All stories

Marie-Claire never understood what the moustachioed Englishman had been doing in the back streets of Naples selling effigies of the Virgin Mary but didn’t ask. He’d pretended to be poor like her and dressed in an approximation of her rags to be like her perhaps, sweet but pathetic.

She encouraged him initially, after all Peter had had some useful friends. He was a reasonable stepping stone but her eyes were on the prize from the start and life as a Prima-Donna socialite would not involve this chubby faced minstrel.

However, upon rejection, his behaviour became startling.

“He turns up everywhere!” She said to Sylvie, her flatmate, as they strolled the Boulevard St Michel, “he’s like a stalker, I mean, when we went to St Moritz with Aristotle Onassis I’m certain he was the waiter who served my napoleon brandy!

And what about the time he showed up on the beach in Juan-Les-Pins at the precise moment where my carefully designed topless swimsuit “magically” came undone?”

“Darlink! Just tell ze police, zey will give him an, owyousay,… teastraining order!” said Sylvie who was keen to change the subject onto her ongoing affair with Sacha Distel, “Now, speaking of brandy lets go to a café and you can show me how to drink wizout wetting your lips!”

In the café Marie-Claire felt the world at her feet! The sun shone and life was good, a handsome millionaire waved at her from his table which she acknowledged with the softest flutter of her Belmain scarf. An amusing accordion player strolled the café tables playing a jolly waltzing melody.

“Dududu, Dududu,- du du!”.

“Now what about zat racehorse darlink Aga Kahn sent you for Christmas! How is he doing?” asked Sylvie

“Who? The Aga Kahn or the racehorse?” laughed Marie-Claire “I don’t know, I keep him just for fun, for a laugh,…hahaha.”. She winked at the millionaire.

The accordion player arrived at her table, she gave him 10 Francs as it was a nice day, the best he’d get in his miserable life. But to her surprise he stopped playing and returned her money.

Then he spoke, “Look into my face Marie Claire.” she obeyed instinctively, “And remember who you are! then go and forget me forever, but I know you’ll still bear the scars! Yes you will!”

She looked away and by the time she looked up again he’d disappeared. The moment unsettled her though and she was unable to concentrate on her flirting.

She never saw Peter (it was him of course) in the flesh again, but a month or two later she heard that strange accordion tune emanating from a radio set. Then she saw him singing it on the television and then everywhere she went all she heard was him, on every radio show for the rest of her life singing those grossly unfair, untrue lies about her. presenting her as some kind of social climber.

How she came to hate that tune, it entered her dreams, it drove her mad! She was abandoned by her jetset friends, even Sylvie, who eventually received her own racehorse from the Aga Kahn.

She died penniless and alone in a Naples backstreet in 2016.

Peter, pop’s greatest one-hit-wonder, lived long enough to witness her demise and note with satisfaction how well he’d been able to see inside her head.

Elizabetta took her final draw on the slim French cigarillo, removed it from the gold plated holder, screwed the butt into the wall and threw it into a nearby bush. It was November cold and she drew her fur collar around her face. Just for one last moment she stood in the half light at the edge of the gas lamp’s arc, waiting as the rest of the corp de ballet made their way through the stage door, unwittingly accompanied in this dance by the accordion player busking under the next lamp.

Elizabetta, whose real name was known only to her long dead mother, but who was referred to as Eliza, was as slim as a stook hook. She was neither tiny nor tall at five feet and four inches, with large slender hands, an aquiline nose, big brown eyes just a little too far apart and hair the colour of milky tea. Naked, she looked like an illustration in a medical anatomy book, sinews and ribs pressing beneath her skin. This was a product of so much hard work; many hours practising since she was six years old, very little food and enough cigarillos to smoke the rats from a Man-of-War.

Whilst Eliza was not the prima ballerina of the company, she was a stalwart member of the ensemble. She worked hard, was reliable and it was widely agreed she had the best tour on lair of any dancer on any stage. She thought she was happy with this until Francois entered her life.

He was the new male principal, shipped over from Paris by the company manager who seemed to have made a surprisingly, some would say suspiciously, good deal with the Ballets Suédois. Francois was an immediate hit with his pretty blonde watercolour looks and his statuesque physique. He was not as delicate and elegant in his movements as audiences were used to, but he was fast and when he leapt the audience would gasp and some women were known to swoon.

He had caught Eliza’s eye in the summer, had created opportunities to brush past her and to tell her how excellent she was, “so very underestimated” “should be the prima”. He promised her that he would speak to the manager, demand that she be given at least a solo dance in the next season. Eliza began to believe this could be a chance for her and felt thrilled by his attentions. She spent much of the late summer and autumn waiting for him in his rooms, where he would whisper promises whilst he fucked her.

