half series of the show, so where do you get off?’
‘That’s true, obviously. I just wonder whether we should be going a little deeper into what we do. Considering the damage done.’
‘We can’t. Who can? Life isn’t fair, as my mum used to say. The whole world is heaving with rejection and injustice and disappointment and unfairness. It seems to be how we want it. People had a go at equality and fair play, socialism and all that bollocks, and it didn’t work. Nobody was interested. People want the dream, they don’t want equality, they want fairy tales. We
like
a cruel world. For every kid that’s heard of Marx,
a thousand
have heard of Paris fucking Hilton,
ten thousand
in fact. Just think about that. Those two girls in Peroxide are a part of society that wants to
be Paris Hilton
. There has to be a downside to that and, sadly for them, for a brief moment they’re it.’
Emma sipped her wine.
‘I think that’s why people find you so attractive, Calvin,’ she said finally. ‘You’re a bastard but you’re an honest one.’
‘I don’t think I’m a bastard. I told you, my business is fairy tales, it’s what people want. Proper fairy tales – the originals were full of abuse, disappointment, cruelty and betrayal. That’s what made them compelling, that’s what made the happy ending so sweet. The point is only Cinderella gets to go to the ball, there’s only ever one prince to marry and everyone else can fuck off. That’s what makes the story good, it’s what makes
Chart Throb
so good. If we went around being nice, nobody would watch.’
Stepmother and Child Reunion
At about the same time that coffee was being served to Calvin and Emma, Beryl Blenheim and her daughter Priscilla were being ushered to their table at Nobu restaurant in London. The object of all eyes, Beryl simply adored this kind of thing. What few lines remained on her face positively shrieked self-satisfaction as she paraded grandly through the tables, confident in the knowledge that absolutely
everyone
knew who she was and was whispering about her to their companions. It did not matter that much of what was whispered would no doubt be jealous and negative, they were still whispering about
her
, while she knew nothing of them, cared less and quite frankly, at the end of the day, did not give a fuck whether they lived or died.
Priscilla was smiling too. This was less common; usually when out and about with her mother she sulked and pouted, perhaps unable to forget the fact that she was infinitely the less celebrated of the two. Famous, yes, but really only as a conduit to her stepmother. In terms of celebrity the umbilical cord remained uncut.
On this evening, however, she seemed in a sunnier mood. Perhaps coming to Britain, where her spectacular failure as a recording artist had passed with little comment, she felt less exposed.
‘I think maybe soon I’ll be ready to make another album, Mom,’ she said over the dim sum.
‘Jesus, Priscilla, you just fucking made one, what’s the rush?’
‘I want to express myself artistically.’
‘Didn’t you do that getting those enormous boobs which I
still
can’t get used to?’
‘No, really. I think that first album failed because it was kind of about somebody making a record just because they could. Like “Hey, I’m a teenage celebrity, I guess I’d better make a record,” if you know what I’m saying.’
‘I got you a fucking good deal, young lady.’
‘I’m not talking about the deal, Mom! I’m talking about the record. I think I need to be taking a look at myself and asking what
I
want to sing and how
I
want to sing it, not what I think the public want to hear.’
‘Well, let’s face it, darling, the public didn’t want to hear anything at all, did they?’
‘Because I was
lying
to them, Mom! If I want to make a good record I need to be honest with the public and that starts with being honest with myself, which starts with believing in myself. In my dream.’
‘Oh, do fuck off, Priscilla, I’m not on
Chart Throb
now.’
Visions of Shaiana
Calvin had suggested that coffee be served in his suite and Emma had consented. As they left the dining room together and ascended the magnificent, thickly carpeted stairway she felt nervous. Not because she feared that he would pounce but because she feared that if he did, she might succumb.
The conversation over dinner had of course eventually turned to sex.
‘You know I think you’re attractive,’ Emma had admitted.
‘But you don’t want to sleep with me?’
‘Of course I want to sleep with you and it’s not out of any prudishness that I won’t. The simple truth is that I don’t trust you. You’re an amoral manipulator . . .’
‘Amoral but not immoral?’ Calvin enquired. ‘I suppose that’s something.’
