Got your number

Okay. Deep breath. I needed to close the curtains, make the world quiet and dark around me so I would feel safe. Safe was actually the wrong word. Safe was what my management said all the time. More security. The safety of the client is paramount here. Ensure that security is set up. Human beings were vetted within an inch of their lives so they could transport me from A to B without me getting lost. Sometimes I still got lost. Really lost.

None of them were really human. I had a robot-like bodyguard sitting in my kitchen all the time. A rotating team of people who barely spoke to me. Another team in a car circling the block three times a day. I was never alone.

Serves you right, you might have said, but no. It didn’t. I hadn’t asked for this. I’d wanted to sing and make music and all that shite that came with the naivety of youth, but in reality, I had no say in anything. Not anymore. I was told what to eat, what socks to wear, when to sleep, where to live. I couldn’t even go down into my own kitchen without being questioned and judged. I kept a small supply in my rucksack so I didn’t have to even leave my room—snacks I stole from hotel rooms and green rooms and hospitality hampers—all stuff that shouldn’t go anywhere near my temple of a body.

It was no life. I knew that now, and I was at breaking point.

I laughed and flopped down onto the plush hotel bed, then got up again to remove the rucksack from my back.

The bed was soft, the room cool. Rooms actually. Three of them, all mine for the next seventy-two hours for the extraordinary price I’d coughed up.

Not that I would be safe here for long. No doubt Lauren, my manager, would check my credit card balance and find out where a chunk of my royalties had disappeared to. Then she’d turn up here with some other band of other robots masquerading as people and force me to get back into the swing of things.

The security guards and all the other crap were at the insistence of my insurance company, as there was some kind of policy on my head that wouldn’t pay out unless I was supervised twenty-four seven.

Which was…no fucking life.

I had a couple of days off until I was supposed to be back in the studio.

I had a photoshoot on Sunday. A heavily scripted interview to complete on camera afterwards. Clothes to wear in a certain way. My stylist would be throwing a complete fit at the state of my skin and my greasy hair.

Then I was expected to swan back into the Blitz offices on Monday, reacquaint myself with a bunch of lads who probably would rather swallow razor blades than speak to me again. We weren’t exactly close and hadn’t come off that last tour with any kind of affection for one another.

To be more truthful, we’d been sick of it all. Most of us had been really unwell, exhausted and drained and munching on too many synthetic substances so we could go on stage upright and look half alive.

I never wanted to do that again. And this new album I was expected to magically produce?

Wasn’t happening.

I wasn’t going to turn up. I may have been a child…well, I wasn’t, but I felt like a spoilt, horrible toddler tottering around in an existence where I had no say in anything. I couldn’t even take a shit without hearing the night security guard move around downstairs. And now I was expected to write lyrics?

I needed to be on my fucking own. Just for a little while so I could rest.

Properly rest.

In a bed. In solitude.

Wank when I wanted to. Eat whatever shit took my fancy.

The room seemed to agree with me, a soft hum from the air conditioning easing the silence.

I played a part for a living, and it was doing my head in. Whoever The Dieter was, he wasn’t me. He didn’t exist. I was this messed-up kid from the countryside who should’ve gone to uni and got an education. By now I should have been sitting in a shiny office, project-managing some building site. That had been my dream. To be an architect. Or maybe a vet.

My face crinkled. I knew because it hurt, but it didn’t stop me laughing out loud into the darkness, a madman.

I wasn’t mad. I was slowly getting there, though, and in a way, I was proud of myself for finally taking control. If I could have this, three days in this small prison of sanity, then I could perhaps make that photoshoot with my head intact.

I shouted out into the room. No idea what, but the air-con hummed in support.

I was going mad, wasn’t I?

I rolled over, grasping at the oversized throw that had been neatly draped over the bed. Tucked it around my shoulders.

I hadn’t even taken my shoes off.

It must have been a few hours later when I woke up in a panic, my heart racing, as usual. I never knew where I was or what I was doing, with that enormous fear constantly threatening to overwhelm me.

Breaths. Deep breaths.

It had started a while back, the panic thing. The claustrophobia. I couldn’t stand closed doors, yet I craved enclosure. Safety.

Just the word made me hyperventilate.

Oh, fuck off, brain.

I tried to roll over but ended up even more tangled in the throw, kicking my feet, trying to get out of the stranglehold around my hips.