Winter was threatening now and the promises had left on a late autumn breeze. Eliza stood in the gloam, watching as Francois climbed from the Hansen and made his way into the theatre, smiling his melting hello to a ballerina as he brushed past her at the door. Two tiny boys came by carrying a raggedy figure made of old sacks, “Penny for the Guy? “they asked. Eliza, put her hand on her belly, once washboard flat and now swollen like a proven loaf. She knew tonight would be her last performance, all her many years of hard work undone, and while she could still afford it put a penny on the sack man’s hat.

When Autumn arrived it was with a crown of flame in her hair and the smell of woodsmoke on her breath. Leaves of scarlet and amber flickered to the ground, flashing fire in the darkening sky and coating the pavement outside Sophie’s office in a carpet of burning colour. She was the last to leave again.

The others were in the pub, but Brenda had insisted someone stay to answer the phones until the office officially closed and she chose Sophie. She always chose Sophie. Debbie had flashed a quick sympathetic smile, but hurried out of the door regardless. Debbie got to leave with the others now, since Sophie joined.

She pulled the office shut. The air was deep blue and hazy with damp. The streetlights fought valiantly, sending tendrils of yellow light forth into the deepening darkness, but the evening had a gloomy, empty quality despite their efforts, and the chill in the air promised winter with every breath. A boy hurried past with a Guy Fawkes under his arm.

Sophie thought about joining the others, but, by now, they’d be two pints in and laughing together in a place Sophie couldn’t follow. Brenda saw to that; Brenda, the glue that bound the group together, and, when she was the boss and buying the rounds, it was difficult for the others to refuse.

And Brenda knew that being inside the group felt just that bit more delicious if there was someone outside - a captive audience for their in-jokes and stories.

As she neared the entrance to the underpass Sophie’s heart sank as the strains of the accordion drifted out. He was still there then.

Every morning he shot her the same toothless leer, his fingers whirling a waltz on the worn keys. Something in his eyes unsettled her; they stared, unblinking and far too pale, set deep in the sockets of his filthy face.

But it was this or walk the long way around.

In the underpass she looked fixedly at the floor. One, two, three. Nearly half way through now, just a few more steps.

The music surrounded her, bouncing off the walls, a frenetic polka that swept her up and made her heart race. Keep going. Five, six, seven…

Then the light snapped out and Sophie was alone in the dark with him, his ragged breath coming hard, the thud of his keys, the whirl of the music. The music was creeping into her eyes, her mouth, filling the darkness around her, inside her. If she looked up she would see those eerie, pale eyes staring at her, drawing her in...

“Sophie?”

Her eyes flew open, she hadn’t realised they were shut. The light was back and someone was calling her.

“Sophie, are you ok? I tried to catch you at the office. We thought you’d be leaving now.”

It was Debbie. Only Debbie.

“Look, please come for a pint. We’re at the Wheatsheaf and it would be brilliant if you could come for one? Brenda’s gone…”

Debbie smiled and rolled her eyes and suddenly, just like that, Sophie was on the inside. The underpass became just a grimy old tunnel; the accordion player only an old homeless man with cataracts.

Sophie smiled at him, tossed him a few coins and followed Debbie to the pub

For a while the Genie lurked and observed. Timmy was on the bench, folded at the middle, hands clutched at his ankles. This was the boy who’d actually called himself a “ledge”.

The Genie smirked. Window ledge, maybe.

He sauntered on over, took a seat next to the lad. Still Timmy was prone and whimpering.

The Genie leant in, and in his most soothing whisper told the kid to relax. He said, ‘The accordion player has corralled the mighty python. All is good with the world. All is chaste.’

Timmy squinted through one eye. He saw that they were alone and sat up warily.

The Genie said, ‘How’s about it? Ready to change your wish?’

‘You bastard,’ Timmy said. ‘You utter, utter bastard.’

‘Who, me?’ said the Genie, in faux-indignation. ‘You said: anyone you fancy – their clothes come undone.’

‘I meant women!’ Timmy took a breath, and then in a slightly lower voice, added, ‘Not swarthy accordion players in low cut shirts.’

‘The wish does what you command…’

‘Change the wish then,’ said Timmy. ‘Tweak it. Only women I fancy; their clothes come undone.’

‘All for this Ellen girl? Would it not be easier, a simple love wish? She falls head over heels for you?’

‘Weren’t you listening? Revenge!’

Timmy’s voice took on a bitter tone. ‘I was eleven years old, and she and her mates tied me to the railings behind the sports hall. They pulled down my…and my…’

The words caught in his throat. The pain of it, the humiliation.

