Welcome To Wherever You Are (15 page)

It took another half an hour and many gulps from her water bottle before she followed the directions the Google Maps app on her phone suggested to find the street containing Zak’s Spanish-style property; a two-storey building that stood behind a whitewashed wall and wooden gates. She could clearly see blossoming trees and palm leaves clumped together in landscaped gardens. When the wind blew gently, she caught the waft of chlorine from a pool.

Ruth placed her hand over her mouth but it was too late to muffle a feverish squeal.

Tommy cursed his iPhone’s alarm when it rang just two hours after his head hit the pillow.

He showered, changed into a clean T-shirt, shorts and his favourite Adidas trainers, left the dormitory and headed to the reception desk for the start of a five-hour shift. But he was already pining for the hour-long break between the hostel and his new job inside a hotdog costume directing grazing customers towards Mr Fiaca’s fast-food trailer.

He stared enviously from the corridor window as the sun’s rays shone upon the sidewalk and wondered if Jake had enjoyed his first LA sunrise. Tommy caught himself smiling when he reflected on his evening. He’d enjoyed Jake’s company very much, and since he and Sean had gone their separate ways, he missed having a male confidant. Although he’d made many acquaintances at the hostel, it was rare for him to come across people he could relax around enough to completely bond with. And then two potential friends came along within days of each other: Jake, who, while convivial and talkative about his travels, appeared reluctant to give much of himself away about his background, and Nicole, who was witty and attractive but held her cards just as close to her chest as Jake held his.

Tommy became distracted from his musings when he passed the kitchen and paused to watch Matty and Declan puzzling over what do with a 7-pound bag of pasta and twenty cheap cans of chopped tomatoes.

‘Where should I stick this?’ Matty asked his friend, pointing to the pasta.

‘D’you really want me to answer that?’ replied Declan, struggling to hook the can opener over the rim.

‘Will you look at her!’ whispered Matty, staring at two blonde women with Scandinavian accents rinsing their breakfast dishes in the sink.

‘Hey, pretty ladies! Could you spare us a moment of your time?’ asked Declan.

‘What’s up, guys?’ asked Freja.

‘Now what kind of accent is that? Dutch, Norwegian?’ asked Matty.

‘Swedish,’ replied her friend Nina.

‘Well you’re a beautiful sight for tired Irish eyes. I’m Matty, and this is Declan.’

Tommy shook his head from outside as they took turns in kissing the girls’ hands like they were royalty.

‘Are you the new cooks?’ asked Freja.

‘Officially, yes, but unofficially, we’re pretty feckin’ useless,’ said Declan. ‘Do you by any chance know what to do with these?’

‘You can’t make spaghetti?’ asked Nina, looking at Freja in mock disbelief.

‘It’s a Roman Catholic thing, we’re not actually allowed under papal law.’

Nina whispered into Freja’s ear. ‘Okay, if we help you, what will we get in return?’

Matty and Declan looked at each other, then the girls, shrugged their shoulders and grinned. ‘Anything you like.’

Tommy had only been at the reception desk for ten minutes when he learned what the girls had received for their kitchen assistance. Wearing just their trainers and aprons, bare-arsed Matty and Declan boisterously charged through reception whooping and hollering before running across the road and doing star jumps.

As the girls’ laughter echoed through the open kitchen window above, Tommy scowled and turned up today’s televised lecture from Reverend Devereaux. He considered calling to make a cash pledge if Rev Dev would ask the man above to rid the hostel of the Irish plague.

Jake grunted as he completed his fourth set of chin-ups on the free-to-use exercise equipment by the beach, then felt the tape attaching his recent tattoo covering begin to tear.

He hitched up his vest and secured it back in place, before crossing his legs, hoisting himself up on metal parallel bars, and beginning a set of bicep dips.

A film of early morning smog had ruined his first east coast sunrise, turning the sun’s golden rays into a grey and purplish fog. But the pollution meant it wasn’t too stifling for him as he worked up an early morning sweat.