I was a terrible sleeper. Kicked and tossed and turned. I had been known to sleepwalk and talked excessively in my sleep to the point of waking myself up several times per night. Hence all the security. The Dieter, sleepwalking around whatever strange inner-city hotel corridor that our tour had deposited us in, stumbling into a hotel lobby wearing only a jock strap in the middle of the night? Hysteria had swept through management after that little incident.

They had spoken of getting a sleep therapist for me, to ‘help me look more refreshed’. Fuck that. I was overworked and stressed out. The solution would have been to give me some time off, and they all knew it. Unfortunately, I was a cash cow, and if the Blitz machine had been a massive money spinner, who knew what riches they would reap from Dieter the solo artist slash actor slash author slash let’s find another project that The Dieter can put his name to?

I could barely write a coherent shopping list, but what did it matter? I now had a team of ghostwriters on my payroll to produce some kind of award-winning masterpiece of contemporary fiction. No input from me needed.

I laughed out into the darkness, in tune with my rumbling stomach.

Had I asked for food? I thought I had, but none had materialised.

I wasn’t an idiot. Most of the time, I was surrounded by so many people that just uttering the first letter of that word would produce an instant platter of edibles.

Here, I was on my own.

I silently cheered at that fact. But it also meant I had to do things for myself. Like get myself…fed.

Reuben. The doorman. Ha! I had his number. I managed to get myself untangled and sat up, scrabbling around for a light switch. My phone was at 33%, and I needed to somehow sort that too. I grinned. My backpack held a treasure trove of essentials, but first things first. I found the crumpled piece of paper and stabbed the digits into my phone like the proper functioning human being I hoped I was underneath everything else.

Reuben was a nice bloke. Perhaps not supermodel-handsome, but he was decent. Human. Not many people in my life felt human.

“Hello?” he answered. I smiled.

“Hey. It’s me.”

“All right, mate?” His voice…then a sigh. “Who’s this?”

“Me?”

God, I was an idiot. How did you do this again?

Then he hung up. I didn’t blame him.

I rang him again.

“Reubs!” I shouted as soon as the line connected. “It’s…Dieter.”

“Then say so. How am I supposed to know who me is? I was just fucking with you, anyway. I have your number now. I would’ve, like, rung you back.”

“Sure,” I huffed. I didn’t like fuckery.

“What do you need, mate?”

I hated all the mate stuff. I wasn’t his mate. No more than I was some twat called Dieter.

“You think I could have some dinner?”

“Sure! What do you fancy?”

“Ehhhr…” I really didn’t have a clue. Typical me, to impulsively decide I want food without actually thinking about what I wanted.

“Did you look at the menu?” Reuben asked calmly. “There’s a QR code on the plaque by your bed. Lots of food. But hang on…”

He went silent for a bit. I could hear fingers tapping against a computer keyboard.

I hated this. I hated everything. God. Help!

“Can you just choose something and bring it up? Is that…like, possible, please?” I had manners. I used to think I didn’t need them, but if this school of life had taught me anything, it was that manners mattered, and I bloody well tried to use them.

“You want me to feed you and you won’t even tell me what? Have you got…I mean…allergies? What do you usually eat? Are you vegetarian or anything?”

Was I? I was supposed to be. I had a personal chef. Someone who carefully curated meals for me on tour. I needed a certain level of energy to function on stage, but with the constant jet lag and minimum sleep and workouts and—

“Dude, I’ll ring you back.”

Then he was gone, leaving me sitting here like the fool I was.

My name wasn’t Dieter. I had a real name. One I couldn’t even remember how to use anymore, and the longer I sat there, the more I began to wonder if I even existed.

So I did the one thing I knew would bring me back down to earth. I rang my parents. I loved their daily chatter and laughter about my dad’s gardening and Mum’s circle of friends. They had been far too old when they’d unexpectedly had me and had both retired before I was even out of senior school. I’d had a good life. No trauma. No stress.

Then I’d entered some stupid audition on TV. Fast forward ten years later…

“Are you keeping safe?” Mum asked. “Are you listening to those people around you? Don’t do anything silly, Graham. You know how most of these singers end up.”

Dead, Mother.I didn’t say that. I might as well be dead the way I was living my life.

“I know, and I won’t. Love you, Mum.”

“Ah, you’re a good son.” She always said that. Maybe I was, but I didn’t feel it. “I love you too, sweetheart. Good night!”

“Night, Mum.”

Did I feel any better? I had no idea.

So.

