Read by Katy Darby (third story in podcast, here)
The line for the only toilet in the building is at least six people deep when I join. Christ alive, this place is a hole. A poky recording-studio in North London that has clearly seen better days. Outdated equipment, cramped facilities and one single toilet. Whoever designed this place in the sixties had no idea that one December, twenty years later, the entire British music industry would descend to record yet another Christmas charity single.
As I wait, I look through the lyric-sheet for the song we’re recording today, to find the couplet intended for me and my sister. I finally locate it, sandwiched between lines for Andrew Ridgeley and the girls from Bucks Fizz. I sing it once quietly to myself.
“Remember when we fill our bellies
Their starving faces on our tellies”
Jesus wept, you’d think they'd suffered enough?
I don’t recognise him but he immediately clocks me.
“All right gorgeous,” he cries, striding over and lowering his daytime shades to the end of his nose. “Which one are you, again? Sugar or Spice?”
I always hate this question, especially coming from a creep like this. So I decide to lie.
“I’m Spice.” I simper, in a flawless imitation of my twin.
“Of course you are!” he shouts back. “It’s obvious now. You’re definitely my favourite. For starters, you’ve got all the talent.”
I grin politely at this.
“Everyone understands why you’re talking to Tony LaGuardia about a solo project,” he mutters, tapping his nose. “I mean, sometimes you’ve got to cut out the deadwood.”
A silent bomb explodes in my head at this news. My little bitch of a sister. A solo project! I don’t let my shock at this revelation show. My polite grin remains flawless.
“No disrespect to Sugar. She’s a great girl, and, I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but we had a bit of a thing a while back. Just casual. We don’t like to talk about it.”
I have never touched this man before in my life. Lying bastard.
“Look,” he continues, his voice now sleazier than a Radio One DJ’s “If it doesn’t work out with Tony LaGuardia, maybe I can help you with your career.” From out of nowhere he produces a business card, and creepily places it in my hand. “Think about it. I’m the guy who cut Timmy Mallet an album deal.”
I’m about to tell him where he can put his card, when there’s a loud beeping noises.
“Pardon me, darling,” he declares, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a cutting-edge mobile phone; the most impressive thing about him so far. It’s so modern and compact, hardly bigger than a brick.
He answers it, “Nigel S Limax, Empire Records. How can you make me richer?” There’s a slight pause as covers the mouthpiece with his hand. “Catch up later,” he winks at me, “Been real.”
I’m so furious at my sister that I forget to mutter ‘prick’ under my breath as he walks away. I wrack my brain for why she might betray me like this. I mean, we were always so close. She can’t still be bitter about a few minor grievances that have built up over time. Like when I wrecked her car by mistake. Or that party on Simon LeBon’s yacht I didn’t tell her about. Or that filthy gossip I wrote about her on the walls of the Top of the Pops men’s bogs when I had that quickie with Limahl. Or those three boyfriends of hers I slept with. Four if you count the ex-husband.
Okay, I realise, as I list it in my head, that does sound a bit terrible. But over the years she’s done just as bad to me. We’re sisters. A few mistakes are no reason to screw me over like this.
Fired up with anger, I forget I need the loo and head off to confront her. Turns out she’s not even arrived at the studio for our recording yet so I hail a cab to drive round to her flat. I’m not quite in time: just as my taxi pulls up I see her getting into one heading to the studio. I’m especially shocked by what she’s wearing. The cow.
We’d agreed to coordinate our outfits today: double denim says we mean business. Serious attire to show we take whatever the charity single is about seriously. I’d honoured the agreement, but she was stabbing me in the back again with her look. A shiny green leotard and pink fluffy legwarmers with a matching off-the shoulder cardigan. And a purple PVC ra-ra skirt with a chunky gold buckle.
I’m so busy hating how good she looks that before I know it, her taxi’s driven off and I’m standing on a quiet, snowy street. This feels like a new low, and one that definitely calls for a cigarette. But while rootling in my bag I find something far more useful. Before my sister turned into a backstabber, we’d exchanged spare keys. And here they are. In my bag. Just as I’m here outside her empty apartment.
I quietly let myself in, and begin looking around to see if I can find any further evidence of her betrayal. I’ve barely started when, in a cupboard under the phone, I find a large stash of money. Crisp twenties, hundreds of them, wads of the stuff all neatly wrapped up. Why would she have all this?
The phone suddenly rings and instinctively I pick it up.
“Hi there!” a loud American voice shouts down the phone, “Tony LaGuardia here.”
“Yes?” I answer, hesitantly.
“What time is it there in England?” he continues, “I can never work that out. I guess it’s probably midnight or something. It doesn’t matter. I’m just calling to confirm the studio recording dates we talked about. Two weeks from January twelfth, starting right here in LA. Project Solo is go!”
Final positive proof. My sister is one-hundred-percent pure Evil Backstabbing Viper Bitch Queen from Hell. But two can play at that game.
“Hi Tony,” I purr down the line, imitating my sister’s voice, “I’m afraid I can’t do those dates after all. Maybe March. I hope that’s okay?”
