Pretty words, pretty promises

Having my mum slam the door in my face was another tiny wake-up call. I’d regretted the words the minute they had left my mouth, but yes. I really was that shallow, and my life was truly very,very strange indeed.

Mum had only asked me to accompany her down to Lidl for her weekly shop, and me trying to explain that if the press got hold of a photo of me shopping in a discount supermarket, it would set off a chain of speculation and headline stories that wouldn’t be good for anyone, had not gone down well. It probably didn’t matter anymore. My career was pretty much over anyway. Even so, I didn’t need it spelled out on every website imaginable.

The fall of The Mighty Dieter.

Is Dieter bankrupt?

Dieter caught shopping in a cut-price supermarket.

Dieter’s Discount Deals.

Has Dieter fallen out of favour?

Is The Dieter the new face of Lidl’s?

The Lidl?

My mum had not been impressed. She’d asked if I understood what garbage was coming out of my mouth and told me she certainly hadn’t raised me to be so rude and judgemental.

I got that, but that was another thing I’d come to realise. I lived in a fantasy dream world. My parents lived in the real world, and they had zero concept of the insanity that was my life.

Which was no life at all.

I wanted a proper life back.

And I was both strange and shallow. How I’d become this…this disgrace of a human being was…I couldn’t even explain it to myself. I’d once been normal. Smart. Now? I’d lost it. And I knew it.

After Mum left for her shop, Dad muttered something about me needing to apologise to her and that he was disappointed in me.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” I’d muttered back. “I’m disappointed in myself too.”

I’d figured out quite a lot over the past weeks. One thing being that I couldn’t stay here much longer. I already had the neighbours’ teenage daughters hanging over the fence with their cameras out whenever I brought my dad a brew. I couldn’t sit in the garden. Couldn’t even sit in the front room because Mum kept opening the curtains. And both of them were sick to death of walking into the front room with their morning cup of tea, to find me sprawled out on their sofa. Hiding.

For me, hiding was an art form, and I’d been doing it for so long that I had no actual skills when it came to being out in the open. Doing the simple stuff like taking a walk, going to the supermarket, talking to the neighbours over the fence like a normal person. Being polite. Saying hello when Mum and Dad’s friends popped in.

My parents were ashamed of me, and I didn’t blame them.

They’d supported me through every whim. Paid for singing lessons. Driven me to Manchester for workshops and auditions. Bought me the clothes I’d picked out from fancy websites. Let me grow my hair. Let me make my own decisions. Hugged me when I’d stutteringly explained to them that marrying the lovely girl from across the road would never be an option. And instead of thanking them, I was slobbing on their sofa like a big lump of useless jelly, feeling sorry for myself.

The fact that I’d had a very successful ten-year career seemed to have completely escaped me. That was my father’s very apt observation over lunch…before he’d sighed and gone for his afternoon nap.

I tried to ring Reuben, the only thing I thought would pull me out of my funk, but he didn’t answer even though I knew it was his day off. I knew his schedule. Stalkers were a weird breed, and I was right here amongst them.

I was starting to understand why people went mad. I felt so incredibly pushed into a small corner, and I had no coping mechanisms to pull myself out of it.

I’d have left, but the thought of doing so made me feel physically sick.

My phone rang, and for a second, I was hopeful, but no. Not Reuben. Michelle again. I wanted to cry, but I had no tears. Releasing a massive sigh, I hit answer.

“Look, Gray,” she said before I even opened my mouth. “I just got off the phone with the Blitz management office. Pardon my French, but what an utterly fucking unpleasant person they have working there. Anyway, it seems that Lauren is currently on extended leave, and nobody else is working for you, but I managed to intimidate some other lowlife in that place and got my hands on your schedule. I also have a proposal for you.”

“Okay?” I felt soft. Weak. Vulnerable in every ridiculous way. She could probably have told me to fly to the Moon, and I would have agreed. Luckily, she didn’t.

“I want to manage you. An interim agreement of sorts, covering all parts of your career from now on, if you would be happy to be party to that. Usual fees apply, but you understand how that works, so I won’t bore you with the small print. I’ll email you a contract for you and your legal team to have a look at.”

“Okay.” I sat myself up a little straighter, tried to get my head in gear.

“It might not be what you want, but I’ve already got you on my books, so it makes sense. But there are a few upcoming things I want to discuss.”

“Everyone hates me,” I said. God, how pathetic. I’d sat through weeks of media training. I could do better.

“Graham,” Michelle said sternly. “You know as well as I do that this whole circus you have going on is good for your public persona. You’re everywhere right now. People are interested in your next move, and we will handle exactly that. Work on your next move. Which brings me to my next question. You’re writing a book?”

“Ehhr…” I mumbled.

“Thought so. Is writing a book something you’re interested in?”

“Absolutely…not.” I was quite proud of that response. For once, I was saying something that resembled a no.

“Good. Let’s bin that project then. Fine. Moving on…”

I laughed out loud. Okay. I could work with this.

“The music is on hold, also fine,” she said, like she was ticking off a checklist. She probably was. “That’s not an issue this end. You’re booked in for a photoshoot for Rebel magazine next week. Are you willing to do that?”

“Do I have a choice?” I asked. Honestly, I had no idea what else I’d flunked out on lately. I’d done that other photoshoot with another bollocks interview.

“Rebel has a good team, and I’m quite chummy with the editor. I think…” She hummed gently in my ear. “Let me suggest to them that we push this shoot, with the promise of an exclusive deal when we get ourselves together. When we have big things to talk about that don’t involve all these depressing lawsuits. I don’t think the timing is good. Let’s just sit this one out. Figure out how we can get you working on some decent projects. Exciting things. Nurture you forward.”