He lowered himself back to the ground, tensed his arms and watched as the tattooed images from shoulders to wrists came to life. More than sixty hours in artists’ chairs around the world had been worth it, he thought. His long hair, beard, muscular frame and gradual but deliberate loss of his northern accent had all helped to transform him into something unrecognisable from his former self.

Not even his most devoted fans would recognise who he once was.

THREE AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER – SHEPPERTON STUDIOS, LONDON

Stuart Reynolds stared into the mirror framed by white light bulbs as Megan placed short strands of his hair in straightening tongs.

His first coat of make-up had been applied after breakfast, then reapplied for dress rehearsals, followed by three more late-afternoon touch-ups and a final dusting an hour before the live shows were to be televised. Familiarity with the process meant he knew that by the end of the broadcast he would remain perspiration free, but his face would feel heavy, like it had been glued to brick.

The make-up gave him sharper cheekbones and deeper cheek dimples and his bleached-blonde hair was ruffled to make him look like he’d just got out of bed. The light bulbs reflected in his winter blue contact lenses and enhanced their sparkle. Although they looked prettier than the brown irises God gave him, he felt they were another part of him to add to the ever-growing list of fakery.

‘Happy with it?’ asked Megan, circumnavigating his head, proud of her handiwork. Stuart nodded and smiled like he was supposed to, but even if he had disapproved, it would’ve fallen on deaf ears.

For ten consecutive Friday and Saturday nights, he Gabriel, Josh, Dylan and Ethan had been performing established musician’s hits with their own R & B twist in front of eight million voting viewers at home. Separately, they were five attractive but unexceptional young men in their early to mid-twenties, but together they were a boy band created by TV show
Star People
, and its architect, Geri Garland.

Their song choices, outfits, choreography, hairstyling, rehearsal times, accommodation, fitness regimes, diets, interview techniques and Twitter accounts had all been decided for them by a panel of production company executives and a PR team, all hand-picked by Geri. Even their name, Lightning Strikes, had been chosen for them.

The rest of the band were scattered around their cramped dressing room, hunched over tablets and mobile phones, scrutinising what social media users were saying about their chances of winning that night’s finale. From what Stuart had read on Twitter earlier that day, the consensus was that girl-next-door Rachael Molloy might just pip them to the post.

‘Right, you’re done,’ said Megan, interrupting his thoughts as she doused Stuart’s poker straight hair with a final coat of lacquer. ‘Your turn, Josh.’

Stuart vacated his seat just as the door flew opened and Geri marched in.

‘Christ, it’s a right bloody sausage fest in here,’ she yelled in her south London accent as all eyes focused on her. Her dyed, flame-red, shoulder-length hair was given a side parting, and her plump, cosmetically enhanced breasts spilled from the top of her silver sequined dress. Geri sat firmly in her mid-forties, but the best surgery money could buy had shaved off a decade.

Geri revelled in her role as an intimidating presence. Her young male assistant dutifully followed her with an iPad under his arm and a headphone plugged into one ear. A different young man flanked Geri every time she appeared, noted Stuart, and he wondered if there was a pile of blood-drained bodies stacked up in her cellar.

‘Are you boys ready to go out there and win this thing for Mama G?’ she continued.

‘Yes,’ all five replied, too muted for Geri’s taste.

‘Well I hope you’ve got more in you than that when you get out on that stage, or you’re fucked. Stuart, can I have a word?’ It was a rhetorical question, so Stuart followed her into the corridor. She flicked her eyes at her assistant who scampered away like a scolded puppy.

‘How are you doing then, handsome?’ she asked softly, straightening the lapels of his jacket.

‘If I’m honest, I’m shitting bricks, Geri,’ Stuart replied.

‘Well as long as you don’t shit them on stage, you lot have got this wrapped up.’

