You Don't Know Me (19 page)

‘Yes,' Rose says in a tiny squeak. ‘I suppose so. When I got fam— I mean, after the show, I got so many messages they filled up my message box. I don't have time to answer them all, so Elsa does it for me. She passes on the ones I need to see. I don't know why she didn't pass yours on. Perhaps she didn't want to disturb me.'

Oh God, I suddenly wonder: did she even get any of my apologies all those weeks ago?

‘Disturb you from what?'

‘The studio,' she says, not looking very happy about it. ‘Trying to get new songs ready to show Linus.'

She's still looking down. Her lips tremble when she talks. I could swear a teardrop lands on the Nike trainers. Then, to all our astonishment, she sinks into a little
puddle on the ground and buries her head in her hands.

‘I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,' she mumbles. ‘I just wanted to see you again and . . . I've made a mess of it all.'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living The Dream

J
odie's face says it all. This is not the monster she came to see. This is not a monster at all.

She comes over from the bed. I'm already next to Rose, taking her hands in mine. We all sit cross-legged on the floor. Nell stretches out a hand and strokes Rose's hair.

‘Hey, you didn't make a mess of it,' she says. ‘We did.'

Rose shakes her head.

‘No. When you came, you looked so beautiful, the three of you. You were so cool, sitting there together. And I'd just come in from a rubbish day at the studio and I was hopeless.'

‘But we couldn't think of anything to say,' Nell interjects.

‘Nor could I. I just sat there like an idiot. I shouldn't have agreed to see you on TV. I shouldn't have agreed to any of it.'

‘Then why did you?' I ask.

Her blue eyes stare up at us from her pale, soulful face. ‘It was the only way to see you. I had to talk to you before going back to St Christopher's for the launch thing. I didn't want that to be the first time we . . .

So she'd pictured that moment too. The awfulness of it.

‘You could always have called,' Jodie says, pointedly, unable to resist.

Rose looks down again, contrite.

‘I know. I should have called you a long time ago. But I didn't, because I was angry. Then I didn't because I was embarrassed. And now there's never any time. I can't explain it. If it's not in the schedule, it doesn't happen. And anyway, I wasn't sure you'd want to see me after . . . everything.'

‘We wouldn't want to see
you
?' I ask. ‘What about you wanting to see
us
?'

‘Oh, I've wanted to,' she says eagerly. ‘So much. But I've been in this bubble. It's constant meetings and interviews and singing. I don't seem to have time for anything of my own, But all this time, people have sold so many stories about me and none of you ever have and you've been great, like you always are, and I know you didn't mean what happened . . . I just got lost in my bubble. I'm so, so sorry.'

There's a long silence in the plush, untidy room while we all adjust.

‘We're sorry too,' I say.

‘I know.'

This is the moment, perhaps, that the TV cameras would want to capture. The ‘closure'. Except it's very still and undramatic, and nobody cries, and nobody says anything for a while. Everybody's sorry. That's all there is.

Nell is the first to go over and give Rose a proper hug.

‘We've missed you.'

‘Awhmmooooo.'

Rose mumbles it into Nell's shoulder, but I take it she's missed us too. When I approach her, she reaches out an arm and folds me in. The cashmere of her hoodie is soft against my cheek.

‘Although technically,' Jodie says, ‘you can't get lost in a bubble. I mean . . . just saying.'

Rose reaches over and throws a cushion at her. So do I. So does Nell. But Rose, despite all this, still looks fragile and close to tears.

‘What's happened?' I ask. ‘I look you up all the time, you know – on the web. I hardly recognise you now.'

She hangs her head.

‘I know. I hardly recognise myself sometimes. I try to do what they tell me, but it's hard. Answering all those questions . . . trying to look like a pop star . . .'

‘Why would you even want to?'

‘Because . . .' She struggles to explain it. ‘Because of the music. Because if I don't, they might not let me sing. And I
so
want to sing, but even that's gone wrong now—'

I'm about to ask her about that when Jodie interrupts her.

‘And of course, there's all of this.'

She indicates the room, with its plump armchairs and ancient fireplace, the hangings on the bed, the designer shoes arranged in neat rows beside it, the Hermès
handbag open on the coffee table.

