Sinister: Truth stranger than fiction?

[Lucy Alder]

"Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!"

If only Keats had realised quite how prophetic his words (pub. 1820, fact
fans) would turn out to be!  For I shall now narrate for you the true
story of our modern Isobel, whose cello will surely become *her* Pot of
Basil, which her tears will keep "ever wet."  But who is that mysterious
person who said "’scape at once from Hope’s accursed band...?"

The scene:  a hotel room, somewhere in the American Midwest.  The
telephone tinkles.  The alabaster arm of our Scottish heroine emerges from
under a puffy eiderdown and crisp white sheets.

Isobel:  Shit, where’s that fucking phone?

The delicate fingers fumble around the bedside table, knocking a glass of
Perrier onto a bowlful of untouched granola, before finding and lifting
the receiver.

Isobel:  Hello?

Bill Wells:  ‘Ello sweetheart, how are you?

Isobel:  Bill, you lousy bastard, you woke me up!

Bill Wells:  But Izzy, darling, I’ve got the raging horn and I just had to
phone you.  I thought you could, y’know, help me get it out of my system.

Isobel:  Oh Bill, you’re so funny.

Bill Wells:  I fooled you for a second though, didn’t I?

(Hey reader, were you fooled too?  Well the author ought to say that she
had considered making Bill and Bel enjoy an ecstatic, virtual,
transatlantic SESH, but frankly, the thought makes her feel thoroughly
queasy, so she has chosen to employ a *cunning* plot device to avoid
producing a puddle of vomit on the floor of her flat, which would be a
bugger to clean up, especially from the gaps between the floorboards. 
Back to the story...)

Isobel:  (simperingly) Ha ha, Bill, you’re so funny.  Not like those
boooooring band mates of mine.  Do you KNOW what they want to do today? 
SOUNDCHECK.  Can you belieeeeeeve it?

Bill Wells:  Oh, my little Belly Button, they *are* awful.  You know,
you’ve been propping them up all these years, you’re the one with the
talent, you know.

Isobel:  (simperingly) Do you think so, Billy Goat?

Bill Wells:  Of course!  Your songs are so obviously the best, you sing
far better than the others and nobody can play the cello *quite* like you.

Isobel (simperingly) But Silly Billy, where would I be without them?

Bill Wells:  What?  WHAT?  Where would they be without you?  That is the
real question.  Let me give you an example.  I firmly believe they would
never have got to number fifteen in the hit parade without your
outstanding efforts on Legal Man.  I mean, that video was GENIUS.

Isobel (falteringly) S..S..So, what should I do?

Bill Wells:  Leave the band, Bel.  Leave them now!

Isobel:  Are you serious?

Bill Wells:  Deadly.

Isobel:  No!

Bill Wells:  Yes!

Isobel:  Alright, you win.  Sod soundcheck, I’m going SHOPPING!

Isobel puts down the phone, leaps naked from her bed, pulls on her pencil
skirt, kitten heels and flouncy blouse (note: no underwear, that tart!)
then grabs her handbag and makes like Carrie out of Sex and the City and
heads downtown.

**********

Another room in the same hotel, somewhere in the American Midwest.  The
telephone tinkles.  An ARM OF SEX reaches across a desk and lifts the
receiver.

Struan:  Hello?
Bill Wells:  It’s me.  The job’s done, she’s gone.  So... am I... in?
Struan:  Well, we need to keep it quiet for the moment but... you did say
you can play the cello, didn’t you?

FIN




Disclaimer:  Look, I didn’t get much sleep last night, OK?

Juicy Lucy


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