I had no idea what she meant, but it sounded good. And a little less stressful.

“Great! You’ve been a dream to work with so far. I’m really happy with what we have achieved. Great to have you on the team, and don’t worry too much. This is just one of those things. People suck. Timings suck. The world still keeps turning. Chin up. Tomorrow is another day. All that jazz.”

I sighed, wanting desperately to hang up so I could retreat under my blanket.

“You know it’s all bullshit, don’t you?” She was smiling, right there in my ear. I could hear it. “Gray?”

“I don’t know anything,” I whispered.

“You’re a nice guy. Let all this bollocks run off your back. Chill. And I’m not the witch they make me out to be either. Be honest with me. Talk to me when you need to. If anything is too much or clashes with things that are important to you, as long as you let me know, I can fix that. Deal?”

“Yeah.”

“And Gray?”

Deep breath.

“I’m a massive Dieter fan.”

I snorted. She laughed.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Get some sleep. Let me email you all those dull words, and then we’ll take it from there. One day at a time.”

“Okay,” I said, though all I wanted to do was disappear. Forever.

“Gray?”

God, she was annoying.

“Meant to say, I saw some of your scenes today. Spoke to the director. I think people will like what they see. I did.”

At last, she hung up—no goodbye. Michelle wasn’t the kind of person to waste her words on goodbyes.

Neither was I, it seemed, because I’d said goodbye to everything without even opening my mouth. Everything was gone. My whole life. The last ten years had been like this. Pretty words, pretty promises that meant nothing. I wrote those down in my lyrics document. Added a few ideas. I still had words in me, but they were words that would never be heard. I’d never sing them. I didn’t see how I could.

What I’d figured out over the past week was that I was really very, very stupid. I may have been in this business for almost ten years, but I truly and honestly had no idea about anything. I didn’t understand most of what Musa was on about in his long daily rants in our now slimmed down group chat. I didn’t understand what Lee was getting out of touring the media scene slagging me off at every opportunity. I had no clue about this lawsuit that I was about to plunge a huge chunk of my savings into, or the terminology in the constant stream of documents being securely emailed my way. I certainly didn’t understand myself.

Which made me more frightened than I’d ever been in my life.

I regretted a lot of things, but mostly I regretted not paying attention. Everyone else seemed to understand the clauses and policies being thrown around in the daily meetings we’d started to have online. I mostly sat there in silence while my head felt like it was about to explode.

And I seemed to get ALL the emails. I stared at the attached documents with no concept of what I was supposed to do with them. I tried to read them. I even showed them to my dad, who patted my arm and muttered something about young people and technology.

The worst thing of all?

I missed Reuben.

So much.

I was rudely dragged back to reality by Mum, back from shopping and aggressively tugging the curtains open, filling the room with unbearably bright light. Picking my half-drunk cup of tea off the floor, she perched on the edge of the sofa. Well, on my leg.

“Ouch!”

“Oh, stop it, Graham. Enough.”

“What?”

“I need to ask some questions here so I know what’s going on.”

I grunted. More questions. I was sick of questions.

“Are you taking your sleeping pills? The ones I got you?”

I said nothing. What pills?

“Are you on PrEP? And are you taking your anxiety medications regularly?”

I grimaced, my stomach filling with unease.

“Thought so. Dr Williams is on his way up from the surgery to sort out your prescriptions, because this is more than you can manage on your own. And you’re obviously not taking in anything I’m telling you. You haven’t had a full night’s sleep since you got here. Neither have your dad and I, since you’re up wandering around in the middle of the night, banging into things.”

“Mum.” I sighed, trying to sit myself up. She wasn’t wrong. I’d woken up in the kitchen last night.

“You’re depressed. You haven’t left the house since you got here. Won’t even step out into the back garden. Dad and I are worried. I know you’re sexually active, so you need to look after yourself, and you promised me that you would keep up with the PrEP when you came up last time. I wasn’t a nurse for forty years to sit here and watch you destroy your life. You’re young. You should have more self-respect than to lounge around in your parents’ front room. Dad hasn’t been able to watch his programmes for weeks. It’s not good enough.”

She sighed. I sighed too.

“I’m not sexually active.” I smirked with unease. “And I’m off the sleeping tablets.”

“What about the Ativan? It kept you less anxious. Your iron levels are probably dangerously low, and the vitamins I got you—the tub is still unopened on the counter.”

I held up my hands in defeat. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d popped any kind of pills. I didn’t drink. I didn’t do drugs. I did self-pity and hiding and darkness and stupidity. Those were my drugs of choice.

“You’re going home, today.”

“Mum—”

“Dr Williams will be here in an hour. He will talk you through your options with medications and refer you to someone down in London. He’ll do your bloods privately. Talk to him.”

“Mum, he’s like eighty.”

“Shush. I worked with him my entire career. He’s known you since you were a newborn tot, and he has your best interests at heart. If you can manage without medicating yourself, that’s great. But I think you’re way beyond that. This whole doing-nothing thing you have going on needs to stop. Your anxiety is getting the better of you again, and the PrEP is essential in this day and age. You need to look after yourself. Most of all, you need to look after that young man of yours.”

“What young man?” I muttered sarcastically. And I was not going anywhere.

“The handsome young man in the kitchen with Dad. He’s lovely, by the way. So polite. Reuben, is it?”

WTF?

“Dad’s going to take him down to fill up his car—you know how difficult it is to negotiate the entrance to the petrol station with the new one-way system in town. Then Reuben is driving you back to London. We offered him to stay the night, but I doubt the two of you will fit on that sofa. Regardless, you’re not going anywhere until Dr Williams has had some stern words with you.”