Shits. Not even really classy people, like the Queen of England, or George Clooney’s wife.
I had no idea what they’d do about it. The party was a Starmaker celebration—a shindig to raise its profile, gather the great, the good, and the gossip-worthy under one roof and get the flash bulbs popping. Not that people really used flash bulbs that much any more.
There were plenty of well-known faces here already; there’d been masses of alcohol consumed, masses of food left to rot, and masses of cocaine had entirely possibly been snorted in the toilets. That was only a guess, mind—I didn’t go in for that kind of thing myself. But I had noticed, during my time on the outer fringes of the celeb world in London, how strange it was that these people could be obsessed with looks and health—eating juiced kale for lunch, going to the gym every day, taking every vitamin supplement known toman—and still bugger it all up by going on class-A binges at parties. A puzzling paradox.
This party was probably no different, if the high-energy, high-octane atmosphere in the club was anything to go by. As well as the celebs, there were all sorts of important people from the record industry—the execs, the big bosses, the true VIPs. The people with levels of wealth that would make them contenders for hosting the Judges’ Houses section of
The X Factor.
Not just from Starmaker either, but from the company that owned it—and the distributors, the digital-music-movers, and media from TV, print, and online.
It was, to give it its correct term, a Big Deal—and the star of the show, the diva who was supposed to be providing the highlight of the evening, was slowly turning as grey as out-of-date pigs’ liver and rooting in her bag for an Imodium so she could get a cab home with her dignity intact.
I felt sorry for all the people who’d organised it, who’d put so much effort into making the night a success. Apart from Patty, of course, who evoked about as much sympathy as a velociraptor where I was concerned.
‘Shit,’ said Vogue, throwing her handbag to the floor and kicking it with her bare foot. ‘I was sure I had some there. God, I’m dreading the drive home—and I’m dreading reading the papers tomorrow. They’ll have made up all kinds of stories about why I was a no-show.’
‘Maybe they’ll have you pregnant,’ I suggested, probably not very helpfully.
‘Ha! You’re not wrong, kid. Or they’ll give me an eating disorder.’
‘Or they’ll have you booked into rehab.’
‘Or,’ she said, looking at me with the first signs of laughter in her tired eyes, ‘maybe they’ll give me cholera!’
‘Don’t be daft—who’d come up with an idea like that?’ I replied, grinning.
We both laughed, briefly, and then both stopped just as quickly, as Vogue doubled up in sudden agony, rolling over into a foetal position and clutching at her stomach with her arms. She moaned and groaned, and was obviously in a lot of pain.
When she eventually straightened up, still wrapping her arms across her belly, her face was drawn and haggard and her eyes were screwed up against the spasms that I could actually hear rippling through her.
‘No,’ she said, more definitely than she had before. ‘I actually really can’t do it. I thought maybe I could once the vomming had passed, but now we’re heading for round two, and nobody wants to see that live on stage, no matter how drunk they are. Shit, I don’t care what the tabloids say, but I really hate letting people down. I try so hard to be professional and good to work with, and they’ll all be so pissed off and think I’m just throwing some kind of diva fit—but, look at me! I just can’t do this!’
I stepped towards her, and put my arm around her shoulder, giving her a quick squeeze and hoping nothing popped out as a result.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said, copying the no-nonsense tone I’d heard my mum use with us when we were being down on ourselves. ‘Nobody
I had no idea what they’d do about it. The party was a Starmaker celebration—a shindig to raise its profile, gather the great, the good, and the gossip-worthy under one roof and get the flash bulbs popping. Not that people really used flash bulbs that much any more.
There were plenty of well-known faces here already; there’d been masses of alcohol consumed, masses of food left to rot, and masses of cocaine had entirely possibly been snorted in the toilets. That was only a guess, mind—I didn’t go in for that kind of thing myself. But I had noticed, during my time on the outer fringes of the celeb world in London, how strange it was that these people could be obsessed with looks and health—eating juiced kale for lunch, going to the gym every day, taking every vitamin supplement known toman—and still bugger it all up by going on class-A binges at parties. A puzzling paradox.
This party was probably no different, if the high-energy, high-octane atmosphere in the club was anything to go by. As well as the celebs, there were all sorts of important people from the record industry—the execs, the big bosses, the true VIPs. The people with levels of wealth that would make them contenders for hosting the Judges’ Houses section of
The X Factor.
Not just from Starmaker either, but from the company that owned it—and the distributors, the digital-music-movers, and media from TV, print, and online.
It was, to give it its correct term, a Big Deal—and the star of the show, the diva who was supposed to be providing the highlight of the evening, was slowly turning as grey as out-of-date pigs’ liver and rooting in her bag for an Imodium so she could get a cab home with her dignity intact.
I felt sorry for all the people who’d organised it, who’d put so much effort into making the night a success. Apart from Patty, of course, who evoked about as much sympathy as a velociraptor where I was concerned.
‘Shit,’ said Vogue, throwing her handbag to the floor and kicking it with her bare foot. ‘I was sure I had some there. God, I’m dreading the drive home—and I’m dreading reading the papers tomorrow. They’ll have made up all kinds of stories about why I was a no-show.’
‘Maybe they’ll have you pregnant,’ I suggested, probably not very helpfully.
‘Ha! You’re not wrong, kid. Or they’ll give me an eating disorder.’
‘Or they’ll have you booked into rehab.’
‘Or,’ she said, looking at me with the first signs of laughter in her tired eyes, ‘maybe they’ll give me cholera!’
‘Don’t be daft—who’d come up with an idea like that?’ I replied, grinning.
We both laughed, briefly, and then both stopped just as quickly, as Vogue doubled up in sudden agony, rolling over into a foetal position and clutching at her stomach with her arms. She moaned and groaned, and was obviously in a lot of pain.
When she eventually straightened up, still wrapping her arms across her belly, her face was drawn and haggard and her eyes were screwed up against the spasms that I could actually hear rippling through her.
‘No,’ she said, more definitely than she had before. ‘I actually really can’t do it. I thought maybe I could once the vomming had passed, but now we’re heading for round two, and nobody wants to see that live on stage, no matter how drunk they are. Shit, I don’t care what the tabloids say, but I really hate letting people down. I try so hard to be professional and good to work with, and they’ll all be so pissed off and think I’m just throwing some kind of diva fit—but, look at me! I just can’t do this!’
I stepped towards her, and put my arm around her shoulder, giving her a quick squeeze and hoping nothing popped out as a result.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said, copying the no-nonsense tone I’d heard my mum use with us when we were being down on ourselves. ‘Nobody
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