Free Death Of A Diva by Derek Farrell Page B

lifted a half-manicured hand and began to do her own eye makeup.
                  “ Confirmation?”
                  “That I can still attract reaction,” she smiled, widening her eyes.
                  I wondered whether I’ve written a letter to Daddy would be her opening number, looked at Morgan Foster, who still clutched his chest; at Liz, who still clutched her emery board; and at Lyra Day, who still clutched the fantasy that she was ever likely to be a major star again; and left the room.
                  Downstairs, Ali cornered me.
                  “Look, Danny, you’re a nice bloke–”
                  “Ooh, is this a private party?” Caroline trilled, wafting in from the bar and throwing a slightly protective arm around my shoulder.
                  Ali paused and I saw her jaw clench. “No offense, but I have no other way to say this: do you two know what the hell you’re doing? I mean, we haven’t even got a float.”
                  “A float?” Caz dived into her ever present and voluminous handbag, shot a slightly antagonistic glance at Ali and waved a fistful of notes at the barmaid. “Coins in bags on the bar – unless Mouret or Jenny’s had ‘em.”
                  The notes were banded into bunches and Caz handed each over with a tinge of regret.
                  “Oh, and,” she said, producing from her back pocket a pristine fifty pound note, “in case anyone feels generous,” and she planted a long, lingering kiss on the note. “Now fly, my pretty and fill your till, or whatever needs doing.”
                  Ali accepted the cash, shot Caz a filthy look and headed on in to the bar.
                  “You know,” my friend mused, “I don’t think she likes me too much.”
    Morgan Foster descended the stairs. “Oh,” he looked surprised and glanced towards the door to the bar, from where we could hear the sounds of Jenny and Dominic chatting, “is there a back door?”
                  “That way,” Caz advised nodding to the end of the hallway, beyond where the sound of the twins hurling bottles into baskets whilst singing along to some dreadful pop tune emanated.
                  “Thanks,” he said and, as he headed out the back door, I heard the front door slam shut. Caz and I headed into the empty bar, Jenny and Dominic having just left.
                  Ali stood behind the bar, counting coins into the till and nodded at the door. “The princess just left. Said to tell you she’s taken the boyfriend to the caff, if you wanted to join them for breakfast.”
                  “Thanks,” Caz said, griping my arm, pulling me across to a table at the far end of the bar and plonking me on a stool far enough away from Ali to be out of her hearing.
    Caz sat opposite me, paused, pulled her stool closer to mine, leaned forward and, in a conspiratorial whisper, said “No offence, dear heart and sorry to sound like the bar Frau over there, but do you know what the hell you’re doing?”
                  I gave her the look. The one that said I’m disappointed in your lack of faith in me, your lack of vision , then dropped my head in my hands and moaned.
                  “I have no fucking idea what I’m doing, Caz. But I have to do something and, really, what am I suited for? I’m a mailroom boy in an email age. I’m a gay housewife with neither a house nor a husband to clean or cook for. I’m thirty-five – which is, like , a hundred , in gay years – and the few measly pennies I had to my name are invested in the stock for this place. Even if tonight works, I’ve got no guarantee that I’ll be able to pay the electricity bill in six weeks. So here I am...”
                  Caz reached out, took my hands in hers and looked into my eyes. When