‘I hope so, but what if the others judges prefer Rachael? Won’t it look a bit dodgy when you’re the only one there bigging us up? And even Twitter says—’

‘Oh Twitter, shitter,’ Geri interrupted. ‘The public don’t know what they want till I tell them. And they don’t give a damn what the other two think – I only pay them to be there and make me look good. We’ve got through every week without a problem or a technical fault; just one more night and we’re home free.’

Geri planted a lingering peck on Stuart’s lips, and then wiped off the lipstick she’d left with her thumb and smiled. With the amount of fillers she’d had injected into her face, Stuart found it hard to tell if her smile was flirtatious or if she was having a mild stroke.

‘Now get out there and make me proud,’ she continued, then patted his left buttock and pushed him towards the dressing room. Stuart took a deep breath and rejoined his bandmates. He glanced around the room, hating that his future lay in the hands of a pantomime villain and four virtual strangers.

Through the open door, he spotted one of the show’s young technicians walking past with arms full of microphones. Already fed up of his squeaky-clean look, Stuart wondered what it would like to go back to his natural dark brown, wavy hair, grow a beard and get tattoos like the man in front of him had.

‘Hold up a minute, Jake,’ came a voice behind the technician.

‘I like that name,’ thought Stuart.

TODAY

Ruth removed her camera phone from her pocket, switched it to video mode, and started to closely examine the home of Zak Stanley through a two-inch by two-inch screen.

At the far end of the house, she could only just spot wide open doors with wrought iron railings surrounding a tiled balcony. She wondered if that was Zak’s bedroom. And if his doors were open, he was probably awake already, she figured. Her eyes were drawn to an intercom with just one button. So she took a deep breath and lifted a trembling hand before pushing it. It didn’t make a sound so she pushed it again until a whirring noise above her caught her attention. It was a video camera attached to a tree trunk and pointed at her. She looked up at it and smiled, before a woman’s voice from the intercom made her jump.

‘Yes?’

Ruth steadied herself before speaking. ‘Hi, I’ve come to see Zak Stanley.’

The pause felt like a lifetime before the voice spoke again. ‘And you are . . .?’

‘Um, I won a competition to meet him but I think he must have been busy.’ Ruth turned her head and smiled hopefully towards the camera.

‘Mr Stanley doesn’t see visitors without an appointment or an invitation.’

‘Oh, but I had one yesterday. Can I make another one?’

‘You will have to go through his publicist. Thank you.’

‘Do you have a number?’ Ruth asked, scrambling inside her bag for a pen and paper. ‘Hello? Hello?’

The voice did not reply, and the camera continued to target her until she shuffled away.

‘If looks could kill,’ began Nicole.

As the second of the week’s hostel parties was in full flow, Nicole caught Tommy casting bitter glances towards Matty and Declan from the doorway.

‘What do you mean?’ Tommy asked sluggishly.

‘Those Irish lads with the gift of the gab,’ continued Nicole.

Matty and Declan sat with their arms around Freja and Nina on a sofa. Every so often, the girls threw their heads back and laughed at something amusing the boys whispered into their ears.

‘But you’ve got to admit, their spag bol is pretty tasty,’ added Nicole.

‘I wouldn’t know, I haven’t tried it,’ Tommy lied, having eaten his helping in his room so as not to give his nemeses any satisfaction. He took another swig from his plastic beer cup.

‘Are you a bit drunk, Thomas?’ Nicole smiled. Tommy ignored the question, but it was obvious from his squinting eyes and slightly slurred speech that he’d gone over his self-imposed three-pint limit. Every person he’d spoken to at the party had thrust a fresh drink into his hand and it seemed rude to refuse them. He rolled his eyes when Nina removed some dollar bills from inside her cut-off jeans and handed them to Declan.

‘Unbelievable,’ Tommy muttered.

‘What is?’

‘Am I the only one who can see through them?’ he continued, louder than necessary. ‘They’re chancers!’