‘No, not immoral, I don’t think so anyway. I don’t think that you go out of your way to do harm or to abuse people. On the other hand I don’t think you go to any great efforts to avoid it either.’
‘Hmm. I’m not sure that’s fair, you know. I do
try
to be kind when I can and I’m pleasant to people. I don’t throw my weight around too much, do I?’
‘Let’s say not as much as some.’
‘And I most certainly do try to avoid abusing people . . .’
‘Peroxide?’
‘What I do on
Chart Throb
. . . what
we
did until quite recently . . . is not abuse, or if it is, in my view it’s entirely consensual. I don’t think that I am any more morally compromised than the people who compete or more particularly the people who watch the show.’
‘I think that your
understanding
of the process makes you more compromised. Because you
know
better, you should
do
better. It’s the old public hanging debate, isn’t it? Does the fact that people would go to an execution justify mounting them as entertainment? I mean, if popular support provides moral justification then you’ve got Hitler vindicated right there.’
‘I
knew
you’d fucking get it round to Hitler. Every time I have one of these conversations somebody brings up Hitler. Well, personally I think that most people can see the difference between making
Chart Throb
and invading Poland.’
They both laughed.
‘Anyway,’ Calvin added, ‘I thought we were talking about you sleeping with me.’
‘We can
talk
about it all you like,’ Emma replied.
‘In my suite?’
‘If you like. It won’t make any difference.’
So Calvin asked for coffee and cognac to be brought to his suite and together they went upstairs.
As the door closed behind her, Emma hesitated. It was all so luxuriously comfortable. Dangerously so. A couch and two beautiful antique armchairs were set around a delicate-looking coffee table. Through a set of open double doors the bed could be seen with the sheets all folded back for the night.
‘Do you know,’ said Calvin, ‘if we were to begin to kiss now we should have to stop in five minutes when the coffee arrives. I doubt much harm could come to us in five minutes. What do you think?’
‘No. I don’t suppose so.’
Emma stepped forward and allowed herself to be enfolded in an embrace. Together they stumbled across the carpet and, narrowly avoiding a disastrous, shin-denting collision with the coffee table, collapsed on to the couch. After a little while, however, a certain self-consciousness began to pervade the proceedings.
‘We’re waiting for the coffee now, aren’t we?’ said Calvin.
‘Yes, I suppose it’s inevitable given what you said.’
‘Yes, silly of me,’ Calvin said, disengaging himself. ‘It seemed a clever line at the time but now we’re kind of in limbo, aren’t we?’
‘Oh well, it was fun anyway.’
‘Yes.’
The coffee took nearly twenty minutes, which were passed in slightly awkward small talk like that which takes place once the taxi has been ordered.
‘I could have made love to you in this time,’ said Calvin, looking at his watch.
‘No, you couldn’t,’ Emma replied.
‘I meant in terms of time, not opportunity.’
‘So did I. If we ever do get round to it you’re not getting away with a fifteen-minute thank you ma’am or I’ll ask for my money back.’
Eventually the coffee arrived and almost immediately thereafter a dispatch rider from London, bringing the digitized disks of those episodes from the day’s proceedings worthy of review.
‘I shall have to get into this lot first thing,’ Calvin said, ‘but there’s a pool and loads of stuff to do. Unless you fancy giving me a hand? You always were brilliant in the edit. No need for a contract, I could pay you cash.’
‘No thanks, Calvin. I’m starting to like you again but I don’t think I really like the you that makes
Chart Throb
, or the me for that matter. I’m not going back to all that.’
‘Fair enough. Then will you come to bed with me instead?’
‘No.’
‘Bollocks.’ Calvin got up. ‘In that case I suppose I shall have to go to bed alone. Long day today, long day tomorrow.’
‘Will you show me Shaiana?’
‘What?’
‘That’s the only bit of today I want to see. That girl Shaiana. The uberClinger.’
‘Still scared of her?’
‘I don’t know. Not really. I mean, God knows, we’ve seen off enough intense weirdos on this show but . . . Well, she just sort of
sticks
in my mind. Something’s wrong there. I don’t know why I think it but I do.’