My name—my real name—was Graham Smith. Yep. I could hear the laughter in my head whenever I thought about it. It had been a nerd’s name growing up. It still was. When I’d turned up for that audition, those people had laughed too, told me I’d have to change it straight away. Nobody wanted a pop star called Graham. It wasn’t even spelt the posh way. Graeme would at least have looked smarter, but then nobody knew how to pronounce that.

They’d all talked about me like I hadn’t even existed back then. They still did.

There was a heavy knock on my door. The kind that made me freeze up. I sat there with my phone in a death grip and tried not to hyperventilate.

Nobody knew I was here.

Nobody.

“Dude!” came from the other side of the door, accompanied by another heavy bang of fist against wood.

Reuben. Of course. I scrabbled off the bed.

“Man,” he said as I opened the door. “Were you asleep or something?”

“You saying I look like shit?” I laughed. I actually laughed. I had no idea why. Relief perhaps?

Reuben carried in two bags of junk food that smelt incredible.

“It’s my favourite. Thought I’d treat you. You did say you needed feeding, and…yeah.”

“What is it?”

I took back the politeness because clearly he had none, as he stood there, paying no attention to me whatsoever and looking around the room.

Rooms.

There was a dining room with a kitchenette, then another bedroom at the other end and bathrooms too. Like an actual apartment.

He finally completed his rotation and looked at me. “Wanna eat at the table? Or just slob out on the sofa?”

I had a sofa? I grinned again. These things never got old. I’d gone from living in a small box room in my parents’ bungalow to slumming it in basic hotel rooms to getting free upgrades to ridiculous suites with hot tubs and infinity pools and all that crap I never dared to use. Not my kind of thing.

I truly was a spoilt brat, and Reuben had brought me food. And invited himself to dine with me, apparently.

“Has this place got a hot tub?” came out of my scatty mouth. I had no idea what was happening right now. Apart from that I followed Reuben into the dining room and sat at the table like I was a small child waiting to be served. I might as well have asked him to tie a napkin around my stupid neck.

“Cheeseburgers. All the way.” He smiled and tipped a bag of fries out onto the table. “And no. No hot tub. There is a pool, though. I can book a private session for you if you fancy a swim.”

“Plates are a thing, Reubs,” I muttered like we were friends or something. We weren’t. I knew that. I also knew I had to be careful with people. I wasn’t allowed to make friends. Not these kinds of friends anyway. These kinds of friends could easily turn into people who’d pretty much destroy your sanity.

I knew that too.

He passed me a paper cup and a straw, which I had to insert myself.

“No. I don’t need…a swim.”

Then I shut my mouth because he slapped a burger down in front of me, sat and carefully unwrapped his own burger.

Reuben. He seemed a decent enough lad. Not bad-looking. Scarred skin from teen acne, something I remembered well, my own having been corrected and polished until I didn’t recognise myself, and my teeth weren’t even mine anymore. All that perfect white in my gob made me look a prat, but that’s apparently what got me voted Man of the Year in some big magazine—my dazzling smile. This Reuben would never be voted man of anything, with his messy, frizzy mop of hair and twinkly eyes and teeth that were kind of crooked at the front. He had a good smile, though. Looked kind. Was kind. Cute in a fun way. I liked him.

I realised I was daydreaming and still staring at the poor guy, so I did what I always did, stupid-spluttered something that sounded like I was regurgitating food when I hadn’t even started eating.

“Dig in, mate,” Reuben encouraged, sitting there with a drop of ketchup running down his chin like it was nothing.

“Ketchup,” I said.

“In the bag.”

“On your chin.”

I was an absolute tool, but he just laughed and wiped his face with the back of his hand. Embarrassed, I dutifully grabbed the bag and plucked out a small tub of the red stuff, opening it carefully.

Then I shoved a load of chips into it and stuffed them in my gob.

My god. I’d missed chips. All that dirty, greasy goodness. Shaking with anticipation or hunger or maybe both, I unpacked the burger from the waxy paper in front of me, picked it up with both hands and took a huge bite.

Reuben grinned. “Are you even supposed to eat that?”

“I can do whatever I want!” I protested, but I was smiling around the mouthful of bread, beef and cheese.

“Of course you can. As long as that Lauren isn’t here putting her nose in your business. I see what it’s like. Can’t be all that fun.”

“It’s not,” I agreed. “I feel…”

I had no idea what I felt. I truly didn’t. So I just ate and enjoyed Reuben’s quiet company, and for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I had a big, hard, horrible lead balloon in my chest.