‘Yeah, I suppose,' Rose sighs, although I can tell that's not the big thing for her. ‘I mean, it's beautiful. And I get to record in Jim Fisher's studio, and he's like a legend. And I sang at this party and I got to meet Paul McCartney. I mean, I'm really lucky, right?'

She looks from me to Jodie. What can we say? Paul McCartney? Of
course
she's lucky.

‘But you said about the music . . . ?' I prompt her. ‘Going wrong? It hasn't, surely?'

Rose sighs.

‘Can you pass me my handbag?' she asks Jodie, who's closest.

‘Sure. Is this the one Victoria Beckham has loads of?'

Rose nods, embarrassed again.

‘I think so. Ivan gave it to me. Ivan Jenks, from Interface. Do you remember him?'

We shudder slightly. Of course we do: Mr Preserve-the-Drama. Jodie passes the bag over, pausing to admire the soft orange leather. Rose extracts a matching leather case from it, and from the case a shiny black tablet, like an iPad. She turns it on.

‘Linus came over this morning to show me a rough cut of the new ad. We're still working on it, but it's terrible.
I'm
terrible. I don't think I can do it.'

‘You can't be terrible,' Nell assures her. ‘You were at number one last week.'

Rose shakes her head, unconvinced.

‘Come on,' Jodie says. ‘Show us. We'll give you an honest opinion.'

‘Will you really?'

Jodie laughs. ‘You know me.'

Rose grins. She fiddles around on the screen for a moment – she clearly hasn't mastered the technology yet. But eventually she finds what she's looking for. She traces her hand across the tablet screen and a video appears. It opens on her, sitting at a white grand piano in what looks like an abandoned warehouse, wearing a tight white dress with gold sparkles, which looks difficult to breathe in. Her hair is caught up in a gold headdress. She plays an introduction and accompanies herself as she sings.

Real-time Rose watches us, waiting for our reactions. I'm not quite sure what to do. I had my this-is-great face all ready, but the Rose at the piano has the same sort of pained expression as the one who was forced to ‘jiggle' at our audition. The sound is good, but it's clear to me that her heart isn't in it. However, maybe a stranger watching would mistake her awkwardness for sincerity. I'm not sure. I hope so. Meanwhile, Nell is already smiling, although I hope Rose hasn't noticed it's her be-nice-to-Rose-in-case-she-cries-again smile. Jodie's eyebrows are practically in her hairline. And not in a good way.

On the video, the shot changes to show Roxanne Wills, standing on a mountaintop against an azure sky dotted with puffy clouds, also wearing a white dress – but one so short it could pass for a swimsuit – holding her arms out wide.

‘Who does she think she is? Jesus?' Jodie mutters.

Rose bites her lip.

Roxanne sings more stuff about moments and preciousness and specialness and making it. Then she and Rose appear together, in what seems to be a marble-lined villa somewhere hot. It is possibly supposed to be like a judge's house from
The X Factor
, or possibly like heaven, or maybe both. Rose is still at the piano, while Roxanne stands beside it. Their voices rise for the chorus:

Eventually, mercifully, the video comes to an end. Nell and I both plaster on our encouraging smiles for Rose. She ignores us and looks straight at Jodie, who doesn't even try to hide her reaction.

‘You've got to be kidding me.'

Rose hangs her head. ‘I keep trying to put genuine emotion into it, but it just comes out cheesy.'

‘It's not cheesy,' Jodie says. ‘Believe me, it's beyond cheesy. It's not even fun cheesy, like we used to do. It's just . . . cheesy-cheesy.'

Rose looks panicked. ‘But it's an easy tune. I don't know why I can't do it.'

‘It's not you,' I say. ‘It's the song.'

I feel as if I'm pointing out the obvious here. Rose would never have wanted to touch a song like that when we were together, but she shakes her head.

‘It can't be the song. Everyone loves it. Roxanne makes it sound so real.'

‘That's because Roxanne has no sense of integrity,' Jodie says. ‘She could sing a shampoo ad like her life
depended on it. Oh wait – she did, last week. You should be glad you can't do that.'

Rose gives her the ghost of a smile, slipping the tablet back in its case. ‘I suppose I used to think like that. But everyone loves her. And they've got this whole stack of numbers like that for me to sing on the new album and I can't do half of them. That's why it's taking so long in the studio. I try to love them, but I can't . . .'

‘I don't get it,' I say, interrupting.

‘Get what?'