There’s a long that-really-isn’t-okay pause.
“And I’ve been thinking Tony. I’ve always really wanted to be taken seriously as a songwriter. So I’ve decided that that this record will be all exclusively my own songs.”
I hang up at this point. That should have put the fear of God into him.
Before I can get back to the money, I’m disturbed by a shuffling sound behind me.
“Babes, did you forget something?”
I spin round to see a bleary-eyed naked man standing at the bedroom door. I recognise his perfect physique instantly. Not his name, obviously, but he’d been a dancer on our most recent video. I’d even confided in Sugar how much I fancied him. She is definitely not getting away with this.
“Yes,” I begin again in my sister’s voice, “You need to leave. It’s just not working between us.”
His beautiful face looks genuinely shocked, and a bit sad.
“It’s not you,” I continue, “It’s not even me. It’s this other guy I’ve started seeing. Who’s so much better than you are.”
I should maybe be feeling a tiny bit guilty over this. But there is something cathartic about being able to mess with my sister’s reputation this way.
“My new man is wonderful, and I don’t mind the whole world knowing. All right, so he might be fifty-seven years old and intermittently incontinent but Peter Stringfellow is the man for me.”
His eyes briefly widen in surprise, but he starts getting dressed.
“Did you still want me to pay the guy when he turns up?” he asks, when he’s finally mostly clothed and heading for the door.
God. The mysterious money.
“Err… no, I’ll handle that.”
He’s not been gone five minutes when the doorbell goes again. I buzz whoever it is into the building and wait by the front door, peering through the spyhole. As I watch, a man dressed as Father Christmas emerges from the lift and walks up to the door.
Before he reaches it, I open it slightly. “Are you here for the money?” I whisper.
“No.” he growls sarcastically, “I’m here to bring festive fucking goodwill to all the kiddies. Of course, I’m here for the money.”
I let him in and shut the door. I’m not prepared for what St Nick does at this point. From beneath his beard he produces a fearsome-looking pistol. Capped with an enormous silencer. For a split second I think my life is in danger but then he smiles at my reaction, takes the money and starts shoving it into his sack.
“Now I’m paid your sister is as good as dead.” he declares.
For a split second I feel I should be shocked by this revelation. That my own twin would want me killed. But then part of my brain seems to admire it. After all, I can see the reasons for it. I’m a rival in so many respects. And my death would be a big story. It would help launch her solo career and shift the back-catalogue.
“We’re certainly cut from the same cloth,” I whisper to myself.
Father Christmas looks up at this “You do look a lot like her. I’d hate to make an unprofessional error and shoot the wrong one.”
I brush my suit lapel and answer with an executioner’s calmness. “Sugar is the one in a shiny green leotard, pink leggings and a purple skirt. You can’t miss her.”
St Nick seems hurt by that last remark. “I don’t intend to.”
“Sorry.”
“Can I just say,” he adds, “I’m a big fan of you. Both of you. The music I mean. Your last album was terrific.”
I’m non-plussed by this. “Err… thanks.”
“And well, as your sister has to die, (won’t ask questions why, not judgemental in this job), it would be nice if one of you could go on making music.”
I smile wickedly. “Oh, I intend to.”
“Yeah – but for that to work, you’ve got to get away with it. I mean the moment her brains get splattered, begging your pardon, everyone’s going to think it was you. If you don’t mind me giving you a bit of advice, compliments of the season, I’d be getting yourself a patsy. Some dumb schmuck you can frame for all this. The smartest folk even get their patsy to hand over the money, without telling them what it’s for.”
I feel a pang of admiration towards my soon-to-be-late sibling at this revelation.
“Still, we have a saying in this game ‘It’s never too late, to frame a mate.’ If you can think of anyone stupid and malleable, well, I’d be giving ‘em a tinkle pronto.”
“Thank you.” I reply.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” chortles Santa. And with that, he’s gone.
I move fast. If I’m going to drag an idiot into this I can’t dawdle. I need someone wealthy and well-connected, but insecure enough to lie about his success with woman.
I pull out a business card from my pocket.
As I wait on hold, I spy a framed gold disc hanging on the wall, celebrating our first album “Femmes Fatale.” Just above the drinks cabinet, exactly where I keep mine. We’re both on it; beautiful, ruthless mirror images. Finally a voice cuts in, “Nigel S Limax, Empire Records. How can you make me richer?”
I look again at my sister’s cold, haughty face. I think she would understand.
(c) Alan Graham (MVP 2019), 2019
Alan Graham studied "Creative Writing" and "Economics" at UEA and is still unsure which discipline relies on make-believe the most. More of his stories can be found at www.alangrahamwords.com
Katy Darby won the Ronny Schwartz scholarship to the Oxford School of Drama and has appeared in over 30 productions in Oxford, Edinburgh and London. She’s a novelist and short story writer, Director of Liars' League and has directed several Fringe plays including Time Out Critic's Choice comedy Dancing Bears. She prefers backstage obscurity, but sometimes steps into the limelight.
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