He began to smile again, picturing it. Little Miss Prima Donna on stage, and at the climax of her song, all her clothes coming undone.

‘Okay, so revenge,’ said the Genie. ‘But how about I do you a nice and simple single person revenge wish.’

Timmy smirked. ‘Hey. I’m a fourteen-year-old kid. What’s the harm in a little extra titillation?’

The Genie sighed deeply.

Become a genie, they said. Maybe peoples dream come true, they said.

---

Come the evening and Timmy was front and centre, camera running. He hoped to catch some of her clothes, and thence fashion an effigy to be burnt on Guy Fawkes night. He had to watch the play with his eyes screwed shut lest a wardrobe malfunction to the entire chorus line scupper the Big Moment.

Here it came, the climax to her song, the moment when she put her arms to the heavens and stretched out her body.

Nothing.

The skintight leotard failed to dissolve in a shower of sequins. Instead was the roar of the audience, the adulation, and the flowers. Ellen left the stage, fully clothed.

Unhumilated.

Timmy remained in his seat until it was only him and the Genie sitting there.

‘What the hell?’ Timmy said. ‘What happened to her clothes?’

‘Semantics, old bean. You changed the parameters. Any woman you found attractive. I don’t believe schoolgirls fall under that category.’

Timmy gaped. The Genie took out a piece of paper.

‘More bad news, I’m afraid. Notice of Three Wishes termination. It’s these modern times we live in; almost half the genies these days are women. It didn’t go over well, your forced nudey thing.’ The Genie sighed in sympathy. ‘Bet you wish you’d gone for that massive whanger idea I floated right at the start.’

Ruby was barely listening to Alan, Her agent, who was ranting away, something to do with her rider.

“If that fat fuck thinks he can get away with this shite again he’s got another think coming!”

Her mother wasn’t well, she hadn’t seen her boyfriend in weeks. Endless touring. Just do what you’re told.

“Just water and something veggie is all I want” She said amicably.

“it’s not about what you fuckin want darling” screamed Alan, “It’s about showing those bastards they can’t fucking insult us anymore!”

A week later Lauren, artist liaison at the XL Arena, looked at the rider in despair. Her boss was away for the weekend and had told her to sort it.

“Ms Scarlett requires 12 beanbags to recline upon, these will be made from environmentally friendly silk, flown from Venezuela.”

“What a monster” thought Lauren as she set up the dressing-room.

“10 pinatas shall be suspended just above her head height (5 Foot exactly). These will be filled with peaches, good standard cocaine and miniatures of quality vodka. A staff member will stand nearby carrying a large pin should Ms Scarlett require assistance.”

Lauren had tried but every time she tried to suspend the pinatas they came undone and their contents crashed to the floor. She sat amongst peaches, smashed bottles and powder.

“Two accordion players will attend, they will play the Lambada upon instruction.”

Lauren started to cry, she’d never even seen Ruby Fucking Scarlett, couldn’t pick her out of a line. Now she never wanted to. She wished she’d never applied for this “Glamorous” job. She was toast because a pint-sized prima-donna with an out of control ego couldn’t go two minutes without snorting coke!

Or eating peaches!

Where was the fucking assistant she’d been promised? She hurled a peach across the room.

Just then Ruby entered, she’d escaped her entourage and was looking for somewhere with a phone signal. She was wearing ordinary clothes with her hair scraped back. She picked some peach from her cheek and saw Lauren sitting on the floor in tears.

“There you are” said Lauren. “They could have found me someone taller! Here help me fix this mess.” Before Ruby could answer Lauren stuffed cable-ties and a tape-measure into her hand and pointed to a stepladder.

When no one could find Ruby, Alan called the media. Ruby Scarlett had disappeared! A scrum engulfed the building.

At 7, after 4 hours of intense hard work Lauren and Ruby had the room done up to the exact specifications in the rider. They’ed enjoyed each other’s company. They hugged awkwardly as they parted.

Ruby was plunged straight into the maelstrom, Alan had told the world she’d been kidnapped by terrorists. Her costumes were taken stage-side and after her show (oerformed “despite her harrowing ordeal”) she went straight back to her hotel without seeing her dressing room.

Lauren, left immediately after positioning what she considered to be a gratifyingly ugly effigy of Ms Ruby Scarlett which had been made by local schoolchildren (another rider stipulation). She’d worked for 30 hours straight.

Now, whenever Artist-liaison staff compare diva-like riders, Lauren holds back her “Ruby Fucking Scarlett” story to trump them all, “if it wasn’t for that assistant my career would have ended then!” she said, she regretted that she’d not seen the girl since to thank her.

And Ruby herself has managed to complete her pop career without ever trying cocaine,

Or peaches.