‘This stack of numbers like that one. What about
your
songs?'

‘Oh!' Rose shakes her head. ‘I can't sing those. They wouldn't sell, apparently. What?'

We're all staring at her. She's being incredibly weird.

‘The number one?' Jodie reminds her. ‘That song you wrote? Over a hundred million views?'

‘Oh, that. That was a fluke. And because of the competition. And good will because of . . . well, you know . . .'

My God. She actually thinks she's no good. After everything that's happened, she genuinely believes that. She thinks people just feel sorry for her.

‘Who told you this?' I ask. ‘Linus?'

‘Well, yes,' she agrees. ‘And Ivan. Everyone on the management team. They want me to be commercial. They want me to sell a lot of records. Nobody will believe a girl like me singing love songs, which is what I write. That's why I go on the runs. And do the diet. To lose some weight so—'

A girl like me
. What have they been saying to her? Oh yeah. I can imagine.
Not just large but
large
.

‘But people love you the way you are!' Nell yelps, horrified. ‘That's the whole point!'

‘No, they don't,' Rose assures her. ‘Not like this. They don't, because . . .'

We're all staring at her again. Flustered, she loses her train of thought.

‘Because what?' Jodie asks.

‘Because . . . because . . .'

‘Give me that!' I instruct, holding out my hand for the tablet in its fancy orange case.

Rose hands it over. It takes me a few goes, because I don't know the software, but I finally get Interface on there, and Rose's fan page. Her official one. The one with over a million fans, and all the messages I read every day. I hold it out to her.

‘Do you ever look at this?'

She looks surprised.

‘Sometimes. Well, Elsa reads things out to me.'

I can feel my jaw clenching. Those fans aren't writing to Elsa, they're writing to Rose. Jodie catches my eye and even Jodie looks a bit scared of me.

‘Well, read it,' I say, handing the tablet over. ‘Read the first message, and the second, and . . . the fifth.' I haven't looked at them yet today, but I know what they'll say.

Rose scans down, reading quietly to herself. Her face clouds. She goes over to the nearest chair and sits down, still reading.

There will be a message from someone who's been bullied at school, saying she's given them hope and saved their life. There will be another from someone with a broken heart, saying she's the soundtrack to their pain, and they listen to her every day. There will be several
telling her she's an inspiration, and there will be pictures: the pictures of roses, in glitter and fabric and arty photographs. There will be a few horrible ones too, saying she's fat and ugly, because some people think it's OK to say hateful things to strangers they can't see, but they'll be drowned out by angry defence of Rose by her fans. There won't be a single one, I guarantee, that wishes she'd be more commercial, or that she'd stop singing from her heart.

By now the tears are pouring down her cheeks, but it just makes me frustrated.

‘I can't believe you don't read this stuff. I mean, I know you don't because you never reply. Not in your own words. Elsa does it for you sometimes – spelling it wrong. But why? When all these people love you, Rose? Why?'

She looks up at me, her face taut with wonder and pain.

‘I had no idea . . . I don't know why.'

And then, for a while, she ignores us, scrolling down and down, through just some of the thousands of messages, stroking her finger over them, pausing to smile at a compliment, or grimace at some sad story.

While she reads, Jodie wanders around the room, stroking
her
fingers over the soft silk of the curtains, admiring Rose's new set of matching luggage, trying on some of her jewellery collection at the dressing table, waddling around in a pair of her new high-heeled Jimmy Choos. Rose only looks up when Jodie topples over on one of the heels and snaps it.

‘Oops. Sorry.'

Rose ignores the broken heel.

‘I didn't know. I mean, I knew I had fans. Elsa tells me
the numbers every day. But they just felt like numbers.'

‘They're not just numbers,' I whisper.

To me every person, every message, seems very real. It's
so
not fair that I'm the one who's addicted to Interface and I had to be the one to get all the haters, while Rose gets all the love.

She puts the tablet down with a sigh.

‘They're so lovely. I want to reply to all of them. They're going to hate the new song, aren't they?'

‘“Living the Dream”?' Jodie asks, idly slipping into an embroidered coat from the wardrobe and checking herself out in the mirror. ‘I look good, don't I? No, sadly my dear, they're not going to hate your new song, because they'll love everything you do. But they
should
hate it. It's smug, and forgettable, and it sucks.'