Free Death Of A Diva by Derek Farrell

deflated figure past me and down the stairs.
    I stood alone on the landing, listening to the receding calls of Leon Baker and wondered what on earth I was doing in this place.
    And then, remembering the look on Robert’s face when I’d discovered the window cleaner polishing his pane, I took another deep breath, stepped forward and knocked on the dressing room door. I had a star, regardless of how combustible it might be. I had bar staff. I had booze and I had a full house promised (though all of them seemed to be comped).
    “Lyra,” I called, “Ms Day?”
    A moment passed and then the door was opened. Liz Britton stood guardedly in the gap, her eyes flicking over my shoulder.
    “He’s gone,” I said and she stepped aside, her hippy beads rattling against each other.
    Lyra was sat at the dressing table, which had now been spread with cosmetics; scented candles; a selection of inspirational photos featuring, it seemed, everyone from Florrie Ford to Oswald Mosely; and a pin-stuck doll that, bizarrely, seemed to have Dame Shirley Bassey’s face stuck to it.
    She glanced at me in the mirror, seemed ready to go into another round of screaming, recognised me and straightened up.
    “Some fucking pit you’re running,” she growled at me. “You let any freak walk in here so long as they’ve got flowers.”
    Liz bustled forward. “We need to get a move on; I see seven nails in need of manicuring.”
    Lyra sighed and the mask of fury vanished. “The show goes on,” she muttered.
    “S’right,” Liz confirmed, pulling a stool in front of Ms Day. “The show goes on.”
    “Danny,” Lyra fixed me with a smile and favoured me with an instruction that seriously made me question her grip on sanity: “can you let sound know I’ll be ready for a check in half an hour?”
    I looked at Liz Britton, who gave me a look that seemed to say humour her , picked up her emery board and advanced on the diva.
    “Um,” I said once more, stepped out of the room, closed the door, walked to the end of the hallway and froze.
    Sound check ? I wondered how to tell this diva – who had packed out the Albert Hall, emptied out every other venue on the Strip when she played Caesars, who is still available on DVD in Supermarkets singing ‘Somewhere’ with Pavarotti at the amphitheatre in Taormina in 1993 – that the sound check would consist of coughing into the mike and, if you can hear the cough, checking.
    And then my phone rang and, without glancing at the display, I accepted the call and put the thing to my ear. “Yup,” I said – I mean how much worse could a phone call make my situation?
    “Hi Daniel,” said Robert, in that tone he always used when he wanted to appear both chummy and landed gentry.
    Something in my stomach clenched and I actually had to reach out and grab the wall for support. After months of silence, Robert was on the phone and Caz – my guaranteed wall of He’s no good for you was nowhere to be seen. I managed to croak out his name, which allowed him to respond:
    “It’s been a while”
    “ A while ?”
    “Listen: I just wanted to check how you were doing? You need anything? You know...”
    Moments passed. I listened to the ongoing work of the ASBO twins and heard the sound of a passing fire engine. I swear I became aware of the noise of Lyra Day’s nails being ground to dust and then I heard a voice speaking and realised it was my own:
    “ Doing ? Oh, you know, I’m doing alright. OK, I suppose.”
    “Your job,” he interjected, but there was no way I was letting him get into the conversation.
    “Got a new job,” I shot back, “running a bar. Opens tonight, actually. Got Lyra Day as an opener. I’m doing OK, Robert,” I let go of the wall and stood upright. “What d’you want?”
    “A pub? Oh Danny,” Robert’s voice – so avuncular initially– had reverted to the standard paternal tone he’d used with me for so long: cheery, but slightly disappointed. “Well, that sounds... super